Seven Habits

Stephen R. Covey’s book The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People outlines some great methods of bettering one’s self. I’ve found that, for the general population, we need to start a little more basic. So, here are my 7 habits of somewhat effective people, also known as, things you should have learned by the time you were four, but didn’t.

1. Check your head – After you have a meal, flip down the mirror in your car or drop by the rest room on your way back to work and give yourself a once over. Check the teeth and your face for residue and sauce. If you douse your shirt in marinara, you’re stuck with a crappy day ahead. If you have a Bloomin’ Onion wedged betwixt your Chiclets, a little fingernail slide may have just saved you a ton embarrassment. I know several people that routinely spend the second half of their day with mustard stuck to their beard and white clumps at the corners of their mouth. Damn that’s nasty.

2. Check your fly – Standard protocol as you leave the restroom. Pretend you are adjusting your shirt and slip an index finger across the tangs ensuring the breezeway is locked down.

3. <Check your eyes and nose for stray boogs – I won’t say much here, but please just try a little head tilt and nasal check in the morning. Who knows what grew in the night? Also, pay attention to those inner corners of the eyes, they are easily overlooked and a nesting ground for some rank debris.

4. Refrain from the “Burp and blow” – You think you are being polite by stifling the noise and bearing down on that belch, but when you blow it out the corner of your mouth, you’re killing me. Worse than the smoker that tries to blow out their smoke up and away or to the side, we have no visible cues here and get land blasted with a wave of stank that could still set off the fire alarm.

5. Wear a belt – This is for men and women, pull up your damn pants and wear a belt to hold them there. The last couple of years have shown me more crack and undies than “Skinny Marie”. (Pretty woman reference that only my sister will get) If your pants rest under the cheeks of your ass, you probably aren’t in the running for head cashier at Arby’s.

6. Say “Excuse me” – I know you are all in a hurry as you barrel down the halls of work and the isles at the store, but when you give me the forearm shiver and crack one of my ribs, at least have the courtesy to say “excuse me.” If you open the door to the bathroom and almost knock me over because you are trying to unzip and shuffle toward the urinal at the same time, throw a “pardon me” my way. If you are talking to someone on your cell phone, while carrying on a conversation with someone you’re walking with, and checking your pager, and stumble into me even though I am pressed firmly against the wall trying to get out of your inconsiderate wake, how about a “perdona me’”? (Spanish for Pardon me)

7. Help a Brother Out – If you see a friend that has any of these problems, take them to a private setting and let them know. I don’t want to go through the day with spinach on my face, if I miss it, tell me. If your friend knocks over people walking down the hall because they are oblivious to the pregnant woman they just hit shoulders with, tell them. If they have a peaked white head, Mt. Vesuvius style, pulsing on their forehead, let them know. A red crustoid beats a white pearl any day. Then again, if you just know them and don’t really like them, let them continue to look like a moron and laugh behind their backs.

If you people can’t do a couple of these, there is no reason to buy any other self help books because you are beyond help and are bound for career and social ruin. If you are not sure, try these things for a day or two, people’s general disgust for you will decrease exponentially. Trust me.

6 Minutes that will change your life.

I'm sorry, but you need to see this. It is old but still plagues my soul. The first time I watched it, I did so without any sound. I cried and then peed and then shut it down. After talking with a couple of friends that recommended this, I watched again in its entirety, with the sound. I can't really express the cornucopia of feelings that poured over me, but it can best be described by saying naaa. NAAAAP. NA. Naaaaaat. naap.
Enjoy, but if you do....may God have mercy on your soul.

Jury Duty

I had Jury Duty last week and was a little apprehensive as I had never done that before. The whole process was pretty interesting and there were several things that I didn’t expect at all. First, I didn’t realize that they called 65 people for a single 12 Juror case. Hence, there was a over 4 hours spent just on the Jury selection. I was number 65, so I didn’t even get any questions asked of me, but rather listened while they asked tons of questions to the first 27. (We were issued numbers when we began).

Let’s backtrack a little bit. The form I had said that I must be in the specified room by 8am sharp. I show up 20 min. early and realize that the lobby doesn’t even open until 8 am. The entrance is tiny and as time passes it fills to the point of bursting with the over 350 called Jurors for the various cases that day. 8:05 rolls around and the crack security squad starts to let us through. I don’t get to the room until 8:20 and when I apologize for being late, she says we don’t even need you until 9am.

Now I am in a room with my 65 peers, so I start sizing up the competition. We were asked to wear respectful clothing for the court. My mind said, button up long sleeve shirt and slacks or Dockers, probably a belt, and some dress shoes. Apparently my “peers” thought it meant cut-off jeans, tank tops, beer logo shirts, and general construction attire. I didn’t realize they still made clothing with burlap. So I sit and look and try to think about who the Lawyers would want and they start up a movie. At a little after 9 am they give us some instruction and hand us a number as we head to the courtroom.

Inside the courtroom we have the Judge, lawyers, court reporter, and the accused. We all sit and then the fun begins. The Judge tells us this is going to be a three day trial at most, so we know what we are dealing with. He then goes through some questions to eliminate any people with conflicts of interest. He starts with anyone that has ever been in a court case and we went one by one hearing the details. This seems benign but this really means that anyone that had ever been accused of a crime had to announce it to this entire group. He further asked for the outcomes in each case and how they felt about it. I’ll highlight a few here…and remember this is just out of the first 27 people.

We had 4 DUIs. We had 1 meth user. We had a person convicted of selling meth, assault and battery, resisting arrest, ….and he stopped there. We had 1 child rape victim. That was very hard to hear about.

We had a woman who said that someone in public mistakenly thought her boyfriend was beating the crap out of her and called the police who then took him to jail. She spent 2 weeks fighting with the prosecutors, who happen to be lying about everything, before she got him out. Oh….and she also just had a cancer tumor removed from her stomach two days before…and she was bawling the whole time…and she didn’t like looking at the lawyers because it was too tough..and she was quickly dismissed. I was sad to see her barely-cover-the–ass-cheek, baby-doll, trailer trash dress leave the courtroom but was surprised at how quickly she recovered, emotionally that is, when the Judge dismissed her.

We had a woman who said “I guess a wife can’t slap her husband across the face anymore without going to jail in this state”. Apparently the “Lying Prosecutors” made her husband change his story and got her 180 days in the slammer. After some other questions, she also had been charged for battery 2 other times, convicted of drug use, convicted of lying about her identity, and I honestly can’t remember the rest.

We had 1 guy charged with assault, "bar fight" he stated proudly. That is all I can remember off the top of my head, but it seemed ridiculous for the number of people questioned, to have this many thugs.

They went through tons of other questions, most about racism, because the woman on trial was originally from Iran, which was all very boring and cliché. Then the Judge asked if there were any special circumstances that would make it impossible for anyone to serve. Almost EVERY hand went up! This is still the first group of 27, as some were dismissed they pulled others into that group. Then it started again.

One woman said she wasn’t good at making decisions, then another woman, hearing this genius said, “Ya, I have a hard time making decisions too.” Several people said that work was too hard to get out of, the best of which was a bowling pro shop where the woman said “If I am not there, no one will be able to do the books…unless I can get someone to cover me.” First, it's bowling. Second, isn’t it obvious, that someone is going to have to cover you in EVERY job? Two other woman said they didn’t like being in court rooms because of previous cases, made them nervous. Then the two people who spoke other languages said they couldn’t understand English. After some questioning we found that one has been working as an RN for 15 years and has been a citizen just as long. She also took her citizenship test in English, 15 years ago. By the way, she was chit-chatting with everyone at the break, funny. The other guy had a similar story, but had only been here 8 years, but also took his test in English, 8 years ago. Frickin’ liars! And the coup de grace, a guy said that he doesn't like to get up before around 2pm, he is a big sleeper, so he wouldn't be very sharp anytime before that. He actually wasted court time giving this as a reason he couldn't serve.

Those are a few of the highlights but my point is, the person on trial was amongst her peers as they seemed to all be lying, whining, mountain trash, thugs. Yup, she was guilty, I could tell by lookin’ at her. If these were our average citizens, then I weep for their children and our court system. Amazingly sad.

One of the Worst Things I Ever Did

I lived in a somewhat rural area when I was of high school age. My best buddy and I were hunters and we killed everything we legally could. With our Ruger 10-22s in hand and a belt full of 50 round banana clips, we hit the desert in the Toyota pick-up and slew the masses.

I think it was my Junior year in high school when the farmers had an infestation of rabbits. Again, I worked at the auto parts store and the farmers would come in and beg us to come thin the herd. We would spotlight and kill hundreds of them, they were everywhere. The gore was outrageous.

One night, four of us jumped into the truck, grabbed the one million candle power spotlight, Rugers, pistols, and even a few shotguns and headed for the desert just outside a group of farms. One person driving and three rednecks in the back blasting anything that moved; ya, we were asking for trouble. Now Jack rabbits are big ugly things that were rodents to the farmers, so they were our main target. Cottontails, on the other hand, are small, fluffy, and cute, and aren’t nearly as fast, but were still abundant. We generally wouldn’t shoot them. I know you anti-hunters argument, “it’s ok to kill ugly things…”

Anyhow, I was in the back with the two other guys and a rabbit ran out. One guy has the spotlight and me and another guy are doing the shooting. We take a few shots and he yells “I’m out”. I’ve got a few more rounds in my rifle but the rabbit is getting out of range and darting away from the road. Without thinking, I jump out of the back and sprint after it. Suddenly the bunny turns on me so I stop. I’m standing in a clearing with the spotlight’s pencil beam illuminating me and the rabbit. Everything else is pitch black, like this moment is fixed on a stage and the rabbit and I are the only players. It doesn’t stop, it comes right at me so I raise my rifle to shoot and “click”, I’m out too.

Still the little fella comes until he finally stops two feet from my shoe. He looks up at me and I can see the bewildered expression in its eyes. It is a baby cottontail, probably separated from its mother in all the commotion. I see its little pink nose twitch and for a second....time stood still. From then on it is a little bit of a blur. I pull a 22 cal. revolver from my holster and fire a single shot directly into its head at point blank range. Its head went back, and to the left….back, and to the left, and then it lies twitching a few final kicks before it dies.

I holster my gun and jog back to the truck. There, I see three high school friends staring at me speechless. My best friend has a tear rolling down his left cheek and he whispers “That is the coldest thing I have ever seen.” I giggle a little at first and then realize he is dead serious. The other two guys sit down in the back and don’t say a word. My buddy puts the rig in gear and we drive off silently, done with the slaughter. You have to understand, my friends were cold blooded, damn killers. We gutted animals while eating sandwiches. We had no feelings. Our mantra, “God kills indiscriminately…and so shall we”.

To this day, they reference that event with disgust and amazement. They are certain that I am devoid of a soul. I don’t hunt much anymore, and when I do, I rarely take game. Some say I’ve gone soft, some say I’m just a poor shot. Either way, I regret killing that little bunny and I know he is going to be standing there on Judgment Day. I’m sorry little buck (a male rabbit is a buck)…I’m sorry.

Battle with Hair

My battle with hair is both manifold and multiform. Ridiculous growth and outrageous loss both plague my early-30’s body. It is worse than puberty….and I still have acne. My back looks like the beach of Normandy, 1944. My frontal baldness has subtly crept up on me, taking an unostentatious widow’s peak and turning it into something of which Bram Stoker would be proud. If I place my index fingers at the two furthest points from my face, where my forehead stops and my scalp begins, I am literally pointing to the back of my head. Outrageous.

So let’s head south. I am able to grow some facial hair, but my nickname is “Captain Patchy Beard” or “Burbs” so it isn’t exactly manly growth. My ears need weekly trimming and my nose hairs make me look like I have tiny hedgehogs burrowing into face. I’ve never had chest hair before but that is changing too. I’ve had exactly eleven nipple hairs since “the big change” when I was 14 or 15 years old. Yup, six 3” fly traps encircling the left nipple and five 3” stringers on the right. I plucked them on occasion and sometimes shaved them when they started to catch on my long sleeve button-ups, but they were basically harmless. I now have two perfect rings of fire at the exact edges of my areolas. The circles are complete and full. If you found them in nature, you would step inside and make a wish. I am also getting a nice inverted triangle betwixt my man-boobs similar to Zangief of Street Fighter, but instead of a curly bushel, Magnum P.I. style; I have long, straight, black silkies, matted to my chest with sweat and exuded oil. It is disgusting. So I now have to shave my chest and nipples regularly being careful not to uncap the whiteheads with my Mach3.

Sorry, but we are continuing south. My lower body is nothing less than Yeti-like. I have gobs of hair bursting from my pudgy hocks. My nethers, if left unkempt, would ensnare cotton, paper, lint, insects, really anything within its Velcro-y grasp. So I have to do a little tuck ‘n tails as well. Men, you may think it feminine, you may think it gross, but trust me, you have got to spruce up the undercarriage. Dude, you are disgusting, and sweaty, and rank-ass-stanky and all that hair is just holding onto your filth and smell like an enormous moldy sponge. Grab the clippers, set it to a 2, and get to work. Remember that loose skin is an electric clipper's prey, so do what you gotta do to protect yourself. Your women will thank you…I promise.

I’m fighting a battle that I can’t win, but I will continue the fight. The day I give up the trimmer is the day I start wearing pants with elastic waist bands. If this is what it is like at 32, what the hell is it going to be like at 42?

Which Way Wiper?

There are a few private issues that never get much press because most of us don’t even like to admit we do them. I do have a couple of buddies that shy from nothing so this topic arose and I was surprised at what we found. Most of our observations came from our work restroom where foot position and weight distribution on the feet conjured images of what must be happening in the stall next door. We assert that there are only five major ways to wipe after evacuation.

Front to Back: Most common attack although variations include standing, bending, and leaning against the door. I don’t personally feel this is the most effective method because you may have substantial reaching and limited finger control at max reach. This creates a “paper trail” and results in some nasty skid marks. I think this is mainly because the bending forward causes a “pucker” effect disallowing a “deep” clean.

Back to Front: When “Baby got Back” is a fair description of you, then you may be stuck with this method. Because you have limited access due to arm length and cheek girth, you access between the legs and pull forward. This is a danger zone for girls because you don’t want to pull bacteria forward…well, you understand. Advanced finger techniques must be employed involving a middle finger drag, basically pulling forward and away at the same time. I personally feel this is the best way to minimize smearage and keep the cleanest undercarriage. Many disagree, mostly because of the male genitalia to wrist convergence issue. Maybe “bigger boys” have an issue here, I am sad to say, I don’t.

Center Pinch: This is the best method in theory ,gaining the benefits of both of the previous methods. In practice, the thumb is simply too clumsy to be effective….and you can’t pinch anything without a thumb. Also, the small area of paper actually used creates a saturation effect that just won’t doo.

Sawing Lumber: None of us really knows what goes on here, but we have heard many people pull paper from the roll and then go into an ungodly see-saw sound swishing back and forth very vigorously. I’ve never tried this but I think they must be just rubbing and smearing back and forth until they rub most of the residue off, or maybe into the skin. It seems nasty, but we hear the sawing lumber technique several times a week. If you happen to employ this method, feel free to leave a comment explaining your nasty ass.

Pinch it Clean: I hear about this all the time, especially in the case of no TP to be found and they are out of ass-gaskets as well (which can be used in a pinch). No man can actually do this. Extremely hot women on the other hand can, because..let’s be honest, if they do poop….it comes out wrapped in foil.

Whale Tail.

You people need to understand a few things when it comes to clothing choices. First, fashion is not universal, what looks good on one rarely, if ever, looks good on the masses. Second, less is not always more, especially if you are trying to act sexy. Third, have someone take a picture of you from the back or side, so you get true view of what you have to work with. Then, deal with reality, not fantasy.

Admittedly, I dress horribly in out of date clothes, so I am not speaking to trends at all. I am only talking about certain clothes on certain body types and being honest with yourself about what you can and cannot pull off.

The major type of clothing that seems to confuse people is the sexy wear, so I’ll address that here. I am a man, so I think I’m the one you are trying to impress which makes my opinion worth something. Plus, I’ve talked to enough guys to know that these feelings are somewhat universal. Here are a few categories of what you think you look like and what you really look like.

Sexy thong vs. Whale Tail

Sexy Back vs. Muffin Top

Belly Shirt vs. I Shouldn’t be wearing a Belly Shirt

Cleavage vs. Dear Lord, put ‘em away

I think you people wear these clothes because you want to look sexier, but you are doing exactly the opposite. You are accentuating the bad and moving from looking sexy to looking like a bowl of raised dough wrapped in rubber bands. Skinny Jeans are for 1% of the population and tube tops are for even fewer. There is something sexy about all women, figure out your asset and flaunt it..but put the rest away. Spandex is a privilege, not a right.

The Chiropractor

Chiropractors don’t have the best reputation and I’ve never considered going to one until the other day. I have started up running this year and the shin splints are ridiculous. For around three weeks I’ve had constant pain, so much so that I was pretty sure my shins were cracked. I’m telling this to a buddy, who happens to be a Chiropractor, and he says..”I can fix them”. I am more than skeptical so he says he’ll treat me a couple of times for free.

I head in there the first day and he pulls out a 12” and a 15” stainless steel blade, one curved and one straight that have been purposefully dulled. Then he starts. He very forcefully runs these blades up and down my shins working extra hard on any little lumpy parts he finds. It is hands down the most painful thing I can remember. He only works on each leg for about 2 min. but it is excruciating. Then he sends me on my way and tells me to come back in two days.

Two days later, I can’t even touch the things and he pulls out the blades again. This is more brutal than the last time, but he finishes with some ultrasonic shin blasting unit which I am almost positive does absolutely nothing. He tells me to come back in another two days. I repeat the process and now he is getting concerned that I am not getting better, but actually much worse.

He pulls out a tuning fork and places it on my shins and says, “You don’t have a break because that tuning fork would have made you jump.” What if I’m not tuned to an A? X-rays must be old school. Now I am paying for the visits so I am even more skeptical. He also puts me on an ibuprofen regimen until next time. Mind you, at this point I haven’t run in a week. He also decides to adjust my back and hips just to see if it helps. Ouch!....Now my back and hips hurt.

The next week, I tell him to keep the blades away from me and he does ultrasonic therapy on just one of my legs to see if helps. After two more treatments, I go for a run and the leg that hasn’t been treated feels pretty good. The other hurts like normal….so I tell him I am done.

This is a pretty good friend but I think we both discovered that a little ibuprofen and 2 weeks off was really the best medicine and all the other painful crap just aggravated things more. Ice seemed to help too, but I could have gotten that info from any runner out there. I don’t have all the bills yet but that was a lot of pain and money and time away from work for nothing. So if you want to get rid a run related pains, save the money and time and talk to a runner, not a Dr.

Lessons from a bounty hunter

I’ve mentioned that I used to work in a couple of auto parts store. I started out as a stock boy, delivery boy, and then moved on to counterman/manager/outside salesman over the course of about 8 years. We had some interesting people come through on a regular basis, but one of the most colorful had to be the guy known only as “The Bounty Hunter”.

1st encounter: I am in the back stock room doing inventory of the restock items, checking numbers and marking them off the list, when I am brutally attacked from behind. I’m 15 years old by the way. My arms are pulled back behind by back, handcuffs are slapped on them and I am torn over the back of the chair and dragged backwards kicking and trying to free myself. He drags me through the front of the store and out the front door and as I look up I see all of the countermen laughing. He stands me up outside and takes off the handcuffs and says “you have always got to be prepared for an attack. I could have had you in a car and gone forever, right in front of everyone, and you didn’t do a thing about it.” I had never met the guy before in my life. He says “I’m the bounty hunter”. The bounty hunter…not a bounty hunter..THE bounty hunter, and that is how he is known to everyone to this day, if he is still alive, that is.

He was older and had a weathered face, gristly looking dude, the kind of guy you would look at and say he is either homeless or a killer and most likely, both.

2^nd encounter: I am helping a customer at the front counter and he walks in the side door. The customer leaves and he walks up with a 12 gauge assault shotgun with a mounted flashlight and a shell tube that must hold at least 10 shells. He throws it on the counter and says “Have you ever seen a ‘Can’ gun before?” I say “A can gun?” He says “Yup, Mexi-can, Puertori-can, Afri-can.” Now, when a racist has a gun, maybe this isn’t the time to call him out, so I just giggle and say a little prayer that he does not attack me again.

3^rd encounter: Again, I’m helping someone at the counter. He doesn’t wait for the person to leave, but strolls up (he kinda had a limp) and as I turn my attention to the customer, he throws a leg up on the counter. A frikin’ leg. It is a prosthetic. He unstrapped the thing and threw it on the counter. One legged bastard got me again. He then tells me how he has been shot, stabbed, run over..”And those are just wounds from my Ex’s, hehehe.”

4^th and 5^th encounter: I mention to him that I wanted to find a switch blade knife, and did he know where I could find one. He pulled one out of his pocket and I admired it. Next time in, he threw me one and said, “you can have it”. It had a pink pearl handle, but still was awesome. I’m still not sure if that was another way for him to call me a girl, but I still have it 16 years later. He was now handing out illegal weapons to minors.

6^th encounter: I get bold and ask him what the toughest guy he ever took into custody was like. He says “I’ve taken some big guys but I’ll pick them any day over a woman. Women are mean and it may not hurt the same when they punch you, but they’ll run you over with their damn car. I’ve never had a guy try to run me over, but women will run you down, they want you dead.”

Sometime later: He came in fairly often, always with a wacky story and life advice for me. I’m not sure if he had already given all of this advice to the others and I was just a new kid, but he had information just for me. The most memorable was his mandate on sex. He said “Do you want to know the secret of keeping a woman happy in the bedroom?”

“I’m listening.”

“You take this to heart and you will be the best lover ANY woman has ever had.
When it comes to Sex, treat a whore like a queen and treat a queen like a whore.”

Who says you can’t get a life lesson from a one legged, racist, scarred and battered, bad-ass bounty hunter?

Poe is God.

I’ve never claimed to be well read in anything that wasn’t a textbook but I’ve got to say Edger Allan Poe kicks major arse. If you have read my other blogs you may remember me bragging about the unremarkable feat of memorizing “The Raven”, his most well know poem. It’s good, and there are some passages in it that are amazing that I have read and reread, stunned by his diction.

“And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;”

Damn… that’s good. Very few will ever write a single passage that compares to the one above but his other works are so much more impressive. If you haven’t read “The murders in the Rue Morgue” you need to drop the channel changer for about 20 min. and crack open a tallboy…I mean a book. You can do it, come on, hoist up that gelatinous meat sack that you call an ass and pick up a damn book for once. You don’t even have to read the whole short story but rather just work through his commentary on “Analysis”. It is life changing. I’ve never read anything that so well encapsulates some of my own personal thoughts on the analytical mind as the start of this story. Good stuff. Here is a nugget:

“The mental features discoursed of as the analytical, are, in themselves, but little susceptible of analysis. We appreciate them only in their effects. We know of them, among other things, that they are always to their possessor, when inordinately possessed, a source of the liveliest enjoyment. As the strong man exults in his physical ability, delighting in such exercises as call his muscles into action, so glories the analyst in that moral activity which disentangles. He derives pleasure from even the most trivial occupations bringing his talent into play. He is fond of enigmas, of conundrums, hieroglyphics; exhibiting in his solutions of each a degree of acumen which appears to the ordinary apprehension praeternatural. His results, brought about by the very soul and essence of method, have, in truth, the whole air of intuition.”

If you don’t get lost in all the “big words” the theme is extraordinary and dead on accurate, and it just gets better from here. By the way, you can download the story for free on the internet, so you won’t really have to pick up an archaic, leather-bound, paper weight. I realize most classic have you nodding off before you get through the TOC (Table Of Contents you nit), but a few are truly classics. Opiates or no, Poe is a God…and remember, “Never Bet the Devil Your Head.”

Damn Cat!

I used to love animals. I was a cat person. My dad, on the other hand, seemed to hate all pets and I had a hard time understanding why. With time, that understanding has come. Here is a little background. When I was just a boy, every night I would find my cat before bedtime, snuggle in with the little fur face and start to drift off to sleep. As a matter of routine, my brother would inevitably come in and take it from me just as we both got comfortable and close to dozing. Regardless of the fact that he knew I was terrified of the dark and that cat was my much needed comfort, he would take it. I would cry and yell..didn’t matter, he had the power so he took the cat. To add insult to injury, the cat was then often much disturbed and would leave his bedroom in about 3 min. but alas, that was the way of things.

Now, that being said, I told myself that when I was in charge and had my own house, I would have my cat and it would sleep with me nightly and my ‘little meowers” would never again be ripped away. Wow, I’ve changed. I now have a home of my own and a cat, and I hate it’s ever loving, filthy guts. I despise it with a guttural, deep seeded loathing. I wish it ill, I wish it death, I wish it pain and let me tell you why.

The kitty is my daughter’s. It is relatively harmless unless you are doing two things, sleeping, or using the bathroom. If you are in the bathroom, it will pound on the door until you let it in. Yes, it pounds on the frickin’ door with both front paws banging it against the frame. You let it in and it wants to drink out of the sink. Not that big of a deal except that at least once a week I come home to a sink that has been running for about 12 hours. Which happens to be about 11 hours and 58 min. after the cat last drank from it. So I give in, leave my throne, turn on the sink for a drink, it takes a couple licks and heads back to the door and pounds to get out. Let it out, and it pounds to get in. Add an annoying mew to that pounding and you are starting to get the picture. Now imagine this every time you use the restroom. Everytime.

Settle into bed at any hour and you start to hear that faint pounding, not at the bathroom door, but the outside door. You get up and let the little bastard in, get back into bed, and then he starts the mewing and pounding to get back out. This occurs at whatever bedtime happens to be and again at 5am……Every DAY! Oh, I hate it, so severely. It is relentless, and what makes it worse is the fact that my wife sleeps soundly and rarely hears it. The torture is mine to bear alone. I love my daughter and wouldn’t want her to feel the loss of a pet at my hands, so I can’t kill it. Likewise, I can’t slug it in the guts, drop it off a cliff, or starve it and leave it for dead in the desert. So I just look it with piercing hate and wish it away. I just hope I am never left alone with it, it may be the ultimate test…..and I’m lookin’ to fail.

Why Can't I Pee?

You think when you get through with those grueling high school days, that the locker room scene is over. I assert that it is not. Every time I sidle up to a urinal in a public rest room, I’m right back in 7^th grade; taking a shower with the fellas and giving the pubes a quick inspect to see if magically a fourth one happened to show up over night. Now, pubes a plenty, and I still can’t pee with a man dangling next to me. Compound this with the fact that I drink about 8 gallons of water a day and frequent the bathroom more than a thirteen year old who just discovered Mr. Tickle, and you have a little problem.

No, I don’t have a prostate problem…I, um… check myself regularly. This is strictly a mental thing. If I am feeling defeated or low, I couldn’t start my stream if I heard someone three blocks away. If I just pushed 300lbs on the bench the night before and I am feeling “cocky”, I can blast away with the best of them. Then, no matter how I am feeling, there are certain people that create an instant stop block and I really don’t know why. ..and if there is no divider between urinals, I won’t even try. How can my Keigel muscle be inexorably tied to my emotions? Scientifically speaking, it’s ludicrous. Nevertheless, it is true.

So I practice, psych myself up, count by nines in my head (you know the same things I do for sex) but sometimes, with some people, it just won’t flow. But here is where I keep the power. If you find yourself cozying up to me in the adjacent urinal and you have the same issue as I, we have a problem. I know that cacophony of silence that roars in your ears minute after minute as you try to wait me out hoping I’ll leave so you can “get going”. Sorry guy, you have a stalemate my friend. I may not be able to pee with you standing there, but I am willing to wait you out for hours, so just zip it up and be on your way..you have no idea who you are dealing with.

Proof of God

Anyone who has taken a philosophy class has probably worked through the “Why should you believe in God?” construct. It basically goes as follows:
There are only 4 scenarios worth considering.

1) God exists and you believe in him.
a. You will probably live a pretty good life and when you die..happy day.

2) God exists and you don’t believe in him.
a. Death may include an eternal fire, a spit, and slow roasting.

3) God doesn’t exist and you believe in him.
a. You will probably live a pretty good life and when you die, you’ll never know he doesn’t exist.

4) God doesn’t exist and you don’t believe in him.
a. Doesn’t really matter, because nothing really matters…in the long, long run.

So based on these scenarios, there is only one case that really matters. That is, that God exists and you don’t believe in him....because eternity is sooo long. Therefore, you should believe in God. It is a pretty simple argument but I can go one better. I won’t offer some statistical reason to believe, I will just cut to the chase and offer proof of his existence. Only a God could create something so magnificent. If proof is in the pudding, here is the puddin’. I give you Lena.



'Nuff said.

Wii Fit?

The outrage over the Wii fit is awesome. I love how everyone is so concerned about the computer machine telling their pudgy little ones that they are overweight. We have heard for years that you have to be so careful about giving teens and tweens a poor body image. You should never mention that they might need to stop at that third bag of Doritos, if for no other reason than their little cheese crusted digits can’t even open it. Greasy equals slippery.

We have established that I am a hog, but in the early days, back in the 7^th grade, I had no idea. My mommmmy always told me I was skinny even when my waist size exceeded my inseam length by double digits. I was a round mound of rebound and it took a devastating conversation with my brother to turn things around. It worked, through high school anyhow. He basically walked in on his lunch break from work and saw me sitting on the couch double fisting a bag of Cool Ranch for breakfast. Yes breakfast. It was noon, but I just gotten out of bed what with it being summer vacation and all. He called me the fattest little piece of crap he had ever seen and if I didn’t get my lazy ass off the couch, I would never have a date, let alone a girlfriend. Ok, it was brutal and I still cry myself to sleep some nights thinking about it, but it worked. I started running, started lifting, started watching my intake, and high school was a much better place for it.

The obesity rate in kids is epidemic. It makes the anorexia problem almost statistically irrelevant. Childhood Type 2 Diabetes is growing faster than Rosie’s…well, you know. Nintendo just used a BMI calculation for its game. The USA came up with this method to quickly rate your weight. So why are we the ones whining? Everyone knows that the calculation doesn’t work in all cases, but it is a place to start.

I don’t want everyone to have a bad self image, but people need to be realistic and help their kids eat right and get a little exercise. Boycotting the one and only game that might actually get your kid out of his seat and moving might not be the best plan of action. You may save their feelings, but they will likely die of heart disease….fair trade?

For those of you that prefer to drop your Wii in the trash and pursue a workout video for the kiddies, I added one. Low impact and the kids will feel great about themselves.

May I help you?

I really hate to sound like the old grandpa that says “Back in my day people were polite, they believed in hard work, and the customer was always right.” I’m only 32, but wow, grandpa was right. Have you been to a store lately? I am stunned at the lack of customer service everywhere.

Here is a little background info. I worked as a counterman and delivery boy for about 8 years at a couple of different auto part stores. I worked with the public, mechanics, vendors, drivers, etc. This is a few years back, but my wage never exceeded $6.50/hr. so it is not like I made any money. Still, I always tried to help the customer, greeted them, thanked them, and generally tried to do my job.

Flash forward a few years and I walk into Autozone to pick up a generic door handle or something. I am happy to see they carry the same line of accessories that I used to sell, so I know what is available. The shelf is empty so I go to the counter. The two people working the counter are talking with one another and make me wait literally 5 min. until they finish their personal conversation to help me. When I tell them what I want, they tell me which isle to check. I inform them that it isn’t in stock. They look in the computer and say they don’t make it. I ask if they have a catalogue because I know right where it is if they will let me look. They reiterate that the computer shows nothing. I reiterate that I know it is available for special order and I see the book right there behind them. In anger and disgust they tell me I am wrong and say “Sorry, I don’t know what to tell you.” I leave, angry.

Next, I need a little piece of vacuum hose. Because Autozone hasn’t been the best, I go to a Shuck’s. I walk in with hose in hand and wait for 15min this time for the man to finish with the person in front of me. On at least 5 occasions he looked up at me and what I had in my hand. 15min. later, when it is my turn, I take two steps forward and he says “Nope, dealer item.” Thanks, you could have said that 15 min. earlier. Never-the-less, I ask if I can look at their vacuum hoses, he says nope, we have nothing like that. I say, “You don’t have bulk vacuum hose?” He says, “Well, yes..but not that size.” I point to the exact size that they do have and I need five feet behind him and he angrily goes back to cut me some. Now I am holding a 6 inch piece of hose. He says, how much do you want? I hold up the hose and say “This much”. He says, “Sorry, we can’t sell anything less than one foot”…. and starts to walk back to me like I am going to leave. What the hell? So I say, “Then I guess I will take a foot.” Again, visibly angry, he walks back over, chops off a foot of it and then throws it at me. I go up and pay feeling like a jack ball, an angry jack ball.

So these are just a couple of examples at auto part stores, but it seems to be everywhere. There is no pride in work, no more “Thank you” at the end of transactions, no acknowledgment that a customer is standing two feet away waiting for help. What is going on?

Last week, a lady waited on my wife in Wal-Mart…I know, I know. She was filthy. Stained shirt (new spaghetti over old grime), greasy- uncombed hair, and reeking of cabbage and salted meats. I’m talking worse than disgusting, and she was handling our food. You can be the poorest piece of mountain trash in Boise and still be reasonably clean.

I won’t even go into the customer service at Circuit City, if you have ever walked in those doors, you know.

So, I have a message for all of you people that work with the public daily. I don’t care that you only make minimum wage. I don’t care that you still live at home at the age of 40. I really don’t care that your girlfriend was out with your brother last night and you are in a bad mood. When I pay you, say “Thank you”, for your company’s sake. When I stand next to you with that inquisitive look on my face, say “May I help you?”, and make it sound like you are not frustrated with the question. Finally, when I ask you something you don’t know, ask someone else, don’t feed me a line of crap that you don’t have it because this is frickin’ Wal-Mart. You have everything.

Whatcha Bench?

The defining lift for any weightlifter is undoubtedly the bench press. You may squat 800lbs, but if you’re pushing 225 on the bench, you’re pretty much a pansy. I’ve always been that kind of pansy, without the 800lb squat that is. Oh, I’ve tried, but my body doesn’t seem to like the idea of heavy weight which is why my lifetime goal of pushing the illusive “triple plates” (3 plates on each side + 45lb bar=315lbs for the machine lifters), continues to be a goal. Recently I’ve come close, very close, but I haven’t attempted that weight from fear of missing. Once you miss a certain weight, it knows you’re scared, it plays with your mind, it beats you from the inside.

I’m 32 now and not getting any stronger but I often reminisce about the early days in the gym with my bro and some friends doing anything we could (without the aid of needles) to get a couple more lbs on the bench. Good times, where “Clowny pants” and mullets abound. I thought I would throw in a particularly memorable clip of a friend at a bench meet. Ever wonder what 415lbs dropping into your chest would look like…well here it is. Amazingly enough, no broken ribs, no real damage. Tom jumped up like his sternum didn’t just meet his spine. (Yes, this was really a group of personal friends and not something I pulled off of youtube). By the way, nice psych-up and nice pants BP!

Sorry, but it is true.

Caution: this blog contains some candid language and is a little explicit. It is not for the faint of heart or those unable to truly be honest with themselves. This blog is one of several I plan to write outlining some of my more personal theories that I rarely share with others.

The topic for today: Why all women are really lesbians. Hear me out on this one, I have ample proof. Disclaimer: I am not speaking about any religious beliefs, morality, or any political or social ideals. I am only speaking to raw, innate, sexual attraction.

I’ll illustrate my point by describing a situation and ask that you honestly listen to your visceral reaction before calling me a moron.

You walk into the bedroom and catch a woman in the throws of self-pleasurement. Her smooth body is cradled by the billowy white comforter on which she lays. Candles surround the bed and you detect just a hint of Jasmine floating in the air. Tiny flickers of firelight dance across her alabaster skin. You treasure that moment of her sweet escape as she arches her head back, consumed by the passionate gift she has granted herself.

Scene change:

You walk into the bedroom and catch a man auditioning his finger puppets. He is standing, hunched over, in the corner of the room facing the wall. He assumes this position because he knows that the intersection of these two walls is a place that God’s eyes can’t see. Sweat pours from his acne filled back as he pants loudly while performing “The Rabid Dog”. If he turned now, you would be shocked at the self loathing burned on his cherry red face.

Walking into each of those scenarios, man or woman will both have the same guttural reaction. One will elicit a passionate stir, a sensual beckoning. The other causes just the slightest amount of bile to creep up your esophagus, leaving an alkaline taste in your mouth for weeks, if not years.

I’ll take it a step further. Think of the sexually liberated woman and her buffet of sex toys. Your mind swims and your blood stirs with the possibilities. Reverse the situation where a man has one little exchange with an inflatable, but very lifelike, silicon torso. The neighbors are called and he is put on the police watch list for life. Women and sexuality are sisters (attractive step-sisters); men are only a necessary evil.

Men are hairy assed baboons that are really attractive to no one. Oh…could you imagine his hot, acrid breath on your neck? My stomach is churning. Women are well groomed, clean, tender, and generally free of unkempt body hair. They are sexuality personified and not just to the hulking gender. Women, protest if you will but given the opportunity and no social or religious pressure…every one of you would give Angelina a throw.

Makin' Cizash

A wise man once said “There are two types of people in this world, those who understand interest, and those who pay it.” Well said. I am just barely learning what this guy meant, so I thought I would enlighten you people. I’m not just talking about money either. It is a lifestyle philosophy of when you want to pay, now or later.

Example one: you get out of high school and contemplate college. I’m baffled how people think it is easier to kick back for a while, get a job, and veg-out rather than go to more school. Pretty soon, you’ve knocked up your girl friend, have a $400/month Pinto payment, and have traded your dream of being a Marine Biologist for the hope of making assistant manager at Arby’s.. if you work the late shift for another 6 months. Hardly the easy path if you look at the big picture. Four years of college up front probably would have jumped you two tax brackets for the next 40 years.

The problem lies in the fact that when you decide to pay really determines how much you have to pay. That leads us to the distinction between cost and price. Let’s run some numbers. Specifically, let’s talk retirement. When do you want to save, now or later? Suppose you order one Jumbo Grande Late’ per day at the low price of $5. You do that, and in 30 years you would have spent $54,750. That was the price. Though the cost to you at retirement is really $127,030, because that is what you would have stowed away if you had just put that coffee money into savings making 5% annually. I won't even add in the money saved on tooth whitening gel. Try building $127K when you have just 10yrs left to retire, you would have to save over $800/month!

Let’s do another example. You buy a house for $150K at %5 interest. Over 30 years you actually pay $289,883. That was your price. The cost to you at retirement is really $672,759 because that is what you would have if you had saved at the same rate as you paid your mortgage over the same 30 years. So please don’t tell me you made $50K on your house when you sold it for $200K, 10 years after you bought it. You only reduced your cost by $50K.

Ok, this is more than boring so I will spare you the credit card example because you will likely stab yourself in the eye with a fork before I finish. I am just continually surprised at how few people seem to understand the difference between cost and price, and how even fewer really understand the power of interest. That being said, nobody is going to change a thing, including myself, so (if you got this far) you have just lost 3 min. of your life that you ain’t never gettin’ back.

Just the Tip

I was once one of you people. You are the non-tippers, the ones that know not the math, etiquette, or rules when tipping. A friend of mine schooled me a few years ago after watching me embarrass myself and insult waiter after waiter. He reminisced about the many benefits of waiting on the public at a popular steak house while going to school. I don’t know if the sarcasm bled through in that list line, but besides “Cop a Feel Friday” there is nothing redeeming about slinging steaks and “poppin” taters. Add the fact that the restaurant can pay you less than the pittance that is minimum wage and you are basically a wrist waiting to be opened.

Basic tipping: I thought the rule was 10% minimum and 15% if you were pleased. Please, it’s 2008. 15% minimum, 20%+ if you were pleased..and if she is attractive and attentive and she’s wearing.…I digress…open wallet, invert, shake, and then get the hell out. She has another group waiting on that table you have been hogging for the last hour while chit-chatting and getting your fifth refill, you coffee lush.

Advanced tipping: Now is where it gets tricky. Suppose you brought in that 90% off coupon you tore out of the Super Saver last Sunday. You burp up a little ranch dressing as the waitress smiles and drops off the bill for that single meal you shared with your wife and three kids. Sweet, they had free bread to start and the little ones fill up quickly. You hand her a wadded-up coupon and ask if you can use it for the meal. She takes it and walks away burning your face into memory. You’re getting a little something extra in your loaded baker next time. So, what do you do? The total, after discount is $3.59..cause you had water. I’ll tell you. You pay the tip on the cost of the meal PRIOR to the discount!

Group tipping: If you have the unmitigated gall to ask her to split the bill after she has already rung up the order, every one of you bastards better round up your tips individually. That means no change, if 20% of your portion is $1.47..you’re dropping a two-bill…each!

I eat out every day for lunch and continually watch my fellow engineers, managers, and even millionaires shaft the help. I end up doubling my tip to compensate and it needs to stop. It seems that income is inversely proportional to tipping, in my experience. If you can get through senior level physics, you can do a little math. If you can’t, that cell phone strapped to your utility belt probably has a tip calculator too. If you didn’t know before, you know now. So drop another buck you cheap bastard….Karma alone is worth that.