HereÂ’s an interesting link. And by interesting I mean frightening.

ItÂ’s the International Federation of Competitive Eating. I reckon that competitive eating must have needed an international federation. AnywayÂ…

One guy ate over 32 grilled cheese sandwiches in ten minutes. And while part of me wants to congratulate him on an outstanding achievement, part of me canÂ’t help but wonder how many days it took for him to have a normal bowel movement.

Another guy ate six pounds of Spam right out of the can in twelve minutes. SIX POUNDS in twelve minutes. Can you imagine the digestive tract after that? Do you go right from the contest to the hospital or what?

Take a look at the “Eater Profiles” because it’s priceless.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 10:34 AM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
Post contains 135 words, total size 1 kb.

A couple of discoveries made last week have me wondering how IÂ’ve wandered the earth this long without falling into sink holes.

My wife declared that the pots and pans weÂ’ve been cooking with since Christ was a carpenter have been slowly poisoning us over the years. During the first years of our marriage we werenÂ’t serious cooks. Before the kid came along we mostly dined out and neither of us had a clue. We had this really cheap set of non-stick cookware that was really old and it looked like weÂ’d used them for moving gravel from the front yard to the back.

My wife noted that all the scratches in the Teflon was probably eating my brain and that cooking in aluminum, if thatÂ’s even what it was, was as bad as eating lead paint chips. Since I need what little brains I have we went out and bought a decent set of Calphalon pots and pans that wonÂ’t slowly kill us.

I was shocked by two things. Price and performance. These things cost an arm and a leg, but you really see the difference when you use them. Since those early years my old lady really learned to cook like a pro. I dabble. And when I say dabble, I mean I buy really expensive ingredients and then ruin them and call for take out with a huge mess in the sink. Anyway, even I can cook with these because they heat evenly and my big problem was always controlling the heat.

And then we have James Michener. I thought IÂ’d read every book ever published on this planet but alas, IÂ’ve never read this guy until this week. I had no idea who he was or what heÂ’d written until my wife came home with Caribbean, Journey and Chesapeake. I love historical novels and had no idea what I was missing. I think he got a Pulitzer for Tales of the South Pacific. Luckily heÂ’s written a wheelbarrow full of books so IÂ’ve got something to go on for a while.

So, Michener and Calphalon. Not a bad weekend for the boy.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 07:43 AM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
Post contains 364 words, total size 2 kb.

IÂ’m not talking about myself. IÂ’m talking about the people all of us encounter in the workplace. Newcomers who believe theyÂ’ll change everything and be promoted to Chairman within six months. Straw bosses, recently promoted from gopher to assistant to the assistant of the assistant manager. IÂ’m talking, essentially, about the people we work with that believe themselves to be the second coming, when in fact they have nothing to contribute except talk.

Talk, talk, talk.

I have a nose for incompetence. More importantly, I have the uncanny ability to see through bullshitters. Being a Class A bullshitter in my own right, most common, run-of-the-mill bullshitters donÂ’t stand a chance with me. Yet, down at the office they seem to have an open door policy with these people. And without fail they march in like Garibaldi, waving their arms quoting J.P. Morgan and destroy departments en masse until theyÂ’ve done so much damage financially and personnel wise that by the time theyÂ’ve been shown the door thereÂ’s nothing left but rubble and smoking embers.

This takes place at all levels, from VPs down to lower level management, which is probably the worst. Some people just arenÂ’t leaders. They have no idea how gain respect from colleagues and underlings. They believe it to be either divine right or they fire bullets into the ceiling like Hitler on his beer hall putsch. These people often have no leadership skills, either taught or inbred, yet they believe that they are correct in all things.

I don’t tolerate them. At the first instance of grandstanding I’ll usually let them have it. Yesterday afternoon I was forced to tell someone, in a boardroom in front of many, many important people that, “What Alfred is suggesting will void most of our profitable contacts overseas, run production costs up 36% and leave us vulnerable in the US. In addition, the figures he’s got up on the screen are last year’s numbers, and what’s more, they’re incorrect by over six million dollars. I have here the actual numbers if anyone is interested in seeing them.”

There was a great empty silence while everyone stared at Alfred and then he started stuttering and stammering, but by then everyone was already looking at the numbers IÂ’d provided and good old Alfred was sweating through his poorly cut suit. I suspect that Alfred wonÂ’t last another month. The damage is irreparable.

Alfred has nothing to do with me or my department. IÂ’m above Alfred and I have almost nothing to do with him or his group. HeÂ’s been here all of a month. However, he came to me last week with this master plan, a crossover type thing which had no merit. I told him why it wasnÂ’t a good idea, that he needed to do more research and explained very carefully the mistakes he made in preparation. I really tried to help.

Do you know what Alfred told me? He said, “I’m a big dog with big ideas. You have no idea what’s coming, man.”

I’m not even sure he knew exactly who I was or not, but either way, I dislike his ilk. I didn’t throw him out of my office or lose my temper. I smiled and told him to recheck his numbers. And this morning when he walked by my office I gave him a big, “Morning, Alfred!”

He didnÂ’t reply.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 09:38 AM | Comments (6) | Add Comment
Post contains 570 words, total size 3 kb.

Yes, I do watch American Idol. So sue me.

The thing I really love about it is Paula Abdul, who’s obviously high as a kite all the time. Last night she was really wrecked—crying and wailing and the whole nine yards.

Most people donÂ’t want to believe this, but now pictures of her passed out, face down in a club are surfacing. For the most part the talent is mediocre, but thereÂ’s a certain entertainment factor involved here that I canÂ’t deny, albeit itÂ’s not intended by the producers.

As an added treat, one broad popped a button and we got a panty shot.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 10:00 AM | Comments (6) | Add Comment
Post contains 112 words, total size 1 kb.

It turns out that Kevin Costner, of wooden actor fame, was the one who was masturbating at St. Andrews.

Allegedly, Costner was on his honeymoon with his new wife when he went for a massage, decided to take the towel off, and manually released himself in front of the masseuse. Since this was a high end place and not a Bangkok brothel, the masseuse was mortified. She complained to her superiors and was sacked.

I continue to be amazed at what famous people think they can get away with. Shit, most of the time they DO get away with anything they want.

Some of you may remember Costner from the film Waterworld. I remember him as that terribly wooden actor who speaks in a monotone voice with absolutely no dynamics or apparent acting talent. Possibly the most boring actor in American history.

Well, let’s go ahead and add him to the list of public wankers. You know it wasn’t the first time he’s done it. He’s probably masturbated up and down Sunset Boulevard. Restaurants, night clubs, boutiques—the whole shebang.

I have to add that when I was on my honeymoon, the last thing on my mind was masturbating in front of a strange woman. I preferred to do it in the hotel pool in full view of everyone. But I kid. IÂ’m a kidder.

I give the marriage another month.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 07:40 AM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
Post contains 236 words, total size 1 kb.

After reading this, in which Oorgo gets spayed like an English Sheep dog, my testicles hurt. I know is all in my head, but my balls hurt none-the-less. How could they not?

I canÂ’t imagine experiencing this:

“Don't believe them when they say it doesn't hurt… It felt like somebody plugged a 9 volt battery onto one of my boys: electric shooting pain.”

IÂ’m sorry, but thereÂ’s no way IÂ’m ever doing that. Meanwhile, back at the scene of the crime, it gets worse:

“Follow the instruction for pre-op. If they say shave the area, shave the friggin area. You really don't want some grumpy bitch in scrubs taking a hoe to your private parts, the one who did mine apparently thought she was working in the friggin garden or scraping of her windshield.”

I canÂ’t imagine having my groin shaved by a stranger. At least it was a woman. Imagine if a 300 pound man in an Italian sweater came in and started lathering you up? How many years of therapy are we talking about?

My rule is simple. NO ELECTIVE SURGERY.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 07:04 AM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
Post contains 191 words, total size 1 kb.

As a guy who spends a lot of time on planes I find this especially troubling.

The airlines have come up with a new answer to an old question: How many passengers can be squeezed into economy class?

A lot more, it turns out, especially if an idea still in the early stage should catch on: standing-room-only "seats."

Airbus has been quietly pitching the standing-room-only option to Asian carriers, though none have agreed to it yet. Passengers in the standing section would be propped against a padded backboard, held in place with a harness, according to experts who have seen a proposal.

Air travel is already heinous. The seats are packed together so tightly that I have to bring a bag to put my feet in if IÂ’m not in business class. People are so close together that the air is fucking toxic.

No one obeys the rules, i.e., even with the seatbelt light on, the aisles are crammed with people walking up and down beating the shit out of your elbows if youÂ’re on the aisle, and now this.

Can you imagine standing room only? I donÂ’t know what people are thinking anymore. I dare them. I double dare them.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 07:41 AM | Comments (8) | Add Comment
Post contains 213 words, total size 1 kb.

If youÂ’re going to ride a bicycle, just for putting around town, is it mandatory to wear the full-on spandex uniform?

Because the old bastard that was riding in the middle of the fucking road during lunch hour looked like he was in the goddamned Tour-de-France, except that he was traveling at 2 mph and he was 106 years old. Did I mention that the bike was a beach cruiser?

I wish that I could accurately describe what this idiot was wearingÂ…he looked like he was prepared for some kind of swim meet in the Arctic Circle. I missed two lights thanks to that old bastard.

Is everyone who rides a bike required to don the full regalia?

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 11:53 AM | Comments (6) | Add Comment
Post contains 128 words, total size 1 kb.

I was reading this article, which mentions that cockfighting is still legal in New Mexico and I was completely blown away.

“The governor added the arguments for and against cock fighting have been strong on both sides.”

Man, I’d love to hear the “for” argument.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 11:57 AM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
Post contains 51 words, total size 1 kb.

IÂ’m instituting a new feature here at SBD. Since IÂ’m a cultural kind of guy IÂ’ve decided to share my vast expertise on all things cultural every Friday. Or until I get bored.

TodayÂ’s topic: Art Appreciation

The first thing we need to address is the fact that art is subjective. One man’s masterpiece is another mans complete and total piece of shit. With that said, let me tell you how I feel about modern art—I think it blows. If it looks like my kid painted it, I really don’t have much respect for it. Critics say that “Modern Art” embodies anything done since about 1800, but my definition is anything that looks like a second grader painted it.

I particularly enjoy paintings from the Renaissance period, like RaphaelÂ’s Woman With A Veil. Note how you can tell what the fuck it is, unlike, say, modern art. What appeals most to me about this piece is how the woman is looking directly at you whilst gently fondling her breast.

The Baroque period offers some of historyÂ’s finest works. LetÂ’s take a look at RembrandtÂ’s The Anatomy Lesson. Check out the look on the face of the guy holding the book. ThatÂ’s art.

ItÂ’s important at this point to make to make a distinction. Rembrandt, Raphael, El Greco is art. Throwing oneÂ’s own feces at a canvas or anything having to with soup cans is shite. This is an important distinction and you may want to write that down.

But back to the baroque period. YouÂ’ll notice a lot of semi-naked fat chicks, so if thatÂ’s your thing, youÂ’ve really hit the jackpot.

I generally skip right over the Neoclassical period. I donÂ’t knowÂ…it lacksÂ…chicks fondling their own breasts.

As far as modern art (by criticÂ’s definition) the realists and the impressionists have done some great work. RenoirÂ’s osHermanas.jpg">On the Terrace is a great example of masterful use of colors, yet you still know exactly what youÂ’re looking at.

Post Impressionism, Cubism, Abstract and other styles of modern art generally blow, but then again, itÂ’s all subjective.

Oddly, I can appreciate Surrealism and in particular Salvadore Dali. His ream_Caused_by_the_Flight_of_a_Bumblebee_around_a_Pomegranate_a_Second_Before_Awakening.jpg">Dream Caused by the Flight of a Bumblebee Around a Pomegranate a Second Before Awakening is very intense as is his ali_Self-portrait.jpg">Self Portrait.

Next Friday weÂ’ll look at cinema, which is a much more cultural way of saying movies.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 11:41 AM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
Post contains 400 words, total size 3 kb.

I donÂ’t want to hear one more fucking word about Tom Cruise, his fucking robot wife or his spawn of Xenu.

Somebody needs to tell me why this constitutes front page news every day. HeÂ’s fucking certifiable and unraveling more every second. His publicists have gone the Michael Jackson rout and pushed him even farther over the top trying to prove heÂ’s normalÂ…and have failed miserably.

At this point I think itÂ’s a pretty close race between him and Michael Jackson for the heavyweight title of CRAZIEST MOFO ON EARTH.

IÂ’ve had it. IÂ’ve really, really had it. And my pick is definitely Maverick. Jackson is nuts, and really disgusting, and probably a criminal, but Maverick is stone cold crazy.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 06:59 AM | Comments (17) | Add Comment
Post contains 126 words, total size 1 kb.

And I still have nothing.

Apropos of nothing, when I was in the sixth grade I was walking home from school and this kid started pushing me. His name was Eddie something and he was very peculiar looking. I donÂ’t remember what his problem was but he pushed me and pushed me and very quickly a bunch of other kids gathered around in a big circle.

I stood there, somewhat dumbfounded and tried to think of why this kid wanted to fight. This really peculiar looking kid. Anyway, he said he was going to kick my ass and tried to push me a third time so I punched him in the mouth. I wasnÂ’t a tough guy, it was fight or flight. Regardless, I smacked him good on the jaw and for some reason he went berserker.

“You punched me in the mouth! You punched me in the mouth!”

He was holding his jaw and he was really outraged.

“Now I’m going to kick your ass!” he said.

He took a step forward and I punched him the mouth again. This time he was spitting blood and even more outraged than he was the first time.

“You made my lip bleed!”

Up until this time I had said nothing. I was just standing there; I never even raised my hands. This time I turned around and continued walking home. IÂ’d gotten a few steps when I heard him approaching at a trot. I turned as he was poised to hit, and now, infuriated, I punched him three times squarely in the face and he lay there crying.

I walked home without further incident. And sometimes even now, some thirty years later, I wonder just what the hell his problem was.

Man, he was really peculiar looking.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 12:20 PM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
Post contains 306 words, total size 2 kb.

Last night I cranked up the amp to eleven and played for the first time in some weeks. And as I ran through ClaptonÂ’s version of Crossroads I realized, not for the first time, that it was the epitome of blues rock, absolutely second to none.

Eddie Van Halen once said that that was arguably the best guitar solo ever recorded, and that statement certainly has some merit. It also lead me to outlining in my head the defining moments of rock history. ItÂ’s funny, but sometimes when I play I think of other things and have moments of profound clarity whilst in the middle of a face melting solo.

Anyway, these are what I believe to be the defining moments in rock history.

ElvisÂ’s recordings at Sun Studios: Groundbreaking recordings of a white guy singing what was essentially black music. Also the beginning of what would become the greatest culture theft in modern times.

The Beatles on Ed Sullivan: The mass hysteria at the airport, the creaming of young girls panties and the beginning of the British Invasion. We will never see a band generate so much intensity again.

Chuck Berry literally invents the rock guitar riff: The intro to songs like Johnny B. Good and Maybelene become the stepping stones of almost every guitar riff in the rock guitar handbook.

Dylan turns the Beatles on to smoking pot: Ever wonder how the Beatles went from I Want to Hold Your Hand to Glass Onion? You bet your life thatÂ’s what did it. Dylan going electric gets an honorable mention as well.

The Beach Boys release Pet Sounds: The masterpiece that turned rock on itÂ’s head and inspired the next bombshellÂ…

The Beatles record Sgt. Pepper on 4 track: George Martin should get a lot of credit for this as well. This album changed everything forever. Rock would never be the same again as other influences are mixed in and limitations are erased. The day after the album was released, Jimi Hendrix opened a live show with a cover version of the title track. Aside from the masterpiece of music that it was, it was also the first time (I think) that lyrics are printed on the album sleeve. And the whole album cover design ushered in a new era.

The Stone’s Altamont Fiasco: The Stone’s play a free show in San Francisco using the Hell’s Angels as security. A murder was caught on film and the “Summer of Love” officially ended.

Stairway: Led Zeppelin conquers the known world.

Dark Side of the Moon: What can anyone say? Enter prog rock.

Ziggy Stardust: Enter glam rock.

God Save the Queen: The Sex Pistols sell the swindle. Enter punk rock and with it people who have no idea how to play instruments. Counter culture or ringing cash registerÂ…you make the call.

The 80s kill rock music as we know it: A long, long time agoÂ…I can still remember whenÂ…those good old boys were drinking whiskey and ryeÂ…

MTV plays black artists: After being under the fire for years MTV begins playing black artists, and in the process popularizes rap.

Seattle: Nirvana, Pearl Jam, et. al.

Music sharing: Copyright? What the fuck are you talking about?

The great wasteland: A shitload of bands that all sound like Creed (who sounds like Pearl Jam) clog up the airwaves with brooding bullshit of no substance or creativity whatsoever.

The iPod : People now carry around their entire music collection in a device smaller than a cell phone.

And there we have it.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 10:35 AM | Comments (14) | Add Comment
Post contains 599 words, total size 4 kb.

IÂ’m not addicted to computer games but I like them. Strategy games mostly. Well, exclusively. Anyway, having run Rome: Total War and the expansion pack into the ground I needed a new game to help dull my senses from reality.

In what was possibly the stupidest decision I have ever made I purchased The Sims 2. As I mentioned before, I mainly play strategy games and for the most part they involve military planning, so how did I end up with this ridiculous title? I researched the best strategy games and found out this was, like, the most popular game in history or some shit.

So anyway, IÂ’ve had the thing for a week or so and IÂ’ve never hated a game so much in my life. The fucking tedium involved is unbelievable. Tell your sim to go to the bathroom? Tell your sim to go to work? Tell your sim to eat? ItÂ’s the worst torture IÂ’ve ever endured. ItÂ’s like living my life all over again in a microcosm of mouse clicks.

Can someone please tell me what is fun about this? Day after day in the life of this thing itÂ’s the same shit. Go pee. Now eat cereal. Now got to bed. Jesus Christ, I feel violated by this thing. I feel like I paid $39.99 to be tortured to death by the banality of a fake life even worse than my own. Last night I sat there like an idiot, micromanaging this things bladder, the whole time perplexed by the fact that anyone could finding this fucking horror show enjoyable. Life is horrible. ThatÂ’s why IÂ’m playing a fucking game! To escape the horrors of peeing and eating and interacting with others. IÂ’ve never been so goddamned depressed in my life, except for the realization that other people actually enjoy doing this. ThatÂ’s the real kicker. There are millions of people out there who actually embrace this fucking tedium. Jesus Christ, whereÂ’s the Tylenol?

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 08:04 AM | Comments (10) | Add Comment
Post contains 337 words, total size 2 kb.

Long time, no blog.

Someone cared enough to call and see if I was dead or not, which I appreciated greatly. Very sexy phone voice—probably a hottie. I suspect she may have a 900 number. And for the record, she sounded warm, sincere and had a nice laugh.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 11:38 AM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
Post contains 56 words, total size 1 kb.

But the first time I did it I was led, literally by the hand, to where the new houses were being built. They were almost finished and were carpeted and everything.

“What if it’s locked?” I said.

“We’re going to find out.”

I was really apprehensive about the whole thing. I didnÂ’t even like the chick and she wasnÂ’t particularly good looking. But she was determined. I was pretty much in a cold sweat as we walked up the driveway. It was late and I should have been home hours earlier and now I was being dragged into an empty house by this girl who was not about to take no for an answer.

I will admit I was terrified. I didnÂ’t picture it like this and I was trying my best to weasel out of it. ItÂ’s funny, but I was one of those clueless guys when I first entered high school. I never really got the hint that chicks liked me; someone else always had to point it out.

“Are you sure?”

“Dude, she had her hand down your pants in public.”

“Yeah, but still…”

Or the girl would just give up and have at my private parts after getting tired of waiting for me to make a move. That all changed when I turned eighteen and had developed some confidence and experience, but at the time? I was pretty much walking around innocently while a string of girlfriends kept trying to get me to do stuff. Eventually theyÂ’d just come out with it verbally, completely frustrated. Often pissed off.

“Oh! Okay!” I was such a dimwit.

So anyway this girl leads me up the drive way and it’s my first time and all, so I’m scared shitless and she tries the doorknob and it opens. The place was nearly finished and she led me into one of the rooms and starts unbuttoning her jeans while I stood there dumbfounded. And when she finally got down to nothing she pulled me down on the carpet and we had at it. I’d say it lasted somewhere in the neighborhood of seven thrusts. Having finished, and not knowing what else to do, I simply continued. Back then I didn’t know guys lost their erection after they finished, because I didn’t. At the time I had no idea it was unique to like 20% of the population. I found out later that there’s a technical name for it, but it’s not important, because I found out later it gave me a huge edge over people with normal metabolisms. So anyway I keep going and then I said to myself, “Christ, I’m having sex! I need to try it with her on top!”

And IÂ’ll leave out all the details but I attempted several positions from various magazines and movies, some of which worked and some of which didnÂ’t, but on the whole it was a really great time. And IÂ’ll tell you yet again how naive I was. When I put my underwear back on my thing was absolutely covered in liquid and it soaked my underwear through. I found out much later that she was an ejaculator. A woman, that you know, squirts when she finishes. So me being an idiot and all thought that all women did that and as I say, much later I found out that that was not the case at all.

So I guess that ends my tale, which was probably way too much information, but I had nothing again and itÂ’s the only true story I could think of that IÂ’ve never told anyone before. Until now. I predict regretting this in 5Â…4Â…3Â…2Â…

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 04:13 PM | Comments (16) | Add Comment
Post contains 625 words, total size 3 kb.

Not that it matters. IÂ’m under the impression that there over 3,000,000,000 blogs on the web and one million more spring up each day. Of those, probably one thousand of them are worth reading, to me, and I will probably never find them. I made the numbers up, but you get the point.

And here I sit. I could have been a contender, but that would have involved me caring about the hits and the numbers and doing the side show act to draw attention and somehow that all reeks of work and ambition. And in the end I would have been “Whack –a-mole’d” anyway, because I’ll never be part of the mainstream anything. When I get too close to the herd I panic and flee, fearing I’ll be swallowed up by the general mediocrity.

If youÂ’ve read this far you will have realized I have nothing to say of any relevance. Again. That makes 2,999,999,999 of us. Yet I keep typing, like one of those assholes at party that corners you and keeps talking and talking about his fucking angina or whatever. And thatÂ’s another thing. I have come to dislike parties. In the old days when I was single I had a reason to be at a party. I was there to work the room. Nowadays, I know who IÂ’m going home with so IÂ’m stuck with the shitty part of the party. The small talk.

It wouldnÂ’t be so bad if people were more interesting and told tales of adventure, but I just donÂ’t give a shit about the Atkins diet or Everwood, or whatever else is sapping the life blood from most people. I donÂ’t want to hear people talking unless they have something interesting to say. Like they accidentally ate a caterpillar or something. People donÂ’t have to be secret agents to be interesting, but most people live in a soft, wet bubble of banality. LotÂ’s of interesting things happen inside the bubble but they refuse to notice. They donÂ’t have the eye or the imagination to polish up a mundane episode or anecdote and relate it with any gusto.

I’d love to be at a party one day and have a guy say to me, “I’m Phil, and I just wrote a book on the migration of American Indians in the 15th century.” That would interest me and I would engage Phil in conversation, but that’s not likely to happen in the circles in which I travel. I would be just as happy to have a guy say to me, “I’m Phil, and I just stocked my above ground pool with rainbow trout.” That works for me.

Unfortunately, what I usually get is, “I’m Phil, and I’m getting over a nasty cold.” Or, “I’m Phil…did you see the cover of the new TV Guide?”

And if given the chance, Phil will bring you down with him. His banality will eat away at you until you can get away from him, only to be cornered by another robot with tales of his high school track and field accomplishments back in 1980. ItÂ’s a slow, painful death.

Now is the point in a post where I count up the words, 517 to this point, and think about slashing 250 of them. I’ll look it over to see if it rambles (yes), look at the pacing (which is dreadful in this case) and look to see if I’ve jumped from topic to topic with no theme and no direction. This is where I would start the re-write or trash the entire post. I might pick one small phrase, for instance, “Like they accidentally ate a caterpillar or something,” and write a new post around that one line and send this one to hell. But not today.

Today IÂ’m going to post this just as it came out, with no re-write, no pacing and no theme. If youÂ’ve read this far I commend you and I apologize in advance, because IÂ’m dedicating this to Phil, the guy who cornered me last Saturday night to talk about his fucking plan to landscape his yard this year. When I walked, he walked. There was no getting away from Phil. He waited OUTSIDE THE BATHROOM DOOR while I peed so he could continue to tell me about his future koi pond.

HeÂ’ll never know how close he was to a full on, Sonny Corleone beating.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 01:06 PM | Comments (7) | Add Comment
Post contains 746 words, total size 4 kb.

Last night I sent Shank and his future bride a wedding gift. I was telling my wife what we got them and my wife said thatÂ’s all fine and dandy but asked what I wrote on the card.

IÂ’ll admit that IÂ’m walking on thin ice with things like this. I have enough class to know whatÂ’s appropriate and whatÂ’s not, but I still freeze up.

She was reading my mind, obviously, because just moments before, I was upstairs staring at the blank field where I was suppose to write something wondering what the hell to do. My natural instinct is to write something funny. Or obscene.

IÂ’m not a touchy feely kind of guy. IÂ’m not one of those guys that hugs other guys all the time. IÂ’m not afraid of turning gay or anything, itÂ’s just that I grew up in the firm handshake school. When I grew up there wasnÂ’t a lot of hugging in the family, even with women. I think a lot of it had to do with putting on airs. IÂ’m pretty sure my family was preparing me for a Princeton education where proper fellows didnÂ’t show emotion.

Once when we were in Los Angeles we went to see a band at a well known club. My wife was talking to some friends and when she turned around there was a guy hugging me. He was the lead singer of the band, and as such, he was wearing arm length opera gloves with the fingers cut out. So she turns around and there this guy with opera gloves hugging me and she has no idea who the guy is but thinks itÂ’s hysterical. I was nonplussed, but I had officially been hugged by a friend. I would have rather been hugged by the guyÂ’s girlfriend who was a hotty. ThereÂ’s always the chance sheÂ’ll squeeze your ass and then wink at you when she breaks the embrace, but it didnÂ’t look like that was going to happen. Neither did the Princeton education, but thatÂ’s another story.

All that was some years ago. Friend hugging has now encroached upon my life in a huge way. ThereÂ’s way too much hugging in the world. I donÂ’t like hugging my friendÂ’s wives. I donÂ’t like kissing women on the cheek. I donÂ’t like human contact at all unless itÂ’s with my wife or my kid. Or a hooker. Okay, so IÂ’m exaggerating, but you know what I mean.

Meanwhile, my old lady still wants to know what I wrote on the gift card.

“I think I wrote ‘best wishes’.”

“That’s totally wrong! You’re supposed to say or write ‘Good luck’ to the groom and ‘Best wishes’ to the bride. You should have written both. Don’t you know anything?”

Apparently not. So, Shank and Mrs. Shank, Good luck and best wishes on this joyous occasion.

***Update***

IÂ’ve just been chastised for getting it wrong again in this post. Apparently, itÂ’s:

To the bride, best wishes, and to the groom congratulations.

###

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 08:25 AM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
Post contains 515 words, total size 3 kb.

IÂ’m at a loss. Nothing has enraged me to the point of posting in several days. In lieu of anything of substance I offer you my thoughts on booze.

IÂ’m partial to Macallan 18 year old scotch. No ice, no water. ItÂ’s pretty close to perfect. If I canÂ’t get that IÂ’ll go with Lagavulin. If neither is available IÂ’ll move on to one of the Glens or even a Johnny Walker.

If I canÂ’t get scotch IÂ’ll go with MakerÂ’s Mark bourbon. Moving down from there, in no particular order:

Grey Goose Vodka, Harp Lager, Vanilla extract, Nyquil, Hobo-tastic red-flavored wine, Tanqueray gin or one of the fine products reviewed here (a most excellent site).

As you can see, I have a refined palette.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 01:29 PM | Comments (6) | Add Comment
Post contains 133 words, total size 1 kb.

I get the feeling no oneÂ’s reading this stuff. Have I driven away all the decent folks with my low-brow drivel? There was a time you know, when I pulled big numbers. No matter, I will not be dissuaded.

I was just thinking that if you know who HR Puffinstuff is, itÂ’s probably time for some sort of middle-aged rectal exam. I vaguely remember the theme song and IÂ’m pretty sure HR was a guy in shabby, B-class baggy animal suit of some kind. Maybe I should schedule a physical.

I think about my childhood a lot. I was a happy kid. I recently came into possession of my baby book. An entry on page six, when I was two or three years old sums it up:

Paul is a happy baby and can sing many songs.

God knows what went wrong. I read that entry to a friend of mine and he just started belly laughing. “Well,” he said, “You’re a sour son-of-a-bitch now!”

Who knows what went awry. Things seemed pretty good up until my twenties. I guess thatÂ’s when responsibility beats the shit out of you and leaves you for dead. Responsibility has sucked the very marrow from my bones.

Now I find myself reliving my childhood in mini dream sequences throughout the day. Who knows, maybe IÂ’m not the only one.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 01:13 PM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
Post contains 233 words, total size 1 kb.