I think that there is a special, embarrassing place in hell reserved for about 20 or so people from Queens.
http://www.nypost.com/p/news/local/queens/passers_by_let_good_sam_die_5SGkf5XDP5ooudVuEd8fbI
The above is a link to a story about an act of heroism, for which the hero was rewarded with several stab wounds to the chest, a heaping load of ingratitude, many an indifferent passing stare, a spot in a cellphone photo archive, and ultimately a hasty trip to the spirit world.
At about 5:40 in the morning, a woman was being attacked. Her unlikely savior was a homeless man, who was then stabbed in the chest several times for his efforts. The assailant ran off one way, and the woman another. The homeless man then stumbled a few feet after his attacker, and collapsed face down upon the ground.
At this point, he lay there in a pool of blood for an hour and twenty minutes, before firemen arrived to find he was dead.
There is a surveillance tape which documents his fall to the ground, and then records over twenty people walk by, and simply glance at him while he bleeds out on the pavement.
One despicable asshole even has the audacity to walk out of a nearby building, snap a photo with his phone camera, and then walk away. Nobody called 911. Nobody stopped to help.
Nobody.
For one hour and twenty minutes, this guy bled out on the pavement. One hour, and twenty minutes.
I can understand that, upon seeing a bleeding, dying man on the ground early in the morning, one may feel a little nervous about sticking around to help out. That much may not be right, but it is understandable. However, it would probably be pretty far fetched to speculate that even two or three of those twenty plus passers by didn't have a cell phone. How hard is it to walk to a point where one feels safe, and make a call?
And this woman who was the original, intended victim? Where the hell did she go? And clearly she knew that there was some form of a scuffle which ensued between the attacker and the homeless man, so why wouldn't she, at the very least, call 911 after she escaped and report what occurred?
There is so much that is disturbing about this story. What does this say about the general state of humanity? That not even one amongst twenty people is willing to even so much as make a phone call? I realize that this same sort of thing occurred about 45 years ago with Kitty Genovese, but man, I thought maybe we had progressed as human beings since then. The indifference is astounding.
I don't care what instinct or fear dictates--if I encounter a bleeding person on the ground, I'm doing something about it.
So I guess the lesson we learn here--you better think twice before being a homeless hero in Queens.
26.4.10
Plastic, not paper please
I'm sort of baffled by all of the women who apparently still think that purchasing things with checks is anything other than silly and archaic. Today, 3 separate women attempted to make purchases at Carrabbas' using checks.
WTF? They all seriously looked at me like I had lobsters crawling out of my ears when I told them, "Umm, actually, we don't take checks." Just looks of utter bewilderment. Where are these women shopping, that they can still write checks? Most businesses have signs somewhere visible near the register stating, "Checks no longer accepted."
There is nothing worse than going to the grocery store (which most, unfortunately, still accept checks) and getting stuck behind some old crone, or a middle aged woman with 6 kids and a dumptruck sized cart full of cheese hot dogs and mini pizzas, filling out a check, and balancing her checkbook. For goodness sakes, get with the times. Use a plastic card. Or cash, if you don't trust yourself with plastic.
I've heard people argue that it makes them nervous to let a waiter take their card away, for fear that they could write down the credit card number. This is somehow less scary than leaving a check with ALL YOUR INFORMATION at locations scattered about the planet. Think about it--your name, address, bank account number, and often times your phone number and drivers license, (since most places don't trust idiots to not bounce checks.) All you're really leaving out is your birth day, cup size, and social security number.
Why do women seem to be the ones still using checks? I have never seen a man use one, not for years (leaving out business checks.) Today, a woman came in to buy a huge vat of ice cream. She wanted to pay with a check. I informed her that we don't accept them. She looked at me like I was the largest asshole in the region, gave an exasperated sigh, a slight head shake, and stated that "I've always used them before."
"Sorry."
Not on my watch.
So she then got out her phone, called who I assumed was her husband, and was apparently informed that she was allowed to use one of those weird plastic cards. I guess maybe her husband doesn't think she is a big enough girl to pay with something that takes mere moments to transact. She then told me, upon handing me the card, to "run it as credit." So I ran it like I run every other card, with no idea whether or not it was going to go through as a credit or debit transaction.
Sorry.
I understand people using checks to pay bills via snail mail. I even understand paying said bills, or maybe rent with a check, hoping that it won't go through or be cashed for a few days, because you are waiting for a paycheck to come through. Or something. But for heavens sakes, paying with a check, and upon failure, a credit card for a 25 gallon bucket of ice cream is everything that is wrong with this country. I'd hardly say that a vat of Blue Bell vanilla falls under the category of "essential," albeit damn delicious.
Stop using checks. It is an annoying, pointless practice. I have managed to get through about 4 years on fewer than 10 or so checks. And somehow, the world has not ended, I have not fallen into financial ruin, and no Nigerians have managed to steal my identity.
If there happens to be any good reason besides having a carbon copy record of everything you ever purchase for owning a checkbook, I'd sure like to know what it is. And just why it seems to be mainly women clinging to such an obnoxious financial relic.
WTF? They all seriously looked at me like I had lobsters crawling out of my ears when I told them, "Umm, actually, we don't take checks." Just looks of utter bewilderment. Where are these women shopping, that they can still write checks? Most businesses have signs somewhere visible near the register stating, "Checks no longer accepted."
There is nothing worse than going to the grocery store (which most, unfortunately, still accept checks) and getting stuck behind some old crone, or a middle aged woman with 6 kids and a dumptruck sized cart full of cheese hot dogs and mini pizzas, filling out a check, and balancing her checkbook. For goodness sakes, get with the times. Use a plastic card. Or cash, if you don't trust yourself with plastic.
I've heard people argue that it makes them nervous to let a waiter take their card away, for fear that they could write down the credit card number. This is somehow less scary than leaving a check with ALL YOUR INFORMATION at locations scattered about the planet. Think about it--your name, address, bank account number, and often times your phone number and drivers license, (since most places don't trust idiots to not bounce checks.) All you're really leaving out is your birth day, cup size, and social security number.
Why do women seem to be the ones still using checks? I have never seen a man use one, not for years (leaving out business checks.) Today, a woman came in to buy a huge vat of ice cream. She wanted to pay with a check. I informed her that we don't accept them. She looked at me like I was the largest asshole in the region, gave an exasperated sigh, a slight head shake, and stated that "I've always used them before."
"Sorry."
Not on my watch.
So she then got out her phone, called who I assumed was her husband, and was apparently informed that she was allowed to use one of those weird plastic cards. I guess maybe her husband doesn't think she is a big enough girl to pay with something that takes mere moments to transact. She then told me, upon handing me the card, to "run it as credit." So I ran it like I run every other card, with no idea whether or not it was going to go through as a credit or debit transaction.
Sorry.
I understand people using checks to pay bills via snail mail. I even understand paying said bills, or maybe rent with a check, hoping that it won't go through or be cashed for a few days, because you are waiting for a paycheck to come through. Or something. But for heavens sakes, paying with a check, and upon failure, a credit card for a 25 gallon bucket of ice cream is everything that is wrong with this country. I'd hardly say that a vat of Blue Bell vanilla falls under the category of "essential," albeit damn delicious.
Stop using checks. It is an annoying, pointless practice. I have managed to get through about 4 years on fewer than 10 or so checks. And somehow, the world has not ended, I have not fallen into financial ruin, and no Nigerians have managed to steal my identity.
If there happens to be any good reason besides having a carbon copy record of everything you ever purchase for owning a checkbook, I'd sure like to know what it is. And just why it seems to be mainly women clinging to such an obnoxious financial relic.
25.4.10
It is finished
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I have really just beat the hell out of this topic, but I feel like it needs to be wrapped up.
First of all, if you have never had the chance to visit the original KFC on 3900 so state in SLC, you are missing out on a rather marvelous dining experience. Unless you despise KFC food, (which I do) because in that case, the original KFC is just a kitchy place to clog your arteries.
I'd say, overall, the double down was a let down. I fully suspected it to be way more disgusting than what it was. I thought half way though I'd be suffering some moderate heart pains. That maybe I'd wake up the following morning with a large, purplish bruise over the heart region of my chest. Psh, none of that even happened.
Mostly the double down just left me wishing that the negligible portion of bacon had been way less negligible. You could practically see through it, and therefore it added no flavor whatsoever to the complete meatwich.
I found myself thinking, "Okay. Next time, I'll ask for less sauce, and extra bacon." Immediately after which, I thought, "You idiot. There will never BE a next time. You (I) don't hate your (my) body (buddy) THAT much."
I ate a double down, drank 2 pepsis, had a small carton of potato logs, and then half a pint of frozen custard. Oh, and a kazoozle. I felt like if I was going to abuse myself, I might as well pull out all the stops. But about 1 am I was feeling guilty, and so went running down town.
Maybe that's why I didn't wake up with the purple bruise.
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Just a monument to the colonel. May he weather the eternities enshrined in bronze.
Everyone that was hoping for a heart attack, but didn't even get one heart attack.
20.4.10
T-minus 2 days
Thursday, I'm going to eat a double down. A facebook event has been created, people have been invited, a location has been selected. This event has been etched into the fleshy tables of a KFC chicken heart. There is no turning back.
The last time I ate a KFC product, I was working at a gum factory. Because we like, kicked ass at producing and packaging a lot of gum (or something) we were rewarded one day with lunch. Many of us in the gum packing department were hopeful of a Pizza Hut experience. Much to the delight of the redneck white trash dudes in the shipping department, KFC was our victory prize. As I peeled away the lid from one of the chicken buckets, I marveled at how the fried chicken nestled in side looked the exact opposite of crispy. At that point in my life, I was by no means a very healthy eater. But by 3 bites into an original recipe canola oil sponge, I no longer felt the need to swallow, as anything put in my mouth, and then subsequently chewed, would pretty much just slide down my gullet of its own volition. I ate about half a chicken part, and could take no more. Much to the pleasure of the guy with the shirt that stated in humongous lettering "Oh what fun it is to ride." More chicken for that asshole.
As the day of atherosclerosis draws ever closer, I find myself growing afraid. I was reading a review about the double down on a blog, and was absolutely appalled by the included imagery. I think I've never laid eyes upon a more vile, grease soaked creation. I think that I've never looked at something meant for mass popular human consumption, and been so completely repulsed. Especially after a couple months of eating lots of veggies, fruits, and combinations of veggies and fruits, with occasional lean meats.
I feel like this thing is going to slither down my gullet, and then burst out of my chest, in a dramatic display of deleterious, meaty protest. Or at the very least I'm going to regain every pound I've shed over the last few months. Or I'll be rendered sterile. Or something. The bottom line is, nothing good can come from the coming experience.
But I have to go through with it. My curiosity is too great. I want to experience for myself this latest American abomination. The veritable abominable snowman of fast food creations. I want to try to understand the "why" of it. To know how we could have arrived at the point of such a mighty conglomeration of meat, not heretofore mass marketed on this planet.
I'm not looking forward to the incipient buddy growth.
The last time I ate a KFC product, I was working at a gum factory. Because we like, kicked ass at producing and packaging a lot of gum (or something) we were rewarded one day with lunch. Many of us in the gum packing department were hopeful of a Pizza Hut experience. Much to the delight of the redneck white trash dudes in the shipping department, KFC was our victory prize. As I peeled away the lid from one of the chicken buckets, I marveled at how the fried chicken nestled in side looked the exact opposite of crispy. At that point in my life, I was by no means a very healthy eater. But by 3 bites into an original recipe canola oil sponge, I no longer felt the need to swallow, as anything put in my mouth, and then subsequently chewed, would pretty much just slide down my gullet of its own volition. I ate about half a chicken part, and could take no more. Much to the pleasure of the guy with the shirt that stated in humongous lettering "Oh what fun it is to ride." More chicken for that asshole.
As the day of atherosclerosis draws ever closer, I find myself growing afraid. I was reading a review about the double down on a blog, and was absolutely appalled by the included imagery. I think I've never laid eyes upon a more vile, grease soaked creation. I think that I've never looked at something meant for mass popular human consumption, and been so completely repulsed. Especially after a couple months of eating lots of veggies, fruits, and combinations of veggies and fruits, with occasional lean meats.
I feel like this thing is going to slither down my gullet, and then burst out of my chest, in a dramatic display of deleterious, meaty protest. Or at the very least I'm going to regain every pound I've shed over the last few months. Or I'll be rendered sterile. Or something. The bottom line is, nothing good can come from the coming experience.
But I have to go through with it. My curiosity is too great. I want to experience for myself this latest American abomination. The veritable abominable snowman of fast food creations. I want to try to understand the "why" of it. To know how we could have arrived at the point of such a mighty conglomeration of meat, not heretofore mass marketed on this planet.
I'm not looking forward to the incipient buddy growth.
18.4.10
Dear girls,
Please stop making this face. And then taking a picture of it when you do. Followed by posting it to your facebook account. Or blog. Or wherever it is you happen to be posting photos of yourself. Seriously. I've encountered entire facebook albums dedicated to this face.
I think I semi understand the underlying anatomy of posting a kissy-face-slightly-arched-eyebrows-sorta-seductive-gaze pose. I realize this accentuates your cheekbones, giving your face the illusion of being somewhat emaciated. Which, if the emaciated thing is what you are going for...well, spot on. And maybe some dudes will see your picture and think, "Whoa, I feel like she is making that stupid kissy-face-seductress-gaze pose at me." Although, the male specimen who thinks such a thing is probably the last person on earth from whom you would want to elicit such a response, as he is probably browsing your album alone at 3:30 in the morning with his shirt off, dividing glances between his own marvelous abs, and your kissy-face.
I'd actually love to have some input from guys here. Unfortunately, I think there is a disproportionate amount of females who read this blog vs. males. I'm not sure why. It may be that the blogging world is more heavily estrogen dominated. Or, it may be that I don't post enough pictures of babes doing a kissy-face. It's hard to know. But my question, is if you are a man, does the encounter of a kissy-face picture cause your loins to burn with desire, or do you, like me, find it to be a compelling reason make some sort of an audible "uggh" sound, in conjunction with a head shake, attached to a possible disgusted "sniff."
If you are a female, do you do the kissy-face for photos? And why? (If you happen to be a kissy-face culprit, feel free to respond anonymously.) Do you hate that your friends do it, or do you sort of think it is a good idea, but don't employ the technique, as you feel you have not yet attained mastery of the semi-seductive-gaze portion of the pose? Mastering the kissy-face-slightly-arched-eyebrows-sorta-seductive-gaze pose technique is hard. It really is.
Anyways, maybe this is simply another one of those things that falls under the "I'm never going to understand this," category, where dwell such phenomena as the popped collar, and flare jeans.
Oh, and the Double Down.
13.4.10
Monument
Upon leaving my house today, I encountered this gigantic treasure about a foot away from the sidewalk on my grass. Upon seeing it, I just stopped and marveled at the sheer magnitude of it. The only thing I had by which to scale it, was a Yoohoo can.
First of all, I'm really sorry this post is about feces. Second, I'm even more sorry that gargantuan thing is sitting upon my lawn, taking root. Third, I'm sorry again for posting a photo of said monstrosity possibly waiting, I fear, to come alive via some form of mutation to tear this city apart.
This is why I hate Salt Lake City dog owners. I have found no fewer than 8-10 such piles (albeit of a much smaller caliber) on my lawn in the time that I have lived in this house, and I can only imagine it will get worse as the summer arrives. You may think, "well would you want to pick that up while you were walking your dog?" Hell no, I wouldn't pick it up. Which is precicely why I will never own a creature that is capable of manufacturing feces of such epic proportions. That thing is bigger than a Yoohoo can. Get real.
If you choose to own a dog, and you choose to walk around with said dog, have the common decency to clean up after it. There is no way in hell my lawnmower will be able to grind that turd into oblivion. Until the cat lady or I find a shovel, that thing is a permanent fixture upon our lawn.
I'm really not okay with that.
Urgent help requireded!
Today I was on facebook. I noticed on the news feed, that my cousin, who lives in San Francisco, had posted as his status "NEED URGENT HELP!!!"
Naturally, I thought this was a weird thing to post on facebook. I mean, if a person was in need of urgent help, I think the last thing he or she would do, would be to update his or her facebook status. I could just imagine my cousin, trapped in a heap of twisted metal after a terrible car accident, barely coherent, accessing his facebook account via a cell phone, stating his need of "urgent help."
So I noticed that he (Justin) was currently on and available for chat. So I asked:
Andrew
what is the urgent help needed?
5:55pmJustin
thank God you're here andrew
*This line immediate raised my suspicion, as he wouldn't have called me andrew.
we're stuck in wales uk....as we speak
*First, I couldn't imagine my cousin updating his fbook status via a cell phone, being a respectable lawyer in his mid thirties, nor could i think of a single reason why he would be in Wales.
5:56pmAndrew
oh yeah?
5:56pmJustin
got mugged at the park of the hotel where we stayed
all cash credit card and cell phone was all stolen off
*At this point, it seemed that either my law school graduate cousin was either really panicked, and had thus lost his ability to form a proper sentence, or he was a Nigerian pretending to be my cousin. I supposed the latter was probably correct.
5:57pmAndrew
oh shit!
what can i do??
I am the very most worried about you!
Do you need my help?
5:59pmJustin
it was a brutal experience for us
we really need your help in getting back home
5:59pmAndrew
OMG I can totally imagine that such a thing would be very brutal
were you guys very scared?
6:00pmJustin
we're in pains with injuries and bruises
6:00pmAndrew
No! what sort of pains and injuries??
I have very worries for you guys!
6:01pmJustin
we need your help andrew
6:02pmAndrew
Wait, should I get the guy who got you? I have a .45
I am not even scared to seek vengeance for your hurts and pains and injuries and bruises
6:02pmJustin
omg..
*I certainly could not imagine my cousin using the term OMG.
do you wanna help out or not?
6:02pmAndrew
Yes! I said I do!
Tell me how to help! I am so worried! an attack in the UK! I cant believe this has happened to you
6:04pmJustin
am damn serious here
6:05pmAndrew
is Charlie okay?
*Charlie is Justin's first born
6:05pmJustin
yes
6:05pmAndrew
and dillan?
*Second born.
what about Timothy?! Please for the love of god, tell me timothy didn't get hurt
*Timothy, doesn't exist.
6:07pmJustin
dillan is in pains and timothy is fine
our return flight leaves in about some few hours from now..but we're having problem settling the hotel bills
6:07pmAndrew
Did they take Timothy's prosthetic leg??
6:08pmJustin
no
wondering if you could pls loan us some little piece of cash to get the bills sorted out and get a cab to the airport
*At this point, I was very interested as to how much this little piece of cash would be.
will def refund it back as soon as we get back home
6:09pmAndrew
I guess i could give you some cash.
how much do you need?
6:10pmJustin
$1,480
6:10pmAndrew
I will only send you cash if you swear in your wrath that you will buy little Timothy a sack of corn nuts. he must be devastated
6:11pmJustin
omg...
*the Nigerian was apparently pist that he would have to pony up $1.89 for a sack of corn nuts.
6:11pmAndrew
SWEAR TO ME!
6:11pmJustin
we need help here andrew
i swear with my life
i will
6:11pmAndrew
how can i even know if you are speaking true?
6:12pmJustin
am damn serious here
*why the exact same misspelling as the first time he was "am damn serious here."?
6:12pmAndrew
how can i know that Timothy is really okay??
HOW CAN I KNOW EVEN!!
TELL ME OR YOU GET NO CASHES FROM ME FOR ANYTHING NOT EVEN TIMOTHY"S CORN NUTS!
6:14pmJustin
he is fine and doing good
*I was about 90% reassured at this point.
6:14pmAndrew
what color is his prosthetic leg???
how can i even get the monies to you even?
6:15pmJustin
you can have the money wired to my name via western union money transfer
6:16pmAndrew
i dont even know if you are damn serious right now
6:16pmJustin
i have my passport with me to pick it up at the western union outlet
6:16pmAndrew
how damn serious are you even??
6:16pmJustin
OMG...
if am not i won't tell you to wire money to my name
you and i know that i will need a proof before i can pick it
6:17pmAndrew
well, what name should I send the monies too?
6:18pmJustin
you will need my name and location to wire to
*the
money
Here's my info below
Name...JUSTIN FISH
Location...47 LOUNDOUN SQUARE
Cardiff, GLAMORGAN CF10 5JN
UNITED KINGDOM
got it?
6:20pmAndrew
wait, I am really close to where you are at!
Ill just bring you the monies!
I can be there in 15 minutes!!!!
6:21pmJustin
omg...
*This was apparently a frustrating concept, me bringing him the monies.
6:21pmAndrew
Does that sound great!?
6:21pmJustin
you just have to go down to a western union outlet near you and send the money
6:21pmAndrew
That way, I can make SURE timothy gets his corn nuts!
No, dumbass, I am only a few blocks away!
I can just HAND you the monies!
6:22pmJustin
do you wanna help out or not
tell me let me know
6:22pmAndrew
Yes, And i also called a police officer, because I am worried about your pains and bruises. he will be coming to that address shortly
and then I will bring you the cash!
At this point, my Nigerian friend apparently realized I was probably not going to send him $1480 dollars, and thus quit corresponding with me.
Now, here is what I find to be a little baffling. Who are the people that actually fall for this? I mean, certainly my dear cousin Justin's account isn't the first this guy has hacked. So obviously, some people are falling for this, and are somehow not realizing that, in an emergency where bruises and pains are involved, a victim is probably not going to be using fbook to find help. I think that if you are too dense to realize that you are clearly talking to a person who does not speak English with any sort of fluency, then you probably deserve to be raped of $1480 dollars.
Unless you are my grandmother. I will beat that guy to death, if he rips off my grandma.
Naturally, I thought this was a weird thing to post on facebook. I mean, if a person was in need of urgent help, I think the last thing he or she would do, would be to update his or her facebook status. I could just imagine my cousin, trapped in a heap of twisted metal after a terrible car accident, barely coherent, accessing his facebook account via a cell phone, stating his need of "urgent help."
So I noticed that he (Justin) was currently on and available for chat. So I asked:
Andrew
what is the urgent help needed?
5:55pmJustin
thank God you're here andrew
*This line immediate raised my suspicion, as he wouldn't have called me andrew.
we're stuck in wales uk....as we speak
*First, I couldn't imagine my cousin updating his fbook status via a cell phone, being a respectable lawyer in his mid thirties, nor could i think of a single reason why he would be in Wales.
5:56pmAndrew
oh yeah?
5:56pmJustin
got mugged at the park of the hotel where we stayed
all cash credit card and cell phone was all stolen off
*At this point, it seemed that either my law school graduate cousin was either really panicked, and had thus lost his ability to form a proper sentence, or he was a Nigerian pretending to be my cousin. I supposed the latter was probably correct.
5:57pmAndrew
oh shit!
what can i do??
I am the very most worried about you!
Do you need my help?
5:59pmJustin
it was a brutal experience for us
we really need your help in getting back home
5:59pmAndrew
OMG I can totally imagine that such a thing would be very brutal
were you guys very scared?
6:00pmJustin
we're in pains with injuries and bruises
6:00pmAndrew
No! what sort of pains and injuries??
I have very worries for you guys!
6:01pmJustin
we need your help andrew
6:02pmAndrew
Wait, should I get the guy who got you? I have a .45
I am not even scared to seek vengeance for your hurts and pains and injuries and bruises
6:02pmJustin
omg..
*I certainly could not imagine my cousin using the term OMG.
do you wanna help out or not?
6:02pmAndrew
Yes! I said I do!
Tell me how to help! I am so worried! an attack in the UK! I cant believe this has happened to you
6:04pmJustin
am damn serious here
6:05pmAndrew
is Charlie okay?
*Charlie is Justin's first born
6:05pmJustin
yes
6:05pmAndrew
and dillan?
*Second born.
what about Timothy?! Please for the love of god, tell me timothy didn't get hurt
*Timothy, doesn't exist.
6:07pmJustin
dillan is in pains and timothy is fine
our return flight leaves in about some few hours from now..but we're having problem settling the hotel bills
6:07pmAndrew
Did they take Timothy's prosthetic leg??
6:08pmJustin
no
wondering if you could pls loan us some little piece of cash to get the bills sorted out and get a cab to the airport
*At this point, I was very interested as to how much this little piece of cash would be.
will def refund it back as soon as we get back home
6:09pmAndrew
I guess i could give you some cash.
how much do you need?
6:10pmJustin
$1,480
6:10pmAndrew
I will only send you cash if you swear in your wrath that you will buy little Timothy a sack of corn nuts. he must be devastated
6:11pmJustin
omg...
*the Nigerian was apparently pist that he would have to pony up $1.89 for a sack of corn nuts.
6:11pmAndrew
SWEAR TO ME!
6:11pmJustin
we need help here andrew
i swear with my life
i will
6:11pmAndrew
how can i even know if you are speaking true?
6:12pmJustin
am damn serious here
*why the exact same misspelling as the first time he was "am damn serious here."?
6:12pmAndrew
how can i know that Timothy is really okay??
HOW CAN I KNOW EVEN!!
TELL ME OR YOU GET NO CASHES FROM ME FOR ANYTHING NOT EVEN TIMOTHY"S CORN NUTS!
6:14pmJustin
he is fine and doing good
*I was about 90% reassured at this point.
6:14pmAndrew
what color is his prosthetic leg???
how can i even get the monies to you even?
6:15pmJustin
you can have the money wired to my name via western union money transfer
6:16pmAndrew
i dont even know if you are damn serious right now
6:16pmJustin
i have my passport with me to pick it up at the western union outlet
6:16pmAndrew
how damn serious are you even??
6:16pmJustin
OMG...
if am not i won't tell you to wire money to my name
you and i know that i will need a proof before i can pick it
6:17pmAndrew
well, what name should I send the monies too?
6:18pmJustin
you will need my name and location to wire to
*the
money
Here's my info below
Name...JUSTIN FISH
Location...47 LOUNDOUN SQUARE
Cardiff, GLAMORGAN CF10 5JN
UNITED KINGDOM
got it?
6:20pmAndrew
wait, I am really close to where you are at!
Ill just bring you the monies!
I can be there in 15 minutes!!!!
6:21pmJustin
omg...
*This was apparently a frustrating concept, me bringing him the monies.
6:21pmAndrew
Does that sound great!?
6:21pmJustin
you just have to go down to a western union outlet near you and send the money
6:21pmAndrew
That way, I can make SURE timothy gets his corn nuts!
No, dumbass, I am only a few blocks away!
I can just HAND you the monies!
6:22pmJustin
do you wanna help out or not
tell me let me know
6:22pmAndrew
Yes, And i also called a police officer, because I am worried about your pains and bruises. he will be coming to that address shortly
and then I will bring you the cash!
At this point, my Nigerian friend apparently realized I was probably not going to send him $1480 dollars, and thus quit corresponding with me.
Now, here is what I find to be a little baffling. Who are the people that actually fall for this? I mean, certainly my dear cousin Justin's account isn't the first this guy has hacked. So obviously, some people are falling for this, and are somehow not realizing that, in an emergency where bruises and pains are involved, a victim is probably not going to be using fbook to find help. I think that if you are too dense to realize that you are clearly talking to a person who does not speak English with any sort of fluency, then you probably deserve to be raped of $1480 dollars.
Unless you are my grandmother. I will beat that guy to death, if he rips off my grandma.
2.4.10
God help us, this thing actually exists
Just when I thought that the fast food industry couldn't come out with anything more appalling (the McRib, chicken McNuggets, the Baconator, the Burger King Stacker Quad ((holy shit!)) I see this thing and get knocked on my ass.
The arterial Apocalypse pictured above is called the "Double Down." Just when KFC sorta tried to score some "healthy" points with grilled chicken, rather than the usual deep fried lard bucket, they drop this coronary napalm on the American public. I feel like, where land dwelling creatures are concerned, it should maybe be a crime to combine the products of more than 2 different animals in any one concoction. Especially when there isn't even any damned bread involved.
So, let's see. With the double down, we have product from 3 separate mammals: Cheese(s) from a cow, bacon(s) from a pig, and 2 huge chickens from probably an unfathomable amount of chickens, neatly pressed into patties (this estimate does not include any unknown variables, such as other birds or mice accidentally being ground up with the chicken.) And then no bread. And some sauce. The epitome of a meat sandwich. This is apparently what we have come to--thousands of years of eating, and we have digressed to a meat sandwich, that really can not even be classified as a sandwich, as the word "sandwich" inherently implies the use of bread. A meatwich maybe?
Whatever you want to call it, this is a big punch to the arteries and a drop kick to the non-existent 6 pack of obese America.
KFC claims that they have done an "estimate" on the nutrition information of the Double Down, and this is what they came up with:
Calories: 590
Calories from fat: 280
Total fat: 31g
Saturated fat: 10g
Trans fat: 0g
Cholesterol: 190mg
Hey KFC? Get real.
If that thing is less than 1000 calories, then I'm Jonathan Safran Foer.
I'm probably going to eat one. One.
25.3.10
Buddies
I decided that I don't really want to have to rely upon the library for my internet consumption. This was made a little more clear to me after an experience I had on Tuesday.
I was sitting at a desk, typing for my new kinda-job. Which I suppose I should explain. I found a job. Kinda. I am doing freelance writing for OrangeSoda. Not the full time career I was hoping for, yet probably at least a foot in the door. Anyways.
I was writing. I little fat Mexican man came and sat across from me. At some point, he apparently decided that lifting his shirt up to practically his nipples would be a good idea, followed by rubbing his hands up and down on his buddy (gut) for about an entire minute. Now, I like lifting up my shirt and rubbing the bear skin of my buddy just as much as the next asshole. But MAYBE not in the public library. He just gazed out the window, and rub, rub, rubbed away.
At first I just stared at him. Thinking that he would probably subside within an 8-12 second time frame. But he just never stopped. So after about 45 seconds of staring at his buddy, belly button, nipples, and the gigantic scar that snaked its way up the center of his chest, I decided I should probably get out my phone and record him. He repeated the buddy rub at least 6 times, probably amassing to a grand total of at least 4 straight minutes of shirt-up-buddy-rub.
As much as I actually really actually enjoyed this experience, I decided that it was time to get the interweb in my own home. So I called Qwest and now I have one more bill, amongst a googolplex of bills.
I've decided that being a grownup kind of sucks sometimes. I feel like I have money going in 50 different directions every single month. In reality, that number is closer to 9. But still.
I wonder how many bills the buddy rubber has? Maybe that's what he was pondering, upon looking out the window and stroking his ample buddy, just how he was going to make ends meet this month. Maybe lifting up my shirt and rubbing my buddy will help me sort out my life confusions. At worst, it will feel great. And in public, even.
I was sitting at a desk, typing for my new kinda-job. Which I suppose I should explain. I found a job. Kinda. I am doing freelance writing for OrangeSoda. Not the full time career I was hoping for, yet probably at least a foot in the door. Anyways.
I was writing. I little fat Mexican man came and sat across from me. At some point, he apparently decided that lifting his shirt up to practically his nipples would be a good idea, followed by rubbing his hands up and down on his buddy (gut) for about an entire minute. Now, I like lifting up my shirt and rubbing the bear skin of my buddy just as much as the next asshole. But MAYBE not in the public library. He just gazed out the window, and rub, rub, rubbed away.
At first I just stared at him. Thinking that he would probably subside within an 8-12 second time frame. But he just never stopped. So after about 45 seconds of staring at his buddy, belly button, nipples, and the gigantic scar that snaked its way up the center of his chest, I decided I should probably get out my phone and record him. He repeated the buddy rub at least 6 times, probably amassing to a grand total of at least 4 straight minutes of shirt-up-buddy-rub.
As much as I actually really actually enjoyed this experience, I decided that it was time to get the interweb in my own home. So I called Qwest and now I have one more bill, amongst a googolplex of bills.
I've decided that being a grownup kind of sucks sometimes. I feel like I have money going in 50 different directions every single month. In reality, that number is closer to 9. But still.
I wonder how many bills the buddy rubber has? Maybe that's what he was pondering, upon looking out the window and stroking his ample buddy, just how he was going to make ends meet this month. Maybe lifting up my shirt and rubbing my buddy will help me sort out my life confusions. At worst, it will feel great. And in public, even.
20.3.10
A quick path to self loathing
It is fairly difficult to describe the nearly insatiable self loathing that one feels upon consuming an entire loaf of bread and a large ice cream scoop worth of whipping cream. Not moderately low fat Cool Whip, mind you, but full on heavy cream based fatty sugary Carrabba made whipping cream. And, said cream having been consumed by dipping bread in it. Nothing makes a guy feel fatter, nor more pathetic than that. Especially when said creamy carb consumption occurred in the midst of a day of Jamba Juice, 2 bowls of cereal, 2 bowls of oatmeal, various Vanilla Wafers, a bowl of shrimp pasta, some calamari, a bunch of fajita steak and bell peppers, and a pack of Kazoozles. GET REAL.
The next morning when I woke up, I had gained back two of five previously lost pounds. Way to go, fatty.
I have come to realize, over the last few months, that my eating habits have been particularly terrible for a long time, and I have been making an attempt to do better. The day where I ate some of EVERYTHING, was actually sort of a fluke. I was at work for 11 hours, and I only took one table the entire day. Which meant I had a lot of time to stand around and think about how good a loaf of bread dipped in whip cream would be.
I find that when I am bored, I want to eat. Which I think is pretty normal. I'm just really bad at giving in. Like I think about all of the vanilla wafers hiding in dry storage at work, and I want to eat every last one of them. So since that terrible two pound day, I have been trying pretty hard not to bored eat.
Working in a restaurant where finding a meal that weighs in at less than 1000 calories is nigh unto impossible, consequentially makes it nigh unto impossible to avoid eating like obesity sounds like a great life plan. Especially when I am there for 12 hours at a time. Whenever I bring a person who scarcely fits into one chair a heaping plate of pasta drenched in lemon butter, alfredo sauce, and a whole lot of potential ass growth, I just want to get my own pasta, sit down, and grow our asses together. Everything looks SO GOOD when I am hungry. Or bored. Or whatever.
I have recently discovered that I really like plain pasta with some Romano cheese grated and mixed into it. Simple, and pretty low fat. I guess there are a lot of carbs there, but...life goes on. I love bread probably even more than Kazoozles (maybe)and therefore will NEVER be able to truly limit my carb intake. Sorry body, you're just going to have to deal with every carb.
I guess my attempts at a less damaging way of eating go in conjunction with my goal to return to a level of physical fitness where I felt good all the time, and mountain biking was actually fun. Where walking up a flight of 10 stairs didn't take my breath away. Which sort of sounds romantic, getting one's breath taken away. Except for when it is in reference to ascending a very short incline. I have been cycling pretty consistently for the last two months or so, and can now therefore, walk up at least 25 stairs before losing my breath. Probably another 2K10 miracle.
Besides being the year of the miracle, the wall of shame, and the super sizing of government bureaucracy, 2K10 is also going to be the year where Fishkins made the journey back down to 180 lbs, and finally felt good in a pair of mid thigh length swimming trunks.
The next morning when I woke up, I had gained back two of five previously lost pounds. Way to go, fatty.
I have come to realize, over the last few months, that my eating habits have been particularly terrible for a long time, and I have been making an attempt to do better. The day where I ate some of EVERYTHING, was actually sort of a fluke. I was at work for 11 hours, and I only took one table the entire day. Which meant I had a lot of time to stand around and think about how good a loaf of bread dipped in whip cream would be.
I find that when I am bored, I want to eat. Which I think is pretty normal. I'm just really bad at giving in. Like I think about all of the vanilla wafers hiding in dry storage at work, and I want to eat every last one of them. So since that terrible two pound day, I have been trying pretty hard not to bored eat.
Working in a restaurant where finding a meal that weighs in at less than 1000 calories is nigh unto impossible, consequentially makes it nigh unto impossible to avoid eating like obesity sounds like a great life plan. Especially when I am there for 12 hours at a time. Whenever I bring a person who scarcely fits into one chair a heaping plate of pasta drenched in lemon butter, alfredo sauce, and a whole lot of potential ass growth, I just want to get my own pasta, sit down, and grow our asses together. Everything looks SO GOOD when I am hungry. Or bored. Or whatever.
I have recently discovered that I really like plain pasta with some Romano cheese grated and mixed into it. Simple, and pretty low fat. I guess there are a lot of carbs there, but...life goes on. I love bread probably even more than Kazoozles (maybe)and therefore will NEVER be able to truly limit my carb intake. Sorry body, you're just going to have to deal with every carb.
I guess my attempts at a less damaging way of eating go in conjunction with my goal to return to a level of physical fitness where I felt good all the time, and mountain biking was actually fun. Where walking up a flight of 10 stairs didn't take my breath away. Which sort of sounds romantic, getting one's breath taken away. Except for when it is in reference to ascending a very short incline. I have been cycling pretty consistently for the last two months or so, and can now therefore, walk up at least 25 stairs before losing my breath. Probably another 2K10 miracle.
Besides being the year of the miracle, the wall of shame, and the super sizing of government bureaucracy, 2K10 is also going to be the year where Fishkins made the journey back down to 180 lbs, and finally felt good in a pair of mid thigh length swimming trunks.
9.3.10
The beginning of the end
I have been thinking a lot about dating lately. About the apparent futility of it, up to this point in my life. I think if I had back every dollar that I spent on every failed relationship or fruitless date that I have ever been on...let's just say I probably wouldn't have to be driving Javier with the absurdly loud muffler any more.
I went on a date the other night. I figure I spent around 40 bucks. NBD. However, I was thinking yesterday while I was at work (I have a lot of time to stand around and think between the hours of 2-5) that 40 dollars worth of Kazoozles would have brought me an infinitely greater measure of happiness than that date. I mean, come on, 40 Kazoozles? At LEAST 7 days of happiness.
I think I'm going to start making dating decisions based upon a Kazoozle happiness ratio. I will calculate the amount of money I expect to reasonably spend. And if I think that purchasing an equal amount of Kazoozles would probably make me happier, date canceled.
I have a feeling I'm going to be eating a lot of Kazoozles.
I went on a date the other night. I figure I spent around 40 bucks. NBD. However, I was thinking yesterday while I was at work (I have a lot of time to stand around and think between the hours of 2-5) that 40 dollars worth of Kazoozles would have brought me an infinitely greater measure of happiness than that date. I mean, come on, 40 Kazoozles? At LEAST 7 days of happiness.
I think I'm going to start making dating decisions based upon a Kazoozle happiness ratio. I will calculate the amount of money I expect to reasonably spend. And if I think that purchasing an equal amount of Kazoozles would probably make me happier, date canceled.
I have a feeling I'm going to be eating a lot of Kazoozles.
When stringy blonde hair just isn't enough
So I guess I sort of took a small break from blogging. I have been applying for a job (that I didn't get) and during the application process, I just didn't much feel like blogging. One of the things they asked me to do, was name the worst band in history. So I did. And it was OBVIOUSLY Nickelback. I'm a little worried that maybe whomever was reviewing what I wrote, was a big Nickelback fan, and for that reason I did't get the job. Or maybe it was just simply the fact that there were probably a hundred applicants, and with that many, at least a few are bound to be better than I am, albeit hard to believe. Anyways.
I think that I have a good appreciation for a wide range of music. I certainly do not hate everything popular. I’m not one of those people. I like the Killers just as much as the next guy who’s just too young to have appreciated Depeche Mode in the 80’s. But, that said, there certainly IS a lot of garbage on the radio. For whatever reason people seem to be drawn to crappy, overproduced music like T-cells to a pathogen. People are always flocking to bad rock ballads, scratchy, angry vocalists, and stringy blonde hair. I guess I’m narrowing it down at this point. I’m referring, of course, to Nickelback.
The WORST band in history.
Ironically, as deserving of the aforementioned title as Nickelback certainly is, they were deemed the most influential band of the decade by Billboard. If by “influential” Billboard was referring to the resurgence of chin length bleached blonde hair amongst angst ridden teen man-boys, or the rise of tattoo-esque designs on t-shirts and jeans with pre-fabricated holes—they might be spot on. But if this alleged influence was indeed in reference to music…I’m slightly confounded.
Who (artist wise) was Nickelback influencing? Creed? One can’t influence one’s roots. So who then? I would argue that Nickelback didn’t do a single original or groundbreaking thing throughout the first decade of this century. They provided no new sound, no intelligent or life altering lyrics. Simply a load of angst driven drivel, great for head banging and inspiring the consumption of Natty Ice.
You want an influential band? Take Radiohead, for instance. They practically revolutionized rock and roll. They created an entirely new style of music and a revolutionary way of distributing music. By releasing In Rainbows in 2007 as a download for “whatever people thought it was worth,” they were doing something truly influential. Radiohead made a difference by what they brought to music not by singing about joining the mile high club, owning a bathtub big enough for 10, or any other manner of cheap sexual innuendo. Thanks for nothing Nickelback.
I think that I have a good appreciation for a wide range of music. I certainly do not hate everything popular. I’m not one of those people. I like the Killers just as much as the next guy who’s just too young to have appreciated Depeche Mode in the 80’s. But, that said, there certainly IS a lot of garbage on the radio. For whatever reason people seem to be drawn to crappy, overproduced music like T-cells to a pathogen. People are always flocking to bad rock ballads, scratchy, angry vocalists, and stringy blonde hair. I guess I’m narrowing it down at this point. I’m referring, of course, to Nickelback.
The WORST band in history.
Ironically, as deserving of the aforementioned title as Nickelback certainly is, they were deemed the most influential band of the decade by Billboard. If by “influential” Billboard was referring to the resurgence of chin length bleached blonde hair amongst angst ridden teen man-boys, or the rise of tattoo-esque designs on t-shirts and jeans with pre-fabricated holes—they might be spot on. But if this alleged influence was indeed in reference to music…I’m slightly confounded.
Who (artist wise) was Nickelback influencing? Creed? One can’t influence one’s roots. So who then? I would argue that Nickelback didn’t do a single original or groundbreaking thing throughout the first decade of this century. They provided no new sound, no intelligent or life altering lyrics. Simply a load of angst driven drivel, great for head banging and inspiring the consumption of Natty Ice.
You want an influential band? Take Radiohead, for instance. They practically revolutionized rock and roll. They created an entirely new style of music and a revolutionary way of distributing music. By releasing In Rainbows in 2007 as a download for “whatever people thought it was worth,” they were doing something truly influential. Radiohead made a difference by what they brought to music not by singing about joining the mile high club, owning a bathtub big enough for 10, or any other manner of cheap sexual innuendo. Thanks for nothing Nickelback.
21.2.10
12.2.10
YOU HAVE TO READ THIS
Whenever I am the recipient of an email forward, in conjunction with the inherent eyeroll, there is always a mental "ugh." Because getting a forward is such a disappointment. Because Bill Gates really ISN'T sharing his fortune with everyone who forwards this. But in addition to the feelings of annoyance, I am also often filled with at least a small amount of curiosity. Not concerning the content of the actual forward, but rather about the nature of THE forward itself. Part of nearly every forward that I have ever received, is this line in the subject: FWD FWD THIS IS A MUST READ! Or, DO NOT DELETE THIS ONE! Or, YOU HAVE TO SEE THIS! Nothing makes me want to read something less, than when I am implored in caps to not delete it, or that I have to see it. I have deleted many a forward that was a must read, and my heart still beats. I have not been stricken down by the hand of God.
Is that why forwards exist? Because so many people, upon receiving one, and seeing the subject line claim of ABSOLUTELY UNBELIEVABLE, really believe that they are about to witness something absolutely unbelievable? What does it feel like to read YOU HAVE TO SEE THIS, and feel completely compelled to have to see this? Or, to have one's finger frozen an inch above the delete key (probably just poised on the mouse, in reality) unable to descend, because of having been commanded to NOT DELETE THIS ONE.
As one who does not receive many forwards, I have some questions about them. Most claim that THEY MUST BE SEEN. As opposed to what? Forwards that say, "This is of probable moderate to little interest for most human beings, and therefore the continued forwardation of this is not mandatory." I might actually read such a forward. Rather than a forward created by waddever asshole decided that such a joke, piece of info, picture, video, mantra, religious message, or whatever, needed to be seen by every single mother on the planet and then subsequently forwarded to every living friend and relative of those mothers.
My mother loves forwards, God bless her. I think basically every mother does. And to her credit, she only VERY occasionally sends me the forwards that REALLY MUST BE READ. Like I learned about how not to get smashed to death in an earthquake. Or how not to get scammed by phony census people trying to steal my crapy credit score. If you want, I can forward you those. But I might change the subject lines to, "read if you are bored, or don't want to die horribly in an earthquake." See how that worked? It gave me the option to NOT read, followed by slyly compelling me to read or maybe die horribly. I guess I should start creating forwards.
Maybe I can get monies for that, since I can't find a real job.
Is that why forwards exist? Because so many people, upon receiving one, and seeing the subject line claim of ABSOLUTELY UNBELIEVABLE, really believe that they are about to witness something absolutely unbelievable? What does it feel like to read YOU HAVE TO SEE THIS, and feel completely compelled to have to see this? Or, to have one's finger frozen an inch above the delete key (probably just poised on the mouse, in reality) unable to descend, because of having been commanded to NOT DELETE THIS ONE.
As one who does not receive many forwards, I have some questions about them. Most claim that THEY MUST BE SEEN. As opposed to what? Forwards that say, "This is of probable moderate to little interest for most human beings, and therefore the continued forwardation of this is not mandatory." I might actually read such a forward. Rather than a forward created by waddever asshole decided that such a joke, piece of info, picture, video, mantra, religious message, or whatever, needed to be seen by every single mother on the planet and then subsequently forwarded to every living friend and relative of those mothers.
My mother loves forwards, God bless her. I think basically every mother does. And to her credit, she only VERY occasionally sends me the forwards that REALLY MUST BE READ. Like I learned about how not to get smashed to death in an earthquake. Or how not to get scammed by phony census people trying to steal my crapy credit score. If you want, I can forward you those. But I might change the subject lines to, "read if you are bored, or don't want to die horribly in an earthquake." See how that worked? It gave me the option to NOT read, followed by slyly compelling me to read or maybe die horribly. I guess I should start creating forwards.
Maybe I can get monies for that, since I can't find a real job.
11.2.10
When dreams actually mean something
On Monday, I picked up the final piece of my suit (the jacket) from Macy's, where it was being tailored for about 3 weeks. Takes a lot of time, apparently, to lengthen sleeves by 2 inches.
While waiting for someone to help me, I was browsing some various colognes that were on a table. I'm not really a big cologne guy. I've been wearing the same thing for 5 years.
Calvin Klein, I'm never wild about. Smells to musky for me. Like a slick old business guy. Stings the nostrils. Sean Jean, I feel like I'm not allowed to wear because I'm not black. And the name "Unforgivable" just sounds cheesy to me. Although, finding a cologne name that isn't outrageous is pretty hard. This is how I feel like the conversation would go:
"Mmm, what are you wearing?"
"Unforgivable, baby."
"Ew, don't call me baby."
"Sorry."
Anyways.
There was a bottle of Versace. It didn't have some cheesy-assed name. Just "Versace Man." What man can't feel respectable wearing that? Plus it smells DELICIOUS. So I drenched my chest, and went to work. And let me tell you, smelling Versace MAN all day rather than garlic and meat was heavenly. So I have been debating since then if I wanna pony up the cash and buy it.
Last night, I had a dream. I went to Smith's Marketplace and was looking at cologne (weird.) And I found the Versace, and decided to buy it. Ben Stiller was working one of the check out lines. Except for he had this real greasy, side slicked hair that was apparently supposed to be a disguise. Because I guess he liked to work there (in disguise) a couple of times a week. And I was trying to be sneaky, and take a picture of him with my iphone. He was talking a mixture of "Spanish language channel beechez," guy from Anchorman, and Tony Wonder from Arrested Development. I got my picture, he sold me the Versace, and I woke up pist that I didn't really have Ben Stiller pictures on my iphone. Or Versace. Also, that Ben Stiller didn't work at the local Smith's Marketplace.
I'm pretty certain that was the most sure sign I've ever had that I should purchase something. Also, another garbage can to separate my recyclables.
While waiting for someone to help me, I was browsing some various colognes that were on a table. I'm not really a big cologne guy. I've been wearing the same thing for 5 years.
Calvin Klein, I'm never wild about. Smells to musky for me. Like a slick old business guy. Stings the nostrils. Sean Jean, I feel like I'm not allowed to wear because I'm not black. And the name "Unforgivable" just sounds cheesy to me. Although, finding a cologne name that isn't outrageous is pretty hard. This is how I feel like the conversation would go:
"Mmm, what are you wearing?"
"Unforgivable, baby."
"Ew, don't call me baby."
"Sorry."
Anyways.
There was a bottle of Versace. It didn't have some cheesy-assed name. Just "Versace Man." What man can't feel respectable wearing that? Plus it smells DELICIOUS. So I drenched my chest, and went to work. And let me tell you, smelling Versace MAN all day rather than garlic and meat was heavenly. So I have been debating since then if I wanna pony up the cash and buy it.
Last night, I had a dream. I went to Smith's Marketplace and was looking at cologne (weird.) And I found the Versace, and decided to buy it. Ben Stiller was working one of the check out lines. Except for he had this real greasy, side slicked hair that was apparently supposed to be a disguise. Because I guess he liked to work there (in disguise) a couple of times a week. And I was trying to be sneaky, and take a picture of him with my iphone. He was talking a mixture of "Spanish language channel beechez," guy from Anchorman, and Tony Wonder from Arrested Development. I got my picture, he sold me the Versace, and I woke up pist that I didn't really have Ben Stiller pictures on my iphone. Or Versace. Also, that Ben Stiller didn't work at the local Smith's Marketplace.
I'm pretty certain that was the most sure sign I've ever had that I should purchase something. Also, another garbage can to separate my recyclables.
Avoiding a cat invasion
My toilet is being a real piece of shit right now.
I had a leaky faucet in my bathroom sink until about a week ago, when my landlord came and fixed it. Perhaps this was merely coincidental, but that very same day that he fixed the sink, the toilet developed a slow leak. I feel like they must somehow be correlated, although I can not imagine how he could have screwed up the toilet by fixing the sink. Although, the water in the toilet bowl was curiously low when I came back that night. Verrrry curious.
Anyways, there is a slow (or maybe in reality not so slow) leak in the toilet water tank, which causes the water level (in said tank) to drop a couple of inches every few minutes. Which then causes it to refill itself. Aside from simply being annoying, and a stellar waste of water, my life is being endangered every time I shower.
During every showering endeavor, I can expect to experience no fewer than 3 scaldings, depending upon the duration of the shower. A typical shower for me ranges anywhere from 6-12 minutes, depending upon several factors: is this a post work shower? A woke up sweaty shower? In that case, probably 4-6 minutes. In the case of the former, probably closer to the 12 minute range, as it takes time to sluice the Carrabba filth from my body. Not to mention, after standing up for 12 hours, a long shower feels nice. So, in a 12 minute time period, I can expect at LEAST 4 scaldings.
Today, I decided to time my post work out entry into the shower with a toilet refilling, in an attempt to avoid the 3-4 scaldings I thought would be included in the necessary showering time frame. I managed to escape with only 2 scaldings, although the toilet tried its damnedest to get me a third time, as a refilling occurred a mere second after I shut off the water.
I can typically gauge when the scaldings will occur, by the sudden drop in water pressure. At which point I jump to the end of the tub, out of range of the certain 2nd degree burns. The problem is, when the water pressure returns, there is still a measure of scalding water emitted from the faucet, which has gained strength enough to hit my feet, so there is no complete escape. And so I end up hopping from one foot to the other until the water has returned to normal heat. Embarrassing mental image.
I swear, I'm going to go missing for a couple of days. I reckon it would probably take up to 3 for people to really miss me and attempt some sort of investigation. And I fear that I shall be found naked on the bathtub floor, scalded to death, without a shred of dignity remaining. Although, maybe the cat lady below would wonder why my water had been running straight for a couple days, and send her kitty minions on a reconnaissance mission to find out just why I was taking a 2 day shower.
I don't want those cats in my house. I need to get this fixed.
I had a leaky faucet in my bathroom sink until about a week ago, when my landlord came and fixed it. Perhaps this was merely coincidental, but that very same day that he fixed the sink, the toilet developed a slow leak. I feel like they must somehow be correlated, although I can not imagine how he could have screwed up the toilet by fixing the sink. Although, the water in the toilet bowl was curiously low when I came back that night. Verrrry curious.
Anyways, there is a slow (or maybe in reality not so slow) leak in the toilet water tank, which causes the water level (in said tank) to drop a couple of inches every few minutes. Which then causes it to refill itself. Aside from simply being annoying, and a stellar waste of water, my life is being endangered every time I shower.
During every showering endeavor, I can expect to experience no fewer than 3 scaldings, depending upon the duration of the shower. A typical shower for me ranges anywhere from 6-12 minutes, depending upon several factors: is this a post work shower? A woke up sweaty shower? In that case, probably 4-6 minutes. In the case of the former, probably closer to the 12 minute range, as it takes time to sluice the Carrabba filth from my body. Not to mention, after standing up for 12 hours, a long shower feels nice. So, in a 12 minute time period, I can expect at LEAST 4 scaldings.
Today, I decided to time my post work out entry into the shower with a toilet refilling, in an attempt to avoid the 3-4 scaldings I thought would be included in the necessary showering time frame. I managed to escape with only 2 scaldings, although the toilet tried its damnedest to get me a third time, as a refilling occurred a mere second after I shut off the water.
I can typically gauge when the scaldings will occur, by the sudden drop in water pressure. At which point I jump to the end of the tub, out of range of the certain 2nd degree burns. The problem is, when the water pressure returns, there is still a measure of scalding water emitted from the faucet, which has gained strength enough to hit my feet, so there is no complete escape. And so I end up hopping from one foot to the other until the water has returned to normal heat. Embarrassing mental image.
I swear, I'm going to go missing for a couple of days. I reckon it would probably take up to 3 for people to really miss me and attempt some sort of investigation. And I fear that I shall be found naked on the bathtub floor, scalded to death, without a shred of dignity remaining. Although, maybe the cat lady below would wonder why my water had been running straight for a couple days, and send her kitty minions on a reconnaissance mission to find out just why I was taking a 2 day shower.
I don't want those cats in my house. I need to get this fixed.
4.2.10
Same as a babe
Greatest discovery so far of 2K10--the bidet is always lukewarm as long as the toilet has not been flushed any time recently. Hypothesized, tested, confirmed. Not that this means that I use the bidet for anything other than occasional, recreational cleaning, since I don't actually poop. Just like girls.
Right?
Right?
2.2.10
Santo obamanos
Every single night around 7, my frontal lobe revolts against the peaceful state of the rest of my brain, the result of which is a horrible drilling sensation in the middle of my forehead. What are you even doing up there, you asshole frontal lobe?
Today, the drilling sensation is actually starting early. I didn't realize this until I had already loaded every single clothing that I own into side by side Wascomatt Jr's at Rose's laundromat. I think I probably overloaded both of them, so I worry as to the level of cleanliness that my clothing shall attain. It took me about 10 minutes to cram all of my clothing inside, as various articles kept spewing out--a sure sign that a 3rd Wascomat was probably required. As long as the sickness is soaked away, I'll be satisfied. It isn't as though I wallow around in filth, and actually need a heavy duty wash. Just cleaning away the natural man scent acquired after 7-10 wearings (for pants) or 3-6 (for shirts) or 1 (for undergarments, I'm not a total dirt bag, after all.)
I was sick all last week, possibly with a swine flu (it's hard to know) so my house accrued a level of clutter and filthiness not heretofore experienced. Which meant I spent about 2 hours cleaning and disinfecting, hence the over sized laundry loads due to bed linen cleansing.
I'm not sure what it is about coming to the laundromat that makes me think about miracles, but I always do. Perhaps it is the chola with the sparkly diamond (probably cubic Z's) piercing sundry locations on her face sitting nearby, her golden Virgin Maria Santa hanging round her neck, reflecting the dying sun, splaying refracted light across my Wascomatt Jr. double loaders, which causes me to ponder miracles. This week, 2K10 blessed me with 2 more miracles.
First, I rarely get sick. Usually no more than twice a year, often less. When I do catch an illness, it is typically a 2-3 week ordeal. My body apparently hates being full blown sick, and so rather attempts to spread out the various symptoms over a few week period. I typically start with a sore throat. Then, days later, sore throat slowly morphs into maximum sinus congestion which, days later again, becomes a wretched hacking cough. Never all at once. This week however, I was blessed with every sickness at the same time, and have somehow miraculously started the new week basically healed, except for the drilling pm headaches. Which may be a separate thing entirely, since I almost never get headaches. Perhaps a brain tumor in an embryonic phase, growth triggered by dusk.
The second miracle, involved taxes. I didn't make an incredible amount of money this year, but upon reviewing my W2, I supposed that I had paid the government significantly less than what I imagined the government would think it deserved. Probably by a few hundred dollars. So imagine my surprise when, upon doing my taxes, I found out the government wanted to give me 62 dollars back. Gracias, Santo Obamanos.
Por favor, dear Santo Obamanos, please continue to rain upon thy humble countryman every such 2K10 blessing his tender little heart desires, most especially an economy that isn't tan jodido a la verga, that thereby he may acquire gainful employment.
Today, the drilling sensation is actually starting early. I didn't realize this until I had already loaded every single clothing that I own into side by side Wascomatt Jr's at Rose's laundromat. I think I probably overloaded both of them, so I worry as to the level of cleanliness that my clothing shall attain. It took me about 10 minutes to cram all of my clothing inside, as various articles kept spewing out--a sure sign that a 3rd Wascomat was probably required. As long as the sickness is soaked away, I'll be satisfied. It isn't as though I wallow around in filth, and actually need a heavy duty wash. Just cleaning away the natural man scent acquired after 7-10 wearings (for pants) or 3-6 (for shirts) or 1 (for undergarments, I'm not a total dirt bag, after all.)
I was sick all last week, possibly with a swine flu (it's hard to know) so my house accrued a level of clutter and filthiness not heretofore experienced. Which meant I spent about 2 hours cleaning and disinfecting, hence the over sized laundry loads due to bed linen cleansing.
I'm not sure what it is about coming to the laundromat that makes me think about miracles, but I always do. Perhaps it is the chola with the sparkly diamond (probably cubic Z's) piercing sundry locations on her face sitting nearby, her golden Virgin Maria Santa hanging round her neck, reflecting the dying sun, splaying refracted light across my Wascomatt Jr. double loaders, which causes me to ponder miracles. This week, 2K10 blessed me with 2 more miracles.
First, I rarely get sick. Usually no more than twice a year, often less. When I do catch an illness, it is typically a 2-3 week ordeal. My body apparently hates being full blown sick, and so rather attempts to spread out the various symptoms over a few week period. I typically start with a sore throat. Then, days later, sore throat slowly morphs into maximum sinus congestion which, days later again, becomes a wretched hacking cough. Never all at once. This week however, I was blessed with every sickness at the same time, and have somehow miraculously started the new week basically healed, except for the drilling pm headaches. Which may be a separate thing entirely, since I almost never get headaches. Perhaps a brain tumor in an embryonic phase, growth triggered by dusk.
The second miracle, involved taxes. I didn't make an incredible amount of money this year, but upon reviewing my W2, I supposed that I had paid the government significantly less than what I imagined the government would think it deserved. Probably by a few hundred dollars. So imagine my surprise when, upon doing my taxes, I found out the government wanted to give me 62 dollars back. Gracias, Santo Obamanos.
Por favor, dear Santo Obamanos, please continue to rain upon thy humble countryman every such 2K10 blessing his tender little heart desires, most especially an economy that isn't tan jodido a la verga, that thereby he may acquire gainful employment.
31.1.10
A matter of shame
It has finally happened. That thing that I KNEW was coming. That moment I have DREADED for the last year. That thing that I have suspected was a likely inevitability for the last 2 or 3 years. The thing about which I have mocked my best friend from high school for the last few years. I refer to, of course, the wall of shame.
A wall of shame, by definition (probably in Wikipedia) is a shrine located in the parental homestead, dedicated to the marital prowess of every child that crawled forth from the homemaker's womb. All the children, that is, save ONE. So, the wall of shame then pertains to the one celibate sibling remaining--his or her wall of shame.
Now, the intensity of the shame associated with this most dreaded wall is dependent upon a few different variables. The first and foremost being, the unwed child's age status in relation to the rest of the siblings. If, for instance, the youngest child is the owner of the wall of shame, said wall would be infinitely less shameful. For a time. However, as one's birthing rank increases, so does the level of shame exponentially and consequentially increase.
My friend, for example, is number 3 of 4. Having only one married younger sibling somewhat lessens his level of shame. Except for the fact that his younger brother has been married about 3 years. Which brings me to the next variable--time length.
One's shame is increased in conjunction with the longevity of said wall's existence. I am certain there is a measurable amount of shame (probably a metric equation) that is accrued with each year. In his case, it would be 3. Pretty damned shameful.
Also, some amount of shame may be accrued depending upon the number of years that one has remained single, as compared with the married siblings. For example, I have another friend with 4 married sisters. She happens to be the youngest, which greatly reduces her level of shame off the bat. However, every single sibling was married by 20. She, being nearly 24, has added a heaping shit load of shame to her wall.
Unfortunately, I have pretty much every variable to consider with my own wall of shame.
I was talking to my sister last week, who informed me that my baby brother was engaged. I had talked to him at Christmas, and he had informed me that were things to continue progressing in a similar manner, said engagement would most likely occur. So I was sort of expecting this.
I am the oldest. STRIKE ONE. Major shame associated with my wall from that variable alone. My next sister down has been married for about 3 years, my baby sister for almost a year. 3-4 liters of shame, at the very least. And me, being nearly 28, will be likely be single anywhere from 6 to 10 years longer than my siblings. Hectoliters of shame to be sure.
In fact, in relation to the rest of the extended family at large, the only cousins who remain unmarried are a 19 year old missionary, and a 17 year old female. God help me if she pulls a similar feat as my baby sister. The shame would be too much.
It was a weird feeling when I found out my brother was engaged. At first, I laughed. Because I didn't really know what else to do. Because my life equation is so very different than his. Because to me, he is still just a little guy, barely home from a mission. Yet he is taking such a huge step in the direction of "adulthood," one which I for whatever reason have yet to take. I can't imagine having been married for the last 6 years. I don't think I was ready.
After laughing in incredulity, it really sank in. I AM the last. I really really am. At that point, I felt very melancholy. Which I wasn't expecting. Although I had spent some time dreading this particular occurrence, I really thought that I, for the most part, didn't care. Wouldn't care. But I cared. I really did. For the first time, I felt left out. Like I had failed. Like I would no longer fit. Like this would put me on such a different wavelength than the rest of my siblings, that things would no longer be the same.
At that point, I needed a McRib. And a cheeseburger. God knows, NOBODY EVER needs a McRib and a cheeseburger. And 2 gallons of Dryer's Girl Scout Cookie Thin Mint ice cream. I drove to the nearest McDonald's (at midnightish) and sat in the drive through for a minute. I thought about the ground up patty of mystery meat, pressed into the shape of a riblit, slathered in bbq sauce. And then thought, "What the hell am I even doing? I don't want that thing even a little bit." Shoving that filthy thing down my gullet was as bad an idea as I had recently entertained. So, I aborted mission and went for the Dryer's thin mint instead.
Let me clarify something; I am NOT some marriage hungry fiend, wallowing in sorrow from failure after dating failure. I really am OKAY with being single at this age. It will happen for me when it happens. I'm not in a hurry. However, on a different (albeit somewhat related) level, I'm still a little bummed about being the last. About my most thoroughly shameful, wall of shame. I'm just bummed about the dynamic change, and all of the familial wondering about just WHEN I'll get married. It gets old.
Now, after a week, I am okay with it again. My life time frame is just different than that of my siblings and most of my cousins. And I'm okay with that. There is not ONE damn thing wrong with being 27.6 and unmarried. Not a thing.
As long as my seminal vesicles don't dry up, who cares if I'm in my 30ies before I trick some girl into marriage?
A wall of shame, by definition (probably in Wikipedia) is a shrine located in the parental homestead, dedicated to the marital prowess of every child that crawled forth from the homemaker's womb. All the children, that is, save ONE. So, the wall of shame then pertains to the one celibate sibling remaining--his or her wall of shame.
Now, the intensity of the shame associated with this most dreaded wall is dependent upon a few different variables. The first and foremost being, the unwed child's age status in relation to the rest of the siblings. If, for instance, the youngest child is the owner of the wall of shame, said wall would be infinitely less shameful. For a time. However, as one's birthing rank increases, so does the level of shame exponentially and consequentially increase.
My friend, for example, is number 3 of 4. Having only one married younger sibling somewhat lessens his level of shame. Except for the fact that his younger brother has been married about 3 years. Which brings me to the next variable--time length.
One's shame is increased in conjunction with the longevity of said wall's existence. I am certain there is a measurable amount of shame (probably a metric equation) that is accrued with each year. In his case, it would be 3. Pretty damned shameful.
Also, some amount of shame may be accrued depending upon the number of years that one has remained single, as compared with the married siblings. For example, I have another friend with 4 married sisters. She happens to be the youngest, which greatly reduces her level of shame off the bat. However, every single sibling was married by 20. She, being nearly 24, has added a heaping shit load of shame to her wall.
Unfortunately, I have pretty much every variable to consider with my own wall of shame.
I was talking to my sister last week, who informed me that my baby brother was engaged. I had talked to him at Christmas, and he had informed me that were things to continue progressing in a similar manner, said engagement would most likely occur. So I was sort of expecting this.
I am the oldest. STRIKE ONE. Major shame associated with my wall from that variable alone. My next sister down has been married for about 3 years, my baby sister for almost a year. 3-4 liters of shame, at the very least. And me, being nearly 28, will be likely be single anywhere from 6 to 10 years longer than my siblings. Hectoliters of shame to be sure.
In fact, in relation to the rest of the extended family at large, the only cousins who remain unmarried are a 19 year old missionary, and a 17 year old female. God help me if she pulls a similar feat as my baby sister. The shame would be too much.
It was a weird feeling when I found out my brother was engaged. At first, I laughed. Because I didn't really know what else to do. Because my life equation is so very different than his. Because to me, he is still just a little guy, barely home from a mission. Yet he is taking such a huge step in the direction of "adulthood," one which I for whatever reason have yet to take. I can't imagine having been married for the last 6 years. I don't think I was ready.
After laughing in incredulity, it really sank in. I AM the last. I really really am. At that point, I felt very melancholy. Which I wasn't expecting. Although I had spent some time dreading this particular occurrence, I really thought that I, for the most part, didn't care. Wouldn't care. But I cared. I really did. For the first time, I felt left out. Like I had failed. Like I would no longer fit. Like this would put me on such a different wavelength than the rest of my siblings, that things would no longer be the same.
At that point, I needed a McRib. And a cheeseburger. God knows, NOBODY EVER needs a McRib and a cheeseburger. And 2 gallons of Dryer's Girl Scout Cookie Thin Mint ice cream. I drove to the nearest McDonald's (at midnightish) and sat in the drive through for a minute. I thought about the ground up patty of mystery meat, pressed into the shape of a riblit, slathered in bbq sauce. And then thought, "What the hell am I even doing? I don't want that thing even a little bit." Shoving that filthy thing down my gullet was as bad an idea as I had recently entertained. So, I aborted mission and went for the Dryer's thin mint instead.
Let me clarify something; I am NOT some marriage hungry fiend, wallowing in sorrow from failure after dating failure. I really am OKAY with being single at this age. It will happen for me when it happens. I'm not in a hurry. However, on a different (albeit somewhat related) level, I'm still a little bummed about being the last. About my most thoroughly shameful, wall of shame. I'm just bummed about the dynamic change, and all of the familial wondering about just WHEN I'll get married. It gets old.
Now, after a week, I am okay with it again. My life time frame is just different than that of my siblings and most of my cousins. And I'm okay with that. There is not ONE damn thing wrong with being 27.6 and unmarried. Not a thing.
As long as my seminal vesicles don't dry up, who cares if I'm in my 30ies before I trick some girl into marriage?
21.1.10
15.1.10
Oh, the regret
Tonight, I saddled myself with my biggest regret so far of 2K10.
2 friends and I went to Chili's. Because what the hell else is open after 10 pm that isn't some form of fast food? Although arguably, Chili's isn't too many steps above fast food. Maybe like a step and a half. If, on the scale of food steps, fast food is like step three, proceeded only by a microwaved cheese hot dog, or a slice of bologna on white bread slathered in mayo, Chili's would then be about step 4 point 5.
After sitting in the booth a few moments, I looked to my left and saw what appeared to be the most awkward situation I have ever witnessed, without knowledge of what was actually occurring. There were 2 guys sitting in a mini booth. The guy on the left was sitting with his hands on each corresponding leg, looking either above the head of his date/friend, or awkwardly around at the television. Or sometimes down at the table. The guy adjacent to him had his hands folded in his crotch, and was staring slightly down and to his right, a look of such despondence plastered on his face, I expected him to pop a cyanide pill at any moment.
For 20 minutes this occurred. Well, let me rephrase. For 20 minutes, NOTHING occurred. Not a word was exchanged. Food sat untouched. No eye contact. The guy on the left would occasionally swivel his head here or there, but never really looking at his counterpart. The other guy, eyes glazed, stared at nothing, occasionally twiddling his fingers in his lap.
I wanted so very badly to ask just what was going on. And thus is my regret, that I did no such thing. So instead all we could do was sit there and surmise the meaning behind the almost palpable awkwardness. Was it a first date, and there just wasn't enough random shit on the walls to foster 45 minutes of conversation? Because I noticed for the first time, that Chili's is a little more low key than other similar establishments when it comes to finding every single random shit in existence to hang on the wall.
Perhaps we arrived just moments too late to witness the finale of their relationship, and the ensuing silence was the bi product of a harsh breakup. There just wasn't anymore to be said.
Maybe they had made love for the first time, and it was silent, staring, hands-folded-in-the-crotch guy's first time. And afterward, he felt really bad, and so swivel head was like, "calm down. I'll take you to Chili's." But 2 fajitas later, all was STILL not well on the gay front. And the awkward silence simply grew thicker, as hands-folded-in-the-crotch guy dwelt upon the ramifications of consummating the team switch.
The one reason for which I couldn't bring myself to ask them, "Hey guys, why are you the most sad right now?" was a fear that the answer would be horrible, like "Because his mom just died, a-hole." Or, "Because he just found out he has the HIV, a-hole." So rather than risk it, we just sat and observed the FUNNIEST awkwardly silent couple I have ever seen.
And I now teem with regret for not asking. Maybe they were just a couple of awkward buddy dudes, out for a night on the town.
But I VERY much doubt it.
Just a little recreation.
2 friends and I went to Chili's. Because what the hell else is open after 10 pm that isn't some form of fast food? Although arguably, Chili's isn't too many steps above fast food. Maybe like a step and a half. If, on the scale of food steps, fast food is like step three, proceeded only by a microwaved cheese hot dog, or a slice of bologna on white bread slathered in mayo, Chili's would then be about step 4 point 5.
After sitting in the booth a few moments, I looked to my left and saw what appeared to be the most awkward situation I have ever witnessed, without knowledge of what was actually occurring. There were 2 guys sitting in a mini booth. The guy on the left was sitting with his hands on each corresponding leg, looking either above the head of his date/friend, or awkwardly around at the television. Or sometimes down at the table. The guy adjacent to him had his hands folded in his crotch, and was staring slightly down and to his right, a look of such despondence plastered on his face, I expected him to pop a cyanide pill at any moment.
For 20 minutes this occurred. Well, let me rephrase. For 20 minutes, NOTHING occurred. Not a word was exchanged. Food sat untouched. No eye contact. The guy on the left would occasionally swivel his head here or there, but never really looking at his counterpart. The other guy, eyes glazed, stared at nothing, occasionally twiddling his fingers in his lap.
I wanted so very badly to ask just what was going on. And thus is my regret, that I did no such thing. So instead all we could do was sit there and surmise the meaning behind the almost palpable awkwardness. Was it a first date, and there just wasn't enough random shit on the walls to foster 45 minutes of conversation? Because I noticed for the first time, that Chili's is a little more low key than other similar establishments when it comes to finding every single random shit in existence to hang on the wall.
Perhaps we arrived just moments too late to witness the finale of their relationship, and the ensuing silence was the bi product of a harsh breakup. There just wasn't anymore to be said.
Maybe they had made love for the first time, and it was silent, staring, hands-folded-in-the-crotch guy's first time. And afterward, he felt really bad, and so swivel head was like, "calm down. I'll take you to Chili's." But 2 fajitas later, all was STILL not well on the gay front. And the awkward silence simply grew thicker, as hands-folded-in-the-crotch guy dwelt upon the ramifications of consummating the team switch.
The one reason for which I couldn't bring myself to ask them, "Hey guys, why are you the most sad right now?" was a fear that the answer would be horrible, like "Because his mom just died, a-hole." Or, "Because he just found out he has the HIV, a-hole." So rather than risk it, we just sat and observed the FUNNIEST awkwardly silent couple I have ever seen.
And I now teem with regret for not asking. Maybe they were just a couple of awkward buddy dudes, out for a night on the town.
But I VERY much doubt it.
Just a little recreation.
14.1.10
Stained
At times, one may find him or herself faced with the most harrowing of circumstances, where action can only be necessitated through the most desperate need. A moment where one's heart must rise above crippling fear, although the terror be a raging torrent of inadequacy, self doubt, and utter dread.
I speak of having to face spiders, of course.
Every time I think that I have taken a huge step in the direction of a recovering SISSY, I am reminded that I am a spectacular coward.
I entered my kitchen last night in search of some form of sustenance. As I passed the fridge, I noticed a little green dangling spider, suspended from the bottom of my cabinets, hanging almost equidistant between the 2 sinks. My immediate reaction was a resounding gasp, followed by (or in conjunction with) an approximate backward leap of 1 foot, and a consequential "shit." At that point, I began to immediately scan the room, and also my brain for the best and safest manner in which to dispose of the ungodly creature. Time was of the essence, because the spider was slowly inching its way up the silk line, into my cupboard. Or wherever his spidery heart desired, upon reaching the apex.
The only thing I could think of, was grabbing a paper towel, draping it across my open palms, and then quickly clapping the spider into oblivion. Which was a real big problem for me, because that would mean that there would only be a very thin layer of cheap papery substance between the spider and my skin. SCARY. I sat there a moment, contemplating which thought I loathed more; the spider possibly escaping into my home, or smashed between my hands so feebly protected. "Quit being a bitch," I berated myself, and clapped away.
At that moment, upon feeling the spider's tiny body crushed between my hands, I felt like I had climbed a small, difficult mountain. I had never slain a spider in this manner. In fact, even the destruction of a centipede, earwig, or other similar creature will typically involve no fewer than 5 wadded inches of toilet paper or paper towel separating my hand from the deed. And then I have to smash unnecessarily hard, to ensure absolute death, and then quickly toss the carcass into the nearest toilet bowl for a burial at sea. In clapping the arachnid, I had overcome a fraction of my dreadful fear. I let the paper towel gently fall from my hands, and drift to the counter top. Upon landing, it unfolded. Enter vision--smashed spider. Cue repeat--resounding gasp, backward hopping "shit." Also--add some minor wrist flailing.
All dignity lost. Again. Every time.
I think the root of my spider (and general bug) fear can be traced back to an uncle I once had. I say once had, because he decided that family was less important than other clandestine, devious pursuits. But I always thought he was wayyyy cool. I mean, the dude said "damn," and "hell," with wild abandon. Was a democrat. And had an earring (left ear.) And had a tee pee in his back yard (north side.) And had tomahawks. Which could be thrown from or near the tee pee (from south to north, never east to west.) The guy was a rad uncle. Also, he was terrified of spiders.
I recall being in a movie. Galaxy Quest, featuring Tim Allen and Alan Rickman. There was a part where a bunch of flying space spiders began to approach the ship. My uncle said, "Ohhh damn, (probably) I'm not going to like this part." Now me, thinking he was cool, also thought it might be cool to be even MORE afraid of spiders than what was natural. So I think my impressionable mine programmed that most irrational fear to further dictate the remainder of my body-to-spider physical reactions, for the duration of my life. The crippling fear. The swearing. The wrist flailing.
Thanks for the arachnophobic stain, uncle. At least the earring never took.
I speak of having to face spiders, of course.
Every time I think that I have taken a huge step in the direction of a recovering SISSY, I am reminded that I am a spectacular coward.
I entered my kitchen last night in search of some form of sustenance. As I passed the fridge, I noticed a little green dangling spider, suspended from the bottom of my cabinets, hanging almost equidistant between the 2 sinks. My immediate reaction was a resounding gasp, followed by (or in conjunction with) an approximate backward leap of 1 foot, and a consequential "shit." At that point, I began to immediately scan the room, and also my brain for the best and safest manner in which to dispose of the ungodly creature. Time was of the essence, because the spider was slowly inching its way up the silk line, into my cupboard. Or wherever his spidery heart desired, upon reaching the apex.
The only thing I could think of, was grabbing a paper towel, draping it across my open palms, and then quickly clapping the spider into oblivion. Which was a real big problem for me, because that would mean that there would only be a very thin layer of cheap papery substance between the spider and my skin. SCARY. I sat there a moment, contemplating which thought I loathed more; the spider possibly escaping into my home, or smashed between my hands so feebly protected. "Quit being a bitch," I berated myself, and clapped away.
At that moment, upon feeling the spider's tiny body crushed between my hands, I felt like I had climbed a small, difficult mountain. I had never slain a spider in this manner. In fact, even the destruction of a centipede, earwig, or other similar creature will typically involve no fewer than 5 wadded inches of toilet paper or paper towel separating my hand from the deed. And then I have to smash unnecessarily hard, to ensure absolute death, and then quickly toss the carcass into the nearest toilet bowl for a burial at sea. In clapping the arachnid, I had overcome a fraction of my dreadful fear. I let the paper towel gently fall from my hands, and drift to the counter top. Upon landing, it unfolded. Enter vision--smashed spider. Cue repeat--resounding gasp, backward hopping "shit." Also--add some minor wrist flailing.
All dignity lost. Again. Every time.
I think the root of my spider (and general bug) fear can be traced back to an uncle I once had. I say once had, because he decided that family was less important than other clandestine, devious pursuits. But I always thought he was wayyyy cool. I mean, the dude said "damn," and "hell," with wild abandon. Was a democrat. And had an earring (left ear.) And had a tee pee in his back yard (north side.) And had tomahawks. Which could be thrown from or near the tee pee (from south to north, never east to west.) The guy was a rad uncle. Also, he was terrified of spiders.
I recall being in a movie. Galaxy Quest, featuring Tim Allen and Alan Rickman. There was a part where a bunch of flying space spiders began to approach the ship. My uncle said, "Ohhh damn, (probably) I'm not going to like this part." Now me, thinking he was cool, also thought it might be cool to be even MORE afraid of spiders than what was natural. So I think my impressionable mine programmed that most irrational fear to further dictate the remainder of my body-to-spider physical reactions, for the duration of my life. The crippling fear. The swearing. The wrist flailing.
Thanks for the arachnophobic stain, uncle. At least the earring never took.
12.1.10
Spandex escape plan
Turns out that I can pick up the interweb from the eastern most corner of my kitchen. The expected 2K10 miracles are already piling up. Unfortunately, 2K10 has not yet seen fit to provide me with a proper kitchen seat (or table, for that matter,) so my ass and a microwave are sharing a cart on wheels.
Today I was setting up my rollers (an apparatus which, combined with my mountain bike, becomes a stationary exercise device) in the kitchen, and had just climbed on my bike when I got a call from Patty the cat lady down stairs. On our previous meeting, where she managed to ensnare me for 40 minutes, she informed me that she had a television which had been rendered obsolete due to her purchase of a high definition television. Which she told me all about. She wanted to know if at a future date, I would carry the useless TV to her car, so she could take it to DI. I said sure. She was calling to collect on this favor.
I decided that remaining in spandex shorts and zero shirt would be my best possible escape plan. I didn't think that a 70 year old cat lady had any interest in having another 40 minute conversation about cat dander with a shirtless guy in spandex shorts, with a padded ass. She informed me that she needed to go to the bathroom, but that she would be ready for me in about 10 minutes. It wasn't difficult to deduce from the given time frame just exactly what would be occurring in the bathroom. Thanks.
So, approximately 12 minutes later (I decided to give an extra 2 minutes for unknown variables) I descended into a haze of smoke to retrieve the television. As she opened the door, I noticed that her eye looked like it was about to rot off of her face. It appeared that she had contracted a dreadful eye infection. Which, she clarified for me a moment later when she said, "I have a dreadful eye infection. It migrated from my ear. Don't worry, it isn't contagious." At least there was that.
She also seemed surprised that I had arrived in spandex, sans shirt. Now, let me point out that I am in no way thrilled with the current state of my body. Quite the contrary, I am rather ashamed of my buddy (stomach) at this particular juncture in my life. But I wanted to get trapped in her house for a chat infinitely less than I didn't want her or anyone else to see me shirtless, in spandex. "Aren't you freezing?" "Yeah, but I'm just getting ready to exercise. Sooo, where is the TV?"
2 minutes later, I had loaded the TV in her car, and was opening my front door, ready to bolt upstairs, letting her know that if she needed anything else heavy moved, to let me know. All the while, trying REALLY hard not to stare at her festering eye.
I just wasn't ready for another 40 minute conversational trap. I feel like I can deal with that once a month if necessary, but it has not been nearly a month. I think successfully avoiding that trap was just another 2K10 miracle. Unfortunately, the chola adjacent to the cat lady happened to come out of her house and see me and my buddy. But she was wearing True Religion jeans with extra thick white stitching.
So like I CARE what she thinks.
Today I was setting up my rollers (an apparatus which, combined with my mountain bike, becomes a stationary exercise device) in the kitchen, and had just climbed on my bike when I got a call from Patty the cat lady down stairs. On our previous meeting, where she managed to ensnare me for 40 minutes, she informed me that she had a television which had been rendered obsolete due to her purchase of a high definition television. Which she told me all about. She wanted to know if at a future date, I would carry the useless TV to her car, so she could take it to DI. I said sure. She was calling to collect on this favor.
I decided that remaining in spandex shorts and zero shirt would be my best possible escape plan. I didn't think that a 70 year old cat lady had any interest in having another 40 minute conversation about cat dander with a shirtless guy in spandex shorts, with a padded ass. She informed me that she needed to go to the bathroom, but that she would be ready for me in about 10 minutes. It wasn't difficult to deduce from the given time frame just exactly what would be occurring in the bathroom. Thanks.
So, approximately 12 minutes later (I decided to give an extra 2 minutes for unknown variables) I descended into a haze of smoke to retrieve the television. As she opened the door, I noticed that her eye looked like it was about to rot off of her face. It appeared that she had contracted a dreadful eye infection. Which, she clarified for me a moment later when she said, "I have a dreadful eye infection. It migrated from my ear. Don't worry, it isn't contagious." At least there was that.
She also seemed surprised that I had arrived in spandex, sans shirt. Now, let me point out that I am in no way thrilled with the current state of my body. Quite the contrary, I am rather ashamed of my buddy (stomach) at this particular juncture in my life. But I wanted to get trapped in her house for a chat infinitely less than I didn't want her or anyone else to see me shirtless, in spandex. "Aren't you freezing?" "Yeah, but I'm just getting ready to exercise. Sooo, where is the TV?"
2 minutes later, I had loaded the TV in her car, and was opening my front door, ready to bolt upstairs, letting her know that if she needed anything else heavy moved, to let me know. All the while, trying REALLY hard not to stare at her festering eye.
I just wasn't ready for another 40 minute conversational trap. I feel like I can deal with that once a month if necessary, but it has not been nearly a month. I think successfully avoiding that trap was just another 2K10 miracle. Unfortunately, the chola adjacent to the cat lady happened to come out of her house and see me and my buddy. But she was wearing True Religion jeans with extra thick white stitching.
So like I CARE what she thinks.
11.1.10
Confusing numbers
Entered 3 very VERY old people into Carrabbas. I approached the table, less than thrilled. 3 sets of eyes peered at me from behind thick, gold rimmed glasses. Wispy, white hair in various states of sparsity. Eyes squinting, upper lip raised and crinkled into the the area just beneath her nose, mouth ajar, looking most confounded, one crone said, "Now, I might be retarded, but what are these numbers?"
Didn't really so much expect her to say that.
"Um, those numbers would be the prices."
It is a bad sign, whenever this query is posed. It typically means that the patron is unfamiliar with a menu that doesn't actually have a dollar sign next to numbers, and is therefore unaccustomed to eating places fancier than Denny's. Like, they are shocked that the 14 doesn't refer to the amount of shrimp they will be getting, or 23 ounces of filet.
"Now, we seen on a commercial that you got a special for all you can eat pasta, all you can eat soup, and all you can eat salad for $7.99" (I'll include the dollar sign here to avoid confusion.)
"Sorry, we don't offer infinity pasta, soup, and salad for $7.99. I think that was probably a different restaurant."
"No, now I'm pretty sure it was this one."
"Well, I'm fairly certain we have no such specials. In fact, we don't even have TV commercials. Maybe it was Olive Garden?"
"No, I think it was here."
"Perhaps Macaroni Grill?"
"No, that don't sound right."
"Well, we do have a special for a 7 oz top sirloin and grilled scallops and shrimp for 17 dollars."
She looked on the verge of panic at that suggestion. "Well, maybe I should call my brother and see if he is somewhere else?"
"Gosh, you should probably do that. Sounds like a GREAT idea. I bet he is at Olive Garden."
They left. THANK GOD.
One more reason why I hate my job. And yet another miracle from 2K10.
Thanks again, 2K10.
Didn't really so much expect her to say that.
"Um, those numbers would be the prices."
It is a bad sign, whenever this query is posed. It typically means that the patron is unfamiliar with a menu that doesn't actually have a dollar sign next to numbers, and is therefore unaccustomed to eating places fancier than Denny's. Like, they are shocked that the 14 doesn't refer to the amount of shrimp they will be getting, or 23 ounces of filet.
"Now, we seen on a commercial that you got a special for all you can eat pasta, all you can eat soup, and all you can eat salad for $7.99" (I'll include the dollar sign here to avoid confusion.)
"Sorry, we don't offer infinity pasta, soup, and salad for $7.99. I think that was probably a different restaurant."
"No, now I'm pretty sure it was this one."
"Well, I'm fairly certain we have no such specials. In fact, we don't even have TV commercials. Maybe it was Olive Garden?"
"No, I think it was here."
"Perhaps Macaroni Grill?"
"No, that don't sound right."
"Well, we do have a special for a 7 oz top sirloin and grilled scallops and shrimp for 17 dollars."
She looked on the verge of panic at that suggestion. "Well, maybe I should call my brother and see if he is somewhere else?"
"Gosh, you should probably do that. Sounds like a GREAT idea. I bet he is at Olive Garden."
They left. THANK GOD.
One more reason why I hate my job. And yet another miracle from 2K10.
Thanks again, 2K10.
10.1.10
Sorry environment, but i really like books
I've decided that, despite being told that books are an evil, earth destroying entity due to the vast tree consumption, ink, dye, and bleach pollution integral to paper production, I shall still seek to have an eventually ginormous library collection.
Honestly, I hate polluting streams and poisoning wee fish and sundry crustaceans as much as the next nature lover. However, I think I LOVE paper even more than I love the aforementioned fishy crustaceans.
I suppose I feel that, of all of the everyday items that we consume as human beings which are, on some level, harmful to the environment (not talking about global warming here, but obvious, tangibly recordable chemical pollution) books are perhaps one of the most noble. Pollution in the name of literary advancement seems to be a great deal easier to stomach than say, the superfluous use of plastic. I mean, it is difficult to purchase anything that isn't packaged 2 or 3 times over in plastic. Store clerks seem almost offended when one tells them that a 5 gallon plastic bag won't be necessary to carry a package of tick tacs to out to one's car. So, I guess when I think about books in that context, I can't help but think, WORTH IT.
I realize that with the digitalization (don't care if that is really a word or not) of nearly EVERYTHING, the argument against the necessity of actually printing books is quite valid. However, there is just something about holding a physical copy of a book in one's hand that seems to be an integral part of the experience. I love reading something phenomenal online, or on a blog, or whatever, but I love even more having that physical copy in my hands. I love the smell of the paper and the ink, the feel of the pages on my fingers. The weight of the book, the crack of the spine. The feeling of satisfaction upon reading the last page, closing the book, and placing it on the shelf. And remembering the way the book made you FEEL every time you see it on the shelf. I don't want to lose part of the reading experience. I realize that the words and the content are the same whether digital or not, however I don't want to lose the physical part. I don't love my ipod like I love my favorite books. I love the artists on my ipod, but the machine itself I couldn't care less about. When that guy dies, I'm pist because I have to buy a new one. Inside and out, I love my books. Perhaps this is selfish on my part; but I don't think that I am alone in this sentiment.
I have decided that I am going to attempt to purchase 1 book a week, for the remainder of my life. I realize this is a rather lofty (and costly) goal, but I really want to have a vast library. And 15 dollars on a book is a much more worthy expense than 15 bucks on a buffet, or some other such nonsense. It was upon purchasing 2 books this week that I made this decision; Everything is Illuminated, by Jonathon Safran Foer, and All the Pretty Horses, by Cormac McCarthy. If anyone has any suggestions for upcoming weeks, I'd love to hear them. I'd like to know your favorite book, and exactly WHY it is your favorite. Perhaps it will end up on my shelf, and you and I together can singlehandedly destroy the environment whilst strengthening our hearts and minds.
Honestly, I hate polluting streams and poisoning wee fish and sundry crustaceans as much as the next nature lover. However, I think I LOVE paper even more than I love the aforementioned fishy crustaceans.
I suppose I feel that, of all of the everyday items that we consume as human beings which are, on some level, harmful to the environment (not talking about global warming here, but obvious, tangibly recordable chemical pollution) books are perhaps one of the most noble. Pollution in the name of literary advancement seems to be a great deal easier to stomach than say, the superfluous use of plastic. I mean, it is difficult to purchase anything that isn't packaged 2 or 3 times over in plastic. Store clerks seem almost offended when one tells them that a 5 gallon plastic bag won't be necessary to carry a package of tick tacs to out to one's car. So, I guess when I think about books in that context, I can't help but think, WORTH IT.
I realize that with the digitalization (don't care if that is really a word or not) of nearly EVERYTHING, the argument against the necessity of actually printing books is quite valid. However, there is just something about holding a physical copy of a book in one's hand that seems to be an integral part of the experience. I love reading something phenomenal online, or on a blog, or whatever, but I love even more having that physical copy in my hands. I love the smell of the paper and the ink, the feel of the pages on my fingers. The weight of the book, the crack of the spine. The feeling of satisfaction upon reading the last page, closing the book, and placing it on the shelf. And remembering the way the book made you FEEL every time you see it on the shelf. I don't want to lose part of the reading experience. I realize that the words and the content are the same whether digital or not, however I don't want to lose the physical part. I don't love my ipod like I love my favorite books. I love the artists on my ipod, but the machine itself I couldn't care less about. When that guy dies, I'm pist because I have to buy a new one. Inside and out, I love my books. Perhaps this is selfish on my part; but I don't think that I am alone in this sentiment.
I have decided that I am going to attempt to purchase 1 book a week, for the remainder of my life. I realize this is a rather lofty (and costly) goal, but I really want to have a vast library. And 15 dollars on a book is a much more worthy expense than 15 bucks on a buffet, or some other such nonsense. It was upon purchasing 2 books this week that I made this decision; Everything is Illuminated, by Jonathon Safran Foer, and All the Pretty Horses, by Cormac McCarthy. If anyone has any suggestions for upcoming weeks, I'd love to hear them. I'd like to know your favorite book, and exactly WHY it is your favorite. Perhaps it will end up on my shelf, and you and I together can singlehandedly destroy the environment whilst strengthening our hearts and minds.
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