I really appreciated the emails, trivial as they might seem. Today, I'm in an unsually good humor; probably because of all that light beer I drank last night. Turned me into a right pussy I'd imagine. At any rate, I decided to make a note of the folks who sent me Friday Greetings, and say a nice little blurb about them. I figure it's a nice thing to do (see! Unusually good humor. Odd), plus my blogging consultant once told me that "everyone likes to see their name in lights". Yes, I have a blogging consultant. I didn't develop from 20six.co.uk to SBD in a year because I'm charming (obviously), it's just good management.

Victor - Vic really loves rats. Granted, rats may seem a little grody to some of you, but a life without passion is no life at all. Besides, anyone who can set aside the social stigma and love the hell out of some rats probably ain't a bullshitter; and as Martha would say "That's a good thing." Now get over to his site and help him win a bucket of Iowa crap.

Tiffani - Tiffani is probably a hottie. With a name like Tiffani you just can't go wrong. Additionally, Tiffani leaves her work email attached to her comments, plus she puts her work signature at the bottom of her emails. Tiffani is an unabashed office blogger. A hot, (possibly) well-dressed, office blogger. I'd hit it.

Posted by: shank at 04:29 PM | Comments (5) | Add Comment
Post contains 248 words, total size 2 kb.

IÂ’m old enough to remember when office Christmas parties were actually fun. Most people would get themselves all liquored up and do incredibly stupid things. Like make out with coworkers, vomit in front of the VPs and blurt out inappropriate comments about all kinds of stuff they'd later reget. Unfortunately, those days are over.

“Gone are the nights of photocopying one's bare buttocks, groping interns and hauling home a gift bag full of goodies.” more...

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 02:43 PM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
Post contains 359 words, total size 2 kb.

ItÂ’s that time of year again. In order to make things easy on you, and insure that I get exactly what I want, I offer the following shopping guide:

I need some decent earphones for the iPod. The stock earphones are uncomfortable and lack the required dynamic range for maximum enjoyment.

Sony Fontopia MDR-EX70LP Earphones
Price: $49.99

These are available online from many retailers so order now to avoid an uncomfortable wait on my part.

IÂ’d also like something to help me wind down from a hard day at work. ThereÂ’s an add-on to Rome Total War, the video game I have driven into the ground. ItÂ’s called Barbarian Invasion Expansion Pack, $24.99 on Amazon.

If you could make these two happen IÂ’d be happy.

Aside from that, you could always make a deposit into my ‘special account’ at the bank, you know the account number.

Last, but certainly not least, can we just buy this damned thing and get it over with? I swear by all that is holy that you can drive it on Saturdays.

Please have the courtesy to make a similar list for me. We donÂ’t want a replay of the shoe incident, do we?

True Story (from my original blog):

The womenÂ’s shoe store. We were Christmas shopping together and she took me in and pointed them out. I looked down at them.

"Look closely."

"Okay," I said.

"Do you see the heel?" she asked.

"Yes, I see it."

"And the toe? See the difference?" She held up another shoe.

"Don't worry. I understand."

We left the mall. Several days later I went Christmas shopping alone. I had bought her every gift on her list. Only the shoes remained. I went back to the store, back to the exact spot where the shoes were. But they all looked the same.

Granted, I tend to tune out when people talk to me. I'm in my own world most of the time. I guess I wasn't paying attention. And now I'm looking down at these shoes and every pair looks the same. I tried to guess the exact spot I was standing in when she showed them to me, thinking I might find the right ones by dead reckoning, but I had no distinct landmarks. Meanwhile, it's a few days before Christmas and the place was packed. These things were flying out of there. Women were grabbing shoes and holding them up over their heads yelling sizes. I had been at the mall for a long time. I was hungry. I was tired. I had no hope. I picked a pair and bought them. I was certain I had narrowed it down to two pair and I chose one.

Fast-forward to Christmas day. All the presents opened except for one box. She opened the box and took out a shoe. Not only was it the wrong one, but it was the one she used as example of what she specifically did not want. She went berserker. I thought at one point that she would actually beat me with the shoe.

That was about five years ago. She still reminds me of it constantly. She uses it as an example when she points things out in stores now. And every time she brings it up, it is with the same intensity as that first time when she opened the box.

You really can't imagine.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 09:43 AM | Comments (13) | Add Comment
Post contains 574 words, total size 3 kb.

1 Man my wife does the same thing. They just don't know when to let go. I still hear about the time I was drunk in college and crawled in bed with the wife's roommate. Really it was an honest mistake. I took a left at the top of the stairs instead of a right. Yet every time I go our drinking, it's "you'd best not go crawling in someone else's bed". yap, yap, yap.... It's been at least seven years sense that little event.

Posted by: phin at December 09, 2005 10:09 AM (Xvpen)

2 THEY? Ok...time for a beating....

Posted by: The Brat at December 09, 2005 10:50 AM (oqu5j)

3 Hey Phin, if your wife crawled in bed with some dude, she'd still be on house arrest to this day. Yada yada say what you want, you know it's true. As for you Paul, the shoe incident lives on only in your warped little brain. I had forgotten that you had even ever bought me a fucking pair of shoes. I have no requests for Christmas. Give me nothing. Even you should be able to handle that.

Posted by: Quality Lady at December 09, 2005 11:43 AM (fz+XU)

4 I still get nervous around shoe stores and holidays and that's a fact. Look, let's not get all crazy. Especially in a public forum. I'm begging you here...please make a Christmas list.

Posted by: Paul at December 09, 2005 11:50 AM (vbP6L)

5 Ewwww. This is an ugly situation. Best left to private conversation... don't drag the ugliness of a bad shoe purchase into the lime light.

Posted by: Wendy at December 09, 2005 12:53 PM (A6nHr)

6 Hell no......I'll stick my nose into it any time.Someone just HAS to beat up these damn idiots. Ok.........time to hide....

Posted by: The Brat at December 09, 2005 01:21 PM (oqu5j)

7 That is why I buy my own shoes. Well...one of the reasons the other is that I buy shoes on a weekly basis. I have a thing for them.

Posted by: Tiffani at December 09, 2005 01:37 PM (KE4Gu)

8 Pretty sad anyways if you want others to buy them for ya and then ungratefully bitch if they are not the right ones.LOL THAT fact right there would me never ever give that person a damn single thing ever again/

Posted by: The Brat at December 09, 2005 02:05 PM (oqu5j)

9 I'd like a big bottle of gin, the world's largest lime, and a highball glass. Merry fucking christmas. Hahaha, j/k. All the shit I want for christmas is on the wedding registries (BB&B and Amazon). But the thing I REALLY want is this motor swap. Damn that shit's gonna be sweet.

Posted by: shank at December 09, 2005 04:22 PM (jfEhX)

10 Someone is actually willing to marry you? I am impressed.*applauding* Ahum.....sorry.....Gin,eh? Any brand preferences?Wouldn't want you to be all disapointed and stuff,ya know...

Posted by: The Brat at December 09, 2005 04:48 PM (oqu5j)

11 Bombay Saphire > All

Posted by: shank at December 09, 2005 05:50 PM (jfEhX)

12 Did you really think I would give you anything fro Christmas???????????????????

Posted by: The Brat at December 10, 2005 01:16 AM (oqu5j)

13 You need a cell phone that takes pictures for Christmas.

Posted by: CanuckFlash at December 13, 2005 02:28 PM (SVlYg)

Hide Comments | Add Comment

Just used this handy little utility to put up shank's email addy* in spamproofed format. It's over there on the sidebar in the "Authors" section now.

If you want to put your email address out there for people to use but hide it from spambots I strongly recommend running it through an encoder first. This one is the best that I've found.

* Everybody should send him a happy greeting.
Right now.
Really.
Copy me on it and I'll give you a Snooze Point**.

** Offer limited to one point per person. Void where prohibited by law. Odds of winning are approximately 1 to 1. Offer expires when shank threatens me with bodily harm.

Posted by: Jim at 06:20 AM | Comments (9) | Add Comment
Post contains 118 words, total size 1 kb.

So, as much as I hate to say it - they should let Tookie Williams live. Yes, he killed four people, yes he was a bad motherMM-MM back in the day. He's completely given up that life though, and has committed himself to destroying the glorified gangster image. Who knows how many people he could positively effect. He's certainly made an impact on many already. Yes, he will never be able to erase gang life or the Crips from the urban environment. But you know, maybe that's his real punishment. Knowing what he created, trying to destroy it, and knowing he'll never succeed.

The Miami Airport bomb incident - Lessons Learned:
1. Don't travel anywhere with a loved one who's off their meds - unless they're bound and gagged in the backseat and you're on the way to the doctor's office.
2. Don't yell "I have a bomb", unless you're looking for a permanent solution.
3. The only way to get blood off of the carpeting in a jetway is cold water, an oxidizing detergent, and light scrubbing with a bristle brush.

Additionally, any man who wouldn't sleep with Ann Coulter lives a life FAR too driven by prinicple, and not enough penis representation on the conscience committee.

And Iran's new president, whose name I won't waste the time trying to correctly spell, believes not only that Israel is a "tumor" on the middle eastern map, but further alludes to the idea that the Holocaust never happened. How do these people get into leadership positions? Muslim nations want to be taken seriously in the modern world, but they elect leaders with this kind of twisted worldview?

Also, hit CNN, some plane just crashed the shit out of an intersection in Chi-town. Relish this, because events don't usually get that current here at SBD.

Furthermore - has anyone noticed the duality of SBD? Silent But Deadly? Snooze Button Dreams? Oh yeah, you're thinkin' it, I know ya are.
more...

Posted by: shank at 09:39 PM | Comments (6) | Add Comment
Post contains 455 words, total size 3 kb.

Last night I was forced to sit through an episode of AmericaÂ’s Next To Model. I was offended on so many levels.

I donÂ’t know what the hell the world has come to but IÂ’m embarrassed by it. And rather than waste my time and yours describing why I hate this show, IÂ’ll simply make a better offer.

AmericaÂ’s Next Top Plumber.

Instead of being hosted by some daft model (I refuse to use the term supermodel) it will be hosted by a plumber. A really successful plumber, who will give the candidates advice on winning, and on plumbing in general. You know, so AmericaÂ’s young people know what to expect as they try to realize their dream, because plumbing is a cut-throat business.

“It’s all about how you load the truck, Bobby. You need to know exactly where those fittings are. You can’t just throw 2” fittings in with the 1” fittings. It just won’t work.”

And instead of getting runway instruction from a large black man dressed like a woman and wearing a hat constructed from waxed fruit, the contestants will be given help in specific areas of plumbing application and general public courtesies. The contestants will visit a uniform consultant and will be fitted for appropriate work clothing. Butt cracks will be eliminated. Tools must be kept clean. Taking sports action from customers would be frowned upon.

Weekly competitions will vary, but may include:

Proper installation (and pronunciation) of a bidet
Changing out a residential toilet
Commercial urinal replacement
Snaking a line clogged up by tampons
Septic tank leak repair

I donÂ’t know if I could actually sell this treatment to network, but IÂ’m certain that I could sell my next idea. That entailÂ’s combining the two shows. YouÂ’d have some hot chicks learning how to install copper pipe. Tyra Banks would get to stay on as co-host. She could make sure the girls use the right kind of eye makeup and how to up-sell decorative faucets and sinks. On the flip side, weÂ’ll get a top-notch plumber that can really show these girls around a shitter. How to adjust a ball float, replacing the tank gaskets and changing-out the flapper.

IÂ’m thinking Fox would be all over this.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 10:29 AM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
Post contains 380 words, total size 2 kb.

1 Personally - I love it. As a plumbing supermodel myself, I would love to see some real competition in the field... It took me many years to achieve my greatness, and no one could do it overnight, but given the right "schooling" and such I think there could be some up-and-comers.

Posted by: Wendy at December 08, 2005 12:22 PM (FYcXB)

2 Must woman do everything these days that men are doing?Women are supposed to smell purdy not like a toilet or worse...septic tank.Gross! Shame on you! But they can keep the stupid Top and Super Model shows anyways....we already have enough dump,blond cheerleaders in the US. ;-)

Posted by: The Brat at December 08, 2005 12:45 PM (oqu5j)

3 I actually fucked a girl who was a plumber's apprentice when I was in college. Look, what can I say, slim pickin's. But I'll have you know this, I've never met another woman who could handle a pipe snake like her. Woo, those were the days

Posted by: shank at December 08, 2005 09:52 PM (jfEhX)

4 If the contestants were in bikinis and the "game" included some way for them to backstab each other it would be an instant hit.

Posted by: Jim at December 09, 2005 05:58 AM (oqu5j)

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It works both ways, you see.

Kettle robbery suspect found dead

Lee J. George has been mugging Salvation Army fund raisers (the folks with the kettle on a tripod and that annoying bell*) since November 28. On Monday they found him dead in his car, which was overturned and at the bottom of a creek.

* A kinder, gentler Army. This weekend we saw a bell ringer at Wally-World without a bell. She had a red sign with big white letters saying "Ding!".

Posted by: Jim at 04:01 PM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
Post contains 95 words, total size 1 kb.

Man, do I hate Ashton Kutcher.

Once in a blue moon IÂ’ll try to sit through an episode of PunkÂ’d when the remote is out of reach. I find it unbearable. How many times can they threaten to tow somebodyÂ’s car?

My dream is that someday when he comes running out at the end, grinning like a fucking idiot, the “celebrity” won’t know or care who he is and proceeds to beat the living shit out of him. I’m talking on the ground, trying to cover his face and head while somebody’s posse keeps on kicking and kicking him.

At least IÂ’m honest.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 04:28 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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ItÂ’s been more than a week now and I have not smoked. One thing nobody told me is that when you stop smoking, you lose the ability to poop. Well, IÂ’m here to tell you, if you stop smoking you will stop pooping.

My other addiction is still raging out of control. iTunes. I canÂ’t stop downloading songs. It always starts off innocently enough. I just listen to the 30 second sample. But, shit, to me, thatÂ’s like snorting heroin. ItÂ’s not enough to keep the buzz going. I need the full-on injection.

I find myself reliving my youth through iTunes. I seek out various obscure songs from my youth that invoke memories. Album sides that I used to make out to. Songs I was embarrassed to listen to even way back then.

IÂ’ve been downloading songs from iTunes for a long time. Hell, I didnÂ’t even have an iPod when I started downloading. I remember the day someone first told me about it.

“You can kill hours there, man, just listening to 30 second clips of songs you haven’t heard in years.”

And it was true. By day three I was downloading songs and burning CDs the old fashioned way. It wasn’t long before I just gave up and bought the iPod. And now there’s no stopping it. I “need” the songs. I’m a musician and a music snob so I really go the extra mile to seek out remastered stuff—from classical and Jazz to The Pixies.

There ought to be some kind of twelve step program for this shit.

I guess we're all addicted to something.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 10:14 AM | Comments (6) | Add Comment
Post contains 284 words, total size 2 kb.

Last night we went to this local Asian market because we were cooking Thai with some friends. Apparently, between the leaving the market and getting into our car, the fiancee unknowingly drops her cell. About two hours later, we get ready to leave the house to meet our friends.

"Where's my phone?"
"Iono. Lemme ring your bling." I dial, the phone begins ringing. The fiancee runs hither and thither trying to find it or hear the ringing. Then someone picks up. It was a little weird.
"Heh-ro?" Thick Asian accent.
"Um. Where are you?" The fiancee is giving me the fish eye, she's only hearing my side of the convo, and she wants to know what's up. I'm now having two conversations with one mouth. "Someone has your phone."
Asian stranger: "I have your phone."
Me: "Yeah, um. Are you at the Saigon Market?"
Fiancee: "Who is it? Where are they?"
AS: "No, I have a meeting."
Me: "Can we meet you somewhere to pick up the phone?"
F: "Where will they meet us?"
AS: "What? I have a meeting?"
Me: "She has a meeting or something. I have no clue what she's saying. WE CAN MEET YOU AT THE SAIGON MARKET." I'm beginning to think some village in Korea or maybe on the high steppes of China has lost their idiot; an idiot who has managed to find this particular cell phone. I have an epihpany: When Rube Goldberg died, God made him fate's architect.
F: "What the fuck? She has a meeting? She's got my damn phone! We can meet her at her meeting." We begin speeding through the city streets toward the Asian market, just to see if the owner has it, or anyone said anything to her. I have a hunch it's probably not the owner of the market, but I'm willing to satisfy a little curiosity.
Me: "We can meet you at your meeting. Just tell us how to get there."
AS: "What? I can't hear you. Why do you need to come to my meeting?" She said it pleadingly, like, 'Why are you torturing me?' Almost like she was complaining.
Me: "Because you have our phone. Where can we meet you then?"
F: "She won't meet with us? Jesus! She's stealing my phone."
AS: "I can't meet you tonight. I have a meeting, it's going to be late. Call me tomorrow." She's still complaining, like a kid who wants some candy and you won't give it to them. She hangs up.

I look back at the fiancee and she's ratcheted up somewhere between 'Pissed' and 'Murderous Rage'. "That bitch won't give us the phone? Why the fuck did she answer then?" She's flying around corners, I think we just knocked a delivery boy off his moped. We're driving down the shoulder, straddling the curb. Pedestrians on the sidewalk throw their belongings in the air and dive out of the way. It's complete bedlam.

One of our friends calls me. "Dude, I just called your fiancee's cell, and some weird Chinese woman answered. She started asking me whose phone she was talking on."
Fiancee: "Who's that? Is that the bitch who stole my phone?" We fly through an intersection, narrowly missing a school bus, and pass an ambulance with it's lights flashing.
Me: "Asian."
Friend: "What?"
Me: "Nevermind. Yeah, some lady picked up her celly and now it's like, too much of a pain in her ass to give it back to us. I gotta call you back."
Friend: Laughing. "Ha! What? Well, good luck with that, the Chinese are a hard-bargaining people."
Me: "What?"
My friend hangs up on me. That's two hangups in a row.

We arrive at the Asian market and speak with the owner. She obvisouly doesn't have the phone, and no one said anything about it to her. She wishes us luck. Damn. Back in the car towards our friends' place.

We decide to call back the Asian Stranger who's falsely imprisoning our phone.
"Hi."
"Hello? This your phone?"
"Yeah, look we can meet you anywhere. We've got to have the phone back tonight." I begin to tell her a lie about us getting married tomorrow. I really get myself worked up good. She's ruining our wedding. Our day, you cold hearted beast, you. I imagine myself accepting an Oscar. I cry, I thank Jesus and my children. The music begins playing...
"I can't hear you. Fine. I meet you at ten."
"Okay, well, where at?"
Hangup number three for the evening. I'm having a swell half hour here.

The fiancee has finally peaked, and upon attaining 'Violently Irate', she begins spewing death threats, curses upon future descendants, plagues, and all manner of grotesque physical injuries. I try to call the cell back, but the Asian Stranger has turned the phone off. I mumble something about this newest development and we damn near slam into a telephone pole. The fiancee's anger is now so powerful, that it has become it's own entity. She has become so filled with rage that it begins to manifest itself physically. His name is apparently Vincenze. He calls himself a businessman in a way that makes me think he's a hitman. It's appropriate anyways.

We call periodically over the next few hours, just to see if maybe the Asian Stranger has gotten out of her meeting early. It's straight to the voicemail every time. We never hear back from the Asian Stranger.

We eventually went to the Cingular store this evening, having given up on ever seeing our little lost celly again. She got one of the Razor V3's. It's frickin' awesome, and I am highly jealous. I can't get an upgrade until January, maybe the fiancee will let me borrow hers until then. I promise to give it back.

Posted by: shank at 09:08 PM | Comments (5) | Add Comment
Post contains 975 words, total size 5 kb.

Five days ago I quit smoking. I canÂ’t adequately describe the discomfort, both mental and physical, that accompanies this endeavor. It really ratchets up the pressure. Last night I had a huge fight with my wife and demanded we start divorce proceedings. In the end I decided to just pick up my socks and put them in the hamper, which started the whole thing. I wish I was exaggerating. IÂ’ve got an uncomfortable patch on my ass that does absolutely nothing to stop the cravings.

IÂ’m thinking heroin might be a good substitute for nicotine at this point. At least heroin addicts get methadone.

On another note, IÂ’m anti-Podcast. All of a sudden everybodyÂ’s David Sedaris. Personally, I could never do it, even if I had something to say. In my case it would just be me reading my posts off a sheet of paper. Hemingway would never have gone in for that crap. Then again, he put his brains to the wall with a twelve gauge.

IÂ’ve listened to a few bloggers Podcast and it was universally depressing. Nothing to say, no style and no charisma. They were doing it simply because they could. Secondly, once I heard their voice it was over for me. Too squeaky. Too flat. Too slow or too fast. A dull monotone with no dynamics. It completely destroyed my image of them and put me off their writing. (IÂ’m not talking about you.) I know thatÂ’s wrong, but itÂ’s true.

Maybe I’m too old-fashioned. Or just too old. When I was growing up Abercrombie & Fitch sold fly fishing equipment. They sold clothes too, of course, but it was nice stuff. Kind of out-doorsy business casual clothes, but with more class than the khaki pants “uniform” most people are wearing now. I still have some nice ties from there. Now it caters almost exclusively to the FWRA (Future White Rappers of America) and I’m afraid to go in there without knowing the proper gang signs. Not that I would ever wear anything they’ve got nowadays. I’ve moved over to Brooks Brothers. I’ve got suits or Levi’s and not much in between.

I was thinking last night, as I convulsed from nicotine withdrawal, that some people have really fucked up haircuts. Donald Trump comes to mind. Here’s a guy who’s got more gold than the Vatican and he can’t get a decent haircut. Imagine going into a hair salon and saying, “I’ll have the Trump!”

“One Trump, coming up!”

“How much will that cost?”

“$15 for the cut and $46 for the hairspray.”

And while weÂ’re on the topic of Trump, I think heÂ’d be less of a dickhole if he took a few bong hits once in while. I havenÂ’t hit a bong in fifteen years, but if memory serves, it was the great equalizer. IÂ’d love to see that guy take his coat off, mess up his hair and lay into a pound of fudge.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 09:29 AM | Comments (11) | Add Comment
Post contains 506 words, total size 3 kb.

I'll just tuck this in the extended entry, because it's not a happy thing. more...

Posted by: shank at 11:24 PM | Comments (7) | Add Comment
Post contains 397 words, total size 2 kb.

1 I'm working to change an organization of nearly 4,000 employees that tells me "But this is the way we've always done things." Your new job is at my company? Holy shit!

Posted by: Jim at December 02, 2005 05:30 AM (oqu5j)

2 I'm working to change an organization of nearly 4,000 employees that tells me "But this is the way we've always done things." Most people are afraid to leave their comfort zones. Most people understand that 2+2=4, but are not interested in 3+1=4, etc. Most people are barely able to do their current jobs. Most people live in state of fear which lurks just under the surface. I'm a man of action. My fear doesn't lurk...I'm on red alert all day. That's why I'm on the ball and embrace change. You're facing a common problem that almost all executives have to fight all day. I've been successfull by leaving them no "outs". "This is why we're changing. This is how we're changing. Please complete the change by this date. If you are unable or unwilling to support this change, I will run you over with the rest of the winners trampling close behind me." As for the church, just after I went through all the rigamarole to get married in church, against my will and for the benefit of my wife, a priest told me he didn't want my kind in church. "What's my kind?" I asked. "People that never want to go to church." "Fair enough. We'll both be a lot happier." I now go to church on occaision, when I'm in europe, and there's no mass being held, and the building was constructed several hundred years ago and filled with priceless art. That's my kind of church-going. As for cars, I seem to blow through O2 sensors once a month, at $600 bucks a pop. As soon as the car was out of warranty they started going left and right. Seems the old lady has four in her car that go out reguarly. You can't win. No matter how fast you run the race, you cannot win. Once you realize that you tend to relax a lot more.

Posted by: Paul at December 02, 2005 08:24 AM (vbP6L)

3 A wise person once told me that insanity is doing the same thing over and over and over expecting a different result each time. Furthermore, *bubabubabubabubabuba*.

Posted by: DeAnna at December 02, 2005 11:57 AM (IdVP4)

4 Hey, I'm coming home next week and we can talk out some of this shit. You're one of us, Brother, and you're just like Dad: we're goign to get through all of this (the Volvo is a POS, too, the latest problem being something wrong with the steering column. it's a good thing I40 is so straight, or I probably wouldn't make it home next week. Don't flip your shit, you're going to want that stuff some day!

Posted by: youngers at December 02, 2005 01:17 PM (vtVDO)

5 Dude... relax. The more serious you take life the more likely it is to run you over. Don't worry about your religion, it is YOUR religion (or not)... don't let anyone else tell you what to do with it... do you really care what the priest thinks? Your car - yeah, shit happens. Don't worry about it... get it fixed and move on. If you were meant to be homeless so be it... Work - fuck. Your company is just like everyone elses... do what you can and don't worry about what the other fuckers are moaning about... I like the adage from Paul, "If you are unable or unwilling to support this change, I will run you over with the rest of the winners trampling close behind me." Deep cleansing breath - now move on...

Posted by: Wendy at December 02, 2005 03:51 PM (FYcXB)

6 deep breaths actually, really, are the poopoo.

Posted by: youngers at December 03, 2005 09:54 AM (4hSmc)

7 Have you tried it? You'd be surprised...

Posted by: Wendy at December 06, 2005 12:31 PM (FYcXB)

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The best thing about Wednesday is that there's usually no turds waiting to greet me in my toilet when I get home. Two out of the three boys have "flushing issues" (guess which ones). On Wednesdays my Lovely Wife takes the kids to a neighborhood homeschooling thing so they're not in the house much. Plus, the chief perpetrator (guess which one) makes it a point to poop over there.

Robitussin messes my shit up. I've got a bit of a chest cold and took some before bed last night. The objective was to prevent coughing so I could sleep. Wrongo. It worked on the coughing but I journeyed through the evening in and out of sleep, coming out of and back in to a seriously freaky dream about linear scaling and druidic ceremonies.

My biggest project is losing its chief architect. The guy who designed the entire system that it's being built on. Just as it's starting to get built. The guy who's taking over is very good too, but doesn't have nine months invested in crafting the application. If that isn't enough to bother me there's the fact that today is his last day and I found out about it yesterday. From my client. I'm finding new levels of pissedoffedness to master.

I had six days off in a row (Thanksgiving through Tuesday). Out of a "to do" list a half yard long I accomplished...nothing. Curiously, that gave me a wonderful sense of accomplishment.

It's "World Aids Day". How are you planning to celebrate?

Yeah, that was pretty cold of me. I just lost all respect for these things when they added "Pretzel Appreciation Day", "Hotrod Month" and "Give NAMBLA a Try Week".

Posted by: Jim at 08:05 AM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
Post contains 288 words, total size 2 kb.

I see thereÂ’s a fight on to come clean and call a Christmas tree a Christmas tree.

“If it's a spruce tree adorned with 10,000 lights and 5,000 ornaments displayed on the Capitol grounds in December, it's a Christmas tree and that's what it should be called, says House Speaker Dennis Hastert.”

Well said. ItÂ’s time to stop the bullshit and call it what it is.

Some of my best friends are Pagans.

Last month my five year old took part in a book parade at school. They were supposed to dress up in a costume as a character from any book. They then walked in a parade carrying the book they choose the costume from. They were to wear the costume all day, and after the parade they had a party. The date of this “parade” was October 31st.

Some years ago it was decided, by whom I donÂ’t know, that it was verboten to use the word terms Christmas tree, Christmas party, Christmas vacation, ad nausuem. I understand the premise. Not everyone is Christian. Well, it is what it is. ItÂ’s a Christmas tree. If we donÂ’t want to have Christmas trees, ban the trees not the name. Is it any less insulting by changing the name? If I were really disturbed by this, changing the name and continuing the practice would piss me off even more.

A few years ago at work I was in a meeting and someone brought up the annual Christmas party. One of the VP’s said that we could no longer call it a Christmas party. He leaned in close to me and said in a low voice, “Some people are Jewish.” It was almost a whisper. No shit? I felt like screaming, “They know they’re Jewish! What's it to you, anyway?”

I’m not Jewish but a lot of my friends are. I’ve lived in areas where Christians are a minority. My neighbors are Jewish and they love coming over at Christmas. I have two Jewish friends who have Christmas trees every year. A few years ago I was Christmas shopping in the Fairfax district in Los Angeles. People were wishing me “Happy Hanukah” left and right. Do you know what my response was? “Same to you!” If I didn’t want to be surrounded by Jewish people I wouldn’t be there.

And just for the record, I’m Godless. That doesn’t mean I want “In God we trust taken off the dollar bill.” In fact I’m pissed off that people are actually trying to do that.

IÂ’d like to know where all this over-the-top political correctness came from? Who the hell started it, and why has it been pushed this far down everyoneÂ’s throat?

Other points of view are welcome.

***Update***

HereÂ’s an article from the Boston Globe that has a few gems in it:

It's discriminatory, too. Hanukkah menorahs are never referred to as ''holiday lamps" -- not even the giant menorahs erected in Boston Common and many other public venues each year by Chabad, the Hasidic Jewish outreach movement. No one worries that calling the Muslim holy month of Ramadan by its name -- or even celebrating it officially, as the White House does with an annual ''iftaar" dinner -- might be insensitive to non-Muslims. In this tolerant and open-hearted nation, religious minorities are not expected to keep their beliefs out of sight or to squelch their traditions lest someone, somewhere, take offense.

This article centers on major retail outlets and the choices theyÂ’ve made. Seperation of church and retail. Check out the poll.

I really canÂ’t believe the war thatÂ’s going on over this. Someone is out to steal Christmas and IÂ’m not fucking having it. The only problem is, I don't like the people I'm in bed with over this thing.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 09:07 AM | Comments (5) | Add Comment
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The day after Thanksgiving I was talking to my wife about the marathon day we put in at her parents house. We brought some good friends with us.

“Do you think Phil and Diane had a good time?” my wife asked.

“In general.”

“What do you mean, ‘In general.’”

“There was a small incident. Nothing big.”

“What incident?” she asked.

“Well, your old man was spitting all over Phil.”

“Spitting? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“He had Phil cornered, up against the kitchen counter. Your old man had a mouthful of food and he was talking with his mouth full. Actually, he was screaming with his mouth full. I literally saw pieces of food flying from his mouth.”

“Are you kidding me?” She was horrified.

“No, I’m not kidding. I saw food flying from his mouth and landing on Phil’s shirt. And it was no brief encounter. He was all excited about something and it seemed to be going on for a long time. You know how he gets excited.”

“I can’t believe this—“

“I’m not done. So Phil’s backed up to the counter and he’s got no place to turn and the old man’s getting closer and closer…it was hard to watch, and Phil was kind of cringing and turning his head trying to avoid the barrage—”

“What did you do?” She was pissed.

“What did I do? I didn’t do anything. What was I supposed to do?”

“You should have told him not to talk with his mouthful! You could have told him to give the guy some air. You could have gotten in the middle or walked Phil away! How the hell could you let this happen? NOW I’M FUCKING MORTIFIED! HOW COULD YOU STAND THERE AND JUST DO NOTHING?

“He’s your old man! I have to show some respect…”

“You know what? You’re like one of those Nazis who said they were only following orders.”

“I don’t think that particular analogy fits—“

“Oh, be quiet. I have to call and apologize before these people think we’re savages!”

###

Truthfully, would any of you have tried to intervene?

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 10:49 AM | Comments (11) | Add Comment
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I've had one of those past couple days that was not the greatest. I mean, it didn't suck per se; I still have my health, but there's someone in my immediate family that doesn't even have that. It's kind of surreal at this point, but at the same time very real. It's one of those things that 'never happens to you', but in the end it happens to everyone. We should kind of expect it, but we're never ready for it. We're never really ready to hear that someone's got a 6% chance of living through the next 12 months. We're never going to have the flexibility to work it into our schedules. There's never a good time to die. But we all know it's coming. So we just take our lumps, and we know that the things that really matter will always be there.

Responding to death by saying "That's tragic" is simply releasing vocal filler into the air. And the next time somebody says that within earshot of myself, I will stab them with their own sword and say "No. That's tragic." I mean, I don't expect people to express sympathy or empathy, because I don't even know how to express it. I don't expect people to say shit really, because I don't even know what to say yet; still processing. But I can't just not say anything; I'm not going to pretend it's not happening. So when I say "My Mom is dying" don't feel obligated to utter the traditional "I'm so sorry for you." I know what people are feeling when I tell them that. So just give me a hug, and then go home and give your family a hug.

In the extended entry is her recipe for turkey stock. I, of course, took liberties with it and made it my own. Cuz nothing's ever good enough for me when it comes to food. more...

Posted by: shank at 07:34 PM | Comments (8) | Add Comment
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1 Surreal as fuck. Did you really make turkey stock by using an ice bath?

Posted by: the youngest at November 27, 2005 10:38 AM (EYnfp)

2 SKimming the fat off?Thats just WRONG!! Actually....if you do...you can use it for frying.Its yummy.:-)

Posted by: The Brat at November 27, 2005 11:21 AM (oqu5j)

3 Youngest - Yeah. Strain the stock from the stockpot into another pot, and set this pot in a sink full of ice.

Posted by: shank at November 27, 2005 12:14 PM (jfEhX)

4 I feel for you shank. That's not meant as a meaningless platitude, that's the real thing. My dad is in the same boat right now. Terminal illness with a bad prognosis, and lately various complications have made the bad even worse. And even though I understand that sooner or later these things would happen and I'd have to face them, I'm not ready to let go of my dad. Who is? And yet, life has to go on. We have to continue to go about our normal routine, take care of our families, and even entertain ourselves. And enjoy the moments of happiness while we can, because we don't know how long those moments will last. Or how many more moments of happiness we'll get. Or how much sadness is just around the corner.

Posted by: diamond dave at November 27, 2005 05:33 PM (6+5Wv)

5 Your mother is a *very* wise woman, and her stock uses basically the recipe that goes back to whenever recipes were first written down (1400's?)...so it wouldn't be a stretch to say it's an old family recipe You start with cold water because some of the flavoring dissolves only in cold water. You cook it because other flavorings dissolve in hot water. You might also want to throw a few (like, three or four) peppercorns in there, as well as a few sprigs of parsley, for the true traditional 1400's-era recipe. OTOH, it's bad juju if you screw around too much with your mother's recipe. Youngster, the ice bath cools it down quickly to help minimize bacterial growth (bacteria love yummy things too). Shank's mother's temperature of tap-water cold is a pretty good indicator; the health department would tell you it should be below 45 degrees F. My only quibbling point would be with discarding the fat. There's a good amount of flavor in there, and if you use the stock for a sauce, the fat will add creaminess to the sauce.

Posted by: Victor at November 28, 2005 08:57 AM (L3qPK)

6 *hug*

Posted by: Margi at November 28, 2005 01:22 PM (nwEQH)

7 *hug* *beer*

Posted by: Harvey at November 28, 2005 03:32 PM (ubhj8)

8 I'd hug you because I am THAT secure in my masculinity. But first you've got to promise not to grab my ass.

Posted by: Jim at November 30, 2005 09:39 AM (tyQ8y)

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Wishing you and yours a Happy Thanksgiving.

And remember, the first one to eat him/herself into a stupor wins! more...

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What did the pilgrims and Indians eat on the first Thanksgiving?

Much of what we consider standard Thanksgiving fare is based on supposition, conjecture and myth, but there are two first hand accounts of the first Thanksgiving that shed some light on what they really ate.

Edward Winslow's account was written in a letter dated December 12, 1621.

Our corn [i.e. wheat] did prove well, and God be praised, we had a good increase of Indian corn, and our barley indifferent good, but our peas not worth the gathering, for we feared they were too late sown. They came up very well, and blossomed, but the sun parched them in the blossom. Our harvest being gotten in, our governor sent four men on fowling, that so we might after a special manner rejoice together after we had gathered the fruit of our labors. They four in one day killed as much fowl as, with a little help beside, served the company almost a week. At which time, amongst other recreations, we exercised our arms, many of the Indians coming amongst us, and among the rest their greatest king Massasoit, with some ninety men, whom for three days we entertained and feasted, and they went out and killed five deer, which they brought to the plantation and bestowed on our governor, and upon the captain and others. And although it be not always so plentiful as it was at this time with us, yet by the goodness of God, we are so far from want that we often wish you partakers of our plenty.

The second account was written by William Bradford in his History of Plymouth Plantation. Oddly, this account was pilfered by the British during the Revolutionary war and rediscovered in 1854. This account gives us the turkey thing.

They began now to gather in the small harvest they had, and to fit up their houses and dwellings against winter, being all well recovered in health and strength and had all things in good plenty. For as some were thus employed in affairs abroad, others were exercising in fishing, about cod and bass and other fish, of which they took good store, of which every family had their portion. All the summer there was no want; and now began to come in store of fowl, as winter approached, of which this place did abound when they came first (but afterward decreased by degrees). And besides waterfowl there was great store of wild turkeys, of which they took many, besides venison, etc. Besides they had about a peck of meal a week to a person, or now since harvest, Indian corn to that proportion.

So there we have it. The pilgrims spent three days partying with 90 wild Indians. Too bad the peas didnÂ’t turn out. I plan to point out all the flaws in our meal this Thanksgiving, so if peas are served IÂ’m going to demand we throw them away.

There was probably pumpkin pudding on the first Thanksgiving, sweetened with honey and perhaps similar to pumpkin pie filling, but there would have been no crust. So when the pie comes out this year IÂ’m going to scoop out the filling and plop it on a plate and throw the crust away. If anyone tries to stop me theyÂ’ll get an earful.

Cranberries were available, but not sugar, so no cranberry sauce was on the menu. In addition to Cod, they also ate a lot of eels, so if you want to make your Thanksgiving authentic, make sure you get plenty of eels. Mmm. Eels.

There were no potatoes or sweet potatoes either. They were not native to or introduced to the area yet. And there was no ham. The pilgrims didnÂ’t have pigs with them, unless you count Bradford.

Apropos of nothing, in 1623, Winslow wrote that eagle tasted just like mutton. Just so you know.

Source

Aude sapere

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 09:54 AM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
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Work has been crazy. Like trying to drink from a fire hose. I can't complain, because the 60% pay raise (insert screaming, cheering, dancing, heavy tipping of the bartender here) is pretty nice to me; but damn do I hate working. Absolutely.

My best friend in the whole wide world is in town tonight. He woulda been my best man if he wasn't trying to live in Costa Rica, Texas, and North Carolina at the same time. Makes him a little hard to get ahold of. But he's in town for the holidays, so I've dutifully put a twelver of Corona on ice, sliced the lime, and put on some music. It'll be a nice way to start my Thanksgiving holiday extravaganza.

Much Like Paul stated below, our Turkey Day revolves not so much around the food. We like to play poker, drink whiskey, and then make fun of eachother when we get drunk and someone's wife starts giving them the stink eye. One year, we were forced to play in the garage. Which was okay with my Uncle Jay, because that put him closer to the deepsink - it's easier for him to throw up in. I swear, second to the poker/whiskey, that's Jay's way of celebrating a family get together. What a louse that guy is.

Then there was the year my younger cousin lost his ass (a sum total of maybe $5 in change, we play high stakes donchaknow) in the game, got pissed; and would only calm down if Grandma promised to have a shot of whiskey with him. She must really love that boy, or at least the Maker's Mark, because she 'took a hit for the team'. That was the same year I got so shitty I had a nervous breakdown and damn near spent the night in my car. My own poor mother had to bring me inside.

The good news at the end of all this mindless drivel is that you probably won't hear from me for the next few days. But you already know what I'm going to be up to, so it's not like you're missing out.

Posted by: shank at 06:47 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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The big question will be how many people burn down their house this year trying to deep fry a heavy frozen bird inside their house.

Most people donÂ’t have the common sense to put the bird in, fill the fryer with oil and then take the bird out and get the oil hot. Instead, the fill the fryer with too much oil, get it close to the temperature of the sun and throw in a thirty pound, partially frozen Butterball. When that thing hits the oil it goes up like Michael JacksonÂ’s hair on a Pepsi shoot, not including the displaced oil that splashes out of the fryer and onto linoleum, which I believe is extruded from petroleum products. Last year something like 400 homes caught fire attempting this trick and I predict the numbers will double this year.

In days of old, boiling oil was a great weapon when poured over the castle walls. Imagine the potential in the average American kitchen. SomebodyÂ’s Uncle Frank will probably learn a lesson the hard way.

Aside from the skin, I have no use for turkey. I find it unappealing in taste and texture.
But even though I donÂ’t care for turkey, I am a fan of Thanksgiving. IÂ’ll be at the in-lawÂ’s with many friends in tow and the drinking always starts early. We usually drink champagne on the holidays and no one is about to complain that itÂ’s too early to drink when youÂ’re uncorking the good stuff. We generally stand around in the kitchen patting each other on the back and swilling drinks and demanding to be fed.

I find the waiting to be the biggest problem. ThatÂ’s because my family are liars. The day before we always call over to see what time weÂ’re eating. TheyÂ’ll say 2:00PM, when they know damned well it wonÂ’t be until 4:00PM. They lie because they want to spend time with us, which is odd, because I canÂ’t comprehend anyone wanting to spend time with us.

On the way over there I guarantee that some doofus will be outside hanging his Christmas lights, which will start my wife up and IÂ’ll have to listen to how IÂ’d better get our shit up right away and not wait too long like last year. And when we finally arrive weÂ’ll walk in on a shouting match about the turkey, and how itÂ’s not cooking fast enough or hot enough, or when the tin foil should be taken off to brown the skin, even though it wonÂ’t be ready for hours.

So we stand around the kitchen and drink champagne until a card game breaks out or we can start poaching food. Some will sneak out for a smoke, others will incite slanderous talk about other relatives and the majority will bitch and moan about anything that comes to mind. And when the bird is done everyone will argue about the proper way to carve it and how this family, “doesn’t have a goddamned sharp knife” and there won’t be enough of the same type of plates for everyone and it will ruin the photos.

Somehow, I find comfort in all this. There we are, all together and complaining as a family. ItÂ’s hard to describe. And when the time comes to trot the bird out everyone takes on a solemn demeanor and we go around the table and everyone expresses what theyÂ’re thankful for this year. I never use to participate and this whole thing used to make me very uncomfortable. The first couple of years tried to hide in the bathroom for this part but they refused to start until everyone was seated. Nowadays I donÂ’t mind so much. I have a lot to be thankful for.

Since I donÂ’t eat turkey IÂ’ll fill up on my old ladyÂ’s pecan crusted sweet potato pie and mashed potatoes and gravy and swill more champagne. And towards the end, when the pumpkin pie comes out IÂ’ll fill half my coffee cup with good cognac and reflect on the fact I donÂ’t have to work the next day. And while the mess is being cleaned IÂ’ll sit there with my daughter on my lap and plan a graceful exit strategy as the old lady packs up as much of the leftovers as she can before her siblings can get it all.

And when we get home and put the kid to bed I’ll pour myself a single malt and sit on my lazy ass—sated—as my wife and I look through the pay channels for amusement.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 11:07 AM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
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