Use of the word “party” as verb.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 06:51 AM | Comments (5) | Add Comment
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Have any of you finished the last Harry Potter book?

I read it this weekend, and finished last night at the godawful early hours of this morning.

All throughout reading these books, I've noticed that they make fine parables for the current war on terrorism/Islamofascism. I'd be willing to bet, though, that the author's intention (much like Tolkien, I'd imagine) was not to create such a parallel. But I just can't help but see it. Does anyone else? Just figured I'd ask...

Posted by: shank at 07:34 AM | Comments (5) | Add Comment
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As we speak, the stock market is erasing all gains for the calendar year. I guess that's what happens when a real estate market that's been betting on future equity with risky (and sometimes fraudulent) mortgages collapses and sends the value of your average mortgage brokerage from triple-A to junk bond status. Well, that and the disappearance of billions in homeowner's equity that people were assuming they'd rack up over the past year or two. I'm not saying it's going to be raining day-traders on Wall Street or anything; I'm just saying it's one of those days where people are losing their asses.

It's also one of those days where you should be increasing your 401(k) or 403(b) contributions. You'll be able to get more for your money now than you could yesterday; which means you'll be holding more shares when the market comes back.

It's also one of those days where prospective home buyers should be taking stock of their finances. The next few months will usher in what could be the lowest price growth in recent memory. If you've got some cash to put down (because you can pretty much bet most of your Alt-A and no-doc loans aren't on the table anymore) you could really snatch up a deal from some poor bastard who locked in a 3 or 5-year ARM or a zero down loan that just hit it's final initial term. Said stupid bastard is now staring down the barrel of monthly payments that eat families whole, and has just enough equity in the house to sell it and break even. Just as an example, I know a guy who just bought a townhouse that's valued at $253k for $220k, with the seller paying all the closing costs. How bad would you need to be sweating before you'd sell your home for $30k under value and pay $10k in closing costs?

Oh, and I'm not a licensed financial advisor or anything; but I would like to point out that I'm not in any financial pinches either - quite the opposite in fact. So that should be worth something. Like maybe a free sandwich.

Posted by: shank at 12:47 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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Recently, I started bringing some CD's to work so I could listen to tunes in the office. We hired a new analyst a few weeks back, and she heard the music coming from my office the other day. I think it was some Mississippi Delta stuff or some other old southern blues bastardization of gospel music. "OOOOHHhh! That's nice!" Her exuberance was somewhat off-putting.

The next day, I said to her "Hey, I just wanted to let you know that I'm not shutting my door to be rude or anything; I just wouldn't want my music to bother anyone." I figured if no one heard it, they wouldn't be bothering me telling me what they thought of it. I already know it's good, that's why I'm listening to it, please don't interrupt me with your opinion or that epileptic, pathetic, middle-aged cracker ass-shaking of yours.

"Oh, no problem at all. Especially if you keep playing that jazz stuff you had yesterday!"

Jazz my ass. I smoldered a bit on the inside. Who the hell confuses blues rock with jazz? I kept my mouth shut on the grounds that saying a word would make me look like a music snob, or at least just a prick. Can't have people knowing I'm a prick, no sir. I smile weakly at her and pretend I'm busy.

This morning she comes in and gushes, "You like jazz right?"
"Yeah." I try not to imagine what kind of musical selection or conversation is going to follow because I might laugh. Or cry.
"Have you heard the new John Mayer CD?" I fight the tears welling up inside me. "It's so great! I mean, it's all jazz!" The tears begin to give way to disappointment. "I'll have to bring it in, or maybe I can just burn a copy on my computer!" She sounds so excited. Excited like a retard.

I seriously considered telling her that John Mayer isn't jazz, that I'm utterly perplexed at how she came to such a distinction; that he is in fact just shallow, corny, pop pablum formulated to appeal to a specific audience of juveniles who view the world as a simple place with simple problems and equally simple solutions; that jazz is anything but that; and if she brings in a copy of that CD (which I'd graciously have to listen to all the way through at least once, to avoid the prick problem above) it'll just give me a goddamned headache. But I decide that maybe acting like a complete psycho is not a good idea, so I give some kind of non-committal "Heh" or something.

I suppose the real shame is I hear that he's a good musician; and I just can't get past the lyrics. It's like chocolate covered poo. You're all, "Look there's something covered in chocolate! Yay!" Then you bite into it and find yourself somewhat disgusted, probably nauseated, and feeling like "Why would someone do such a cruel thing like that? Why?"

Posted by: shank at 11:33 AM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
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I work as an RN in a busy Emergency Room. One night recently I had an odd little man in one of my rooms. He had been retching for the last 2 hours in the waiting room and was continuing his gastric emptying. The catch is this-I walked by when he wasn't aware I was there and I see him with his fingers down his throat making himself puke. I don't know about you all, but I don't particularly care for the bulimia lifestyle-my stomach contents need to stay put.
Shortly after witnessing this, I was called into a trauma and when I returned the man had finally quit with the puking. I went into the room and began to check his vital signs again and get his story. Somewhere in his long story about smoking since he was 9 years old (now in his mid 40's) and his current ailments he shows me a sore on his arm. The conversation, pretty much verbatim was this:

"A dang 'ole spawder bit mee. I jest laynced et wif mah knife to git da poison out. Then ah leet mah dawg lick it."

(trying not to let my disgust and dinner be visible)
"Huh, interesting. Why did you decide to do that?"

"Weel, dawgs mouts is cleener dan humans."

"That may be sir, but all the same, I'd use peroxide next time."

Posted by: Singultus at 02:39 PM | Comments (9) | Add Comment
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The New York City Council, which drew national headlines when it passed a symbolic citywide ban earlier this year on the use of the so-called n-word, has turned its linguistic (and legislative) lance toward a different slur: bitch.

First off, how does a 'symbolic citywide ban' work? Does its symbolic status mean it creates an unpunishable offense? Or that it's just not going to be enforced? And furthermore, bitch has got to be the least offensive derogation in modern English, second only to something like 'dork'.

The term is hateful and deeply sexist, said Councilwoman Darlene Mealy of Brooklyn, who has introduced a measure against the word, saying it creates “a paradigm of shame and indignity” for all women.

Ten rappers were cited in the legislation, along with an excerpt from an 1811 dictionary that defined the word as “A she dog, or doggess; the most offensive appellation that can be given to an English woman.”

Oh I get it now, she was using a 200-year-old dictionary when she developed this ridiculous, boondoggle-of-an-excuse for legislation. Sister, in the past two hundred years 'the most offensive appellation that can be given to an English woman' has come quite a long way. You may want to take this waste of taxpayers' money back to the drawing board, and try to target words like cunt, whore, jizz dumpster, or cum guzzling gutterslut.

I'm just saying, if you're going to throw time and money at a 'symbolic' gesture to restrain free speech, at least go after words that might get a modicum of support based on their shock value.

As she circulated her proposal, she said, “even council members are saying that they use it to their wives.”

And probably a certain one of their fellow counsel members...bitch.

The thing that really got me was that this woman gets a salary composed, I'd assume, of tax dollars. On the outside chance she doesn't get a tax funded salary, I'd imagine her office space and supplies are composed of tax dollars. Which, in either case, means she's spending someone else's hard earned money on a 'symbolic' project.

Personally, I thought it was a revolutionary way to look at work and compensation; so I tried to implement the tactic in my own workplace. In my weekly meeting with my VP, I told her I'd have to hand off some of my current tasks in order to work on a symbolic project for the organization. She said she applauded my symbolic initiative, and gave her full support of my pursuit of symbolic improvement for our division; as long as I was willing to accept a symbolic paycheck. Did you guys know that they actually make symbolic money? They call them foodstamps, but you can actually get real food for them! What a deal!

Posted by: shank at 12:48 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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One of the regulars at the bar is having a birthday this week, so everyone wants to get a little party together for him. The guy even took the following day off, as he plans on obliterating his liver and needing a three day weekend to recover.

So T sends a bunch of us an email saying we should get some ballons and cake and shit. I'm thinking to myself the last thing this guy needs are some fruity balloons and a cake. First off, he's an excellent cook himself; and sometimes he'll show up at the bar with a platter full of freshly made hotwings or quesadillas. I don't know about everyone else, but I'd rather have something like that than cake. If we're going to have cake and icecream, why don't we just go down to the roller rink and glide around like a bunch of gayass schoolchildren? Secondly, he's a middle aged bachelor. That motherfucker doesn't want cake, he wants an all expense paid trip to the titty shack capped off with a roll in the hay.

Unfortunately, none of us are willing to do that last favor ourselves nor do we have the combined jack it would take to pay a professional to take on the job. So fucking cake and balloons it is.

Posted by: shank at 09:09 AM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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In his latest post, Skank mentioned blowing donkeys (nice hobby there, Skank!). Which got me to thinking. I once saw a video of a chick blowing a horse. As if that weren't disturbing enough, I was 13 when I saw it. I was over at my sister's boyfriends' house after he had a bachelors party and he asked me if I wanted to see some porn. I was 13 so I said, "Hell yeah!". And he puts on this video of a chick blowing a horse. I was like - that's not porn, that's illegal. Do you know how big a horse dick is? Can you imagine how hard it must be to get it in your mouth (no pun intended)? Now imagine the amount of sperm it ejaculates. The chick looked like a horse had just ejaculated all over her for lack of a better description.

But what I really want to know is what would possess someone? Whether it's a horse or a dog or a goat. What's the attraction? Human genitals are ugly enough. Must we start licking other species genitals? What possesses a normal woman to fuck her Border Collie? Besides the fact that it's hung like a Border Collie. Loneliness? Boredom? The thrill of doing it doggie-style...with an actual dog? I mean who does doggie-style better than a dog.

I find this absolutely fascinating. The same way I find a train wreck fascinating. Enough so that I've decided to start a research study to determine why people, but specifically females, will have sex with horses and dogs. The study will be called "Human Females and Their Physical Attraction to Equines, Bovines and Canines - What The Fuck?" If any of my female readers have had sex or thought about having sex with any four-legged animal over say - 30 lbs., and would like to be part of the study, describe your experience(s) in comments. I will analyze this data and report back with my findings on the psychology of these twisted freaks. All participants will be compensated. And when I say compensated, I mean I'll rent a few ponies for an afternoon and you whackos can have at 'em.

Do you think the animals like it? Do they care? Do they have the mental capacity to feel violated? Or do they just think, "What the hell is she doing down there?". The answers to these questions will be harder to answer. But I promise to get to the bottom of this with exhaustive and extensive anecdotal evidence.

So please, I need your participation. For science.

Thank you in advance,

"Dr." Will

*The views and ramblings of Dr. Will are not necessarily the views of the management at Snooze Button Dreams.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 03:37 PM | Comments (8) | Add Comment
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So, in preparation for what I (and others?) can only pray will be the utter failure of commerical music as we know it; I just want to throw out some bands. I love the hell out of 'em; some are new, some are old; but they're all designed to, I don't know...NOT BLOW DONKEYS!

(JJ Grey) and Mofro: Imagine a band; musically inspired by southern rock, the blues, and their own southern jazz roots. Take that band and give it a lyricist who channels James Brown, Ray Charles, and the blackwater region of Florida where he was raised in a way that makes you wish you were from there. Their most recent CD just came out, their sophmore release still goes for over $35, and their first was listed on Amazon as one of the best CD's out there. When I was looking for their sophmore disc a month ago, it was going for well over $75. Limited edition - apparently there are just...more copies now (ahem). If someone can get me a copy of Lochloosa for free, I'll gladly trade my posting priviledges at this illustrious website. For most of you, this would be tallied in the 'plus' column.

Jamie Lidell - If Timbaland, Jack Johnson, and modern funk had a love child; it would be Jamie Lidell. His 'Multiply' disc has it all: bluesy tunes, rappy tunes, neo-funk. Now we know where Justin Timberlake bit his entire music career from. Top secret info? I love listening to music that sounds like it comes form someone, or some time, that you don't expect it to. Like, for instance, this CD. I mean, isn't that what makes music so wonderful?

The standards: Never forget that your old music still stands up: Sublime, Goldfinger, Green Day, Live, Nirvana, ('scuse me if my chronology gets whacked here), Clapton, Creedence, the Stones (the old ones, not the touring ones), Zep, Hendrix, McCartney&Lennon, Ray Charles, Ellington&Parker, and from here the music becomes so intrinsic that the actual artists disappear. You know those songs: The Girl From Ipanema, etc. Those songs that existed only in the moment that you saw them performed, because after that, they were never performed the same.

God rest music.

Posted by: shank at 01:13 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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HereÂ’s another bonehead move from the wonderful people who have brought good music to a grinding halt by signing and encouraging the shitiest of artists over the last fifteen years.

These idiots are the ones responsible for the demise of the music industry. CD sales are down, I donÂ’t remember the number exactly, but A LOT this year. For about the fifth year in a row. For a good reason, of course; the music being out sucks. And when I say sucks, I mean like a Vegas hooker in the penthouse suite at the Wynn.

And now this.

I donÂ’t think IÂ’ve ever laughed so hard. I guess if you canÂ’t sell music, you may as well litigate for it.

The crux of the matter is that bars and restaurants are supposed to pay for music that is played in the establishment. I know from experience that most places subscribe to one or more music subscription thingies that cover this or are supposed to. However, The good folks in the music industry are now suing the shit out of everybody.

“ASCAP says that besides broadcasting songs over the radio, television and Internet, the definition of performing copyrighted music includes playing it "any place where people gather," with the exception of small private groups.
For restaurants, that includes playing songs as background music, by a DJ and even music-on-hold over phone lines, according to ASCAP's Web site.

"As long as it's [played] outside a direct circle of friends and family, it is considered a public performance," Candilora said. "A musical composition is somebody's property."

Basically, what they are saying is that if you hire a band to play at your bar, and that band plays a cover song, they want their $.08 or whatever it is nowadays. See, back in the dinosaur days when I was young, the industry wanted everybody playing these songs in bars. They wanted cover bands because they got songs out there and then people who liked them often bought the album. But those days are over folks. ItÂ’s easier to sue people, since no oneÂ’s buying the shit on the shelves these days anyway.

“ASCAP alleged that a DJ at Ibiza played three copyrighted pop songs without paying a licensing fee, which Candilora calculated would have cost Ibiza $979 a year, considering the size of the venue and the type of performance.

"I think it's absurd," said Eshagi. "Not only DJs have bought that music, I also subscribe to an online music-use service, and I'm also paying the cable company for the same thing. I don't know how many times we have to pay for a song."”

The answer is, you shall pay until blood runs from your ears! Or until the industry starts putting out some decent shit and sales pick up. DonÂ’t hold your breath.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 06:36 PM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
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Some people collect Hummels, other people collect, you know, dead babies.

OCEAN CITY, Maryland (AP) -- Investigators found three tiny bodies wrapped in plastic at the home of a woman who was charged last week with killing her newborn child, police said Monday. Authorities were still searching the property, and there was a backhoe at the site Monday morning.

Christy Freeman was charged last week with killing her newborn, police say.

None of the bodies was full-term, and only the death that Christy Freeman had already been charged with was recent, said Ocean City Police spokesman Barry Neeb.

"The rest could be a number of years old," he said.

Two were found in bags along with what investigators believe to be a placenta in a trunk in Christy Freeman's bedroom, and another was in a garbage bag found in a motor home parked in her driveway, police said. The remains were sent to the chief medical examiner in Baltimore to determine the causes of their deaths, their ages and whether they were related to Freeman, 37.

Christy: So, what do you think of my collection?

Neighbor: My, that's quite a lot of fetuses? Where did you get them? E-bay?

Christy: Oh no! I made them myself. And let me tell you, it takes a long time to make one. The easy part is suffocating them in plastic bags. But it's all worth it.

Neighbor: Wow! It is a very impressive collection. But if you're going to go to all that trouble to make them and kill them, why hide them in bags. You need a little nick-nack shelf to put them on.

Christy: Ya think? Golly, you're right. First I'll have to dig up the ones in the yard. Damnit, I knew I shouldn't have buried the old ones.

The End

Quick question: Who's fucking crazy Christy? I mean really.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 03:42 PM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
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On this day in 2003, the last old-style Beetle, the economy car produced by the German automaker Volkswagen, rolled off the assembly line in Puebla, Mexico. Why these German "Cars of the People" or "Vahgens uf da Volk" were being made in Mexico is anybodys' guess. One theory is that Adolf Eichmann opened his own Volkswagen factory in the Yucatan peninsula after he escaped from the Nuremberg trials of 1947-1964. Nobody noticed that an obviously German genocidal maniac had opened a car factory in Mexico because nobody cares about Mexico. It's a great place to go and blend in, whether you're a tourist or someone who has just participated in the slaughter of six million Jews.

But back to the car itself. There are so many things wrong with the Beetle I scarcely know where to begin. First off it's made by Germans, who I hate. Or Mexicans. Not crazy about them either. They may be great engineers but their language and accents are atrocious. A simple "have a nice day" in German sounds like you're being ordered to a gas chamber. Not a pretty language. Secondly, the vehicle looks like a bug. I for one do not want my car to look like an insect. Thirdly, I was in my first accident in a Volkwagen Beetle. We got hit by a Cadillac. A word of advice: If you are going to be hit by a Cadillac, don't be in a Volkswagen. Not surprisingly it looked like a squished bug and everyone in the car was badly injured. Safety was not the first priority of the engineers of the Volkswagen. It's the "car of the people" only if you really hate people and want them either maimed or dead. Which seems to describe the Germans.

A few years after surviving that accident, I, being the genius that I am, bought a Volkswagen Beetle. It ran like shit, had no power steering or air conditioning, always smelled like gasoline so I always wondered when I would explode and the worst part was the engine was in the trunk. Who thought that up? I was always throwing shit into the engine. Groceries, luggage, you name it. Which is probably why it ran like shit. And I avoided Cadillacs like the plague.

So I'm glad that the old style Beetle has been retired. Unfortunately, they've brought it back. And it's still as small, round and ugly as ever. And just as popular. With fucking hippies. It's always been a hippy car but now it's the car of the neo-hippies. I hold anyone in a Beetle with absolute contempt. The people who drive them are either hippy college kids who want you to believe they care about the environment, or it's 50-60 year old boomers who are reliving their college days. I don't know who's worse. Eh, I hate them both equally.

In conclusion, I hate the Volkswagen Beetle. And hippies. Also, I'd like everyone to leave a comment about your experiences with the Beetle. Or your experiences with anal bleeding. Hell, I don't care what you leave a comment about, just leave a comment. I'd like to break my previous Today in History record of 4 lousy comments. God, is anybody even reading this? I just want a little adoration. Is that so much to ask? Do you people have any idea how much thought and sweat and time I put into this website? Any idea? A good 20-25 minutes a week, you bastards. Type my fingers to the bone. Fucking ungrateful fucks. I hate you all.

Don't forget to comment! Thanks!!!

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 02:12 PM | Comments (15) | Add Comment
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I've decided to make Today In History a regular feature. Not only because of it's immense popularity (the last one got almost 5 comments!), but also because it's so easy to write. I steal most of it from some website, which I don't link or give credit to, and then I make the rest of the shit up. Bang! Instant post.

When I say a regular feature I mean basically whenever I fucking feel like it. Some days in history are better than others. Take today in history for instance. Not a whole hell of a lot going on. For thousands of years the Earth has been gravitating around the moon and in all that time nothing really interesting happened on July 27th for some reason. However, for today's Today in History we'll focus on Michael Vick. That's correct, today is the day after the day Michael Vick was arraigned on Federal Dog fighting charges.

This has been well publicized so I won't go into all that here. Nor will I offer my opinion on his innocence or guilt. But here's my solution to the whole mess. Instead of a lengthy, circus-like trial, I propose that, on national TV, Michael Vick and the dogs he allegedly trained to kill, are put into a small room. Michael Vick is then covered in sirloin steaks:

If the dogs just eat the steaks and not Michael Vick, he's not guilty.

If they eat the steaks and Michael Vick, the evidence is inconclusive and it's declared a mistrial. In this event, a long, heartfelt apology will be read to his mother by the presiding judge. Also, a really, really talented mortician, like the Mexican guy from Six Feet Under, will try to put his severed limbs and head back together so they can have an open coffin. This wll be paid for by the state.

But if they ignore the steak and eat Michael Vick, he's guilty and gets the death penalty which obviously was already carried out during sentencing.

That's fair, no? And I'd pay to watch it.

Release the hounds!!!

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 01:44 PM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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Completing a treacherous thousand-mile exodus, an ill and exhausted Brigham Young and fellow members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints arrived in Utah's Great Salt Lake Valley on July 24, 1847. They were ill and exhausted because everyone had eight to twelve wives who simultaneously bitched at them and told them they were lost and to "pull over and ask for directions for Christ's Sake!". This went on for a thousand miles. The Mormon pioneers viewed their arrival as the founding of a Mormon homeland, hence Pioneer Day. The Mormons, as they were commonly known, left their settlement in Nauvoo, Illinois, and journeyed West seeking refuge from religious persecution because they were a bunch of psycho, polygamist whackjobs.

July 24 is still celebrated as Pioneer Day in Utah and several other Western states. The bravery of the original settlers and their strength of character and physical endurance is commemorated with festivities including games and music, speeches, parades, rodeos, and picnics. Their physical endurance is still tested when the menfolk have to fuck and perform cunnilingus on each of their fifteen wives one after another until everyone has climaxed. This goes on for eight days and is known as Mormonukkah or The festival of Cum. Mormonukkah ends when the last candle is lit and a Mormonic dreidel is ceremoniously jammed up the oldest childs' ass.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 03:57 PM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
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Have you ever had good friend call up and tell you they were getting a divorce or dumping their boy/girl friend and you went on a super long rant about how you never liked them anyway, and how happy you were that finally, you'd never have to see the offensive party again, and listed a lot of really good reasons why that person was a horrible piece of shit, and added in plenty of name calling and really insulting, derogatory shit only to have them call you a few weeks later and tell you theyÂ’re getting back together?

Doh!

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 06:09 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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So the Old Man and I scoured some more classic cars today. Decided that what we want is a pre-'70's Nova or Camaro that runs and has a decent body.

Found a '69 Camaro today with new paint, side pipes, roll cage, and a 10-bolt rear; price? Insanely cheap. Only thing is, it needs a new carb. So if we want to drive it away, we need to either bring a trailer with us, or a new carb and install it before we leave.

Let me tell you something about classic cars that come with roll cages: they've been raced. A LOT. Yeah, it's never a car that's going to be on a Barrett-Jackson TV whore-fest, but it'll defintely be a car that moves faster than any car that's ever been on a Barrett-Jackson whorefest.

I mean, what's the point of owning a car that moves that fast, if you don't move it that fast on a regular basis?

Posted by: shank at 03:26 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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By now I'm sure you're all familiar with LOLCats, but just in case you're not:

...and...

You get the basic idea, yes?

It's been a while since we've had a points-o-rama, so here we go:

Using these supplied photos, create a LOLCat of your own design. Submit via the comments (use your blog or any one of the myriad number of photo hosting sites available); each submission will get points, and the bombass ones will get even more points. I'll kick it off below the fold. more...

Posted by: shank at 01:06 PM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
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There are a lot of things about the internet that are irritating. But nothing drives me crazier than those little clips or games where the instructions are to look closely for a red dot or ghost figure. You know, you look really closely and then all of the sudden a decomposing banshee squeals across the screen. Your heart rate doubles. You choke on your own screams. Your butthole puckers, but it's too late. You have shit your pants.

Whoever invented those is evil. I hope they have a huge karmic asskicking waiting for them in the afterlife. Delivered, of course, by a gaggle of those corpse banshees.

The only funny ones are where the parents set up their kids. That's funny shit. At least until the therapy bill comes!

Posted by: Singultus at 08:01 AM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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Ever since Mom died, Dad hasn't been the same. He's getting better, but he's definitely got a muted affect. He's got a group of guys from work that he shoots pool and plays poker with a couple times a week, and they've been talking about going deep sea fishing recently; but you can tell he's lonely. It's pretty sad, so I generally try not to think about him all by himself in that empty house.

Then I got an idea: I like cars, the old man likes cars; therefore we should get an old car and restore it. Sounds like a hell of a lot of fun, and I think it'd be cathartic in a number of ways. Thus began the search.

Originally, we looked at old MGB's; late 60's to early 70's; mainly because Dad had one back in the day. I was surprised at the prices they were going for. It's a game that you can get into for cheap; for less than $5k you can get a functioning model. We also looked at Ford pickups from the 50's, a few muscle cars, other classic sedans, etc. I think we've decided we want to buy something for less than five grand, and be able to spend less than five grand on it over the course of the next year getting it back in shape. The total cap would be 10 g's, so whatever we saved on the price of the car we'd just put into the restoration. We'd do all the engine and mechanical work ourselves, and either get something with a good body or hire someone to do touch up work for us.

We both started getting pretty excited this past week. After scouring the web for classic junk for sale, I'm optomistic that we'll be able to find something that fits our budget constraints, but's still fun to drive. I'd love to get something that's got a little of that American muscle under the hood, but those kinds of cars are so sought after that it's getting hard to find something that runs and doesn't have a weighty price tag or isn't ate up with a terminal case of Michigan Cancer.

So, if you live in the South East and you've got something you're willing to part with or know someone who does, holler at me.

Posted by: shank at 01:00 PM | Comments (5) | Add Comment
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So I had to have emergency surgery on Thursday night for appendicitis. It's good to be alive and all, but going to the hospital is just downright humiliating.

First, you get in there and they make you take off your clothes and put on a skirt. A skirt that's specifically engineered so that it's impossible to get on or off the bed without showing the world your junk.

Then they poke you, push on your guts, take a look at your balls, maybe fondle them and ask you to do something pointless like cough.

From there it's off to the OR, where your junk is sheared like a sheep. Seriously, they just pull out the clippers and mow a giant bald spot right above your dong so that your unit looks like it's suffering an acute case of male pattern baldness.

To top it all off, they drug the ever-loving shit out of you, so that when you come to you're flailing about, screaming incoherently at no one in specific. When they finally calm you down, you're so out of it that you start talking about all kinds of inappropriate subject matter. Namely, that someone shaved your junk and now a bunch of people have seen it. Then you start to worry out loud about the fact that you work at this hospital, and you're not sure you like sharing your oddly shaven no-no parts with co-workers you've not previously met.

Then, you wake up the next morning, groggy, in more pain than you were in before you came to the hospital, and it starts all over again. Nurses and doctors are gawking at the new haircut your 'Mini Me' got, while poking and prodding and asking stupid questions like "Does this hurt?" Yes it hurts, but the physical pain is not nearly as bad as the emotional trauma.

Just great. I hope I never see those people again. I mean, how would you feel? I might see these people again at work, while I'm walking down the hall or giving a presentation, and the first thing I'll think of is "She's seen my dong with a bad haircut" or worse, "That's the guy that held my balls while I coughed for him."

Fucking great.

Posted by: shank at 03:44 PM | Comments (7) | Add Comment
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