I still find myself angry about my Mom's passing. It's stupid to be angry about something that you have no control over, something that is really just a biological fact; however tragic and untimely. I guess it doesn't matter how far away from life expectancy you are, it's always going to be tragic and untimely though, eh?
It's scary, to find little pockets of anger inside you. I don't mean the little pockets of anger about the everyday retards you meet in life either; those small irritants that are really more comedy fodder than actual anger. I mean the real anger, the flash memories that set off a visceral response that locks your jaw and clenches your fists. Everything's cool and then something reminds you of how robbed you feel, and how that makes you angry, and sometimes you just wish that every bad thing in the world would happen to you; just so you could justify bathing yourself in the blood of the innocent. And as quick as it came, it ebbs back. It's scary, to know that there's something that makes you feel like that, even if only for a second. That's the kind of shit that erodes your character. Like a little bit of sand or water or wind, and a whole lot of time.
It's easy to ignore it, becuase it's so ugly. Assume you can keep compartmentalizing it, and what's a flash memory anyway, right? A couple seconds every week. Of every month. Of every year. For the rest.of.your.life.
So you're left with no choice but to face it. Allow it to rise to the surface and see your own duality. I'm not all good, and I'm not all bad; I'm all both. I don't know if it's more foolish to ignore the ugly things about yourself, or to assume that you can banish them. You can't change the things in your life that hurt you, because they leave scars.
And we all wear our scars differently, don't we.
So I'm sitting here, and I've been watching this show for the past 45 minutes called 'october road'. Yeah, they write it in lower case like that.
So anyways, it's one of these melodrama types; with the switching back and forth between two time periods: the main characters' childhood and their adulthood. The main people are these four or five dudes who all grew up together; and they're the biggest bunch of fucking pussies I've ever seen. I mean; when they're ten, they're crying about the chicks in their lives; and when they're 30 they're crying about the chicks in their lives and they're crying about the chicks from when they were ten.
So I sit for the entire episode, and the choronolgy switches so often that the only main overriding theme I can gleen from the whole thing between all the crying is that no one on this show has any balls. Except for maybe some of the chicks. They're the only ones not crying like babies about anything.
That's the last damn time I go channel surfing.
There was a time not long ago that I could spit out posts like nobody’s business. I don’t mean links or bullshit posts where you talk about having nothing. I mean posts that had a beginning, middle and an end. That had pacing and theme. Posts that told a story.
It would seem they’ve dried up. Maybe I’ve gone to the well too many times. Maybe it’s the fact that most of my stuff revolved around my interaction with other people, which I have been forced to limit, in order to preserve my sanity.
Or maybe my luck has improved. I haven’t scalded the shit out of my mouth with hot napalm-like pizza lately, I haven’t shit myself in a long time…no wonder I’ve got nothing. Today I’ve got a headache. There’s nothing funny about a headache. I’ve got nothing to play off of. It’s not like cramps and the running shits—that’s good stuff. My whole schtick revolved around embarrassment and I’ve had nothing since the underwear incident.
I miss my old ways. Once I was driving down the freeway and I noticed a wasp was in the car. Now I’m a man and all, but there was a fucking wasp in the car. So I rolled down a window to blow it out, but instead of it going out it blew over to my side, and before I knew it the bastard was on my neck and I was swerving all over the road (in a man-like, controlled manner). There was a lot of swatting and wriggling on my part and I’m pretty sure I was screaming pretty loud too before I got the bastard out.
You see, that’s funny, even though it was emotionally stressful at the time. As far as I was concerned I was fighting a fucking dragon…it’s all the same to me. One may be smaller but they’re both trying to kill me.
And speaking of stress, someone needs to explain what pleasure is derived from going to haunted houses/scare fests around Halloween. I’ve done my share as a younger man and I failed to see the charm. You pay money to walk around in the dark while a bunch of assholes wait until you’re most vulnerable and then jump out screaming and scare the living shit out of you. I don’t find that type of anticipation pleasurable. I find it fucking stressful. I’m a nervous wreck after that shit. I also don’t like people yelling in my ear. My natural tendency is to attack someone that yells in my ear, and that tendency is hard to restrain. And often is not. Fear is the mother of violence. If you scare me, I will usually attack you.
I have no idea how to end this travesty. Mordieux…what has become of me?
This is your opportunity to complain about the new design and any problems you're having seeing things.
One thing I'll tweak more later is the font situation, but not until I know that everybody can read the blog title and description up there at the top.
Also, Shank and Paul need to decide what they want in the sidebars...I'll make any changes or additions you want.
Saturday morning I took the kid to play in her first soccer game. It was much worse than I ever imagined.
First of all she’s only five. Neither she nor I had any great expectations. I never cared for the sport, personally. The kid has no clue about the game at all, but insisted she join a team anyway. She’s a social creature.
So we get there and it’s worse than I expect by a long shot. Every caricature of a sports parent that you could ever imagine was incarnated on this field. So I tell the kid to go have fun and I sit down away from the other parents. As the kids are warming up I notice that most parents aren’t speaking English. Portuguese and Spanish are dominant. Some of the fathers are kicking a ball around off to the side, completely overdoing it, hamming it up and causing a general scene by yelping loudly in their native tongues. They are all grossly overweight and out of shape. Within minutes it comes to a grinding halt, with one guy holding his hand over his heart and panting like a dog. Adios Mio! This guy’s going to die here in the grass, I thought. I don’t have time for this today.
Instead he slowly got up and walked back to the rest of his family and collapsed on a bench. His family consisted of at least nine adults and a passel of poorly-mannered kids of all ages. Their normal speaking voices were deafening. They all yelled at each other for the entire game.
Meanwhile I turned my attention back to my kid. The game was about to start and I was fairly certain she didn’t even know the basic rules of the game. The whistle blows and the game begins. Every player from both teams swarm the ball and it resembles a rugby scrum. No one plays defense. Even the goalies are in the scrum. Eventually the ball squirts out of the clump with a child or two chasing it while the rest of them just stand there watching. Less than a minute in, most of the kids have already had enough. Two of them were crying.
To make a long story short, it works like this. The kids chase the ball in a big clump. If one of them actually manages to kick it, it goes out of bounds. This continues until it’s time to go home, or enough children are crying that they have to call a time out. Within the first ten minutes most of the parents were chasing their kids around the field yelling instructions at them. The coach sees the hopelessness of all this and bans the parents from the field.
Meanwhile, I realize that the fat bastard who thought he was having a heart attack stole my two bottles of water. Now my kid’s got nothing to drink and it’s hot out. I went over to the guy and pointed out his error, but one bottle was already gone and he was drinking out of the other one. As I’m talking to him I hear a great commotion coming from his family. They’re all screaming, “Carlos! Carlos! Carlos!”
The guy I’m talking to dashes off to the sideline along with his giant extended family. On the field there’s a kid that looks a lot older than the others. These kids are supposed to be between three and five years old and this kid looks like he’s ten. He’s dribbling the ball downfield all by himself, the rest of both teams either crying or sitting down on the field. The big kid is approaching the net and there is no goalie in sight. With a flourish the kid kicks the ball into the open goal and throws his hands into the air. Instantly, the giant family of Portuguese people run onto the field and lift the kid up onto their shoulders cheering, “Carlos! Carlos! Carlos!”
It was surreal. The coach, who had had quite enough, was trying to restore order, but it was hopeless. I looked around trying to find my kid and saw her and another little girl sitting in the grass chatting. They were nonplussed.
When the whole ordeal was over and we were walking to our car through the sea of minivans, I asked if she had fun.
“It’s too hot out.”
“I know, Sweetie, but did you like it?”
“I would like it better if it was inside.”
“You don’t want to come anymore?”
“Not really.”
“Well, I don’t blame you. “
As I buckled her into the car I could still hear little Carlos’s family going at it. I looked up just in time to see the fat father kick a soccer ball into the side of someone’s van.
We’re currently in the process of assembling a few more guest editions of “How Many Beers?”
If you are selected to play, and you decline, we will be forced to ridicule you mercilessly.
Thanks in advance.
Of all the different symptoms, by far the worst is vomiting. I can keep my sense of humor up during coughing fits, sinus infections, stomach cramps, etc.—Hell, some of my best material has come from having severe diarrhea. But vomiting? That changes everything.
You know it’s coming when your mouth starts to fill with a little extra saliva. A moment later the queasy feeling in your stomach starts. I’m usually in denial when I get the first wave of nausea, but within seconds it’s usually reinforced by stronger waves and in no time the look of panic on your face reads like a headline.
The worst part is that you know there’s nothing you can do about it. It’s a fait de compli. It’s no longer a question of if you’re going to vomit, the question is, “How bad is it going to be?”
And so you find yourself on the bathroom floor, waiting, as if a lethal injection is coming. You are faced with great despair. You look around the bathroom floor noticing every detail. A stray pube off in the corner. Water spots. A dead spider. Meanwhile the waves of nausea increase in frequency and the urgency of the situation becomes almost intolerable. Here it comes. It’s coming now. You start to spit a little bit of saliva into the bowl. The first contraction comes with little result, but you know you have passed the point of no return. The second contraction is somewhat stronger and you spit again. By the third time you’ve usually got yourself some results. No matter how hard you try not to, you find yourself identifying bits of what has been purged. I’m sorry, it’s a fact.
Meanwhile your mind is absolutely racing. How long can this go on? Is it almost over? And so on.
There are a lot of different styles of vomiting. I pride myself on being a quiet puker. Unless you had your ear against the door and heard the splash you’d never know it was happening. Others have no self control. It sounds like someone’s fucking murdering them in there. I’m talking about fucking unholy sounds. Some people follow up a good splash with intense moaning until the next ejaculation.
Sometimes the whole ordeal is compounded by well-wishers. “Are you okay in there? Is there anything I can do?”
Yes. Shut the fuck up. I’m on the bathroom floor puking! I feel like it’s my final hour for Christ’s sake, and now I have to talk through the door? I’m trying not to expel my fucking organs in here!
The only thing that could make it worse is when it happens in public. Or while driving. Or standing in line at the DMV. Have you ever had to puke just standing somewhere in public? But enough of this. I’m not one to take things too far.
If you drink twelve bottles of Stella Artois and play high stakes poker with these guys you will lose your money. I speak from experience. My old lady did better than I did and I consider myself semi-pro.
It was a distracting game in many ways, what with most of the crowd drinking some nipple drink that looked like a BJ without whipped cream, and the total disregard for my dignity.
At one point I was peeking at my cards when a shrill, deafening siren erupted from the other side of the room. It sounded like a burglar alarm going off.
Binx threw his cards down and started yelping.
“It’s the weather station! It’s the weather station!”
“What the fuck are you talking about? I asked.
Everyone was frozen in their seats wondering if it was some kind of toxic mold detector gone off or if we needed to pull out the gats.
Binx, beside himself with excitement, jumped from his chair and ran across the room. He was staring down at what looked like an answering machine.
“Severe storms! Dime sized hail!”
I realized he was reading off of some kind of ticker tape that the machine was printing. No one had the gumption to actually get up and go see.
“It’s the weather station,” Mrs. Binx said. “He likes to monitor the weather. It almost never goes off…this must be something serious.”
The rest of the crowd seemed nonplussed.
“Shit,” said. Binx. “It’s two counties away.” He seemed genuinely sad about that.
The evening is foggy after that point, but I distinctly remember losing and eating an entire bag of Chex Mix which substituted for my dinner. I seem to remember declining the offer of a bowl and pouring the contents into my mouth.
Sunday morning we had to pick up the kid from the rents. I still hadn’t had a meal so we figured we’d go to out to lunch at a Mexican place I like that serves extreme margaritas. We arrived at the rents to find the kid wearing makeup. The kid’s only five and I realize they like to play dress-up and what not, but she looked like she had black eyes. I also smelled something foul but couldn’t put my finger on it. The look on my face must have said it out loud.
“Oh,” Nanna said, “She really stinks. You’re going to have to drive with the windows open.”
“What?”
“You have to drive with the windows open. She put on perfume. A whole lot of it…all different kinds.”
And right she was. We had to drive with the fucking windows open because the kid smelled like the inside of a termite fumigation tent.
We gave her two baths, used every kind of soap we had, every shampoo. It barely made a dent. This morning when I got in the car to go to work I was overwhelmed by the remaining stench. There’s no getting rid of it.
Not only that, but now I think I reek of it because people have been looking at me funny since I walked in the building. I hope these fumes aren’t fucking flammable.
Day 1: Waited all day for the cable guy, afraid even to go in the shower in case he came. As usual, he showed up with five minutes to spare in the six hour window I was quoted. During the six hour wait I ate an entire package of Oreos. When he finally did show up he was clueless and no help whatsoever. I offered him a can of Coke and he was visibly angry that I didn’t have diet. Day one completely wasted.
Day 2: Woke up with a pounding headache. Bought a new home theater system and spent seven hours trying to hook it up. Two more trips to the store for extra cables that cost almost as much as the system. One trip to the liquor store that was well worth it. Went to a Mexican themed party and ate a lot of shit with ground beef, rice and beans. Hosts put on a home video of their latest vacation and turned off all the lights. I debated making a scene about the video and the banality of all participants. Choose to leave quietly instead without saying good bye. Took my bottle and slammed the door loudly. By 9:00PM was in safe harbor on my couch.
Day 3: Woke up with the running shits. Spent another five hours trying to hook up the home theater system, in between running to the shitter and lying on the couch moaning. Watched hazy TV and steamed over hours lost setting up home theater incorrectly. Had insomnia and debated the value of my life for several hours.
End report.
I had the dream about the horseshoe crabs again last night.
I haven’t seen a horseshoe crab, living or dead, in at least fifteen years. The horseshoe crab, for those ignorant of such creatures, is basically a great big 300 million year old sea spider with a hard shell and a scary underbelly. The more educated amongst you [cough] might know them by the name Limulus Polyphemus.
The dream is always the same. I’m at the beach in my trunks, standing at the waters edge. I am precariously balanced on one leg, standing upon the hard back of one of these critters. My opposite leg is bent at the knee and raised, like Ralph Macchio in the crane stance. When I look toward the incoming breakers, ten of thousands of these creatures are emerging from the sea and are headed directly for me. Every few seconds a wave breaks at my feet, washing over my crabby footstool and threatening my fragile balance. As more crabs emerge toward me, threatening whatever menace they harbor, the closest specimens flip themselves over to expose their devilish looking underside, the part that I’m afraid of.
I always wake up as I lose my balance and fall into crabs.
I have no idea what significance this dream has in relation to my life. My childhood experience with these creatures was limited to picking them up by the tail and whacking other unsuspecting children in the back as hard as I could. They’ve got some weight to them and a big crab could easily send a twelve year old to the ground if you swung hard enough. I remain puzzled and disturbed, even at this late hour of the day.
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’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 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.
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 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.
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.
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.
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.
I was over at Michele's today farting around and she posted a thread about the existence of God in a world filled with evil, how can God let it happen, blahblahblah.
I read through the comments and listened to what most of the people had to say, and there were some well thought out opinions there.
People go back and forth about God's seemingly interventionist nature, apparently discriminating between those worthy of life and those who's families can hanlde the tragedy of death.
One guy posted an excerpt from an interesting article on human suffering and the important lessons the experience of suffering teaches us.
But the whole thing leaves me wondering what the hell is so 'hopeless' about a worldview where God is absent? I mean, if the existence of evil is in some way proof of the existence of God, how could being without God be worse? Wouldn't it nullify the existence of evil? If God is Love, and people did as best they could to show love to eachother, then I say yes; a world without a supreme being would be filled with love if we as humans chose to be fucking nice to eachother more than once a year.
It's quite an interesting trip when I really start thinking about people, and how we see our world. It seems that most of us go through life without ever really thinking about the how the other six or so billion people in this world have lives that are just as important, happy, stressful, and exciting as our own. We hardly ever stop to consider the impact one tiny action of ours has on any of a myriad number of people we come in direct or indirect contact with. And everyone does it or has done it. I mean, when was the last time anyone thought to themseslves, "I wonder how this will effect the lives of others?", before they did something. Would that it happened several times a day.
That guy in Michele's post who killed the family while driving drunk; was most definitley not thinking about the other people in this world. At several points that evening, the driver could have opted not to show such disregard, but failed. The price this person, and unfortunately many others have to pay is the awareness that humans are capable of evil. Evil doesn't come from Hell or Satan. It comes from us choosing to be self-centered and ignorant and...well, generally prickish.
It's the stupid things in life that seem to come back to haunt us. Thinking we can get away with something just one more time and then shooting ourselves in the foot. I understand that being considerate won't eradicate suffering, nor do I think anything is capable of removing suffering from the human experience. But wouldn't it be nice if our suffering came from something we couldn't blame each other for? Wouldn't it be nice if suffering was merely a natural condition predicated by disease or freak accidents? Or maybe, this evil that results from humans is naturally predicated in that it is resultant of human behavior. A natural stimuli of it's own.
People never cease to piss me off amaze me.
I was over at Jeff Goldstein's place today just cruising around, and this nutjob starts going on about how the war on Terrorism is 'your' (the right's) war; and how the right and Republican's should put their money (or body, as it were) where their mouth is and volunteer for service. Basically arguing that you shouldn't say we should go to war if you're not involved in the war yourself.
As I was reading this mindless drivel, it occured to me (firstly that it was in fact, mindless drivel) but that the principle it was based on was fucking retarded. No. It was re fucking tarded. By this logic, you wouldn't be able to vote on property rights unless you owned property. You wouldn't be able to make gun control decisions unless you owned guns, and so on. Whether or not you choose to go to war, it is your duty as an American to make your opinion heard. Fucking guy gave me a headache.
And people go on about we should just leave. Fucking QUIT. Well, I dunno about you, but quitting is not part of the American ethos to me. Yeah, maybe we fucked up, we really stepped in it big time. Fine. People make mistakes. But part of recovering from that mistake is paying the consequences, sticking it out, and learning. You don't just make a fucking mess and walk away. That's short-sighted and self-centered. If America made a habit of quitting all the goddamn time, we'd be just like the fucking French or someone. Except we'd smell better. And have beer. Fucking quit. Who's idea was that?
And lastly, I got my water bill this month and they charged me for 23 HCF (hundred cubic feet). We usually use about 5 HCF. So I was like, hm. Weird. And the bill only totalled about $45 bucks, so the increase wasn't exactly going to break me. Then I got all numbers-oriented (because that's what I do). One cubic foot of water is about 7.48 gallons of water; meaning I usually use about 3,740 gallons of water per month (500x7.48). So for the past two billing cycles, the meter's been saying I'm using about 17,200 gallons. Of water. Okay, so I started listening for leaks. I mean, if I'm using seventeen thousand fucking gallons of water, I should be able to hear a leak, or at least find that firehose I left on. Didn't hear any leaks. Called the water company, they said they already did a re-read. Called the management, and of course, they'll get someone out to check for leaks.
"Really, I listened for leaks, and I'm no plumber but I'm thinking any idiot can hear the difference between no leaks and 17 thousand fucking gallons of water." I'm thinking it sounds something like waves breaking on the Great Barrier Reef, but what do I know. 2300 cubic feet of water is enough water to fill a room larger than 13x13x13. With the average swimming pool holding between 15 and 20 thousand gallons; that puts me right up there with the goddamn Jonses. Hey! C'mon over! We're having a fucking pool party ya'll! Yep, just filled up the fuckin' family room from the tap, and let 'er rip!
WHAT THE FUCK?
I went to WalMart today. Nothing froths the milk on the aromatic, subtly flavorful cup of fine cappucino that is real misanthropy like a trip to Wally World.
It's like an obstacle course: get in, get what you need, and get out before your anger meter reaches the red zone and you flip out in the Health and Beauty aisle, pummeling some idiotass redneck with a box of Q-Tips.
Honest to God, we get to the cash register, and some old bag just gets in line right in front of us. Even the woman behind the register thought it was weird. What a rude bitch! But the thing that really got me was that the cashier noticed. I wasn't aware that Wal Mart hired non-catatonic people to work the register. I'm wondering if she knows she's over qualified; but maybe she was the manager filling in for somone who couldn't make it to work today.
Oddly enough, I saw a guy I recognized. It took me a few seconds to place him, but then it hit me. I knew him from a blog! Unfortunately he's not really up to blogging much lately; I thought about leaving a comment at his site, but his latest entry was sometime in April. Oh well, he must've gotten a job or something. Fuckin quitter.
But really, what's the difference between believeing in Scientology and believeing in any number of the equally preposterous religions in this world? Granted, Scientology may be a more obvious scam for your money, but there are any number of less obvious scams that don't makes targets of your personal wealth so much as your intellectual and spiritual possessions. I guess that's a bit of a cynical thought, but really, that's how humans socialize eachother, we form orders and organization structure. Granted, we like to differentiate ourselves from pack animals with alpha males; but really, what's the difference between choosing a leader based on strength and dominance; and choosing a leader based on who wears the pointiest goddamn hat? REally, if you're going to take a focused lens at dismantling any religion, we shouldn't just pick the easy targets. We should also take those critical lenses and turn them inward, and question things about ourselves that we never thought about before. Are my beliefs just as equally outlandish as those people who belive in all that weird Scientology/Mormonism/Buddhism/Islam/Christianity shit? How are mine more grounded in reality? It's then that we discover one of two things: One - being that ours are just as flawed, we are but another human on this planet doing the best we can to make sense of all the things we don't understand and maybe we'd just do better to accept than busy ourselves trying to prove everyone a fool; and/or Two - that ours can't be wrong because they're ours, because we believe in them. The second logical process only helping to prove the basis of the first.
As much as I'd prefer to pay hard earned money to wade through throngs of miscreants, be robbed blind for soda and popcorn (quite possibly the two cheapest food items to produce), only to sit in a chair fit for a pygmy, trying my best to pay attention to the flick while seven people use the theater as their own private phone booth and the Bloods settle gangland disputes in the center aisle; I think I'll just wait til it comes out in the rental store. I mean, I dislike the middle third of the population as it is, no point in trying to test my limits.
I'm only linking you to this top secret site because we should all know the truth. Link
You know, I've been watching blogs for a shit ton longer than I've been writing them. They've changed, and not in a good way, from my perspective. Blogs a few years ago, would kick the shit out of today's blogs.
Back then, there was no such term as a blogosphere. Ask the IT guys where you work, ten years ago the Web was a joke, no one wanted to admit they were working on web-based marketing or inventory sytems. Fuck, these days the web is the shit. Anyone can have a website, Arianna proved that shit WORD.
Before there was a blogoshpere, there were just people. People putting shit out there for whoever was there. Before there was a blogosphere blogs were like space probes sending out radio waves into a chasm of unknown depth. Then one day tink a comment was born. A few (days) later we discovered, holy shit, there are other people talking out there. Plink a blogroll was born, a series of links to other people in the great beyond. Then before you know it, clang comments were born, and of course ping trackbacks evolved.
The blogs stood up on their hindlegs, understood their surroundings, and before you know it, they had turned into a bunch of self-righteous, soapboxing, sonsofwhores. It's shitty. I go from one site to another, and see the same issue turned inside out in two different directions. It's creeping into newsmedia too. I was at CBSmarketwatch a few days ago, and there was an article about how college grads are facing the best job market since 2000, the next day new hire stats come in at half the expected value.
Hi everyone, we live in an age where information has become immediate. You don't have to wait for postal mail, telegrams, couriers, telephones, faxes, delayed quotes or Matt Fucking Drudge. The information is out there, waiting for you. Matt Drudge just goes and gets it for you becuase he knows your dumb enough to think what he offers is some kind of service.
Before the word blog, we were just people fishing for contact in a supposedly barren ocean. Lo and behold, the barren ocean bears fruit, and years later we've got a waterway choked with unimaginable detritus.
Go home tourists. Go Home Blogspot, Blogger, 20six, and Huffington. Take us back to the days when the only people out here were the people who actually wanted to be here. Before blog was a tagline, before ad placement became a source of extra household income, before political machines enrolled blog sites to run their interference. Go the fuck home, nothing to see here.
If I have no reason to have faith in humanity, what with all the vile things we do to eachother (killing, lieing, scamming, raping, cheating, etc), and I have no reason to believe in the historical religious instutions (because they've been all eaten up with political aspirations), what faith do I have left? I can't trust my own species, and I can't trust religion because it's domintaed by the same vices of my own species, so what the fuck? What the fuck.
When that volcano in Yellowstone finally blows half the world to hell or whatever, I'm going to see it as a long awaited escape. I mean hell, I won't have to pay back any mortages, car loans, college debt, any of that shit. I could drive down to Key West in my newly owned car (because the bank has been blown to smithereens by nuclear aftershocks or whatever and infrastructure is crumbling like a milk-soaked graham crakcer) and live out the rest of my days a free man. Shit, the day the bomb explodes/disaster strikes/meteor hits I might just go out and buy a two story open-ocean yacht, put the entire mother on credit (knowing the bank won't exist in a few months) and sail off into oblivion.
That would be the shit.
With my wife.
And some beer.
And maybe a few friends.
Aw fuckall.
You might want to grab a chair for this one.
Michael Jackson, the King of Pop, the Papa Moose, the Whole Enchilada will go before a California jury and answer to charges of child molestation. Yes, you know that. But let's take a refreshing dip in a little pool I like to call Perspective. Walk with me, back to 1982.
Watch your step...whoops - last one's a doozy; okay. Here we are you and me; black Ray Bans, Member's Only jackets, and haircuts that defy gravity. We're walking out of the record store with our freshly pressed vinyls of 'Thriller' when some guy approaches us and says "Betcha million bucks before 25 years pass, that guy goes up for child molestation."
We look at eachother, then back at Captain Dumbass. "You're on big man!"
"Twice."
"Twice?"
"Yeah fellas why not...double or nothin'."
"You might be dumb but you must be rich; that's a bet we'll take whole heartedly," we shuffle past the guy.
See, that's the kind of bet that makes men fortunes. If only I'da known. I think that it is a conspiracy though. The Beatles are behind it, they're pissed that he bought the masters. Rightly so if you ask me.
I lost my wallet last week. Actually, I didn't lose it, it was found and never returned. I know exactly where it dropped. I went back looking for it shortly thereafter, and it was gone. I had fallen behind the row seats we were sitting at in a movie theater. I went back the next morning and the sucker was gone. So someone found the bitch, and took it home. I had to cancel my credit and check cards, the blockbuster card, had to apply online for a duplicate driver's license. I have been more than two weeks without a license. I have been effectively cut off from my lifeblood - alcohol. Right now, I'm supposed to be drinking beer and blogging. Not blogging and sucking air. Good the thing old lady got a job bartending. I wonder if I'll have to resort to asking friends to buy me some?
It really sucks, not having a wallet. You can't do anything. No money to buy/do stuff, no ID. People don't even take checks anymore, and the few places that do want your ID, social security number, and a thumbprint in blood. Remember when the point of a check was that it was asa good as cash? Fuck, somebody buy me a beer.
Who the hell admits to the world that his name used to be 'Deep Throat'? I mean, that guy was so close to kicking the bucket without everyone knowing. And now, he's going to be the object of every dick joke this side of Butkus.
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