I'd spent Tuesday and Wednesday out of the office at management seminars. You know, those time honored boredom marathons that become sound more and more alike with each passing quarter.

So I got up this morning with a real fire under my ass. I was looking forward to going into my office, shutting the door, and getting some work done. No interruptions, no drop-by shootings ("Hey! Can I just have a minute of your time buddy?"), no bullshit. I'm up at seven and leaving the house at 7:15. Seriously, hair gelled, teeth brushed, the whole deal. I'm from a military family and was trained at a young age to shit, shower, and shave in five minutes or less.

I get to the commuter lot, hop out of the car and realize two things. Firstly, I'd forgotten my lunch. I pack food everyday so I have the option of eating something that's not meant to kill me from the inside out. Shit. Secondly, I've forgotten to wear a belt. Again with the shit. I decide neither item is worth driving back home for. I'll find a salad somewhere, and the slacks I wore weren't center-button; so I decided to keep truckin.

I briskly walk across the lot, jump on the bus, and check my pocket for the office keys. Shit. Nobody's going to be there this early, so if I don't have them I'm going to have to bother some security guard to key me in. I ask the two or three folks waiting in the bus to not let it leave without me. I'm speedwalking, walksprinting back to my car. Unlock, check the console...Oh, sweet Jesus the keys are there! I'm in a dead walkrun back to the bus, make it just in time; and flop down in the seat.

Whew.

Then I hear the man sitting behind me lean forward and whisper in my ear, "Hey man, your zipper's down." I fight the urge to have a fit wherein I throw my shoulderbag across the bus, emptying it's contents on several passengers; and throw random fists. Fists of fury.

"Thanks," I say to the guy. I actually mustered an honest laugh. I mean, what the hell else could I do, right?

Besides, like we don't all play a little pocket pool in rush hour traffic every once in a while. Seriously, that could be the only explanation for the way you people drive.

Posted by: shank at 08:20 PM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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Life is a horrible grind.

Yesterday I was forced to go to the grocery store. Grocery stores are a microcosm of society and I suppose that if I had the right prescription I might find it educational or amusing, but for the most parts itÂ’s just depressing.

Anyway IÂ’m in the bakery section and some old bastard is standing directly in front of the fresh rolls like heÂ’s guarding them. He was talking, actually hollering, into a cell phone. From what I could gather from his side of the conversation his wife was berating him and telling him exactly what to buy, right down to the smallest detail. Meanwhile heÂ’s blocking the rolls. I stood there respectfully for about a minute, not wanting to interrupt his conversation and say excuse me, but my patience has a limit. I finally just edged him aside, grabbed the tongs and a bag and cleaned out every roll they had in the joint.

Just as I started to turn away I heard him holler into the phone, “Oh my God! Some guy just took all the Kaiser rolls!” I turned and gave him a little wave and started to walk away. His wife must not have liked what he said because he started stammering and then I heard, “He’s got all the Kaiser rolls! He’s leaving with all the Kaiser rolls!”

And indeed I was. He started to follow me like he was going to debate my right to them or even threaten to take them by force but in the end he skulked away without approaching me. And as I walked toward the checkout I could still hear him on the phone trying to explain about the guy who absconded with all the Kaiser rolls. “He even took the ones with sesame seeds!”

I drove away feeling exhilarated and optimistic.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 10:20 AM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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At night, I can recognize a car at a distance; just by the shape of its glowing taillights.

The new iPod commercial, the one with all the dancers holding colored iPods; I'm pretty sure the music playing is DJ QBert. I haven't checked to be sure, but if it's not him then it's someone who's either sampling the same beat or simply being a biter.

I can remember the way things look. Like pages in books, notes, diagrams, photographs, all that stuff. Not only can I remember them, but it's almost like re-seeing them.

The only super power I've ever wanted though, was to have my own soundtrack. Like, everywhere I went I could just pick a song from my head and have it play on the nearest radio/jukebox. If I wanted to though, I wouldn't want it to be automatic. Yeah, that would probably just cause problems.

If you could have any superpower, what would it be?

Posted by: shank at 08:19 PM | Comments (5) | Add Comment
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I'm pretty sure a guy at work today lost his job because of some dickwad loudmouth with an agenda, who couldn't see the forest for the trees. I find it kind of upsetting for several reasons, not limited to: the guy did great work, was committed to the organization, and I never saw him (ever) use his position of substantial power as leverage to be a tool. I mean, this is a guy who made a six digit salary (hey, in my line of work that's serious), is/was currently running a several hundred million dollar project on time and ahead of budget and what not. He could've easily been a dick to everyone and still kept his job.

more...

Posted by: shank at 05:54 PM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
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This is totally random, but I figured what the hey.

The Wife and I cleaned the house from top to bottom a few weekends ago. I mean, made a pile of shit to give away to goodwill and a pile of shit to throw out. You know, cleared out the garbage and used the created space to organize those things which we've actually used in the past year or so.

However, we ended up with a small pile of things that we felt would be stupid to bring to The Salvation Army, but equally stupid to just chuck in the trash. If you're interested in more details of the following objects, or seeing photos of them; just email me.

If any of the four people who read this blog actually take any of this stuff off my hands, I'll come back and update to avoid confusion. I'm not listing any prices because it's totally negotiable (and by that I mean, all the way down to $0); though I'd expect the buyer to pay shipping. Actually, there's only one item with a price tag.

more...

Posted by: shank at 05:28 PM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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I walked out to my car yesterday afternoon and was much chagrined to find that some a-hole had parked their BMW about six inches off my port side. Jerk. I purposefully park far away from other people so as to avoid any door dinging. It means I have to park in the very back, but that's okay with me. I have legs.

So as I'm cursing and trying to shoehorn myself into the driver's seat, I look down through this person's window and see an uneopened peice of mail. Aha, gotcha goddamnit! I'm going to get your name off that peice of mail and harbor a silent grudge against you, you fucking prick! So I did, and I do.

But then I saw something sitting next to the envelope that lightened my mood. I felt instantly avenged in my irritation at this person, and even smiled. What could it have been, the simple sighting of which would quench my anger and soothe my ill temper? Why, it was a big ol' box of these.

That's what happens to people who spend their lives irritating others. Fate smiles upon them and says, "Now you shall piss yourself forever more...bitch."

Posted by: shank at 03:29 PM | Comments (5) | Add Comment
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"He walks like John Wayne." - Hugo Chavez

As opposed to, say, walking like you've got the fist of your Islamofascist puppeteer up your ass?

Posted by: shank at 03:26 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
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So I was cruising around work the other day, asking people about which doctors they see, which doctors I shouldn't see, etc. I work at a hospital, so there's lots of info available. Well, I go to the Medical Staff Office, and one of my friends is like, "Dude, I can look up the doctor you're going to see, and tell you if he's got priviledges here."
"Well, why does that matter?"
"I guess it doesn't matter as much as it's a safegaurd. Every doctor on staff goes through background checks, reassignment, etc."
"Okay, look up Dr. Fuckface."
So he looks up my doctor and lo and behold; he's not on staff.
"Hey man, this doesn't neccesarily mean your doctors a quack or anything."
"Yeah right. Aren't they all?"
"Well, if he's strictly a family medicine guy then he probably just refers his admits to a doctor on staff because he doesn't want to have to work weekends or call."
"Hmph."
"Check with the AMA. They have a website."

At this point, my shit is starting to squick. The Wife is sending me to some weirdo guy who got his medical degree in Tajiqistan, and probably uses the same needle every day.
I go to the AMA website and look his name up. He's not a member (surprisesurprise). But he is listed. WTF does that mean? He told the AMA he was a doctor, but didn't want to pay the membership fees? He's a fucking doctor! Goddamnit, he can afford to pay the membership fees!

So really the only thing I know for certain about my doctor is that he couldn't pass a preliminary background check or drugscreen, and that the AMA is reluctant to claim him.

It's a good thing I'm documenting all this. If you guys don't hear from me on Friday afternoon, it'll probably be because I've been kidnapped by Dr. Mengele and taken to his secret lab; where he will perform some fucked up experiment or another. Fucking quarter me and try to stich my arms where my legs used to be and vice versa. Fuck!

Posted by: shank at 05:07 PM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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"[T]hose who study jihad will understand why Islam wants to conquer the whole world. Â… Islam says: Whatever good there is exists thanks to the sword and in the shadow of the sword! People cannot be made obedient except with the sword! The sword is the key to paradise, which can be opened only for holy warriors!"
-Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini

Wow, that's nice; real nice. How very 12th century of you, sir. Quite the, shall we say, pre-Renaissance man you are. It must be for this reason that TIME Magazine chose to distinguish yourself as one of the 100 Most Remarkable People of the last century.

I do have one question though, if I may. When we get down to it, are a bunch of raisins really worth all the effort? I mean, let's be honest: raisins really aren't all that tasty, nor are they rare. So I ask you; is a jihad really a jihad if, instead of becoming your holy warrior and recieving a just reward in paradise, any old infidel can buy the very same rewards for $1.49 a box at Food Lion? And that being said, does that make the uncovered woman on the SunMaid box just another one of the Great Satan's whores?

Posted by: shank at 03:57 PM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
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So, I go to the doctor this week for a check up. I't been widely documented that I don't enjoy going to the doctor. It's not a thing I have against doctors per se, it's just a thing I have about the actual visit. Don't enjoy it. Don't give blood either, don't even know my own blood type; definitely don't like needles. Don't like being examined, don't like being scrutinized, don't like being violated by someone who I can't call by their first name. Hey, if you're gonna be piercing my skin or spelunking my orifices with some kind of scary implement, I should be able to call you whatever the fuck I want. Especially since I have to pay your sick ass for the favor.

I haven't been inside a doctor's office in easily four years. And before that I hadn't been in another few years either - and that was only because I had a broken wrist. I'm not kidding. I don't go to the doctor.

The Wife is a nurse, so she's all hell bent on me getting a checkup. Which means bloodwork.

Oh, let it sink in. In my entire life, I've had blood taken from my body maybe twice. I can't remember if they took blood at the MEPS when I was applying for OCS, but I know I had to have bloodwork done when I was about ten years old. Scared the piss out of me. It didn't help that it was at Quantico, and the guy in front of me had just gotten back from some far-flung deployment and was having several vials drawn. I thought I was going to pass out.

I hate going to the doctor. I try not to be mean to the MD, but I can't help coming off just a tad surly. Seriously, I don't care if I get prostate cancer; you're not putting that, there. I'd at least like to be drunk for something like that. I'd just as soon go under anesthetic and have them remove the damn gland than be conscious for what I can only imagine would be the most traumatising event of my sheltered existence.

Posted by: shank at 05:33 PM | Comments (5) | Add Comment
Post contains 370 words, total size 2 kb.

Now, I don't know if this clothes thing is something with all women or just The Wife; but I'd be willing to bet it's virtually universal.

For instance, The Wife currently owns seven pairs of flip-flops. I just went around the house and counted them. Of course, this doesn't include any that might be in her car, but we'll get to that later. Seriously, who honestly needs that many pairs of flip-flops? Dude, I own 11 pairs of shoes total, and that includes snowboard boots and 2 pairs of shoes I've worn twice in the past two years.

Then there's the outfits thing. Like, we went on the honeymoon right? So I packed up enough clothes for a week: clean boxers and socks for each day, a couple t-shirts, a couple pairs of shorts, one or two nicer shirts, and a pair of decent jeans. She, on the other hand, packed up like two or three outfits for every day we were gone.
"We're going to an island! We're probably going to spend most of our time in bathing suits." I just didn't get why she needed twice the clothing that I was bringing. Then she encapsulated it for me:
"I just don't know what I'm going to feel like wearing."

My brain is a lock-step logic machine, so when she made this statement I almost passed out. What did she mean 'feel like wearing'? What the hell is that? It's clothes, how can you 'feel' like wearing one thing over the other? How can she 'feel' like wearing anything other than what conditions call for? Does this mean if she 'feels' like wearing a fur coat in July that she truly would? In that case, we'd never get to travel anywhere because we'd 'feel' like bringing her entire wardrobe everywhere. The situation was terribly confusing. She finally crammed whatever she 'felt' like bringing into her suitcase. Yeesh.

I get out to the car to load it up, and what do I see? A fucking closet on wheels. Seriously, there are pairs of shoes (sneakers, boots, heels; and of course, flip-flops), pants, a few blouses, a light sweater, some socks, her lab coat, and a plastic grocery bag of trash. Christ! If she had to make a sudden stop, she'd probably get clubbed over the head with a flying boot or something. What really worries me, is that we're thinking of getting her a larger car when we have kids. We're going to lose the little bastards in there if it's her daily driver! Hell, one of my crumbsnatchers is going to go missing and we'll find him three years later in the back of our mid-size sedan, buried under a mountain of women's apparel and subsisting on remnants dug out of Chinese take-out boxes.

WTF is up with the clothes, woman? And wouldn't you know, if I leave a pair of shoes sitting by the goddamn bed I catch hell for it. It's not my fault she's the only one that trips over them. Maybe if she got rid of all the goddamn flip-flops and wore something that covered her toes, she wouldn't be stubbing the motherfuckers on everything.

Posted by: shank at 05:10 PM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
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Last year the Dixie Chicks sent their radio play and CD sales into the shitter because they couldnÂ’t just shut up and play music. Pearl Jam did the same thing, whining about politics at concerts. And now Roger Waters of Pink Floyd has decided to paint the ass of his giant pink pig with anti Bush/Blair stuff at concerts and even takes it a step further but I canÂ’t bear to sort through it.

Yeah, we all need political advice from someone that has ingested more hallucinogens than Carlos Castaneda. On another note, why are there no fast Pink Floyd songs?

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 08:53 AM | Comments (5) | Add Comment
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Somehow I got a trial subscription to Rolling Stone magazine. First issue I received had Justin Timberlake on the cover wearing a wet T-shit. Inside under album reviews, Paris HiltonÂ’s album was given three starts.

Jesus wept.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 07:01 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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The Pope recently quoted a 14th century Byzantine Emperor when he spoke of Islam's tendency, to say the very least, to walk a fine line between religious zeal and incendiary violence. Several Muslim communities and nations around the world were pretty pissed at his insinuation and responded with, of course, rage. Hm. Fancy that!

"Anyone who describes Islam as a religion as intolerant encourages violence." - Pakistani Ministry of Foreign Affairs Spokesperson Tasnim Aslam.

Black shirt - $13.50
Green Karate Kid bandanna - $5.00
Raging in the streets to prove you're nonviolent? Priceless.

Posted by: shank at 11:50 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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Just watched Lucky Number Slevin with The Wife. It came from Netflicks the other day, so we figured we'd check it out. Great movie.

Honestly, I'd say it combines two movies that would easily make my top ten movies ever: The Usual Suspects and The Sting. It's as sharp and edgy as the former and as situationally funny as the latter.

I've been fascinated by cons since the first time I saw The Sting as a kid. And really, who doesn't like being a part of something like that? Of course, I've never been involved in anything truly criminal; but I have been found at the root of some of the most complicated, convoluted practical jokes.

Posted by: shank at 07:33 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 120 words, total size 1 kb.

Awesome? A Honda S2000 with a full coilover suspension, individual throttle bodies, and a set of Hoosiers.
Totally Lame? One of those chromed out lowrider bicycles. Seriously, where's the hottie going to sit on that thing playa.

Awesome? The YouTube guitar kid. Video here. (WARNING: Video clip NSFW, as it may drive you to rock your socks off, which might not be appropriate in the workplace.
Lame? Paris Hilton's CD. Seriously, some A&R dipshit should've been dragged out into the street for that one. Ugh.

Add your own in the comments!

Posted by: shank at 04:32 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
Post contains 99 words, total size 1 kb.

Is there something in the water in Los Angeles? I mean, just when you thought youÂ’ve seen it all. Please, go forth and read this.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 06:58 PM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
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But sometimes it just has to be done. If you are a man, and you wear cologne, you are wearing way too much of it. ItÂ’s offensive and migraine inducing. You know, itÂ’s all about subtly. Swimming laps in that shit is not going to get you layed.

And if you do wear cologne there are only two acceptable types. Very expensive or very cheap. Ignore the middle ground. I wear a tiny bit of cologne; youÂ’d have to be close enough to lick my neck to smell it. I wonÂ’t disclose exactly what it is because itÂ’s not important, but it is of the very expensive variety. Anybody close enough to smell it immediately swoons. If youÂ’re in the market, look for something classic thatÂ’s been on the market for many years. ThereÂ’s a reason itÂ’s been around a long time.

If you decide to go cheap, go very cheap. Old Spice. Yeah, itÂ’s sweet, but not nauseating like a lot of middle ground products, including but not limited to, Polo, Drakkar, et. al.

Recently IÂ’ve come across a few women who are wearing way too much perfume as well. In fact this post was partially inspired by a lunchtime incident, where I was walking into the building and even though the breeze was blowing I could smell perfume. By the time I entered the lobby I saw the source of the odor entering an elevator. I pity the people trapped in there with her. Good thing thereÂ’s no smoking allowed anywhere anymore because that broad would have gone up like that Buddhist monk on the cover of Life.

Walking back down the hall to my office I was overwhelmed, as I am everyday after lunch, by the smell of menÂ’s cologne. Maybe I should put out a memo that dousing yourself with cologne after a break does not cover up the smell of pot.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 06:57 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
Post contains 328 words, total size 2 kb.

For me, the damning thing about all these 9/11 consipracies is that they make no allowances for coincidence.

A light spot on the bottom of an airplane in a blurrily zoomed image is a missle - not a blurry reflection.
The manor in which the towers collapsed proves it was demo, not just a building falling in on itself. I mean, how else do you expect a building that's barely leaning over to fall? It's not a tree being chopped down fellas, it's a building whose core has been partially gutted and substantially weakened.
The fact that a man had a conversation about death with his child the day before he boarded a doomed flight is proof that he was in on the plan - not just happenstance. How often do we all have such coincidental conversations? Seriously.

I guess what I'm trying to say, is that more often than not minor details are minor details; even when there's a lot of them. I mean, take for instance the appearance of the Virgin Mary in a grilled cheese sandwich, or a bagel, or a potato. Is it some kind of conspiracy? Or might it just be an odd little coincidence.

The real flaw in it all, however, is something that every well devised plan (as the attacks of 9/11 were a major undertaking) always requires. Motive. In the late nineties and early 21st century, the US government had nothing to gain by attacking it's own nation and fingering a terrorist organization that was virtually (at that time) unkown to the public. Al Qaeda on the other hand, a group who (still) operates under a transformational ideology supported by a violently twisted religious belief; not only had motive, but has since claimed responsibility and pride over the events of that day and many similar events since. Motive bitches. Motive.

See, these consipracy buffs are searching for something that will complete the picture for them, tie up every little loose end. But as the Virgin Mary might tell you, sometimes a grilled cheese sandwich is just a grilled cheese sandwich. For something to make sense it has to work on a macro level as well as an operational level. Because if it doesn't, it's just a bunch of Loose Change. And as we all know, that and a dollar will get you a cup of coffee.

As an aside, I'd have to be pretty damn desperate and lonely to cash in your fifteen minutes on something that makes 2/3rds of the US population think I'm an assbag.

Posted by: shank at 03:27 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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I was perusing our old site the other day (you should too, I was better at this back then); and came across an interesting entry where I alluded to the story of how 'Jelly Roll' Morton got his famous nickname. All of this history kind of depends on who you ask, which I think makes it all the more colorful.

Back in the 1870's and 80's, what would become 'Dixieland' jazz was just starting to develop in New Orleans - a city with one of the highest populations of free blacks in the south at the time. Jelly Roll was one of these guys who did all kinds of stuff - band leader, bartender, piano player, pimp - the list goes on. But I suppose the legend would dictate that it was pimpin'(and some allegededly...masculine endowment) that led Jelly Roll to his name.

In the day, Jelly Roll was a slang term for sex or, more specifically, that most highly prized portion of the female anatomy. And as Morton was in the business, the nickname seemed obviously fitting. Of course, helping to support that nickname was Jelly Roll's - shall we say - lyrical stylings. He was the 2Live Crew of the early 1900's. For example:
Nickle's worth of beefsteak, and a dime's worth of lard (x3)
I'm gonna salivate your pussy til my peter gets hard
I'm the Windin' Boy, don't deny my name

It gets much better, but songs with these kinds of lyrics were very rarely released on any albums at the time. Hence, Jelly Roll was named after that which was his greatest muse - pussy.

I don't know how many of ya'll are jazz fans, but some of you may have heard the phrase "summa that ol' Jelly Roll Morton shit"; in reference, of course, to his playing style. Now, story has it that Jelly Roll derived his style playing in the whorehouses and dives that he was accustomed (and, unfortunately, owes some indirect hand in his demise) to. See, he'd play piano in the lobby or foyer of these houses while the real business was going on just through the wall. Now, the walls weren't exactly built of the most soundproof materials, so Jelly Roll's job was to play over the noise from the adjoining room. He learned to match his rhythm and tempo with the ebb and flow with the raucous action in the next room.

So yeah, that's that. Feeling edumacted?

Posted by: shank at 03:19 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
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