Dear Bill,
Your blog is about as screwed up as the gulf coast right now. I’m talking about this blog. I say that because you also have a blog rotting on the vine here, and another one someplace else where you sell fake diplomas.
I don’t know what you’ve done to the comments on this blog, the one you’re trying to use, but they don’t work. And let’s face it, without comments you’ve got nothing. That target rich environment you call a blog requires comments, lest we have no way to abuse you.
You have a perfectly serviceable munu blog, but it’s been abandoned in favor of that latest blogspot debacle. I suspect you forgot your password and not knowing what else to do, you simply fled into the night, embarrassed and unnoticed.
I offer no remarks on your diploma blog.
You could install comments from haloscan on your current blog. Even you could probably do that unassisted. This would enable me to leave nasty comments and help pass the day. Or you could walk back down the road to your old munu blog, by having Pixy shoot the lock off.
I have been forced to post this here because you didn’t have the decency or the intelligence to leave an email addy on any of your fucked up blogs.
Please take some sort of action immediately.
I apologize to the public at large for having to address this completely FUBAR situation out here in the front yard.
I’ve avoided saying anything about New Orleans since the ordeal has actually taken place but I have to voice an opinion here before I have a stroke over it.
It’s quite simple really. Death to all looters. I’ve been through hurricanes, including Andrew--a category five storm. I’ve been without power for weeks, had nothing to eat, the whole nine yards. However, as miserable as that was for me, I had a lot going for me. I still had a structure to live in. Damaged, to be sure, but I still had most of my possessions and a leaky roof over my head.
These poor bastards on the gulf coast have nothing left in many, many instances. Nothing. The sum total of their lives has been wiped fucking clean. They have nowhere to go and no hope for the foreseeable future. And anyone who would take advantage of a situation like this is beyond my contempt.
Looters have already shot a cop in the head in New Orleans. I would have no problem executing these savages with no remorse.
From here:
“A giant new Wal-Mart in New Orleans was looted, and the entire gun collection was taken, The Times-Picayune reported. "There are gangs of armed men in the city moving around the city," said Ebbert, the city's homeland security chief. Also, looters tried to break into Children's Hospital, the governor's office said.”
My response would be to end this problem right now. I’m a martial law kind of guy. One warning shot below the waist before I unload a clip.
I’ve never been big on leniency.
Next time you visit a “blogspot” blog you’ll notice a new little flag you can click if you find the content objectionable. They claim on the site that they’re not endorsing censorship and even add the line, “…we prefer to keep in mind that one person's vulgarity is another's poetry.”
Fair enough. Maybe.
“We track the number of times a blog has been flagged as objectionable and use this information to determine what action is needed.”
Now I have to ask, wouldn’t the world at large benefit more if they had a flag to click if the content just plain sucked? Or the blogger was an asshole? Because I’m here to tell you, I really see more potential in going that route.
The best idea I’ve heard in a while, courtesy of the Borowitz Report:
“ARMY TO RECRUIT AT MTV MUSIC AWARDS
Rappers Could Skip Firearms Training, Pentagon Believes
He said that by recruiting soldiers at the MTV Music Awards, the Army would be gaining a pool of enlistees who would require no firearms training whatsoever, saving the Pentagon and U.S. taxpayers billions of dollars a year.
“Teaching these guys how to use a gun would be a serious waste of time,” Mr. Rumsfeld said. “It would be like teaching Courtney Love how to snort powder up her nose.”
While the Defense Secretary would not specify how the Army would induce rappers to enlist, he told reporters, “We are fully prepared to offer them a Cadillac Escalade, and we may throw in a ho or two as well.”
Meanwhile, I've got nothing.
My old lady and I are both addicted to French Market brand coffee. It’s from New Orleans and quite simply, no other coffee will do.
Over the weekend the old lady started to comb all the local grocery stores and buy as many cans of the stuff as she could get her hands on. She’s afraid that if the hurricane hits New Orleans we could be without our beloved French Market coffee for months. Moments ago, I received this email from my wife:
“I bought two more cans at the store today (all they had) and I plan to continue cleaning out the other stores for all I can find. I hope I can beat others to it. I’m sure that most normal people are still worried about the loss of life and destruction of property. I’m worried about that too, of course, but I’ve been addicted to this coffee for over a decade. I don’t know if I can live without it. You could say that I am also worried about the destruction of property, it’s just that I’m concerned with one specific place: The French Market Coffee Company.”
Emphasis mine.
I live for stuff like this. Some wack-job broke into a house five nights in a row to steal a woman’s panties. The woman’s husband was understandably pissed off and set up a home made alarm with a bra, string and coffee cup. When the thief set off the alarm the husband beat the living shit out of him with a wooden leg from his child’s crib. The affidavit makes for an entertaining read. And of course, there’s a picture of the thief all beat to hell.
Oh, I forgot, and the perv kept his collection of panties in a lunchbox next to his bed.
I’m not sure when I got on the bus. Probably five years ago, give or take. The past all clumps together for me like a long ribbon that’s balled up in a drawer. I couldn’t tell you if I boarded the bus under my own free will or if I was pushed. But here I sit and there seems to be nothing I can do about it.
This is how I see life much of the time; through the bus window. It is how time passes. I’m removed from the actual experience. I’m no longer a participant. My emotions are compressed, no great highs or lows. I simply watch as the bus drives along, never fast or slow, and never changing speeds.
I can clearly remember a time before the bus. When I actually lived life. When I had a burning need to go out, talk to people, socialize. I can clearly remember living my life to its fullest. Sometimes I can clearly remember the tiniest detail of an event. And how I felt. Alive. Vibrant. Bigger than life itself. I was once a character from every novel ever written. I could feel someone turning the pages, watching, completely engrossed in my story—just as I was. For the most part now, I can’t be bothered. I suspect I’ve been hypnotized by life. Keep your eyes on the watch…you’re getting sleepy...sleepy.
Mind you I’m not walking around with my eyes glazed over, slow and weary. I’ve got a spring in my step. I like a good laugh. I’m not depressed, on the contrary, I’m upbeat and I’m usually in a pretty good mood. And I’m not always on the bus.
Often I’ll find myself on terra firma, walking around like a normal person. It usually happens when I’m getting laid, or laughing. A lot of times I’m thrown from the bus by a random asshole that has run a shopping cart up the back of my foot in the cereal aisle. Or honked his horn at me for not making a right on red where it is clearly posted No right turn on red. I suspect these fuckers are the ones who opened the bus door for me in the first place.
I went through a McDonald’s drive-through yesterday at the insistence of the kid. And though there was only one vehicle in line in front of me the episode took twenty-five minutes. Two assholes in a Mercedes 600 felt the need to order a shitload of cheeseburgers all custom made. I could hear them ordering because they were screaming.
“No onions on two of them, and one with no ketchup. Now, on the quarter pounders…”
As they pulled up to the next window they were too far away and had to back up not once but twice, so that they could continue the transaction. Then they started unwrapping all of the cheeseburgers to make sure that each was just right. It was a painful experience. I was not on the bus for this one. It was happening in real time. My wife reached over and squeezed my hand, knowing that I was reaching the point of confrontation.
Eventually we got our shit and got back on the road. And once again I boarded the bus and took my seat.
A little farther from the door this time.
Remember the old joke about a woman going on vacation and leaving her cat with her brother? The cat gets hit by a car and when the woman returns a week later the brother says, “Your cat’s dead, he was hit by a car.”
The woman goes ballistic.
“Puffy’s dead? How could just blurt it out like that? You should have called one day and said that Puffy was on the roof and you couldn’t get her down. The next day you could have called and said that Puffy was still stuck and things looked bleak. A few calls like that would have prepared me for this! It wouldn’t be such a shock!”
Then the brother says, “I’m really sorry. By the way, Grandma’s on the roof and we can’t get her down.”
Well, think about that when you read this. I’m fucking speechless.
Via On the Patio
I'm a better commenter than I am a blogger. Sometimes When I sit down to blog, I'm like - what the fuck? I don't even know what I'm doing here! I think I lack a little basic creativity. The mental inertia to get the ball moving. But when I'm commenting, the hurdle is removed. They set 'em up, I knock 'em down. I mean, if you ask me anyways. I'm sure Jen thinks I'm a fratastic loser and Goldstein probably can't even tell the difference between me and the rest of the freaks cruising his place. But I know. And that's all that matters!
I watched a man make a presentation today, in which he tripped over the most unfortunate succession of spoonerisms and Freudian slips I have ever seen. It was painful to watch, but it's funny to share.
There's a guy, Joe we'll call him, who works in a division we work with a lot who has a great relationship with his boss. He's a young gun, but knows his stuff well; and his boss is a woman, let's call her Mary, of about fifty. Both are very sharp people, and a lot of the time they play off of eachother. I always thought they had a great dynamic going on.
Anyways, the guy's presenting an idea today in a steering committee meeting. At the end of his presentation he opens it up to questions, and Mary fires one right at him. It was a pretty good question, but we knew she was softballing it to him just to make sure he'd done his work. She said something like "Joe I know you're not stupid enough to have overlooked the blah blah blah" in a faux combative manner. Joe volley's back in an equal tone, "Of course I didn't you silly tit."
BEEEEEeeeeooooooooo. That's the sound of time screeching to a halt; I know becuase I heard it right after Joe's one liner. None of us had any idea what the hell he was thinking, calling Mary a fucking tit. I was beside myself trying not to laugh, trying not to point my finger in that way anyone with siblings knows: "OOOOOOOO! You're so TOAST!"
Time speeds back up: "...you silly tit. Twat." Now, above when I said time came to halt; well this time it hit a brick wall. I mean, I thought I was going to pass out. This guy just followed tit with twat! WTF Joe!
"...silly tit. Twat. I mean twit. I meant twit." This all happened very fast, like so: "Of course I did you silly tit..twatImeanttwit. TWIT." Of course, by the time that sorry bastard hit twat and before he was onto twit, Mary was fucking two shades past maroon and looked like she was going to burst. Joe's almost pleading with her. She broke for the door and Joe just stood there laughing nervously. none of us knew what to do . I mean, I wanted to laugh my ass off, but I wasn't going to draw any attention to myself.
I can't wait to see Joe at work tomorrow, "Sup tit."
I got caught taking the garbage out in my underwear again yesterday. This time the old lady across the street stood staring while I pretended I wasn’t walking around outside in my briefs. I could tell she was thinking about confronting me because at one point she took a few steps forward, hesitated and then back-peddled when I waved at her. She did not return my greeting.
That’s the third incident in about that many months with regards to the garbage. I have no love of going out there in my underwear, but sometimes it can’t be helped. Like when I just woke up and I hear the goddamned garbage truck coming. If I take it out the night before some kind of feral beasts knock it over and then I’ve got to clean it up.
The first time I got caught it was by the third world guy who lives caddy corner across the street. I don’t know where those people are from but they know no shame. He actually started a conversation with me about the common area landscaping. And while I’m standing there chatting on the sidewalk wearing only my Hane’s briefs, half the neighborhood starts coming outside to get newspapers, go to work or adjust their sprinkler heads. Cars were going by—the whole nine yards. By the time I extricated myself from the foreign guy I felt like a fucking idiot. He’s going on and on about tree trimming and every time someone came outside he’d call over to them and wave which was drawing more and more attention.
The first time was certainly the most embarrassing. It was just getting light outside and I sprinted with the single trash can held in front of me. I slammed it down on the curb and when I looked up I saw that everyone else had their recycling out as well. That meant two more trips and the garbage truck was only four houses away. With two cars in my driveway there’s not much room left in terms of width so I have to dart across the grass to the garage. I got the cans/bottles container out okay but the old hag across the way was now out putting letters in her mailbox. She looked genuinely shocked. And disturbed. I sprinted back to the garage, thinking fuck the paper and cardboard container, but the grass was wet from the sprinklers and I ended up falling and sliding. My underwear was soaking fucking wet.
At that point I was just pissed off. I calmly got up and got the third container and brought it out to the curb. The old lady and I were twenty feet apart. My underwear was soaking wet from the grass and had mud stains and everything. My legs were muddy, and I had bits of grass sticking to me. I had no hope left. I said, “Good morning.”
She just stared at me, unmoving. Unbelieving. Fortunately the garbage truck literally came between us, and as it stopped to pick up at my place I went back inside. As the garage door was closing I bent down to look underneath and she was still standing there in the same spot. A frozen figure frozen in time.
I’m waiting for the HOA letter.
While I’m polishing up some posts I offer this:
I’m pretty sure I’m last to the party on this one, but if you check it out you’ll find some real gems. It’s self explanatory.
Girl on cell: "Hey, how are you? My vagina is sore."
--34th & 3rd
Man on cell: "I can't wait for the naked pussy party."
--Employees Only, Hudson Street
Girl on cell: "Yeah, I think it's a yeast infection...yeah...itching. It's been like a week, though...I'm not going to a gynecologist...I had a bad experience once. I don't know how much longer I can take it, though."
--6th Avenue & 8th Street
Man: "...and then she's gon' ask me, "How was church?" I'm like, get the fuck outta here. How many times have I asked her to go to Goddamn church with me? Every fuckin' Sunday, I ask that bitch to go to Goddamn church with me. Never! Not once has she come with me, now she wants to ask me, "How was fuckin' church?".
--Sephora, 19th & 5th
Dude on cell:" ...so I picked it up and there was, like, some brown stuff on it that I thought was, like, dirt. So I went to brush it off with my hand...but dude, it, like, wasn't dirt...no..."
--Penn Station
I love New York.
Sometimes I'll get a sudden debilitating flash memory. It's violent like a seizure, but obviously doesn't manifest itself physically other than me just completely zoning out. I don't know what triggers them. It's not usually something that I see or encounter that reminds me and takes me back. More often than not, it like cruising along down the freeway, barely paying attention to the road, and then this giant wall drops out of the sky two feet from your bumper.
I almost rather they arise from something that's in front of me, rather than some nerve ending that's still living back in '98 firing off this memory that lays seige upon my train of thought. Personally, I find it a little distracting when I'm paying attention to something at work, and then a second later I'm in my old apartment humping some coed so hard that the mattress slides off the frame. Sometimes they're funny fond memories like that, and if I can I'll spend a few minutes wallowing in them like a Sunday morning. But almost as often, they take me back to scary or dark moments.
I guess when it happens at work or in the middle of something, I can usually brush them aside. The worst is when I'm at home cooking or reading and something really disturbing lodges itself in the forefront of my mind. It's kind of like my life is on Calico Vision and some fucker with A.D.D. just pushed the lever. CLICK and I'm plopped down in the middle of some fucked up situation from years ago. Since I'm alone, I have nothing to distract me from it, and I am forced to evaluate it. Why? How? What does it say about me?
A lot of people say you shouldn't relive your past. That doing so somehow means your life now isn't as good as it was, and that's a reflection on you; specifically what a big loser you are. But what if you think you're life's better than it was? I mean, if you don't have a memory of what it used to be, what the hell do you have to be happy about?
I used to be one of those people who said they'd lived their lives without any regret. Then I realized I was just bullshitting myself. If you don't suffer regret, at least momentarily, then you're saying you've never fucked up. Never lost anything of your own fault. And those same people will defend their argument by saying in the end they don't regret making those mistakes, because they learned from them and now bear no regret. Bullshit. The fact that you fucked up once doesn't disappear, the consequences don't flitter away like dandelion pollen on a warm breeze bitch; just because there was a happy ending to that very special episode in this sitcom you've set up for yourself. If you look hard enough, the regret is there, because that's what keeps you from ever making that same mistake again.
Last week my wife forgot to turn her cell phone off and the damned thing started ringing about 4:00 AM. I got up, turned it off and went back to sleep. It could only be a wrong number.
I forgot all about until the next day when my wife insisted that I listen to two messages left by the caller. She was giddy with excitement. She hit the switch and then came the voice. It was a woman who sounded exactly like Wanda Sykes, except it was no joke. Regardless, it was arguably the funniest thing I’ve ever heard. She was pissed and it went like this:
“I don’t know where you is, but I hope it was worth it. I’m tired of y’all leaving them kids with any mother-fuckin-body who’ll take them. You left the door to my house unlocked and somebody coulda’ come and steal my kids. I don’t know how many niggers you fuckin, but I seen that last bitch. And now you done gone too far. Now Curly-Pop is gonna find you and bust yo ass!”
Did I mention she was pissed?
I can’t reproduce it accurately with words, and that’s where I need your help. If someone could tell me how to capture it into a file, you’ll be treated to the real thing. I’ve listened to these messages at least ten times and I’m here to tell you, it’s funny shit. Shit you just can’t make up. So how do I save and post these gems?
I should mention that the actual calls are somewhat longer and a lot more profane.
Wedding invitations are by far the most infuriating waste of money on the face of this Earth. They're like hundreds and hundreds of dollars!
The entire design is completely retarded. Firstly, you put the invitation in an envelope right. Then, you put this thingie into another envelope, along with this stupid card and another fricken envelope! What the hell people?
I mean, when I was a kid the local skating rink used to host birthday parties. If you had your party there, the rink would send these little postcard invites to all your little crumb-snatching, rugrat friends. It doesn't really take three fucking envelopes and three sheets of paper to invite someone to a shindig am I right? Or email. Why can't we just send a mass email to everyone, and have them RSVP?
Well, apparently women are insane. Did you know when they're little girls they starts planning and thinking about their wedding? Like how they want it to be and all that? Okay, show of hands, how many of the men here ever thought about what kind of cake they wanted at their wedding say, more than a year before they got married? Yeah, that's what I thought. I mean, I don't even know what I'm going to wear each day until I get up, and the women are planning this wedding thing like decades in advance. The only thing I've ever planned more than a year in advance was a car loan or a mortgage. And I only did that because I had to.
So in the end, I've concluded what every married man already knew: You can't fight 'em on anything. A logical appeal doesn't register when they've spent years living their wedding day in their minds, yapping it up with other women about how they're getting married. It's like a fucking cult man; and my fiancee is only a fraction of the freak that some of these other women are. I agree with her, and count my blessings that she's not completely lost her mind.
First thing’s first. I added De to the main blogroll, because anybody who writes a post containing the line, "When i'm masturbating the only time i can come is if i have a lint brush stuck in my ass" certainly deserves to be there.
Hi. My name is Paul. You might remember me from a blog called Sanity’s-Edge.
I’ve decided to come out of retirement. My loathing of the masses in general is fairly unhealthy and needs an outlet. I’ve also noticed a lack of quality blogging lately. What’s happened to the scorn and disgust in the blogosphere? Wherever I look I see cats and quizzes. And that’s not fucking good enough. Where’s the humiliation? The honesty? The name calling?
I remember a blogosphere full of heroes, unafraid to write about shitting themselves in public. Honest folks who questioned the wisdom of conventional blogging and resorted to cheap tricks to get traffic. People like this butt-nut, who’s every embarrassing bodily function became not only public knowledge, but a source of material for every wiseass with a blog.
I’ve decided to park my ass here because I like the man. He doesn’t pull any punches. I do regret, however, not checking the site meter before I signed the contract. We’ll have to do something about that. Ever noticed how somebody else’s house always looks good until you move and see all the flaws? You know, clean enough at first glance, but after you spend a few nights there you realize they never cleaned the baseboards or dusted the top of the fridge? What this place needs is a fresh coat of paint and some fucking blogroll tweaking. We’ll get to that soon enough, but first I’ve got a backlog of posts and some name calling to do.
Welcome me the fuck back.
So I hired a guy to do A&R for this website. I only post a few times a week, and I figured it would be nice if I could get someone in here to post as well. But I had standards, the blogger had to be good. The conventional wisdom was that I shouldn't bring on anyone better than me, but I'm lazy; so I was like fuck that, I'll bring on somebody good and I'll be associated with their goodness and people will come to my site. Lots of people, thus feeding the primeval urge of all bloggers: the hungry Sitemeter that lives deep inside of all of us.
So I was contacted by some well established talent looking for a new place to roost. Apparently there were some differences at their previous label, and this candidate was on the prowl as a free agent. I had known this particular blogger from around the way, so I went ahead and pushed the paperwork through legal and got everyone to sign on the dotted line.
I gotta say that there's really going to be something added to Id's Cage by having this particular person on the team. I even thought about changing the name; but the perpetual laziness put a stop to that idea ex post haste.
UPDATE: If you have purposefully not seen Wedding Crashers, I suggest you go to the doctor and get that stick up your ass surgically removed. Probably the funniest film I've seen in two or three years. I'm talking, striaght through, didn't even stop for the plotline funny. I mean, there's a plotline, they just didn't stop the funny for it. Classic.
So the weather was gorgeous today. Highs in the mid nineties, sunny, a nice 2 to 3 foot easterly swell rolling in. So I blast out of work. I push a racing line through the parking lot, damn near taking a few slowpokes out at the knees. I blaze home taking corners at 30 or 40 mph, checking blindspots, working the clutch like a one-legged man on a unicycle. I slide up into the driveway, haul ass into the house and start changing clothes. I don't even get into my bathing suit and rash guard before the floodgates open. It's friggin pouring.
That's the thing about the southeast coast in the summer time. The air gets so humid, that if it didn't rain before 4:30 everyday we'd rowing home in rush hour instead of driving. It's that damn humid.
The good thing is that usually these storms blow over in about thirty minutes, and then I can hit the beach. I just fucking hate waiting.
I bought a new leather belt yesterday, and it's just the tiniest bit stiff, so that the slack end of the belt sticks out from my waist when I wear it. It's somewhat annoying because it'll tap my wrist as I walk, or when I sit down the slack end gets a little fouled. Pretty easy fix, I just taped the slack end to the rest of the belt with a peice of clear scotch tape - very discrete.
So anyways, I just went to the bathroom to take a leak, and I had to take the scotch tape off to unfasten my belt. I try to flick it into the urinal, only to succeed in getting the tape stuck to my forefinger. I try to flick again, and it sticks back to my thumb. I heave an exasperated sigh, and try to roll it into a ball between my thumb and forefinger to reduce the sticky surface area. It's not quite into a ball shape but I try to flick it anyway and it sticks back to my pointer finger. Fuckall! I begin rapidly opening and closing my hand, like flicking with all fingers simultaneously, whipping my hand back at forth at the wrist standing there with my pants undone. I look like I'm strumming a furious air-guitar solo. Or maybe maybe I just look like I'm whacking it.
At any rate, the pesky ball of tape finally flits off, only to stick precariously to the lip of the urinal. I almost decide to leave it there, when I'm struck by an odd moment of ownership and accountability: I should at least flush it. What kind of twat sticks tape to the urinal right? Of course, I'm not touching the damn thing, so I use the sole of my show to kind of scrape it into the urinal bowl. It sticks to my shoe, for the love of CHRIST! I put my foot down, and decide to just piss and deal with this thing when I'm finished.
So I finish up, and now I'm stuck trying to figure out how to get this wad of tape off the bottom of my shoe. I certaintly can't touch it now that it's been on the urinal and the bathroom floor. I consider grabbing some paper towels to pick it off, but trash that idea. If the tape is wet with piss and godknowswhatelse from the bathroom floor, it'll soak right through the paper towels and my fingers'll be covered in the absorbed detritus.
I decide to just rub the sole of my shoe on the tiled floor, in hopes that a little friction will rub the tape off. I rub back and forth a few times, and that doesn't get it. I put all my weight on the toe of my shoe, and being to swing my leg back and forth, scrubbing the sole on the tiles. Dammit! Almost there. I grab a section of wall near the doorless entry to the main bathroom area for leverage, and really begin to rub the shit out of my sole. With some effort, I feel the tape roll out from underneath my toes, vitory! I check the bottom of my shoe and alas, the damn thing is stuck to the very tip of the toe of my shoe. I skim it across the corner of the wall, it falls off, and I stare down at my nemisis.
I figure maybe I should pick it up and throw it out.
Nah, fuck that.
Bane rhymes with insane (and rightly so it seems) which is why he's getting a link here. Well okay, he's funny and crazy and cunningly sharp, like the serrated edge of a survival knife, but scarier.
Okay, I don't usually wash my hands after taking a leak. Mostly because I don't piss on them, but also because it's not like I'm going straight from the urinal tothe kitchen sounter to knead some dough. Anyways, I was just in the bathroom a few minutes ago, and there was another guy in there. We both finished about the same time, and he went for the sink to wash his hands. I didn't want him tot hink I was some kind of germy bastard, so I washed my hands too. He leaves, I get up to the sink and being rinsing and lathering my hands. Well, the sink in the bathroom is one of those gooseneck ones typically seen in a hospital setting. The water comes out in a definied stream. It hits my hands and I just get water all over the front of my pants. I mean, I'm looking down at my crotch laughing, becuase I have no other option. There's water droplets from my fly all the was to about mid calve, I look like I didn't even bother to unbutton my pants at the urinal. SO I grab some paper towels and I'm furiously rubbing away at my pants, hoping to get some of the water out. I'm terrified someone's going to walk in, so I figure it's well enough camoflauged after a few minutes, and head back tot eh office. I round the corner and look at the last 25 feet to my door. no one. Sweet. I walk briskly down the hall, just knowing that Dan or someone is going to catch me with piss all over my pants, I hit the doornob and don't even stop moving.
Which is why I walked square into Josie, one of the managers who was coming out of the doorway, causing her to literally throw her coffee in the air; creating this Barrettesque coffee rainstorm. At least I don't look like I pissed my pants anymore.
Bob Owens, the Confederate Yankee, hits the nail square on the head regarding Mrs. Sheehan and her crusade to, well, to act like a whackjob and do the equivalent of the naked hokie-pokie all over her son's grave.
Look, I'm sorry your son died in battle, war is a tragedy. But you don't go around propping up his dead body for every liberal that appeals to your feelings of loss, anger and mourning. Your son was a brave man, braver than most. Bush didn't kill him, the administration didn't kill him; war killed his ass just like it kills millions of people every year.
The woman is in mourning, the angry part of mourning where you try to explain what happened. When you realize that there's this big fuckin hole in you and you're like 'Why?' I think that's something we all understand. But you shouldn't go around turning one of the greatest contributions of the human experience into your own little quest.
But I don't blame her only. She's being manipulated by politicians and soapboxers. They don't give two shits about her or her son, they just care that it gets people (specifically, the handful of trolls in Yankee's comment section) riled up about something completely idiotic so that people will vote for them or go see their shittyass 'documentaries'.
It's fucking sad. The politicians don't even pay attention to the issues or the logic of the controversy they create. Hey, if it gets people pissed off, sure we'll just go ahead and parade this persons carcass all over the media; eventually people will start paying attention. It's just sad, that I have to share a country with some people.
via the emmer effing man J. Goldstein.
I have always had a fear of the dark. When I was a kid it was pretty intense, but these days it's more entertaining than debilitating.
It was kind of a weird fear feeling. I remember feeling surrounded by the unknown, but also feeling alone if that makes any sense. When I was a kid and I'd go camping or something, I always hated it at night. I'd try to keep myself busy, stick to the firelight and the latern. But the dark spaces between the campsite and the bathroom (if there was one) were always scary. And when there wasn't one, you had to go out into the dark and do your business right there in the thick of the unknown. Sometimes, walking back to the campsite with my little flashlight I could feel something chasing me. Before I knew it, I'd be sprinting through the woods towards the campsite, feeling whatever evil was chasing me right at my heels.
Even as a young adult it freaked me out. I remember one night in college driving along the Blue Ridge parkway with two other buddies, Nick and Russ. We parked at Price Lake and started walking the trail the wound it's way around the lake. We got about halfway back and it started to snow, so we sat and enjoyed the first dusting of the season. When we began our walk back to the car, I made sure to stay in the middle, Russ up front and Nick bringing up the rear. At least I'd have fair warning from either end if something lashed out of the thicket surrounding us and slashed someone's throat. About three quarters of the way back, I turned around laughing about something Russ said, and the guy behind me was gone. Russ didn't even get the words "Where'd Nick go?" out of his mouth before I was bounding full bore through the pitch black. I don't think I'd ever run that fast, and I was doing it in the dark along a trail pitted with large stones, and bulbous roots shooting back and forth across it.
As many politicians know, and historians warn, fear is contagious. It's an airborn virus with so many different strains that if someone displays the right one we all succumb; and that's exactly what Russ did. There we were, two practically grown men tearing ass through woods like a pair of horror movie floozies. We ran flat out all the way back to the truck, hopped in and sat there panting.
"Whered....Nick...."
"....Dunno....but fuck that..."
"Dude....you're such...a..pussy..."
"...Heh....whatever you say....billy badass..."
Then we spotted a light slowly bobbing through the trees near the trail head. We froze.
"Shit."
"Dude, start the friggin engine."
The light kept bobbing towards the end of the forest, I fumbled with the keys, looked up at the whateverthehell that was about to burst through the trees and eat us, slammed the key into the ignition and the car roared to life. I half expected the battery to be dead. I whipped the vehicle around so the headlights were pointing right at the trail head just in time to see Nick come sprinting out of the undergrowth.
"DUDE! Pick him up man!"
"Fuck yeah, get me the hell out of here."
We swung closer to Nick just in time to throw the door open, pull him and and peel the hell out of that place. Nick was in the backseat, panting and trying to say something. Russ and I were in a frenzy, bombarding him with questions: Did you get hacked by an axe murderer? Are you hurt? What the hell?
"Guys, pull over at the next turnout, I think I got bit by something."
I swerved off the road and Russ grabbed a flashlight while Nick clambered out of the backseat.
"Lemme SEE."
"Dude."
"What?"
"BRAAAAAGAGAGSADAAAAAAAAWWWW!!!!!!!!!!!"
"YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAA!", I screamed.
Nick doubles over and starts laughing, I'm still screaming like Halle Berry on Oscar night, and Russ is holding his face in his hands, laughing.
Nick had gotten us good. He said while we were busy jibber-jabbering up front, he just ducked into the trees growing close to the trail, and we kept on walking without even noticing he was gone. One of these days I'll get him back. One of these days.
One 4th generation Prelude, 4-wheel steering, I/H/E, JDM H22A engine, JDM tranny, many many extras. Only rolled once. $3,000 obo.
Met with some fellow Preluders this weekend and drove up into the NC mountains to drive a section of road known as the Tail of the Dragon. 11 miles, 318 turns, 1,000 feet of elevation change. It is by all accounts the penultimate driver's challenge available outside a race track.
As my buddy David here shows us, it is also the perfect spot to attempt difficult manuevers like the midair double barrel roll. Because of the lack of experience and care of some of the drivers that were with us, the car that Dave's put countless hours and dollars into is reduced to a pile of very nice, expensive car parts.
The other guy? Well, he was only worse because he didn't have any insurance at all. But because of some extenuating circumstances, the person who actually caused this wreck did not for some reason get a ticket. I'm not sure how he slipped through. If I hadn't been so happy that I didn't have to pick up David's various body parts and take them home to his momma in a fuckin' Hefty cinch sack, I would've jumped so far down his throat my Nike's would be sticking out his ass. As for the guy without insurance, Dave said the statey that handed out the tickets was chewing him out so bad his little brown statey hat almost shook off his little bald statey head. Cause an accident and you have no auto insurance. That's a whole 'nother entry.
..You forgot to do laundry for like two weeks, and you came home to a pair of socks that were so overgrown with mold or bacterial colonies that they had actually begun evolving into a higher lifeform? That could teach itself the Charleston?
Well, this is what happens to your mind when it stagnates for 71 years. You put together a blog that exemplifies the most disgusting, rude, tactless bits of the human experience.
And it traxfixes the soul. Glad to have you back Bill!
Goddammit, if i get one more email at work from some farflung coworker, asking me to contribute to some cause, check out some dumbass cubicle humor, support some extracurricular bullshit, or buy a fucking candybar so help me God for their kid's fundraiser, I'm going to lay waste upon the landscape with a firestorm of ash and brimstone.
And don't even think about getting your nannystate biodegradeable panties in a twist about me voicing my opinions; I'm only equally invading your life as you have done mine. If you're going to hoist your pathetic personal life on thousands of people you don't know by clicking the 'Send' button on that network-wide email, you better be prepared from some honest reponses. That's fucking garbage email and I'm not going to accept the fact that you're allowed to fill my inbox with pleas to come check out the play you wrote or give to your local chapter of the Coalition to Save the Three Legged Lama's. Fucking post a flyer in the lounge, so that if I choose to ignore it, I don't have to expend the effort to delete it from my inbox. I don't have time for this shit at work, and if you do then maybe we should consolidate your position under an existing one; and you can pursue your frickin' beat poetry career with gusto, instead of sending out invites via my personal workspace.
.JPG){kind=link}