On this date in 1885, the Statue of Liberty arrived at its permanent spot at Ellis Island in NY. A gift from the French, before they became cowardly, pretentious pricks, to commemorate the centennial of the Declaration of Independence or possibly the Magna Carta. Although, and I may be wrong, but the Declaration of Independence wasn't written in 1785. Wasn't it 1776? I'm pretty positive something important happened in 1776. That was the year that Crispus Attucks rode through downtown Boston announcing to all who would listen, "Give me liberty or give me death". I believe he received death.

Remember the good old days when immigrants sailed into NY harbor, were herded off the ship, de-loused, beaten and thrown into crowded refugee camps until they could find a slum to live in? Then, depending on your nationality and whatever decade you arrived, no one would give you a job and if they did give you one, your friendly co-workers would rob you when you got payed because you didn't speak English. My Grandfather who was from Northern Italy did get a job because he looked German. He worked for Thomas Edison in West Orange, NJ. My Grandfather was a very intelligent man, specifically in science and math. One day, he invented the lightbulb. When he showed it to Thomas Edison, Edison gave him a dollar and told him to get back to work. That is how Thomas Edison "invented" electricity. He stole the invention from my Grandfather. Luckily, my grandfather was in the mob and proceeded to lay a beating on Edison, prompting Edison to give him a cut of the lucrative NY/NJ Electricity cartel.

Those were the good old days when you could treat people who were different than you like crap. Now, 12 million Beaners run across the border and we want to make them legal and give them benefits and welfare because they broke the law.

My Grandfather's rolling over in his grave.

PS - this post is not "racist". My point is, that through the history of the country, waves of different nationalities would arrive here and were treated badly for a few generations because they were different. Think of it as a kind of hazing. But for a half a century. Then they became the ruling class. The Germans got treated like crap by the English, the Irish got treated like crap by the Germans, the Italians got treated like crap by the Irish and so on. It was a rite of passage. You had to go through it to be accepted.

Except the American Indians and the Blacks. They got completely screwed. But, you got to break some eggs...or skulls, as it were.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 03:44 PM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
Post contains 469 words, total size 3 kb.

From the Spinster. I had a dream about her last night.

WERE YOU NAMED AFTER ANYONE?
I was named after my grandfather. ItÂ’s a complicated naming tradition that goes back centuries. It starts to get messy after the third son and second daughter.

WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU CRIED?
I donÂ’t know. Maybe the Tony Romo incident.

DO YOU LIKE YOUR HANDWRITING?
I block print and even that is illegible.

WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE LUNCH MEAT?
Prosciutto. After that, most other salt cured meats.

DO YOU HAVE KIDS?
I do.

IF YOU WERE ANOTHER PERSON WOULD YOU BE FRIENDS WITH YOU?
Yes. I make no demands of people. I am an island.

DO YOU USE SARCASM A LOT?
IÂ’m more of a cynic.

DO YOU STILL HAVE YOUR TONSILS?
Yes. I’ve never even met anyone who had them out. I think that who “get your tonsils out” thing is an urban myth.

WOULD YOU BUNGEE JUMP?
I donÂ’t see the point. The risk vs. reward factor is horribly warped. Adventure is never fun while itÂ’s actually happening.

WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE CEREAL?
Frosted mini wheats.

DO YOU UNTIE YOUR SHOES WHEN YOU TAKE THEM OFF?
For sneakers, no, but I untie them before I put them back on. I wear loafers a lot—no laces. I dislike people who call sneakers tennis shoes. How many people who wear sneakers play tennis? A very small percentage I’ll reckon.

DO YOU THINK YOU ARE STRONG?
Strong like a horse. I dislike hard labor, but I can hump heavy shit all day long if need be. If you mean gym strong, I donÂ’t know.

WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE ICE CREAM?
I canÂ’t get that excited about ice cream. Chocolate? I do like when the cone gets all soggy with from the ice cream near the end though. One of lifeÂ’s small pleasures. IÂ’m also a fan of the waffle/ice cream sandwich.

WHAT IS THE FIRST THING YOU NOTICE ABOUT PEOPLE?
If their eyes are dead or alive. Some people look like the lights are on but nobodyÂ’s home, other people have expressive eyesÂ… it looks like somethingÂ’s going on in there.

RED OR PINK?
Green.

WHAT IS THE LEAST FAVORITE THING ABOUT YOURSELF?
I cab be picky and critical.

WHO DO YOU MISS THE MOST?
Charles Bukowski.

WHAT COLOR PANTS AND SHOES ARE YOU WEARING?
Kacki shorts. No shoes.

WHAT WAS THE LAST THING YOU ATE?
Cornflakes.

WHAT ARE YOU LISTENING TO RIGHT NOW?
OliverÂ’s Army.

IF YOU WHERE A CRAYON, WHAT COLOR WOULD YOU BE?
I dislike crayons. I dislike waxy stuff.

FAVORITE SMELLS?
Napalm? Actually, I like the smell of steaks cooking, new cars, fine leather, a baseball glove, and a woman wearing this. And the smell of Hawaiian Tropic gives me instant wood.

WHO WAS THE LAST PERSON YOU TALKED TO ON THE PHONE?
It was a business call.

FAVORITE SPORTS?
Football. Beach volleyball. Football.

HAIR COLOR?
Dark brown.

EYE COLOR?
Hazel. I donÂ’t even know if thatÂ’s a color, but thatÂ’s what IÂ’m told.

DO YOU WEAR CONTACTS?
No.

FAVORITE FOOD?
Pizza, calzones, fois gras, rabbit, venison, bouillabaisse, steaks.

SCARY MOVIES OR HAPPY ENDINGS?
IÂ’m a big fan of historical fare, when done right. And thrillers.

LAST MOVIE YOU WATCHED?
Oddly enough, Pleasantville.

WHAT COLOR SHIRT ARE YOU WEARING?
Grey pocket T.

SUMMER OR WINTER?
Summer. I like everything about it.

HUGS OR KISSES?
I prefer licks.

FAVORITE DESSERT?
Chocolate mousse.

MOST LIKELY TO RESPOND?
To genital caresses.

LEAST LIKELY TO RESPOND?
To teeth on penis.

WHAT BOOK ARE YOU READING NOW?
The Pathfinder. James Fennimore Cooper.

WHAT IS ON YOUR MOUSE PAD?
Crumbs.

WHAT DID YOU WATCH ON T.V. LAST NIGHT?
Hells Kitchen. God, how I love that show. Screaming, insultingÂ…

FAVORITE SOUND?
A turbo kicking in.

ROLLING STONES OR BEATLES?
Beatles, but I dearly love the Stones too.

WHAT IS THE FARTHEST YOU HAVE BEEN FROM HOME?
China.

DO YOU HAVE A SPECIAL TALENT?
I have this move that ends with a swirl. Actually, I have a gift for music and languages.

WHERE WERE YOU BORN?
NYC

WHOSE ANSWERS ARE YOU LOOKING FORWARD TO GETTING BACK?
Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, but I donÂ’t think heÂ’s a reader.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 08:43 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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We don't leave until Thursday, but I can barely contain myself. I simply can't imagine having to wait another 48 hours to be on vacation.

I reserved my car today. Each time I go to Vegas, I rent a dream car. For a guy like me, Vegas wouldn't be Vegas if I didn't spend some time behind the wheel of a decent car. Decent meaning:
1) The car must be a coupe, hard top or 'vert is irrelevant.
2) The car must be a sports car, not a Mustang, Camaro, Seabring, Solara, or any of the other useless but oxymoronically ubiquitous designs.
3) The car must be rare. Something you don't see everyday, and definitely something you can't rent at your local Rent-A-Wreck.

My choice this time came down to two finalists, a Shelby Cobra and a Lotus Elise. I ended up going with the Lotus for a couple reasons. Firstly, I feel it's going to handle better through Red Rock Canyon better than the Cobra might. The front engine design and overall power to weight ratio of the Shelby is going to make it a little squirrely in the turns. Not to mention it's probably not going to have the balance the Lotus will. So Lotus it is!

Definitely sprung for the extra insurance coverage too.

Posted by: shank at 08:11 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 221 words, total size 1 kb.

The Wife, RN: "...and that's okay, because I know I get on your nerves too sometimes."
shank: "Sweetheart, you never get on my nerves."
The Wife, RN: "You lying cuntass fucktard."
shank: "I love you too dear."
~ ~
(Dancing to romantic music)
shank: "Hey, it's going to be okay. Why are you crying? We're going to have kids and they're going to be fine!"
The Wife, RN (crying): "But what if our kid has an imperforate asshole?"
shank (falls over, laughing hysterically): "A what?" (choking laugher) "Wouldn't that be a blessing, considering his gaseous lineage!?"

Posted by: shank at 10:10 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
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Following is a list of what I consider to be some of the most overrated bands of the past few decades. Keep in mind that when I say, 'what I consider', you should just take as fact since I am seldom wrong and 99% of my opinions are just plain right. That said, in no particular order, let's continue.

10 - The Doors. I know what you're thinking - they had that Light My Fire song that was so catchy and Jim was so handsome before he met Meg Ryan and got fat and no one appreciated what a genius he was 'cause he talked to dead indians and shamans and whatnot and was like, totally enlightened. He was on a higher plane than the rest of us, dude.

Bullshit. Jim Morrison was a pompous, drug-addled jackass who thought his lyrics were oh-so-profound. Guess what Jimmy? They are, if you're wrecked on eight hits of acid and a quart of Jim Beam. Otherwise, not-so-much. Listen to The End. I mean come on. Could you be any more pretentious? If he didn't die fucked up and bloated in a bath tub, he would have been a Vegas lounge act in five years when he ran out of money. All in all, a piece of shit human being who got blown out of all proportion because of an ignorant, gullible generation in the absolute worst decade of the century. Die hippy!

9 - The NY Dolls. I've never heard one of their songs. Ever. How influential could they have been if I've never heard any of their songs? Plus, there's that David Johansen idiot who became Buster Pointerdexter. What an ass. Also, I think they dressed in drag. Another strike against them. That's just what I want to hear is a bunch of fucked up, screaming drag queens. 'Nuff said.

8 - Def Lepard - three words: one armed drummer.

7 - Neil Young - If you castrated a Canadian, that's what Neil Young sounds like. He gets bonus points for being really, really ugly. And would it kill him to wash his hair once in a while? What was Crosby, Stills and Nash thinking? That's like adding Snoop Dog to the Three Tenors.

6 - Pink Floyd. The only way you can even listen to Pink Floyd is if you're loaded on quaaludes and pot. Like comfortably numb, dude. Bonus points for having a crazy guy in the band. Pink Floyd is the Moody Blues suffering from severe depression.

5 - The Eagles - The country-rock version of Insync. Packaged, vapid, formulaic pap. You idiots ate it up. You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave. And they knew it.

4 - ZZ Top - they had long breads and twirled their guitars...and???? They had two hits and both sucked. Every song sounds the same. But I guess they did have the long beards.

3 - Bruce Springsteen. I absolutely despise the man. He has a grating, annoying voice and his band sucks. Clarence Thomas was a mediocre hack saxophonist and the drummer, Sam Weinstein was horrible. But everyone said they were great. Profound, thoughtful lyrics, they said! How would you know? You couldn't understand a word he said. And he was from New Jersey. Did you know that there was a petition to make Born To Run the state song? That's right - a song about getting the hell out of New Jersey was going to be the state song for New Jersey. And you wonder why it has the reputation it does.

2 - Guns 'N Roses - people actually liked this band. A lot. I'm speechless. A greasy tattoed pussy and his mad hatter side kick. No talent, drug addict, stupid, greasy, losers. Did I mention greasy?

1 - The Beatles. Jesus. Everybody says they are the greatest band ever in the history of the galaxy and before there was a galaxy. Pre-God. Really? This is the band that wrote Yellow Submarine and Oh-Blah-Di. Wha??? Yeah, they had some good songs but were they great? I can't tell anymore I've heard them so much. Frankly, I've had it with the Beatles.

One question though - why would Paul McCartney marry a woman with one leg? I mean, with all that money, wouldn't you want a whole person? And they were the friggin' Beatles for fucksake. You couldn't do better than Yoko Ono and Linda McCartney and then a one-legged lady? That infuriates me. They could have had any women in the world. They could have had threesomes for the rest of their lives and never with the same two women and they chose Yoko and Linda. That's just wrong. And that's why The Beatles are the most overrated band ever.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 10:42 AM | Comments (13) | Add Comment
Post contains 807 words, total size 4 kb.

Dear Neighbors-
Hi! We're the young couple that just moved in down the street. You know, the ugly house. The rental with the patchy lawn and the wrinkled asphalt driveway.

Look, I know what you're going to say; but there's no way in Satan's searing Hell that I'm getting my paper-pushing ass out in the 90-degree heat to walk around behind a fertilizer spreader. Sorry. Besides, it's not like it's killing the property values around here. Don't get me wrong, if it was my own place I'd be out there doing it, because it probably bugs me almost as much as it bugs you. But let's be honest, this place is too goddamned ugly for anyone to actually buy. That's why it's a rental.

Thanks!
The Ugly House People

P.S. Thanks to the folks at 2907 for the pallets! Yeah, we snagged 'em from your garbage pile because they make great fuel for the fire pit in the backyard. If anyone else ever has any, feel free to give us a holler and we'll come pick them up!

Posted by: shank at 03:48 PM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
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Global Warming = Cats Getting Lots of Ass

I gotta call shenanigans on this tripe. Cats balling other cats with abandon is not a function of global warming so much as it's a function of cat owners not following the advice of Bob Barker.

Sometimes, that HoverRound just ain't got enough balls.
Apparently, it's so boring in Paw Paw, Michigan (who woulda thunk it?) that wheelchair-bound guys are riding around mounted to the front grilles of passing trucks. Yee-Haw! I love how the dude isn't even phased; "It was quite a ride." That, my friends, is the statement of a repeat offender.

Paris Hilton, the human punchline.
Paris, probably the most widely despised criminal in recent history, has been sent home due to 'medical issues' after serving only 5 days of her (reduced) sentance of 23. Al Sharpton is all up in arms about racial and economic favoritism. Al, let's be honest here bro, exactly what in the hell did you think was going to happen? You can't honestly tell me you're suprised by this turn of events. Personally, I'm intensely curious about this generic 'medical problem'. Are we talking about simple Blackberry Withdrawal? Or the existing condition of, how do I say this, Chronic and Incapacitating Mental 'Lethargy' that Paris seems to suffer from? Or could it be that she just got the crap beat out of her so bad that she had to go home. My professional medical opinion is that a bar of soap and a tube sock would probably do considerable damage to someone who weighs in at roughly six and a half pounds.

Posted by: shank at 11:41 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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I’m not much of a cook. That’s an understatement, actually. There is almost nothing that I can successfully cook. I dry out eggs from fear of sammy. I burn almost anything that needs to be fried or sautéed. Things tend to be charcoal on the outside and raw in the middle. A few months ago I bought a digital meat thermometer; I thought that would really help but it hasn’t. I’d poke it onto something and all the juice would come out and the thing would read “rare” or I would get no reading at all. Then a few minutes later I’d do it again and it would say “well” and be completely dried out.

I never fared any better on the grill. IÂ’d watch some cooking shows and I learned a little bit, things like cold meat sticks to a hot grill, but for the most part, IÂ’ve ruined a lot of good meat. What makes this all worse is the fact that IÂ’m somewhat of a gourmand. I know a lot about food. The fact that I know what I want and what I like and canÂ’t cook it is starting to wear thin on me. Not that IÂ’m going to start making complex reductions from veal bones or anything, but I should be able to grill a steak without destroying the damned thing.

Last month we decided to get a new grill and I finally fired it up this week. We got a couple of NY Strips and some potatoes and gave it a go. The first thing I notices was if you light this grill and close the lid the thing goes up to 600 degrees really, really fast. My old grill never really got hot enough. So I brushed a little olive oil on them so they wouldnÂ’t stick, some salt and pepper and threw them on. I closed the lid and watched the temperature gauge go back to 600 degrees. When I opened the lid a few minutes later they looked like they were ready to be turned. I flipped them and gave it a few more minutes at 600.

They were perfect. Turns out it wasnÂ’t me after all. You just need to get that bastard up to 600 degrees and keep the lid closed.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 08:53 AM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
Post contains 392 words, total size 2 kb.

Adult suburbia is a lot like high school.

I pick my kid up from dancing lessons and other events. IÂ’m forced to attend the odd birthday parties as well, and IÂ’m here to tell you that high school behavior is alive and well, long after your CamaroÂ’s been sold for scrap.

When I pick my kid up from dancing I am always the only man there. The gaggle of mothers all look up when I walk in and then go back to talking amongst themselves. None of them will look me in the eye. I always nod and smile because IÂ’m polite. They all look away. After a few minutes a couple of them will start staring at me when they think IÂ’m not looking. And I mean stare. Like I have two heads.

Most of them pretend IÂ’m not there at all. Like I give a shit. Every once in a while IÂ’ll look up quickly and catch one of them staring at me and they panic and look away. This goes on week after week. Are they threatened by me? Are they wondering why their own worthless husbands canÂ’t contribute a little more? IÂ’ll probably never know. They have a definite pecking order as well. In fact a couple of the women are ignored as well.

Anyway, a friend of the family started taking her kid to the same dance school and now I have someone to talk to when I show up, much to the dismay of the other mothers. They are clearly pissed off by my talking to this woman. What they really need to do is relax and develop some damned social graces.

The only difference between this situation and high school is the frump factor. And a cloud of dope smoke. Most of these broads look like theyÂ’ve had the life beaten out of them. A few keep in shape but most are pretty far gone, and theyÂ’re younger than I am. Maybe thatÂ’s where the hostility comes from.

The same thing happens when IÂ’m forced to go to a birthday party. I walk in and either all conversation stops or they pretend IÂ’m not there. Like theyÂ’re punishing me. Do these broads think I like going to these things? Do they think I want to share theyÂ’re company? Maybe get a play date going or something? Because IÂ’m here to tell you broads something. I donÂ’t like you. I donÂ’t want to talk to you. I donÂ’t want to see you in those horrifying clothes you wear. The sweat pants and the saggy-baggy old crap thatÂ’s hanging off of you. You all need to get your fucking hair done, learn to put on some makeup that wasnÂ’t purchased in a Northern New Jersey drugstore and learn to sit up straight.

These women look at me like I have two heads and theyÂ’re the ones that look like they slept on the floor in their clothes all night. TheyÂ’re the ones that better not get a divorce because itÂ’s going to be CAT CITY for them.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 05:05 PM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
Post contains 522 words, total size 3 kb.

I was just at the grocery store and I saw a famous guy. An actor, to be specific. Except I don't know his name.

It's similar to having a song in your head, but not knowing the name of it; except worse, because I can't offer anything up that would describe him to anyone. I'll try though.

He's a medium build guy, short curly hair that's dark, with just a few tinges of gray maybe. He's probably between 40 and 50. He's got square facial features. Not angled like Dolf Lundgren, but maybe more of a Harvey Keitel. The bottom of his face, the jawline and chin; seem wider than the rest of his face. And just a tad younger than harvey.

I can't remember a single movie he's in, but I don't remember seeing him ever smile. He's got a raspy voice, not too gravelly, just kind of a whiskey sort of tone. I've got this flash memory of him being some gritty kind of character who projects a lot of anger. Not crazy, energetic anger; but kind of simmering powerful anger. Can't remember what movie or a scene I saw that in or anything; but he was definitely so pissed he was kind of sweating a little. God, this is horrible isn't it?

Posted by: shank at 06:31 PM | Comments (9) | Add Comment
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Heading back to Vegas the middle of this month. My cousin and some other folks are all turning 30 and they wanted to do it out there. It's going to be good times.

They all want to go eat at one of these fancy tapas bars on Saturday night. Hey, I enjoy great food as much as the next guy; but I don't give a rats ass about exotic garnish and funny-shaped plates. And furthermore, why the hell would someone go to a restraunt that sells you food that other people can eat of your plate? I guess as long as the sangria is flowing we won't have any problems. But I'm not sure, because I've never had sangria. I'm hoping this fruity joint sells PBR or something just in case.

My favorite hole in the wall joint in Vegas is this place called the Stage Door. It's this total dump on Flamingo, nestled in the shadow of the Flamingo Hotel and Casino. You can get a beer and a hotdog for $2.

Go down to the end of the block at Flamingo and Koval and there's Ellis Island. Less divey, but they've got an outdoor barbecue and $7 dinner plates that could feed a small family. They give you like half a chicken and four sides. It's ridiculous. I suggest the ribs.

There's a tond of other places, but I'd hate to give away any real treasures.

Posted by: shank at 06:34 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
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Pizza that's been in the fridge for several hours is always better than pizza that's just been delivered; it's even better than pizza that's just come out of the oven.

I've heard many of the tired old hypotheses that attempt to explain the phenomena; but I prefer to believe that it's a mystery so pure and profound that we should just appreciate it as one of life's beautiful little idiosyncrasies.

Behold. Left over pizza!

Posted by: shank at 02:59 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 80 words, total size 1 kb.

For the last two years, IÂ’ve been working in the illustrious bartending field. Slinging drinks to help drown the sorrows of the downtrodden, depressed, and occasionally the pathetic. During these past two years, I have accumulated a wealth of stories, some funny, some scary, most entertaining.

A few years ago, around the holidays, I had a “first” experience. It was a busy night, the bar was packed. It was that magical frenzy time between Thanksgiving and Christmas, the time when retail pressures and family dysfunction are at their peak. A couple of military types saunter into the bar (I know they were military b/c of their short haircuts, drill sergeant walk, and Government Issue ID’s). They proceed to imbibe copious amounts of Bud Light and Jager Bombs.

For those of you blissfully unaware of what a Jager Bomb is, it is a shot built on a base of Jagermeister, a liquor that tastes like a blend of cough syrup and black liquorice, which is served chilled. Added to this vile liquid is Red Bull, that sickly sweet, bull testicle hormone “energy” drink. This concoction is then thrown down the gullet and chased with a beer, mainly to scrape the overwhelming sweetness remaining on the back of your tounge.

Now, these lovely, salt of the earth military boys drink several Bud Lights and Jager Bombs throughout the night. They are getting tipsy, but behaving, so I continue to pour. They order two more, I pour, serve and liberate them of their $12 (yeah, 6 bucks a pop!). I return with their change just as they set their shot cups on the bar. One of the guys looks at me funny. I see the pale green color creep into his cheeks and I jump back- 2 seconds too late. He returned that Jager Bomb, along with a few beers and some semblance of chicken or pasta. All over the bar, and yours truly.

In shock, thinking about all the nasty bugs you can catch from the body fluids of others, I hose myself off, then bleach down the bar. Meanwhile, lines are beginning to form as other bar patrons have guzzled down their own drinks and are impatiently waiting for refills.

I finish wiping the bar down and the vomit comet asks me, very politely, “Can I get two more bud lights?”

Bewildered I look at him. “No, I think you’re cut off now”.

Posted by: Singultus at 03:31 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
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Okay, it's been 6 years over two vehicles but I'm finally ready to stand up and admit it. I am a minivan driver. I'm not saying I'm a truck driver stuck in a minivan or an SUV aficionado forced into minivandom by circumstances. I am an actual, honest to God, confirmed and anointed minivan driver.

I sit high up and can actually see what's going on around me. I live in Atlanta - on these roads you need this height just to hit par. Whenever I rent a car I feel like I'm an ant lost in SUVland.

I can take 7 friends or family (or occasionally work folk) 300 miles in any direction without stopping. I can tow shit. I can strap stuff on the roof without running rope through my windows.

E.L.F. does not light minivans on fire.

While the advantages are obvious there are admittedly a couple of problems. First, it's a minivan. Although my engine is bigger than the recycled sedan engines in comparably sized neo-trucks I will never get street cred. It is next to impossible to look cool with one arm at 12 o'clock, the other out the window and Nickelback blaring on the speakers when all of that is happening in a minivan.

There's also this blind spot at the passenger's side rear. I'm used to a blind spot on the driver's side and have learned to compensate for that over 20 years of driving. I still have problems with the one on the passenger's side though. It's a monster on my particular type of minivan - big enough to hide a Labrador Retriever in.

So anyway, my question is ... How do you tell your kids that their favorite pet is dead?

Posted by: Jim at 06:35 PM | Comments (7) | Add Comment
Post contains 296 words, total size 2 kb.

So I walk into the bathroom at work and someone had just taken an unusually foul poo. Since I was little I always thought that if you smell someone else's shit, the noxious odor got into your body and would someday give you a disease. Call it fecal cancer or whatever. So whenever I walk into a bathroom, I hold my breath so I don't get this disease that I made up. I'm 42 now and I still do the same thing. I'm positive I'll get fecal cancer if I don't hold my breath. And it's really only strangers poo that causes it. That's my rule. Hey, it's my disease so I make the rules.

Speaking of crap, me and the wife have codes for different things. For instance, we were at a party once and there was only one very small half bath downstairs and that's where everyone was supposed to go and relieve themselves. This tiny bathroom is right off the dining room where the food was being served. So this guy named Fred decides he's going to take a big honking stinky in this tiny bathroom. I'm eating some chicken parm, I hear the toilet flush and out comes Fred with all his stink. I almost puked up the parm. So now, in our house, we have a tiny half bath downstairs. And we've made a rule: there is absolutely NO Fredding in the downstairs bath. This guy is now a verb.

Another code - Walt=booger. Me and the wife once temped at the same company. Our boss was named Walt and for the whole 6 months we worked there he had the same honkin' booger in his left nostril. Apparently, no one in his family saw it. Or at least they never told him about it. And neither did anyone at work. Day in and day out, he always had the same booger. So now, whenever either of us has a booger that we aren't aware of, we'll say, "Honey, uh, Walt". That means it's time to go somewhere private with a mirror and start picking your nose.

Happy Memorial Day!

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 09:17 AM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
Post contains 359 words, total size 2 kb.

So recently the company I work for signed a contract for a large purchase. We spent just under one year shopping vendors, whittling down our top choices, and then negotiating with each one. This afternoon I sat down with 2 other guys from my company and the sales rep for the company we decided to go with. The first thing I notice about the sales rep (and something that has always bugged me about him) was his goddamned dirty fucking fingernails.

Listen asshole, if we're going to make a six million dollar purchase with you, clean your god forsaken fingernails! What the hell is wrong with you? This dipshit is taking home comission on six mils and he doesn't even bother to take a goddamned shower before he shows up? What the ever loving hell is up with that? Fuckin' ell! I make a fraction of what this toady bastard hauls in every year and even I can manage to keep myself clean!

We buy capital fuckin' assets from Pigpen. I'm on the wrong side of the business.

Posted by: shank at 03:42 PM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
Post contains 184 words, total size 1 kb.

1 You think that's bad? It turns out that our rep for my last big software purchase is Canadian. Canadian!!

Posted by: Jim at May 25, 2007 07:19 PM (oqu5j)

2 Finally the money is comin' up north muthafackas!!

Posted by: Oorgo at May 28, 2007 12:03 PM (ZUQGo)

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My life is cluttered with useless people and mindless chores.

Yesterday someone was hovering in my office doorway while I was working on something complex. I couldnÂ’t lose my place and I was trying to finish something before looking up.

“Am I bothering you?” they asked.

“Not yet,” I said.

It had the desired effect. I glanced up and saw that the person had no idea how to reply to that. DidnÂ’t know whether to flee or not. And they cut right to the chase and it was fairly painless for me. People usually stand there and try to talk about some TV show or something before they get around to asking me the question they came in for. I guess itÂ’s an attempt at bonding.

I donÂ’t fraternize at work. I have a professional life and a private life and never shall they meet. IÂ’m very polite, but I donÂ’t share, bond, relate or participate in small talk. I smile a lot. IÂ’m courteous. IÂ’m professional most of the time unless someone invokes my anger with stupidity above and beyond the standard that I have come to expect.

I can’t personally take credit for the “Not yet” line. I saw it or read it somewhere, but I’ve been dying to put it to use.

In other news, Bill has already vanished, having exhausted his repertoire of items that have been inserted up his ass.

IÂ’ve been watching The Tudors, a new series on Showtime about Henry the 8th and Ann Boleyn. Very entertaining. I had no idea how popular doggy style sex was amongst the royal court was back then.

IÂ’m also taken with the show Cash in the Atticon BBC America. ThatÂ’s where an antiques expert goes to someoneÂ’s house and rummages through all their shit to find stuff to sell at auction. Then just before the auction the idiots set reserves twice as high as the value of the item and nothing sells. ItÂ’s amazing though, the amount of Victorian and Edwardian furniture people have lying around in England. All made of walnut, mahogany and oak. And the stuff sells for less than I paid for a coffee table in a middle range furniture store. My wife now wants to visit England just for the auctions.

IÂ’ve never been to an auction but I really need to go just for the material. People touching their noses and shit to bid versus the people holding up giant placards with their number on it. People hiding in the back and then jumping out at the end for a bid just before the hammer strikes. IÂ’m fascinated by that stuff.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 04:04 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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I've lived in both Oakland and San Diego; the proverbial arm pit and sun tanned breast of California respectively. I thoroughly enjoyed both. I've got family out in the O.C. I've got friends peppered up and down the coast. I've always kept California near the top of my list of places I'd be willing to move to. But after this morning? Not so much.

The Scene: I'm in the kitchen making coffee. Lovely Wife is outside in the car port.

Lovely Wife: Listen to the warning on this label: "Warning: This product contains a chemical known to the state of California to cause cancer and birth defects and other reproductive harm."

Me: What is it? Cleanser?

Lovely Wife: A fishing pole.

Me: A fishing pole?

Lovely Wife: Yeah. A fishing pole.

Me: A fishing pole that causes cancer and birth defects?

Lovely Wife: Yeah. But only in California.

So there it is. If I can't fish there I can't live there and I'm not going to take the chance of catching birth defects from my fishing pole. Sorry, California. You're off the list.

Posted by: Jim at 08:38 AM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
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So yet another kid popped up in the neighborhood who is lactose intolerant. And it got me thinking. No, not about how every other kid born in the last 15 years is either allergic, asthmatic, AD, AH, AHD, AHAD, DAHA, HAHA or in some other way socially and genetically inferior to kids from my generation. I was thinking about tolerance itself. Somebody who is lactose intolerant can like dairy products just fine but they just can't stand them physically. Except that this isn't usually how it goes. The real skinny is that people use "whatever intolerance" as a way to avoid things they don't like while casting themselves as sufferers.

If that doesn't have "PC gift from above to all politicians" written all over it then I don't know what does. Expect to see some of these in the soon to be inescapable campaign barrage:

* Senator Byrd's days in the KKK weren't really his fault. He had a bad case of blacktose intolerance.
* Hillary isn't frigid. She's just fuktose intolerant.
* Speaking of which...it's not Monica's fault that she didn't swallow. She is spunktose intolerant.
* Kennedy isn't a boozer. He's sobrose intolerant.
* Obama isn't myopic. He is cluetose intolerant.
* Jesse Jackson? As bad a case of truthtose intolerance as I've ever seen. Well...next to Bill Clinton anyway.

Yeah, I think I'm on to something here. Anybody else detect 'ose intolerance out there? more...

Posted by: Jim at 05:42 PM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
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So I looked up an old buddy the other day, because I hadn't heard from him in forever, right? One of my old roomies from grad school. He was a pretty cool guy: funny, educated, well paid, liked to have fun. He was really good with technology, and had a lock on all the latest downloads: DVD's, XBoX games, software. You name it the kid had it, sometimes before they were released. I asked him at one point how he did it. I mean, can you imagine getting a peice of that action? But he would always dismiss my inquiry with some nonchalant smirky remark. The stingy bastard.

Anyways, about halfway through the second year of the program (at this point I was already living with She Who Would Become The Wife), he said his work schedule was changing and he'd be absent from class, but they'd still let him finish the degree. That was the last time I saw the kid.

I'd give him a phone call every now and then about going to get some drinks or play a par three or something; but I never got an answer. Eventually the phone number was disconnected. I mean, I never even saw the kid around town either.

So the other day I figured I'd see what I could dig up. Knowing he was affiliated with our graduate program and at least one other, as well as a multi-national employer and a highly regarded professional association; I assumed it's be easy enough to just google his full name. Wouldn't you know, that set of words yielded two full pages of hits - all about the same thing.

Something called Operation Site Down.

It seems my buddy's dowloading habits had gotten the attention of the United States Department of Justice, specifically an attorney out in Cali. He was indicted just before the spring semester started that year, and sentanced some weeks thereafter. To several months of house arrest and a fine that makes your average car loan look like a bar tab. His PC, laptop, cell phone, and all the copied product were confiscated.

I was surprised that it'd all turned out like that, but at the same time everything fit together: the timeline, the hundreds of bootlegs laying around the house. It's one of those things you hear about but never really see.

But I am really glad he never told me how to get in on it; because having a felony offense on your background check doesn't really put your resume on the top of the pile.

Posted by: shank at 04:34 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
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