Inward Singing

Times are a Changin'

2008-10-28T19:08:00.001-07:00

I haven't supported this blog in quite a while now, but have no fear. I am now featured on another site that you may or may not enjoy.
Check out:
www.review-spew.com

Huffing made easy.

2008-08-21T21:47:00.000-07:00

I can honestly say that I have never thought of sucking on a can of computer duster, but whatever floats your boat, I guess. What happened to the good old days when people would just "Spark the Owl", "Smoke a Bowl", "Torch a Fatty", or "Dance with Mary Jane"?
New druggies really give good, old fashioned, stoners a bad name. Check it out. This was a compilation from a reality intervention show. Enjoy the freak show.

Love is blind.

2008-08-20T07:00:00.000-07:00

No joke, it really is. I’m not speaking about how a young woman in love is blind to the jerk they share their bed with, or the fact that he hasn’t had a job in 5 years and is living with his parents. That is true enough, but I am speaking quite literally, that love makes you see something visually different than other people see.

I never would have agreed with this hypothesis until it happened to me. My daughter was born severely premature. When she finally came home from the NICU, her hair had all fallen out and she was still only 4lbs after months and months of all kinds of hell and triumph that I won’t go into here. I watched her grow and develop from 1lb 9oz to that beautiful 4 pounder. I was holding her one day and was staring at her little face and mentioned to my brother-in-law how I was amazed that some people have the ugliest kids and don’t know it. He says “Well, yours isn’t exactly winning any beauty contests…but she has been through a lot, and that is to be expected.” I was floored. I honestly saw the cutest little one in the world when I looked at her. Was he blind, or was I? Eight years have passed and I look back at those pictures and see a baby that had many medical issues and can almost understand how someone used to seeing a chubby infant would think my child looked skinny and sickly….almost. It has never crossed my mind that she wasn’t always adorable, except for that one comment by my brother-in-law.

Another example is a woman I saw through social circles many, many times. I would giggle to myself that she looked exactly like Aughra from The Dark Crystal (note the picture above). Then, my wife and I got to know her and her family and we all became quite good friends. We have now known her for seven years and I really don’t see it anymore. I remember mocking her, but now her hideousness has been reduced exponentially. I would say she is of average attractiveness like anyone. Seven years ago, I didn’t see that at all.

This is really a remarkable thing. Why can feelings change the lines and colors that our eyes take in? How can an emotion bend light? I really don’t know the answer, but I do know that when every parent says their kids are the cutest in the world; they aren’t lying. To them, the really are. To all of those women who want the light off because of a few extra pounds, know this: if your lover really loves you, his eyes don’t see you the way you think they do. Shapes are shifted and light is bent by a process that boggles the mind.

Bigfoot has been found!

2008-08-16T14:24:00.000-07:00

Well, it is official. Bigfoot has been found and currently resides in redneck’s freezer. He is always in the last place you look. The undeniable photographic evidence shows a 7 foot 7 inch 500 pound Bigfoot stuffed in a small chest freezer. I say small chest freezer because a second picture later released shows three 5’5” studs standing next to it, and the freezer is pretty much dwarfed. That makes sense though, because you can really fold up the big guy, especially after the rigor mortis sets in. The other interesting part of the photo is the fact that it says it is a picture of a thawed Bigfoot. Correct me if I am wrong, but does thawed mean it was frozen, but now is not? Doesn’t the freezer do the freezing? …and it is still in a freezer, as we can see. I know people get that word mixed up. I can’t tell you how many times I have had to murder someone because they asked me to dethaw something from the freezer. It is already frozen moron, if I dethaw it, it only becomes more frozen. That’s right, more frozen, it gets way colder when you put it back in the freezer. Sorry, I digress, one may want to keep that bad boy on ice though, cause he is gonna be a little ripe if you keep him thawed. I included the pictures below.

The three geniuses had a press conference on Friday where they had planned to release the DNA testing results proving the rolled up carpet with a Chewbacca mask stuffed in a freezer is really a Sasquatch, but it seems the data wasn’t quite ready. Surprise, surprise. More info was uncovered though as they now say that they had a camcorder with them on their hike and they have some video proof of a family of Bigfeet…Bigfoots…Bigfooties that actually stalked them. I was a skeptic before, but after seeing a photo released from this footage, I am a believer. I am a little ashamed to admit that after seeing the freezer photo and reading the size specifications, I was worried they had actually accidentally bagged Patrick Ewing.

Anyhow, click HERE for the remarkable photo of one of the stalking creatures that puts a big foot in the mouth of all skeptics.

IT Guys Rock

2008-08-13T07:00:00.000-07:00

IT guys..you rock! I'm a computer geek myself, but there is a whole other class that I like to call the computer-douche. No where else in the world will you find 300lb, pimple faced asses so full of themselves and their "knowledge". Knowledge that only came to them by way of dateless Friday nights and countless hours entrenched in "Guild Wars" building up their level 77 Paladin Shadow Mage.

This is a long one, but classic. The more you work with computers, the funnier you will find this. Stick it out for the duration. It is worth it.

Hells Ya

2008-08-11T18:05:00.000-07:00

That's what I am talking about. The only thing that would have made it better is if it was the opening dance scene and he dumped water over his sessy bod....in slow-mo stop-mo.

EBay Ruined Everything

2008-08-08T07:00:00.000-07:00

I used to be a collector, a psycho really. I loved the hunt, the acquisition, and the placement of the piece in my collective puzzle. I collected toys and sports cards. Don’t say it, I know. So when EBay came around, I was thrilled. No longer was I confined to local shops, the world was opened like monstrous floodgates and I was there for the buying. I filled my collections, found the impossible to find, and watched as package after package of the previously impossible was delivered right to my door. Oh I paid handsomely for much of it, but it was worth it. It was a passion and an investment, well come to find out, a passion anyhow.

Then came the problem. Those flood gates were opened up to everyone else too. Before, if you walked into a card shop and found a Jerry Rice rookie card on the shelf, it was quite a find. You had to find the shop and be lucky enough to find the card there too. Now, everyone’s PC was linked to the same shop and there were always 20 or so of every rookie card always on the shelf. All of the sudden, it wasn’t that great of a find because they were always available. Owning the card wasn’t enough. You needed it in pristine shape, with the picture centered and the borders square. Mint didn’t mean mint any more. Mint had ridiculous requirements, and the near mint became worthless.

This happened with all of the collectable toys too. As EBay got bigger, everything became more and more available and hence more and more worthless. I have thousands of cards that literally are worth less than the paper they are printed on. I don’t see that ever changing in my lifetime. All of my toys are just toys, despite the amount I paid under the pretense of collecting. They are worth less than they were when you could find them on every Kmart shelf. Thank you, EBay.

Go take a look, even the most coveted collector's items in history are all sitting on EBay right now waiting for a bidder. Mickey Mantle rookie, there are three for sale right now. Go get one. Your Terry Bradshaw rookie you have been keeping for the last 30 years is worthless, because it is considered C8+ grade as the manufacturer didn’t get the card cut exactly right. Your card protector is worth more than the card in it.

EBay is a cruel mistress. I thought it was the greatest thing a collector could ever want, but by its very nature, it killed collecting. Oh, don’t get me wrong, they had help. George Lucas did his part too.

Old Dogs are a Dying Breed

2008-08-06T07:00:00.000-07:00

I am not that old, but I sure feel disconnected these days. Nostalgia has been washing over me and I feel like an old man with archaic ideas. Here are a few of my thoughts.

Points and condensers are a thing of the past, but what about the old “Condenser trick”. You know, you grab a condenser, ground the body on the frame of the car, pull a plug wire and with the engine running, arc a couple thousand volts into that bad boy. Throw it to a buddy and when he touches both ends…Yowzer. That is a shock. It is a classic…and it is gone.

Muscle cars – No 4 cylinder car is ever going to be a muscle car. Displacement, noise, and power are prerequisite. I know, I saw The Fast and the Furious and your Rice-burner may blow my doors off, but a muscle car it is not, and will never be. Remember when you bragged about your cam and carb? No, I guess you wouldn’t.

Semi-Classic movies – Everything is getting remade, which makes the original obsolete or at least tainted by the remake. Another 10 years and nobody will ever remember Jamie Lee Curtis as the “Queen of Scream”. Rob Zombie did a much better job with Halloween…but in doing so, he buried history. Even the movies that don’t get remade have crappy sequels. Disney classics have cartoon TV series and 16 sequels that make the original masterpiece nothing but a little white noise in the monstrous engine that is marketing. BTW, if you didn't know, Zach Effron is Ren in the new Footloose remake....way to kill a classic with a High School Musical nightmare.

Oak Furniture – What the hell are people going to buy as antiques 100 years in the future? “Next up for auction is this classic do it yourself oak veneer desk from Wal-Mart that remarkably still has the cardboard backing intact….do I hear $4?” Here’s an experiment, go to Oak Express and try to find anything that is solid oak. You won’t find it, they may tell you it is solid, but if you look, only the trim is solid wood. “Packing significant lumber” means something entirely different these days.

Big Mac – Remember when a Big Mac was big? Compare that to the Double Six Dollar Burger from Carl’s and it isn’t even a warm-up. Perception is an amazing thing. No wonder our kids out weigh us by the age of seven.

Gym class – Back in my day we were required to do push-ups, sit-ups, and run to pass the class. Now, I actually have an in-law whose child is taking her high school gym class via internet. No joke. She doesn’t even go to a gym, or a school.

Military – Remember when the military kicked your ever-loving ass to train you. Made you enter a gas chamber until you puked blood so you knew the effects of gas. Spit in your face and made you a hardened fighting machine. Now they can’t even get in your face without fear of a lawsuit. They are a politically-correct, equal opportunity employer,. So you can’t run a mile, come on in, we’ll find something for you. Call me crazy, but I would prefer the physically elite as my country’s bodyguard.

Grades – I read an article where some schools have forbidden red ink being used to correct tests. They say it has a bad association for the kids and seeing the red marks makes them feel bad. Way to prepare kids for the vicious world out there you idiots. When they are out of a job, I wonder if they will ask the bank not to use red ink when describing the negative $600 balance in their checking account. It should make them feel better.

Yellow Pages – Remember when it wasn’t just a link on the internet?

These are just a couple of things that make me fear for our future and pine for our past. I won’t touch on current music because if you have ears, you already know. Wow, if I am this disconnected by 32, I’m going to be insufferable by the age of 50.

Damn You Vacuum Man!

2008-08-04T07:00:00.000-07:00

Five years ago I needed a new vacuum cleaner for the house, so I start checking the local stores to find something to replace the ol’ Phantom Fury. After talking with a friend, I head down to a little, independent vacuum salesman with a tiny shop in the worst part of town. When your vacuum dealer is wedged between an auto body paint supply and a pawn shop, and across the street is the porn store, you might want to keep driving. Nonetheless, I stop and head inside to see what he has.

I couldn’t imagine what this guy could offer because, let’s just say, if he sells one vacuum every week, he is probably ecstatic. I find a Hoover and he sells me on the 5 years of free bags and 2 years of in-house warranty including free belts. Free belts?...You kidding me? He is also a repair man, so I think it might be nice to have a local place to drop it off if we have problems. Plus, 5 years of bags? That is a whole lot of free bags. (BTW: He strongly opposed the bagless vacs and I listened.)

I head up to the counter and pay and then ask for my bags. Then it hits he…he has no intentions of giving anyone 5 years of bags, and here’s why. He hands me a little punch card with 10 circles on it. In order to get your free bags, you must come in for a single package every six months. My months were Jan. and July. If you don’t come in during those months, in the years indicated on the punch card, you are out of luck. Further, he will keep no record of your purchase, so you must have the original punch card to get your bags. I’ve already paid, but am a little angry that he is setting up a seemingly impossible scenario.

How often do you think about vacuum bags? Can you keep a punched business card for 5 years? Of course not, nobody can…but me. I decided right then and there that this guy wouldn’t beat me. He sold on me on something and then, like mail-in rebates, set up so many hoops to jump through that nobody could negotiate successfully. He had no idea who the hell he was dealing with.

So my wife and I make a vow right then and there to beat the vacuum man. We had our months marked and took in that raggedy little punch card every 6 months for 4 ½ years. We had some close call, hitting the last week, if not the last day of the month. I could see the disgust in this eyes every time we walked in for free bags and didn’t buy a thing. It was a thing of beauty. I had him on the ropes, we were so close.

But alas, we lost. Yesterday, August first, my wife calls me in horror.

“I forgot the vacuum bags” is all she says. She didn’t have to remind me that July was our month, gone, never to return, no more bags for you.

“Nnnnnnnnnooooooooooooooooooooooooo!” I shriek, as the receiver drops from my shaking hand.

The vacuum bag Nazi won. He knew it the whole time. Game over.

Vacuum man, I’ll see YOU in HELL!

You Can't Go Home Again.

2008-08-01T07:00:00.000-07:00

I went to my hometown last weekend for a wedding and did a little nostalgic site seeing. Wow, things change. I cruised by the house I grew up in and it now resides smack dab in the middle of trailer trash alley. I tried to turn around in the cul-de-sac but the mountain trash had so many cars lined up on the street that I had to do a three point turn on the circle drive. I glanced over at my old buddy Dusty’s house and it is now a run down pile of garbage. It’s funny because I always thought it was so nice compared to our house. I looked through the fence that was missing most of the pickets to see a hoodless Fiero sitting in the back yard. No, there isn’t an RV access to the back yard. Why do poor people have so many cars? Where do they get them and why do they keep them. Cars on blocks in the yard is a cliché….someone should tell these people that. The entire town is comprised of people stuck in the 80’s driving cars from the 70’s. I guess having an emissions test does more than cut down on the smog, it also cuts down on the 1972 Chev. Blazers that are missing the hart tops too.

I also noticed that abundance of 70’s vintage home-built, wanna-be, monster trucks where the mullet clad driver had his 15 year old mate sidled right up beside him in the middle of that bench seat. Seat belts be damned! I honestly haven’t seen this driving phenomenon since 1987.

I had several hours to myself so I hit more of the old haunts. I went to the bowling alley that was a favorite hang-out. Noon on a Saturday and not a soul to be found. I went to the Skateland, to see if it was still around. It was, but not a person there either. The whole ½ of the town that I spent most of my childhood was now ghost-like and abandoned. I went to my Junior High and hiked up to the track where I spent so many nights trying to shed my blubber. It was cracked and old and the only person out there was practicing Frisbee. Alone. Frisbee is a two person game at least; unless you are really, really sad and lonely. Maybe he was getting his chops up for a big game later. Oh, and he was at least in his 40’s. Then, I headed to my old elementary school and it was still close to what I remembered with the exception of the four add on buildings and a parking lot where the soccer field used to be. Kids don’t need to run when you can get a couple dozen more cars in there. Of course, I wouldn’t let my kid walk to school in that neighborhood these days either.

Even the park that was famous for its WWII tank had changed. The tank is gone and was replaced with a skate park. Those WWII guys are all almost dead anyhow, who needs to remember that crap when you can have a sweet-ass skate park for the little baggy pants bastards.

I tried to go down to a fish farm in the canyon where I used to practice my fly fishing casts, but it is now obviously owned by Randy Weaver’s extended family as is it plastered with No Trespassing signs and threats of death, dogs, and guns.

As an auto parts delivery driver of yester year, I also ran a couple of my old routes to see the old delivery spots. Everyone is gone, closed down, and out of business. I realize that it has been 15 years or more, but doesn’t any business have staying power anymore? Every single dealership now has a different name as well. It is like a bizzaro world. Café Ole is now Café Meza, Taco John’s is now Indian Joes. I felt sad, a little mad, and disgusted all at the same time. Luckily, I have XM radio so I could go to the 80’s station to make the feeling of quazi-bizzaro time-travel complete.

Filthy Desk

2008-07-30T07:00:00.000-07:00

Clean it up! I live in a sea of grey cubicles, no windows, fluorescent hazy lights, and the soft glow of computer monitors staring at me from every angle. The environment sucks bad enough naturally. I don’t need to look at and smell your filthy garbage too. Engineers are disgusting. Most of us share cubicles and have about as much work space as a those Asian kids making linens for Martha Stuart. 2000 thread count sheets don't sew themselves.

Even the most tidy of our ilk have the problem of space, so keeping complete order is difficult. However, exacerbating the problem with your four day old Starbucks cups, 32oz Wendy’s carafe from lunch, and no less than six empty diet Mt. Dew cans, is simply unacceptable. With these tight quarters, your space IS my space so give me a break and throw out some of that crap.

What’s worse is the fact that we take care of our own trash where I work, so those that choose to throw away their wrappers and banana peels often do so under their desk. That doesn’t help when you don’t dump your garbage until the bin is overflowing. The remaining half of Monday’s tuna sub is smoldering from hot CPU sitting next to your trash creating a make-shift kiln. I’m holding back the bile over here. So here are a few rules.

No wet or decomposing garbage in the waste baskets under your desk.

Replacement policy: if you get a new drink, the old one must be removed from your desk and disposed of in the proper place. Go dump out that flat, watered-down Dr. Pepper in the drinking fountain if you must. At least it gets cleaned.

No tuna at your desk – ever. I used to break this rule, but now know better. I’m here to spread the word.

Recognize proximity – If you can smell your food/drink, I can smell it. We are literally 3 feet from one another.

Empty your trash – Do this once a week whether you think you need to or not. Bread molds, milk sours, and the Chinese take-out carton stinks more than ever. I wouldn’t have to give you this rule if you would have followed Rule 1.

If your houses are anything like your desks, please don’t invite me over for dinner. I’m not coming. Again, I am amazed at the number of educated, inconsiderate slobs I encounter everywhere….and they complain that I am a clean freak. Call me what you will, but at least you won’t be smelling any old apple cores or last-night’s goulash coming from my side of the room. If anything, you will get the soothing aromatic waft of some watermelon hand sanitizer, and for that, I say “You’re welcome.”

RMS

2008-07-28T07:00:00.000-07:00

Adolescence is a weird time. Puberty, sexuality, dating; all of this hits you at once like a cruel joke. I went through the normal crap, some of it never going away actually. For instance, I am bound to have acne until the day I die, and my beard is still as patchy as a 12 year old. My baby fat never went away, but at least I’m balding.

There is one thing that happened to me that I believe is unique, however. It was fleeting, lasting only 2 weeks..but it was so fowl and so nasty, that over 15 years later, my family still brings it up and mocks me as if it was yesterday…as if it was something I could control. I am speaking of something know to my family as RMS. It stands for Rotten Milk Shit. Nothing else quite sums up the combination of utter bile that seemed to weep from my pores. For two weeks of my life I had the over powering aroma of Rotten Milk Shit.

I don’t know where it came from. I was a psycho about hygiene. I showered twice a day, wore my green, fresh scent, Speedstick, I ate mints, I doused myself in Drakkar, I chewed 18 pieces of spearmint gum a day…yet I reeked like three week old sewage, trapped in jar, sitting in the hot sun for days. More interesting, I couldn’t smell it. It permeated my soul but was undetectable to my own senses, yet it was there. Everyone talked about it.

We tried to find the origin, was it from my mouth….from my ass? No one could tell, but it was nasty. Even my girlfriend at the time mentioned my interesting aroma. She tried to be nice, but her upturned shnoz made it abundantly clear. My brother coined the RMS phrase, and ever since, it has been attributed to me and a time in history that nobody wants to remember. Now I am self conscious, to say the least. Having this stinky knowledge, and being 16 years old, I damn near quit high school and moved to the hills.

I made it through, and like all things, time healed our nostrils and the stench subsided. I grew and got married, had kids and all is well, but the perplexing question of my unbearable stench for that two weeks of hell still plagues my mind. Has this happened to you? What was it? Did I have an anal slug? Did my armpits get infested with black mold? Did a rancid sea snake crawl down my throat and crap in my lungs, then burst in my belly releasing thousands of rotten undead baby snakes? Why me, why then? For those of you that have been ostracized for something out of your control, I feel your pain. I’ve been there. I was one stinky teenage bastard.

Horror-rific

2008-07-25T06:00:00.000-07:00

I love them, my wife hates them. I’ve watched them my entire life and see pretty much every horror movie that comes out. I rarely find adults that will even sit through them. High quality, B-horror, independent swill, nothing is off limits to me. I even bought Fangoria magazine when I was a kid to give you an idea of how demented I truly was. Now, at 32, I still watch and love them, and I really have no idea why. Maybe it is my way of keeping the demons inside at bay. Maybe it is just a connection with that part of the brain that makes us stare at a car crash. Maybe I should be locked up or at least be forced to see a counselor for my many, many issues. Anyhow, here is my list of “Must See” gruesome flicks for those with a taste for gore. They are horror-rific. Muhaaahaaha.

Poltergeist – I still can’t sleep with dolls of any kind in the room. Clowns ruined for everyone forever. Worst of all, that Zelda Rubinstein is the scariest little person I’ve ever seen in my life. I still have nightmares about her….and that voice. Meatwad. Meatwad. Stay away from the light. (Just typing her name gives me the shivers)

Texas Chainsaw Massacre (2003) – Wow, that had some disturbing scenes, even for me…and I have no soul. Rock salt on a stump, while the guy is twisting on a meat hook? What kind of sick…

House of 1000 Corpses minus the ending – Rob Zombie had a fantastic movie going with the demented family…the ending ruined it, but the first ¾ was great. The clown guy is ridiculously foul.

Last house on the left – Many writers put this movie in their top 10 list. It was brutal for its time and still has you finishing the movie with that icky feeling. How long are you going to hold “Shocker” over Wes Craven’s head? This was good.

Halloween (2007)– Rob Zombie has an uncanny ability when depicting the lowest common denominator in society. When the stepdad comments on the stepdaughter’s “nice little dumper”, I wanted to slit his throat myself.

Jaws – You know you can’t even swim in a swimming pool at night….and it’s been 30 years.

Hellraiser – This series introduced us to the “Tortured Souls”. It is the kind of imagery that would make Satan weep.

The Shining – All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy….and those twins, come on. Kubrick is a creepy bastard.

Dawn of the Dead – The opening scene, with the neighbor girl in the hallway, good. Undead baby being born, awesome. Sniper taking shots at a zombie Rosie O’Donnell from the rooftop, Priceless. Zombie movies rock, and this is probably the best.

The Ring – That girl coming out of the well freaks me big time. And the dead girl in the closet, damn that’s nasty.

Faces of Death – These were popular when I was young. Supposedly all real stuff. Poor little monkey. If you know what I’m talking about you are a sick freak.

The Hills Have Eyes (2006) – Gotta love the deformed Cannibals, it’s a “can’t go wrong” formula, with the exception of Wrong Turn 2, that is.

Children of the Corn – Question me not Malachi, for I am the Giver of the Word!

Candyman – You know you won’t say it….look in a mirror and try.

Seven – I walked out of the theater with a dull ache in the pit of my stomach. They broke all the rules and left me furious and disgusted. Well done.

Evil Dead – Gotta give props to my boy Bruce Campbell. He is awesome. Farewell to Arms was on the nightstand, that is some funny shiznit.

Ghost Ship – The opening scene alone merits mention here. An anchor line filleting an entire dance floor? Oh my dear, sweet, feathery, Lord.

Nightmare on Elm Street – This is my number one of all time. I spent a great deal of my childhood idolizing Freddy. Every other movie in this series is laughable, but the first was excellent in every way. Don’t try to argue, it’s perfect. I’ll blog about my own Freddy gloves sometime. Yes gloves, there have been several.

Douche Squared

2008-07-23T07:00:00.000-07:00

The guy on this phone message is awesome. I admittedly haven't been in the dating scene for a while....ever really, but I'm pretty sure I would be a fantastic catch if this is my competition. I'm not sure what the plural of douche is, douchi, douchon, douchod....but this guy goes way beyond singular doucheness...He is at least douche squared. Possibly even douche to the power of douche.

A Letter to a Friend

2008-07-21T07:00:00.001-07:00

Dear Friend (you know who you are),

Please never, ever …ever recommend a “classic” movie to me again. You have tried and I have tried, but this isn’t working out. Remember when we were going to see Freddy vs. Jason in the theater on that fateful Friday night? As I was leaving work on Thursday, you said “You absolutely have to watch Jason Goes to Hell tonight because it ties directly into the movie we are seeing tomorrow.” I venture to the local Hastings and to my dismay; they don’t have a copy for rent. To my further dismay, the only copy they have for sale is $23. You said I must watch it, so I fork over the cash and take it home. If memory serves me correct, there is a point in the movie where Jason’s HEART crawls across the floor, lifts one of its ventricles, could have been an aorta, and the vein screams before it scurries off like an oversized spider. It screamed. It frickin’ screamed. What’s worse, the tie in part you mentioned was exactly 4 seconds long, I timed it. Jason’s mask is laying on the sand and a Freddy glove pops up and pulls in under. Wow, I wouldn’t really consider that a must see event, but even if it were, it couldn’t be worth the $6/second I was forced to pay.

I also remember a little show that you said was fantastic by the name of Streets of Fire. It did have Willem Defoe, but then again, he was shirtless and wearing rubber chest waders through the whole thing. Need I say more? OK, I will. You also said Eddy and the Cruisers was right up my alley. Tripe is delicious, big bursting mouthfuls of coagulated tripe, compared to this pile of garbage. It isn’t unknown because it was under the radar of Hollywood; it is unknown because it sucks major rhino.

Then we come to last night’s flick. I remember a long conversation where you stood and looked at me in amazement that I hadn’t seen one of the best movies ever made. You went on and on about the cast and the movie. So I got The Adventures of Buckaroo Bonsai Across the 8th Dimension from Netflix and sat down for some entertainment. I still don’t know how it ended, because nobody knows how it ends. If you can sit through that entire movie, you are a better man than I. I sat through Monster Man and Serial Slayer which were both filmed with a Sony Hi8 camcorder, yet I couldn’t sit through Bonsai. Monster Man actually had a sex scene where the girl used a Yoda voice and said “Take me you will, with your light saber, you must.” Oscar winning writing compared to Buckaroo.

We are obviously not in the same place when it comes to movies. I also need to publicly state that Armageddon, while an entertaining film, is not the end-all, be-all of writing, cinematography, and acting. No, I didn’t cry at the end and no, it didn’t change my life as it did yours. As for the Bonsai recommendation, I can say only this. Damn you my friend, damn you straight to the hot place. Fifth ring, turn left, fourth spit…and roast slowly.

Feeding the Ducks - Karma is a Be-otch 2

2008-07-19T15:54:00.000-07:00

If you have read some of my other blogs you already know that I used to be a hunter. Duck hunting was probably my favorite, but I killed pretty much anything. The killing has mostly stopped, but Karma has kicked in again and my kids and I are paying for it in little ways.

I took my kids to the park the other day to feed the ducks. We took some bread and strolled down to the water where we threw out chunks to the overstuffed fat mallards and the strange looking mixed breeds that after years of hunting, I can’t even identify. My kids were loving it, laughing and giggling as they watched the little vacuum bills suck up the goodies. I think it is great because we are so close to them and the kids can really get a good look at them. The colors were bright even for the time of year. No eclipse drakes here (for the hunters out there).

Then it happens…again. Some old couple comes up to us with a disgusted look on their faces and start yelling at me and the kids. “Why are you doing that? That kills the birds. Feeding them causes them to stay here and rely on people for food. It screws up their migration. Don’t you know the damage you are doing?” My kids are scared and confused but I listen, gritting my teeth, begging them to leave in my mind, before the demons come out. Again, my kids are there, so I apologize quietly. Satisfied that my children were sufficiently saddened and I was adequately reprimanded, they walk off so very proud. My hands are shaking and all I can see are crosshairs on the back of their heads as they leave. I wanted to say so much, but I couldn’t in front of my kids. I am proud to say, that on occasion, I maintain my self control. Here is what I should have said.

“I hate ducks and plan to feed them to death with bread and grains and maybe even corn….the primary crops they feed on in Idaho anyhow, but I’ll feed them until they burst. It will be fantastic and messy at the same time.”

“The bag limit for hunting ducks in Idaho is 7/day for the three months of hunting season. I hunted for 15 years which equates to thousands of dead ducks by my hands. (Raising the bread) Here is to a thousand more. “

“Have you ever wrung a wounded ducks neck? You hold it by the head and swing the body around very hard and fast until the neck breaks. It is the humane thing to do when you only wound one. Let me demonstrate, it may be a little trickier with a healthy one.”

“I plan to kill these ducks in a couple of months, it is only right that I fatten them up first.”

“You think the bread is going to kill them? Nah, it is the Cyanide I laced it with.”

“Do you know what else screws up their migration? 4-shot travelling at 2200 feet per second.”

I understand that these people thought they were helping the planet and the ducks, but leave me and my kids the hell alone. If they knew the cold blooded damned killer they were talking to, they really wouldn’t be bugging me about feeding the ducks. Trust me, you want me feeding the ducks and trying to be a good dad with my kids. I know the other guy. The one I used to be. The one that is lying just underneath the skin. If he comes out, the only comment the coroner will have for their family is…..”They probably would have lived, if he hadn’t gutted them.”

Karma is a Be-otch

2008-07-17T06:20:00.001-07:00

I finally got my due. I was busted for fireworks this year. The ironic thing is, I didn’t break any laws, I thought.

My wife and kids were out of town the week before the 4^th. They were supposed to be home by Wed. but an airline issue prevented that, so they had stay until Sunday. The 4^th was Friday night. My kids are 3 and 8 and were really excited about doing fireworks so I told them I would buy some and we would let them off when they got home. They were instantly happy, as was I. My kids are awesome and I love to see them get excited and enjoy these types of things.

Friday, the 4^th : I head to a stand and buy a meager amount of miscellaneous fireworks. I get some smoke bombs and snakes, ground bloom flowers and sparklers, and about 5 cones. I told the guy I wanted no screamers, because they scare the kids. So I don’t have much at all. That night, on the phone, I relay that the mission was accomplished and they wouldn’t miss a thing. They were thrilled.

Sunday rolls around and they fly in. Everything was pretty hectic so I tell them we should wait until Monday night so they can enjoy them.

So it is Monday night, 9:30pm. It isn’t quite dark yet, but I tell them we should get started so we don’t break the noise ordinance that goes into effect at 10pm. My wife and kids come out on the front lawn and we start our 10 min. worth of kiddie-works. Pop, fizzle…ooohh. Doesn’t matter, the kids love it. 8 min. in, a robust elderly lady rounds the corner swaddling a dog like a nursing child. Being considerate, I stop lighting off charges and wait for her to pass. I didn’t want to scare the puppy. She doesn’t pass. She stops and then instantly starts yelling at me. She barks “It is illegal to set off fireworks after the 4^th and it’s the 7^th so the 4^th is long over. My dog has to be sedated every night because of the noise. Someone is lighting off firecrackers. I have had to put up with so much of this crap.” And on and on and on and on and on. Now at first, I apologized and explained that I literally had only one cone left and we were done and that I was only doing this because of my kids missing the 4^th. I also explain that I have nothing illegal and only have these little kid fireworks, which I show to her. I’m keeping my cool in front of my kids because I know I’m not doing anything wrong. I just let her keep ranting… but she won’t stop. I understand I may be bothering you, but finish saying your piece and go. She started in again, “I don’t care anything about your kids, you stop, now. I can have the police here in no time.” So right before I black out, I just quietly say “Then go call them.” She takes my house number and walks away in a huff.

Now my kids are stressed, they don’t understand what was wrong. My three year old little boy was jumping up and down clapping a minute earlier and now we are all looking at each other and I have that heart pounding, someone is going to die feeling in the pit of my stomach. I wait for her to round the corner and light off the last cone, which none of us enjoy, and we head inside. It is now 9:45pm.

We get the kids in bed, I have my 5^th snack for the night, and then at 10:45pm I get a knock at the door. The police are there and ask me outside. They explain that they are sick of getting calls like this and start to reprimand me. I tell them that I was just looking on the internet and I can’t find any law that says you can’t light legal fireworks off on any day but the 4^th. He assures me it is illegal I the county although not technically the city and I can get a fine of up to $1000. I tell him that I kept all the spent fireworks and took the two cops around the side of my house where I had exactly 5 mini cones and a couple of spent ground bloom flowers. He looks at them and says “This is all you had?” “Well are you done?” I tell him that I was done 15min before 10pm so that I wouldn’t bug my neighbors. He says he is not going to waste any more time on this and apologized for wasting my time and disturbing me. Then he left. No fine.

Here is the irony, for probably 15 years, I not only purchased illegal fireworks, but put on displays that rivaled the Statue of Liberty show. I’ve blown up everything in the world and never been bugged by anyone. I’ve done more dry ice bombs, mortars, and m80s than the National Guard. I did stop this once I had kids…and was investigated by the ATF and OSHA, but that is another story.

I also spent the first 3 years in this house in agony because of barking dogs. They disturbed me constantly, barking all night, every night, but I never called the cops. The first time, ever, I disturb one of these bastard’s dogs…I have a cop show up. I realize she is old and lonely and isn’t happy unless she knows that one more person in this world hates her every single day. I know that she is so atrocious to live with that she even has to sedate her dog to get him to stay. I fully understand that she is a miserable person with nothing else to do, hence she stands at the window waiting for someone to bitch at. So why does she bother carrying on? Grab a hearty handful of the pill of your choice and….bottoms up.

I need to move to the country and move soon, because if I see that woman and her dog again, I can’t promise I won’t be wearing a suit made from her skin with a nice poodle pelt collar the next time you see me. The only question I will ask as she drifts off in her eternal sleep is “Was it really worth it?”

So Karma caught up with me, finally. I hope my kids don’t really have to continue to pay for the sins of the father, because if they do…my kids are in for a hell of a ride.

Competition and Pressure Ruin another Hobby

2008-07-15T00:43:00.001-07:00

I consider myself a Jack of all trades when it comes to hobbies. I like to try lots of things and admittedly go overboard for short periods of time with whatever happens to be the interest of the month. I do have fun though and usually involve friends. The friendly involvement is the source of my problem, however. I’ve been at my current job for over 7 years and since, I have been pushed out of many of the things I love to do, because of competition and unrelenting pressure. Let me give some examples.

Duck hunting: My high school buddy and I watched the calendar for opening day and went as much as possible. We had a fantastic time even when we didn’t see a thing. Now, fast forward to my current situation; I have someone at work that likes duck hunting, but he is relentless. I have a wife and kids, so I can’t go out every week end. Apparently he can. So I head out a couple of times. The guy takes every shot to show how fast he is and he bags every bird. I let him take them to be polite, and not get shot. After a couple days he starts in and I hear about how little I go. This was right after we went, and it goes on continually. I’m hearing this every day. “When we going?” “Are you ever going to use those decoys again?” “Why don’t you store your Camo and guns at my house, you’re never going to use them again.” So I quit. I don’t go. Every time he asks I just say no.

Fishing: Exact same story as above. I quit. Not worth it. I have to be around these people 8 to 10 hours a day and I get so sick of hearing about it.

Wood Working: Same thing. I built quite a bit of furniture when I moved into my house which allowed me to purchase some fun wood working tools. Guys at work hear about it and then the hassle starts. “What you building now?” “Those tools are expensive, have you used the plainer much?” “Are you ever going to build anything again?” “Why don’t you let me use them, you don’t need them anymore.” So I quit talking about any project that I work on, and I don’t work on much anymore. They think I don’t work on anything anymore.

Music: I bought some instruments and got into guitar. I took lessons for a couple of years. I practiced regularly. Then I start talking to the guys at work. Some are into music, and are quite talented. There isn’t much competition as they are experienced and I am a newbie, but they also know that fact and make it quite known to me as well. So again it starts. Every day. “Did you play last night?” “Your music is so easy and uncomplicated.” “How many hours did you actually practice last week?” “Do you even use the drums?” So I quit, as far as they are concerned. They get together to play and I don’t act remotely interested. I fiddle around with my toys on my time, but never mention it. If they ask, I say no chance and the instruments are in storage.

RC: Several of us got into RC trucks. I know, I know. I built it up, dropped a ton of cash…and heard incessant hounding about how little I use it. The competition was fierce, who’s was fastest, who’s had more aluminum, who had newest parts. So I sold it at a fraction of its value and quit.

Now Blogging: A small group of current and old work buddies stared up blogs to vent and give the world a little of our twisted humor. It started fun, but soon turned into a competition. How many hits, how many international readers, how are you rated. They started advertising and hitting other blogs and promoting on websites and registering and voting and…whatever. I couldn’t do it. It takes too much time, and frankly, my work doesn’t allow me to do it there, so home is my only option. Nevertheless, I posted daily for a while for my own reasons, mostly fun. Last week was a rough one in many ways, so I haven’t had a post since last Tuesday. So it is midnight and I log on to their blogs to catch up and see that they both, independently, pulled my link from their pages. A week off, and I’m out. These are personal friends. I feel a little slighted, and I may kick a little ass. They are close enough friends that I can safely call them pricks, big fat pricks. I know they have got to save those 14 characters for a better link, meaning someone that generates more traffic and has at least one post a day, but come on. If they never posted again, I wouldn’t pull their link, frankly, because some of their old posts are hilarious. I'm prone to over reaction but it just proves my point again, it is about the competition, not what we started, but how everything inevitably ends. So I quit. Not completely, but as far as they are concerned, I quit.

Like all of my hobbies, they are only fun if you can do them when you like, with people you like. Once it becomes a chore and a competition….screw it. I’m out.

Mullets

2008-07-08T06:19:00.001-07:00

My hair was awesome. During high school I sported a fantastic business up front, party in the back mullet. I wore it with pride as if the length of my hair was somehow proportionate to the length of my….. Mine fell to the center of my back and was always in perfect form. The all-one-length grunge look that was emerging disgusted me. I had to blow dry and brush it methodically every morning, it took an extra 20 min or so to get ready for school, but I loved my hair. To those women who chop off their hair and say “You have no idea how much work it is to keep hair that long” I say “Yes, I absolutely do, and it is worth every second.”

The mullet has gotten a bad rap but I’m sure it will be back. It now seems to go hand in hand with the trailer trash, but no one was saying that when Metallica wore them (or maybe they did). If people actually brought back bell bottoms, I’m sure the mullets will get another run….I’m waiting patiently, but at the rate I’m losing hair, I don’t think I’m going to make it.

My wife and I dated right after high school and she hated my hair from day one. (She says that, but I was a black leather jacket wearing, AC/DC playing, red Trans Am driving, punk that she ended up marrying. So I think she was a closet mullet freak.) Compound that with the fact that I was going to attend a very conservative University, and the hair had to go.

I was adorned with those luscious locks for four years and was sick at the prospect of cutting them. So I took it a step at a time. I went to a hairdresser and had her cut one to two inches a week for the several weeks leading up to my departure to college. The one thing I did get out of the deal was an agreement I made with my then girlfriend, now wife. I cut my hair because that is what she wanted; so she had to agree not to cut her hair, because that is what I wanted. Her hair was and is still quite long and very sexy. The agreement: the day she cuts her hair is the day I stop cutting mine. If she wants the short and sassy look, she knows that I will bring back my mullet and wear it with authority.

Aside: Skiing just isn’t the same when you don’t have 14” of hair pushed out the back of your Denver Broncos baseball cap. As you dart down the hill, it gets pulled back by the wind creating a might flag of speed and grace.

If you are unfamiliar with the life and times of the Mullet clad, check out the classifications on this site. It is hilarious.

http://www.mulletsgalore.com/

The Great White-Trash Ninja - Part III

2008-07-06T18:00:00.000-07:00

The training was brutal, but the test was still to come. Becoming a hired assassin in a rural community is difficult, compound that with the fact that I was nine, and it is nearly impossible. My trials must therefore be manufactured in the form of an obstacle course and a night time run through “The Gauntlet”.

To prepare for the trials I had to wear appropriate Ninja clothing. I picked my darkest pajamas, my mother’s robe belt, and a dark pillowcase with a slit cut for my eyes as a headdress.

The course consisted of sprinting, undetected past the cows, scaling the wall of the barn, and diving into the upper door. You must land on the stack of hay and then get to the walls quickly. There was a railing that went along the wall that one must shimmy across until you got to the window on the other side of the barn. Once you exit the barn, you had to get to the fence without touching the ground and sprint along the upper rail. A fall, would mean failure, if a cow turned its head, you’re done.

At the end of the fence there was a ditch that had to be cleared with a single jump. At this point you would be exactly behind the next door neighbor’s house. From there you had to move, undetected by the neighbors, through their trees, back to our back yard. The weapons were waiting, along with several cardboard foes. First, the bow. My single arrow had to hit the target fatally and then you would need to dash at the dying cardboard and finish it with the second weapon of your choosing. You know the Nunchaku was my choice to finish the job. You would then turn and throw your stars and spikes at a second enemy and then use the blowgun on the third. Every shot had to be true.

I will spare you the drama; I passed the course in record time. There were a few places that tested my skill to their very limit, but the training had paid off. I don’t believe any Ninja since has done as well. The course record will remain mine, and mine alone.

The Gauntlet was next. We had a concrete breezeway on the side of our house that became “The Guantlet”. The night was black as pitch and my brothers went out first to set booby-traps for me. Boxes, sticks, trip wires, whatever were fair game. My job, to get through alive. They had blow guns and paper stars and all I had were my wits and my training.

I sprinted through jumping and dodging, calculating and assessing. I dodged most but took some hits too. I darted for the exit door, it was just in reach. I would barrel through and down the two steps to my well deserved victory. In my elation, I lost focus and missed the tiny, invisible, razor wire that my brothers had placed at ankle level across the exit doorframe. I hit it and flew forward, down the steps skinning my hands and knees in a bloody disappointment. Who the hell puts a trip wire in front of steps…in the dark? I digress. I was about to give in to the pain when I remembered my training, controlled my thoughts and pain, and stood up with honor. I was victorious, I was still alive and I was on the other side of “The Guantlet”.

Now that I was a Ninja, I could put my weapons in their rightful place. Every one of them was hung on the wall next to my bed. A couple of Asian bandanas were tacked up as well to emphasize my new roots. No need to keep them a secret. I had earned them.

The tests were difficult but something special got me through. I repeated a song in my head when things got tough, “You’re the best, around. Nothings gonna ever keep you down”. It worked for Ralph Macchio, and it worked for me. I was nine. I was a Ninja.

The Great White-Trash Ninja - Part II

2008-07-05T18:00:00.000-07:00

A Ninja’s training is rigorous and requires mastery over the mind, body, and spirit. As a nine year old, I broke my training into these three categories.

The Mind: As a Ninja, I had to be sharp and constantly aware of my changing surroundings. I would create exercises where I would run through a room and then write down everything I saw. Any potential hiding spots, potential points of entry and exit for me or an attacker, even the color of the towel lying across the chair were all facts that my mind must capture and assess in a flash. With a split-second glance, a Ninja must be able to completely evaluate the situation and recreate to perfection that which he just saw. Any miscalculation could result in the death of yourself or an innocent bystander. You will be battling other Ninjas remember, not your typical 3rd grade bullies.

The Body: Mastery of all of Ninja weapons is prerequisite to embarking on any umm……Ninja mission that requires a Ninja. Nunchaku was my specialty and I spent hours in the back yard perfecting my craft. The ability to strike with said weapon is really not the point. Most foes will cower in fear when they see you flip those sticks in a blur about your face, chest, neck, and head. I spun them across my legs, waist, armpits, and hands leaving some bruised flesh which, to me, were really badges of honor showing my expertise in an ancient art.

The other weapons were secondary but I did practice them all. Side note, trying to throw a Chinese Star with your toes is not as easy as it seems. Specifically, without a split-toe Ninja boot, you’re playing with fire when using sharp Swather blades for stars. Also, I’ve hacked and beaten apart countless cardboard boxes with various Ninja tools. A cardboard box when adorned with a drawn face and body becomes a very lifelike training dummy.

When conventional weapons fail, you are left with the most deadly Ninja weapon of all, your body. The knuckles must be hardened and callused so I would practice punching a wooden fence. I would focus all of my energy into the slab of my hand and practice the “Dim Mock” by breaking stick after stick, pencil after pencil, board after board. The feet and legs must be limber so I would stretch and volley a flurry of round house kicks into the air. I would punch and backhand, crouch and pose. Every digit became honed, every digit became deadly.

Reflexes are also an imperative. To hone this skill, I would go to the back yard with my brother or sister and play a deadly game of lawn darts. These are illegal now for a reason. The twist was, instead of just trying to hit the little loop, we had to catch the darts mid-flight. You learn very quickly to reach late rather than early. After this became too easy, we moved to arrows. Every quality Ninja movie shows a Ninja catching an arrow. True to form, I had a friend shoot my arrow at the fence. Using lightning speed, I would strike down with my hand and try to catch the flying spear. I don’t wish to brag as the Ninja is always humble, but I will just say that they can be caught. Don’t try this at home kids…I am a Ninja.

A Ninja must have perfect balance. To train I would study the animal with perfect balance, the cat. Note that it always lands on its feet. As an exercise, I would lie on my back and try to flip over onto all fours as quickly and quietly as possible. Further, we also had many wooden fences that I would walk across. I would run from fence post to fence post on the top rail where I would then stand and practice the infamous Crane-Kick. I would also stand on the ground and jump up onto the lower fencing rail and try to stick the landing without using my hands.

The Spirit: Mediation is a Ninjas best ally. If you were captured by, let’s say, 500 evil Ninjas (because that's how many it would take), and were subjected to torture, you must be able to step your mind outside of your body so that you feel nothing. Kuju must therefore be regularly practiced. Closing one’s eyes and meditating while making shadow puppets and gang signs is the only true way to connect with your Qi.

Now that my mind, body, and spirit form a perfect triangle of death, I have but one thing to do…put my skills to the test.

The Great White-Trash Ninja - Part I

2008-07-04T18:00:00.000-07:00

This is part one of a multipart series illustrating how at a very young age I became nothing less than a full-on, phantom of the night, havoc reaping, fearless Ninja Warrior. Thus my story begins.

It is 1984, you’re nine years old, and you want to become a Ninja. You watch the popular American Ninja series, Enter the Dragon, anything starring Chuck Norris, and a host of other “training” videos to study your moves and to learn about your implements of death. Your path to becoming a Ninja requires martial arts, but let’s forget about that for now, you’ve got to get some weapons. Problem is, you are also poor white trash and couldn’t rub two nickels together if your life depended on it. Ninja weapons don’t look cheap, so like Luke constructing his light saber, you must build your own. The following is a true account of how I did precisely that. The gear:

Nunchaku (Nunchuks): First, let me say, if you call them numb-chucks…I will kill you with a throwing star. Now, we need the wood to start. I checked the shed and sized up the handles on all of the yard tools, but knew my father would end me quickly if I cut them up. So I opted for mom’s broom handle. I took a hack saw and cut two 12” lengths. I screwed a couple of eyelets into one end of each of them and then hacked off a 5” chunk of chain from the tire snow chains in the back of the Pinto. Nobody would know. I attached the eyelets to the chain but still only had a semblance of a real weapon. Then it hit me, I took the black electrical tape from the garage and wrapped each handle completely in the midnight black sheathing. I now had my first set of authentic Nunchaku.

Tri-chucks or Segmented Staff: See Nunchaku, but add a center section so that you have three sections of wood separated by two lengths of chains. You can then hold two sections and whip the third around in a tornado of death.

Bo staff: Take an entire broom handle (yes had to steal another broom) and cut off only the threads. Wrap entire length in electrical tape. Tape mod – try wrapping the handle in one direction leaving a gap between wraps, then wrap using the same technique in the other direction. A pleasing zigzag of terror is the result.

Shuko (Ninja climbing claws): Ever wonder how those Ninjas scale a building? They use climbing claws strapped to their feet and hands. This one took some ingenuity. The strapping had to be very tough as it had to support my ample, nine year old, weight. I found the perfect stuff back in that Pinto. I cut out the back seatbelt and used the material as the base for my claws. I then took the pre-mentioned hack-saw and cut two, 4 tine sections out of my dad’s metal yard rake. We didn’t rake, we didn’t mow, what the hell would we rake? I then poked four holes in the wrap that goes around the palm and pushed the rake sections through. I repeated this for the other side and I had my climbing claws. Side note: I did try to scale a brick wall, but the seat belt just folded up in my hand. This still needs a little work and I wasn’t sure where to put the electrical tape either.

Ninja Throwing Spikes: You ever throw a pencil into the ceiling? That little parlor trick originated in ancient Japan with throwing spikes. A Ninja can drop a man at 20 yards with these little beauts. Take a 16-penny nail and cut the flat part off. Strap 4 of them to your wrist with some Velcro and you’re set.

Throwing-Star: The bulk of these were made with folded paper. Not as effective as the real ones, but good for diversions. I made a real one with Swather blades riveted together. I didn’t have a riveter, so I had to smash the rivet with a large rock. This was a little bulky to throw, but very sharp. If you don’t know what a Swather is, then you didn’t grow up on a farm….click here.

Long Bow: I found a super cheap (free), yellow, plastic, re-curve bow at a yard sell that didn’t have a string, or an arrow for that matter. I found some ½” cotton rope and cut it to the proper length. I opened up the mesh and pulled out the cotton center. What was left was the stringy outer mesh, that when stretched, became the perfect bow string. All of this is so true it is scary. So I tied it to the bow and was set. The yellow color was not a problem after I wrapped the entire thing in electrical tape. I rounded up a single target arrow from a friend and shot that thing at the fence at least a thousand times.

Blow gun: We had some ½ inch aluminum pipe in the garage from something. I cut a 12” length of it and wrapped it in electrical tape. It was perfect for shooting uncooked pinto beans. I could nail you in the back of the neck from 15 feet with that thing. You would never see it coming. Whhhhpppt. Ow!

Grappling Hook: Tried and tried. This can’t be built without a welder. Sorry, no grappling hook for this Ninja…trials included bent pipes tied to string, the remains of the rake tied to string, lashed together bent pipes tied to string. Alas, I failed.

Kama (Ninja Tomahawk): I actually found a Swather blade that was welded to the end of a 12” steel rod. It was the find of the century and, when painted black, was the perfect Kama.

Manriki-Gusari (Some kind of trip chain Ninjas throw): See Nunchaku but use a 3 foot chunk of chain and little 3” handles. Throw it correctly and it will wrap around your victims feet rendering them immobile. It is almost too easy.

Tetsu-Bishi (Ninja tacks): Just use regular tacks. When used in combination with marbles, this becomes deadly. Consider an attacker chasing you. You drop a few hundred tacks with about 20 marbles behind you as you run. They hit those marbles like a wet banana peel and whoopsi-daiz, down they come on a whole lot of pain.

Tanto (Ninja knife): Any old knife becomes a Tanto when the handle is wrapped in black electrical tape. I had several. Steak knives can work in a pinch, but really try for something non-serrated if you want to stay authentic.

Bokken (Wooden training sword): Wrapping paper tubes are your best bet for this. It is relatively painless when you are a beginner and has an amazing likeness to a real Ninja sword.

Ninja Sword: I had a friend give me an old, broken, fencing sword. It was nothing like a Ninja sword except I could strap it to my back with my father’s belt and it had a straight blade. Fools may believe a Ninja has a curved sword, but the diehards know that only the Samurai had a curved blade. Ninjas, like me, use a straight blade for killin’.

I had my tools, now I needed some skills. On to the training....

Inventions

2008-07-03T18:00:00.000-07:00

Several close friends and family members know about some things that I have invented. By invented, I mean that I came up with an idea on my own, but others obviously had similar ideas as many were and are currently available. A have a couple more that will likely go commercial by someone else leaving me with regret and that “I should have tried to sell that” feeling. Also, because of personal beliefs, I couldn’t go public with a couple of excellent ideas that I know would have made me money….and I thought really hard about it too. I will leave it at that, but let’s just say they would have been marketed on some pretty scandalous web sites and I wouldn’t have wanted to tell anyone that the ideas came from me. Here are some other gems.

1) Topsy Tail – I don’t know if you remember this, but it was a little plastic loop that allowed you to take a pony tail and flip it back inside itself. I did this with my sister’s hair and a makeshift Topsy Tail approximately 2 years before we saw it on TV. I was a kid but actually thought that it would be a cool hair thingy to be able to buy. It made plenty of money.

2) Camping Totes – I thought someone should just compile camping necessities in an easy tote and just market the entire thing. Then, when you head out, you don’t need to do anything but grab the tote, and you never forget anything. Several years after this idea, which was really just a marketing idea, I walked into a sporting goods store and saw exactly this. I missed again.

3) A buddy and I wanted to sell a daily calendar that had funny names for sexual positions like “The Ultimate Warrior”, “The Stranger”, or “Ruty, Tuty, Fresh, and Fruity” on each day and have the definitions on the back. We know it would have been huge for college kids and guys in general. This one almost went to fruition, but we both had second thoughts about making bank on some pretty nasty stuff. A couple of months ago, we saw it in a store.

4) CPCs – Cotton Penis Caps. Women have no understanding of this, but after a man urinates, there is often a little drip left which can cause an embarrassing wet spot in the front of the pants. Dockers are the worst. I’ve tried tapping, shaking, wiggling, flicking, milking, and nothing seems to fix this. You think you are done, put it away and boom, wet spot. So we could really use a little manpon of sorts to block the floodgates. I haven’t seen this on the market and the details aren’t worked out, but I could really use a little capper.

5) Wet wipes for adults – A buddy and I discussed this because let’s be honest, if you got feces on your hands, you wouldn’t just wipe it off with a dry paper towel and go about eating your sandwich. ‘Nuff said. I hear they have this now too. BTW…Clorox wipes should NEVER be used for this. Wow, that stings.

6) Doughnuts filled with Soft Serve Ice Cream – If people buy deep fried Twinkies, they will buy hot, fresh doughnuts filled with soft serve. I haven’t seen this yet, but a county fair would be a great starting place to market it.

7) Handimals – I thought kids might like little animal puppets that had individual finger slots for the legs where the body rests on top of the hand. I did some searching and found that this had already been marketed and was actually called Handimals as well. Missed another one, name and all.

I realize that I have given away a couple here, but I have to be honest with myself, I will never do anything with them. I’ve proven that over and over. If you do perfect the CPC, let me know and I’ll buy some. These are just a sample of some of the stupid things I come up with. If you think these are all lame ideas please remember that the only difference between a stupid idea and an ingenious one is the amount of money it makes.

You Can't Handle the Truth!

2008-07-02T21:03:00.000-07:00

You want answers? You want the truth? Well then here it is. Here are some lies that all men tell. You asked for it. And men, whether directly or by omission, you are guilty, my brothers.

1)I beat Mike Tyson on Mike Tyson’s Punch Out. You lying sack. You didn’t last through the first round, because nobody lasts through the first round.

2) I used to bench 300. Unless you have lifted for quite some time, you have no concept of how much 300lbs actually weighs. I know you look at a little guy like me and say, if he pushed it, I must bench 500lbs. Go to the gym and be humbled, 99.999% of you were never even close.

3) I wasn’t in band in high school. Yes you were. I am the only person that didn’t subject themselves to band. You lugged that tuba for four years, quit denying it.

4) I don’t cheat on my Taxes. Oh ya, what about those internet purchases that you are supposed to claim for state sales tax?

5) I’ve never crapped my pants (as an adult). The average guy breaks wind about 15 times a day. Over 365 days a year, that’s 5,475 bombs a year. One of those bad boys pulled a little liquid from the rim. Besides, why else were you throwing those tidy not-so-whiteys into the dumpster outside the break room? Because they won’t flush, that’s why.

6) I don’t pee in the shower. We all pee in the shower. It saves 2 gal of water and is the “green” thing to do.

7) The condom broke. Your girlfriend didn’t get prego because of a faulty condom. They test those things with two gallons of water. I’m afraid your little “release” didn’t even fill the reservoir tip. You barebacked it, just admit it.

8) I’ve never tried on a women’s underwear. They are silky and sexy and feel wonderful. You had to try it..you know you did.

9) I have never seen porn, it’s gross. Ya, all those hot naked women performing acts we all dream about with lots of other naked hot women just make me sick. Who do you think you are talking to?

10) I’ve never pleasured myself. I have a friend at work that is over 40 and claims never, ever, not even once, ever, even accidently have a misfire. He said, and I quote “I don’t even think I would know how to do it.” Shut your filthy lying mouth. I’ve been set-off by a bumpy car ride…and you have too.

11) I don’t drink and drive. Every one of you SOBs that drink, drink and drive. Designated driver my ass.

12) Honey, your pet ran away. Nope, it died. You just didn’t want to tell the kiddies. You buried it, flushed it, put it in a baggy and stuffed it in the trash, either way..you were an accessory.

13) I’ve never sniffed panties. I have never done this, but I know you have….Sicko.

14) I’ve never tucked my penis back between my legs to see what I would look like as a girl. We all saw Silence of the Lambs and stood in front of a mirror in the days following and pulled the old tuck and roll. If you put on lipstick while doing it, you need to be in a hospital.

15) I’ve never cut up an old pillow case to make it into a makeshift loin cloth and then after everyone left the house tore off all of my clothes, put on the loin cloth, and run around with an invisible hatchet attacking the imaginary villagers. Come on…fess up.

1-8-4-3-6-5-7-2

2008-07-01T18:00:00.000-07:00

That’s it, that’s all I remember about cars. That is the firing order of a small block Chev 350. Everything else is gone. I spent 8 years working in an auto parts store and my entire childhood around people working on cars and I know absolutely nothing. I take my car to AutoZone to get the codes read when I get a check engine light, and they tell me to tighten my gas cap. Huh?

People at work ask me questions because of my background but I couldn’t tell them the difference between a ball joint and a tie rod. Do cars even have tie rods anymore? The really bad part is the fact that I rebuilt almost every component on my sweetazz 82’ T-top Trans Am. (Side note: Mullets and creepers don’t go together. You get your mullet stuck in the creeper wheels while under a car and you’re SOL my friend, just grab the scissors) I knew that thing up and down and even rebuilt the wiring harness wire by wire after a fire melted the entire electrical system. I had a sweet deal where my father would pay for my parts if I put them in. It was awesome and I learned a ton, but all gone now. One of my mentors at the auto parts store made me memorize the firing order and showed me how to adjust valve lash on a stand by understanding the states of each valve at different crank angles; and then adjusting them accordingly. Great lessons, but with time, they went bye- bye.

So that was about 10 years ago but other things are lost too. I remember the McDonalds menu song, yup, the long one, but I can’t remember your name…anyone’s name really. I work with people for years and have no idea what their name is. My wife mentions people from our past, no clue who the hell she is talking about. I even had my brother tell me an old friend of mine worked with him now. The guy told him everything about me and my friends in high school. No idea who he is.

I know our brains must be like hard drives, with a fixed density. I really wish I would have known this earlier prior to memorizing every C.W. McCall song and the “I want the TRUTH!” scene from “A Few Good Men.” Further, I think I must be getting some bad blocks too because my initial fixed density is reducing with age which sucks because I’m still just a pup. My long term memory is shot, and my brain is full so I have no chance remembering the short term either. So I guess there is only one question to ask…”Can I borrow some cash?”

Seven Habits

2008-06-30T18:30:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-06-29T18:00:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-28T11:09:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-26T19:02:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-25T18:00:00.000-07:00

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?

2008-06-24T18:00:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-06-23T18:00:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-22T18:00:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-21T10:21:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-06-18T21:23:00.001-07:00

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!

2008-06-16T21:09:00.000-07:00

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?

2008-06-13T06:33:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-10T18:41:00.000-07:00

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?

2008-06-09T18:00:00.000-07:00

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?

2008-06-08T18:00:00.000-07:00

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?

2008-06-07T10:31:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-06-04T20:54:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-03T21:31:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-02T18:28:00.000-07:00

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.

Profound vs. Complex

2008-05-29T21:22:00.000-07:00

I am continually amazed at how moronic supposedly intelligent people tend to be. They take a few college classes, post-grad even, and suddenly they think themselves geniuses. The fact that they don’t know they are nothing special is what makes them morons.

Remember that scene in Goodwill Hunting where the Math professor is talking to Matt Damon and says something like “Only a handful of people in the world would be able to tell the difference between you and me.” I want to expand on this idea a little more. I’ve sat through a lot of classes, a lot, and have worked with many intelligent, learned people. However, there is one concept that most don’t quite grasp. The idea of doing something profound vs. something that is only complex. I emphasize only because really it is the basis for my argument. Complex just means a bunch of steps. I don’t know if it is inflated ego or just ignorance, but “The Learned” give themselves much more credit than they deserve. As a matter of fact, so do the observers of “The learned”. For example, take multivariable calculus; if you haven’t had the class, you may think that someone capable of learning this is highly intelligent and/or gifted. Sorry, it’s just a series of somewhat complex steps that, with practice, can be followed as easily as a dot-to-dot. Remember the steps, a couple of formulas, and you're set. This is only complex as is most higher level math. Now, being the one who invented Calculus, the one that thought of shrinking those little rectangles infinitesimally small to calculate that area under a curve; that is profound. This idea extends to more than just Calculus, it applies to almost everything. Laws, proofs, theorems..all memorization of steps and understanding of profound work someone else did, which to you, is nothing but complex. I give all the grads and post grads props for being diligent and working through the steps, but the truth of the matter is, almost none of you have done anything profound. I am absolutely in this category but the difference is, I know it. I am smart, but that’s it. You may consider it arrogant to call yourself smart, but my definition is nothing to brag about. Smart only means you have learned that with time and resources you have the ability to learn someone else’s work. That’s it. I’ve never been clever or inventive and never had any real talent, but I’m smart so I copy really well, like most people with a BS or MS. I’ll leave the Doctors out of it as I would be speaking out of turn.

I work with engineers all day long and they think reciting some random formula or proof demonstrates the significant brain power that they seem to mask with their daily work. Again, idiots; and I’m the worst of them. I actually memorized “The Raven” by Poe for bragging rights. It is really really long and I am really really smart. Again, anyone, anyone with too much time on their hands and the will to do so can recite someone else’s work. The tragedy is when you realize what you are incapable of doing…writing an original, inventing anything of your own, having an original thought. Unlike the high school student that says they just can’t do math, you know better. You know you can learn and think and work through problems and in doing so you also learn that you really have little more to offer than a copy machine. Sorry moms, those genius sons and daughters of yours are far from genius…you just didn’t know any better.

Bathroom Madness

2008-05-27T21:22:00.000-07:00

It’s 10am and I am sitting in the far stall of the men’s room at work. I’m taking care of a little bit of business when the door of the bathroom flies open. I can’t see who just entered, but then again, I didn’t need to. What I heard from that moment on needs to be addressed in a public forum. He (it was a men’s room) flipped open his cell phone and made a call while walking to a stall. I could hear someone answer and a conversation commenced. To my delight, he entered the stall next to me. While talking, he turned, dropped trough, and sat for his morning constitutional. At that point I literally jumped at the volley of explosions that erupted from him. The cacophony can only be described as the unharmonious union of a bassoon and a tuba dying off into a melee of what sounded like handful after handful of gravel hitting water. Maybe the double guacamole six dollar burger with chili cheese fries from Carl’s Jr. wasn’t the best choice for lunch, but why do I and the phone call recipient have to pay for it. This man was tearing ass! All of this was outrageous in itself, but still this isn’t what put me over the edge. One may enter the bathroom unaware of how venting the billows may sound; it perplexes me continually but seems to correlate to the number of people present, as a side note. What one does have control over is the grunting and verbal utterances preceding the carpet bombing. This freak literally ended words with guttural thrusts. Still the conversation continued. I finished my work quickly and flushed about five times hoping that the person on the other end of the line would simply hang up in disgust. A quick wash and I was out of there…and the man was still talking.

Admittedly this was the worst case I have ever witnessed, but this trend is not uncommon and seems to be getting worse. I hear at least three people a week talking on cell phones in the public restrooms and imagine the numbers greatly increase at home. Stop it. For the love of all things holy, STOP IT!

Self Loathing + Self Deprecation = Fat Bigot

2008-05-27T18:28:00.000-07:00

I guess my last post was a little mean spirited and exposed a little of the fury that smolders beneath my dermis. My wife also mentioned that it was offensive to the overweight, elderly, the poor, people with tats, the hairless, and basically 75% of the population. So I guess it is time for a little background info about my state of mind and physical self.

I’m balding, can’t be helped. No reason to put a tat on a 14 inch arm. I’m mid-30s, aged like I’m 40+. Friends say I live in a slum, not going to change soon. I am like 75% of the population, but there is one item on the list that is in my control. I am a fat pig.

You may think that bigotry against fat people is reserved for the 140lb spandex wearing guy doing high knees after his morning eight mile run. It is not. My personal battle with weight rolls back to 7^th grade when I hit my pupa stage and my little pot belly began. Oh, I’ve gone psycho several times and lost weight, but I am in a cycle of gain and loss like few ever see. In my world, I call it cut cycle and bulk cycle, but really it is a mask for outrageous gluttony and my love affair with pastries, followed by extreme exercise and self loathing. So, I am up 25lbs in the last 6 months. I’m disgusting. My ass looks like Ricotta cheese in a plastic bag. My distended belly is reminiscent of Papa Noel. My nipples, which are now the size dinner plates, hang off of me like lead weights pulling themselves toward mother earth. The zipper tangs on my dress slacks look like they are in a serious game of “Red Rover” and my pubis lard is “Coming right over”. It’s bad, the madness has got to stop.

As my reflection widens, so does my loathing of the lard and the self deprecation begins. Then, by proxy, my universal fat bigotry oozes from my oily pores. Yes, I’m an oily one. But it works, at least temporarily. I am not the touchy feely type that needs a soothing back rub or a “You can do it” pep talk to get me motivated. I need someone in my face calling me that Michelin Boy that I am. I don’t always have a good friend around to fill this void (they tend to move away), so I have to self-motivate. As I hit the weights, I repeat mantras like “Hey Fatty McButter Pants, how about another rep.” or the always effective “Maybe you are breathing so hard because of the fat crushing your windpipe” or, my favorite at dinnertime “Would you like to shovel some more butter on that pile o’ taters?” This method always gets me a few more reps, a little more weight on the bench, or a few hundred yards more on a knee crushing jog. This is during my cut cycle, of course. When I drop some weight and my arms shrink to a hearty 13 inches, I’ll start another bulk cycle and will be back to double fisting bear claws daily.

So please don’t misunderstand, I know you can only call someone fat, lazy, and utterly disgusting if you are yourself…so get to work, fat-ass.

Attention All Concert Goers

2008-05-26T19:02:00.000-07:00

For the first time in my life, I attended a country music concert. Carrie Underwood was quite good and I actually enjoyed the musical portion of the concert more than I care to admit. The performers are not whom I am referencing today. I have a few things to say about the attendees. Admittedly, I was out of my element. I am a seasoned concert goer but most of the concerts I attend include either reunion tours of semi-famous 80’s bands, or some fairly hard core metal maniacs. At these concerts, the first 40 rows or so on the floor are generally reserved for mosh pits where “Bulls”, as we call them, take out their aggression on unsuspecting teenagers.

“Bull” – Bulky, Bald, Shirtless, 35+ years old, wasted, Tats galore, tri-toothed, spent 2 months of his mother’s salary on floor tickets, white-trash freak, looking to do damage to anyone in his wake.

The remainder of the arena is general fixed seating. The fixed seating protects you from death and most dismemberment, so while it is for those who are a little more reserved, the entire place is still moving. People are up, people are head-banging, people are excited, people are letting loose a little and enjoying themselves. Fists pound at the air and vocal chords become raw. I am familiar with this scene.

Now back to the concert I attended last night. With the exception of the floor seats, EVERYONE was sitting quietly with hands gently placed in their ample laps listening with quiet reflection as song after song was feverously sung. A few tried to rally the troops, stand and move, but they were quickly shut down and told to sit down. I watched them pop up here and there only to be reprimanded in disgust by the aged and the overweight. I was extremely uncomfortable, sitting there, trying not to tap my toe too loudly lest I be subject to a similar scolding.

Now my venom. Let me explain something to the fat, lazy, too old for their age, bottled-up, first time concert attendees. Get the @$%# Up! (Sorry, got a little excited there) Enjoy the concert. There is NOTHING more insulting to the band on stage than people just sitting like festering globules of lard. I’ve actually attended one concert where a huge band walked off the stage in frustration after completing one of the best dueling double drum set solos I’ve ever seen, only to have everyone stay quietly seated offering a proper, but not too forceful, golf clap. They walked off! If you are new to this scene, you are obliged to stand, so get up! To those sitting behind me yesterday whining about how ridiculous those who dared move were, I have a few words for you. Think about when you look in the mirror in the morning; you know, right before you jump in the shower. Your eyes glance over your rotund body, stopping as you stare yourself in the eyes. It is that moment that I wonder what you are thinking. Is it something like “Why am I such a loser? Why does my ass hang off of me like a wet pillow? Why am I friendless, hopeless, and helpless? Why won’t any woman/man let me near?” Well I have the answer. You are a loser and shouldn’t be in public and here are a few of the reasons why. If you can’t get your meaty ham hocks to lock in the upright position for 90 min. to watch a band/singer that you dropped $60 on tickets to see…you shouldn’t attend. If you are so old at the ripe age of 30, that you find the rambunctious 29 year olds too busy…stay home. If you are so lazy that the idea of even slightly swaying from left to right somewhat to the rhythm makes you cringe…just end it. Granted that while seated, my view of your back rolls and neck sausage is somewhat obscured so that is a plus, but really… you shouldn’t be out in your condition anyway.

For those with a more seasoned disposition who wish to enjoy their music seated and quiet, the 1st Chair Cellist in the London Philharmonic probably appreciates your adherence to a strict decorum. Sully from Godsmack, on the other hand, prefers you just stay home and say “Yo Dominos” like every other weekday. They do have unlimited mediums for $5 each you know.

Just Friends?

2008-05-26T14:00:00.000-07:00

So I was having a conversation a while back with my niece and a fundamental misunderstanding of relationships arose. She is 13. A few months later, I had the same conversation with my sisters. They are mid-20’s and 30+ in age, same delusion. Finally, I watched an episode of “Everyone Loves Raymond” and again this topic of misunderstanding arose. I am duty bound to inform the uninformed. Here goes. Ladies, we don’t want you as friends. There, I said it. It’s out there. Those of us of the heterosexual ilk have no business having “Just Friends” of the opposite sex. This is a universal law and no you are not an exception. Let me explain. One of the two friends ALWAYS wants more. Why don’t you people understand this? I know, this delusion can be on the male side too, but it predominantly seems to infect the brains of the gentler sex.

Side note: I am new to blogging and thought I would mention a phrase that will be commonly used yet based on the blog topic, refer to various groups of people that I neither understand nor comprehend…and they confuse me too. The perfunctory phrase is “You People”. I like it. It generalizes and seems to fire up people very quickly.

Back to the explanation: These “Just Friend” friendships can be summed up in 4 categories.

1. Guy is not attractive to Gal, she loves him as a friend. He says he feels the same. Deep down he craves her madly and will become suicidal if she mentions one more time how hot another guy is. (Reference: Ducky.)

2.Gal is not attractive to Guy. She secretly loves him. He doesn’t give her the time of day, but she thinks they have a great friendship and one day he will see past the festering goiter to the beauty within. (Reference: Every chick flick ever made, minus the bogus ending, and often minus the goiter. Only in Hollywood can Julia Roberts be considered for the role of the Quasimodoish “Just Friend”.)

3.Gal and Guy are not attractive to each other in the least. Never were friends, never will be. Moot scenario.

4 Gal and Guy are both attractive to one another, but they claim to be just friends. Great prospect. As future lovers their friendship will blossom. (Reference: The start of most long term relationships.)

Notice I used the word attractive, and not attracted. One infers an innate affinity towards the other where friendship is secondary in the mind of the attracted person. Attractive, on the other hand, means you are probably not auditioning for the role of Rocky in Cher’s newest film “The Mask II” but your reasonable looks allow a friendship to start without fear of infection or capture.

So far, I have only been referencing uncommitted, single people. A whole new world of misunderstanding is involved in those who are in committed relationships and but still tip toe across the fiery coals of maintaining friendships with the opposite sex. Do as you will, but recognize that the above rules still apply….and contribute greatly to the fantastic marital statistic of a nearly 60% failure rate. Women, it is much better to remain in ignorance of the prospects that are still out there. You made your choice, as ill-conceived as it was. Men, let’s be honest, you can’t do better, so stop trying. If you have a woman who is good to your children and lets you touch her on occasion, drop to your knees and thank The Almighty. You are a lucky man. If you are ignorant enough to say that you want nothing more than a friend who happens to be the opposite and you are perfectly happy with your companion, you are either lying or stupid. You might be lying to yourself as well, but you are a liar nonetheless, or mentally handicap. No offence to the mentally handicap.

Women, please don’t try to be one of the guys. Your breasts deny you the right….’cause we are going to look at them. Guys, don’t be the sensitive one to whom the girls can tell anything; you’ll spend weekends on W.O.W. and take lots of long showers.

It has never worked, and never will. You people try time and time again and it always falls back into the four categories I have described. So men, just live with the fact that you cannot and should not try to have women as friends if that is all that you want. Women, you can’t have men as just friends either.….and Mathew McConaughey, you can’t have either as friends because although I am 100% hetero, wow, you are a sexy man.