September 28, 2005
Housekeeping
We’re currently in the process of assembling a few more guest editions of “How Many Beers?”
If you are selected to play, and you decline, we will be forced to ridicule you mercilessly.
Thanks in advance.
If you are selected to play, and you decline, we will be forced to ridicule you mercilessly.
Thanks in advance.
Posted by: Pixy Misa at
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If you ever really want to know just how clean your bathroom is, the best way is to become violently ill.
Of all the different symptoms, by far the worst is vomiting. I can keep my sense of humor up during coughing fits, sinus infections, stomach cramps, etc.—Hell, some of my best material has come from having severe diarrhea. But vomiting? That changes everything.
You know itÂ’s coming when your mouth starts to fill with a little extra saliva. A moment later the queasy feeling in your stomach starts. IÂ’m usually in denial when I get the first wave of nausea, but within seconds itÂ’s usually reinforced by stronger waves and in no time the look of panic on your face reads like a headline.
The worst part is that you know there’s nothing you can do about it. It’s a fait de compli. It’s no longer a question of if you’re going to vomit, the question is, “How bad is it going to be?”
And so you find yourself on the bathroom floor, waiting, as if a lethal injection is coming. You are faced with great despair. You look around the bathroom floor noticing every detail. A stray pube off in the corner. Water spots. A dead spider. Meanwhile the waves of nausea increase in frequency and the urgency of the situation becomes almost intolerable. Here it comes. ItÂ’s coming now. You start to spit a little bit of saliva into the bowl. The first contraction comes with little result, but you know you have passed the point of no return. The second contraction is somewhat stronger and you spit again. By the third time youÂ’ve usually got yourself some results. No matter how hard you try not to, you find yourself identifying bits of what has been purged. IÂ’m sorry, itÂ’s a fact.
Meanwhile your mind is absolutely racing. How long can this go on? Is it almost over? And so on.
There are a lot of different styles of vomiting. I pride myself on being a quiet puker. Unless you had your ear against the door and heard the splash youÂ’d never know it was happening. Others have no self control. It sounds like someoneÂ’s fucking murdering them in there. IÂ’m talking about fucking unholy sounds. Some people follow up a good splash with intense moaning until the next ejaculation.
Sometimes the whole ordeal is compounded by well-wishers. “Are you okay in there? Is there anything I can do?”
Yes. Shut the fuck up. IÂ’m on the bathroom floor puking! I feel like itÂ’s my final hour for ChristÂ’s sake, and now I have to talk through the door? IÂ’m trying not to expel my fucking organs in here!
The only thing that could make it worse is when it happens in public. Or while driving. Or standing in line at the DMV. Have you ever had to puke just standing somewhere in public? But enough of this. IÂ’m not one to take things too far.
You know itÂ’s coming when your mouth starts to fill with a little extra saliva. A moment later the queasy feeling in your stomach starts. IÂ’m usually in denial when I get the first wave of nausea, but within seconds itÂ’s usually reinforced by stronger waves and in no time the look of panic on your face reads like a headline.
The worst part is that you know there’s nothing you can do about it. It’s a fait de compli. It’s no longer a question of if you’re going to vomit, the question is, “How bad is it going to be?”
And so you find yourself on the bathroom floor, waiting, as if a lethal injection is coming. You are faced with great despair. You look around the bathroom floor noticing every detail. A stray pube off in the corner. Water spots. A dead spider. Meanwhile the waves of nausea increase in frequency and the urgency of the situation becomes almost intolerable. Here it comes. ItÂ’s coming now. You start to spit a little bit of saliva into the bowl. The first contraction comes with little result, but you know you have passed the point of no return. The second contraction is somewhat stronger and you spit again. By the third time youÂ’ve usually got yourself some results. No matter how hard you try not to, you find yourself identifying bits of what has been purged. IÂ’m sorry, itÂ’s a fact.
Meanwhile your mind is absolutely racing. How long can this go on? Is it almost over? And so on.
There are a lot of different styles of vomiting. I pride myself on being a quiet puker. Unless you had your ear against the door and heard the splash youÂ’d never know it was happening. Others have no self control. It sounds like someoneÂ’s fucking murdering them in there. IÂ’m talking about fucking unholy sounds. Some people follow up a good splash with intense moaning until the next ejaculation.
Sometimes the whole ordeal is compounded by well-wishers. “Are you okay in there? Is there anything I can do?”
Yes. Shut the fuck up. IÂ’m on the bathroom floor puking! I feel like itÂ’s my final hour for ChristÂ’s sake, and now I have to talk through the door? IÂ’m trying not to expel my fucking organs in here!
The only thing that could make it worse is when it happens in public. Or while driving. Or standing in line at the DMV. Have you ever had to puke just standing somewhere in public? But enough of this. IÂ’m not one to take things too far.
Posted by: Pixy Misa at
09:07 AM
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September 26, 2005
Celebrity
Okay, we all know celebrities are pontificating, self-absorbed idiots. But do we really know it? As in, have we yet come to terms within ourselves that the idea that many of these people the public seems to hold on high, are really just as worthless as the rest of the human race? I say no, we haven't because of the fact that Diane Sawyer was asking Barbara Streisand her opinion on global warming and it's effects on diastrous weather.
Now, Diane Sawyer is pretty prime time as far as interviews go. I mean, it would be the assumption that if you're being interviewed by her, she's probably going to be asking you the questions that burn in the minds of millions. Instead, they're talking about the science of weather, we're getting her meterological forecast, big weather expert that she is. Who gives a shit?
Are people really going to cite her professional opinion on the matter? I can see it now:
"...And now to George with the weather. George?"
"According to NOAA, the fifty year cycle for hurricanes is entering a more powerful phase, Bob."
"Well, smack my nuts with a spiked bat George. What ever shall we do?"
"My first thought is not to worry too much buddy, because it will eventually phase back to normal-"
"Oh, praise Jesus, George. I really thought we were fucked."
"-But then I heard world-renowing hurricane expert Barbara Streisand say that this hurricane season is actually the beginning of the Apocalypse Bob, so you can just get back to kissing your ass goodbye."
Not only does her opinion on the subject means absolutely nothing from an authoritative standpoint; but it's not even based in generally accepted fact. But there it is on ABC. She's not the only one though. It seems that every celebrity has made a point out of championing some cause or forwarding some opinion or another. For some reason we just care what celebrities have to say these days, even if it's in reference to something which they know absolutely nothing about.
Now, Diane Sawyer is pretty prime time as far as interviews go. I mean, it would be the assumption that if you're being interviewed by her, she's probably going to be asking you the questions that burn in the minds of millions. Instead, they're talking about the science of weather, we're getting her meterological forecast, big weather expert that she is. Who gives a shit?
Are people really going to cite her professional opinion on the matter? I can see it now:
"...And now to George with the weather. George?"
"According to NOAA, the fifty year cycle for hurricanes is entering a more powerful phase, Bob."
"Well, smack my nuts with a spiked bat George. What ever shall we do?"
"My first thought is not to worry too much buddy, because it will eventually phase back to normal-"
"Oh, praise Jesus, George. I really thought we were fucked."
"-But then I heard world-renowing hurricane expert Barbara Streisand say that this hurricane season is actually the beginning of the Apocalypse Bob, so you can just get back to kissing your ass goodbye."
Not only does her opinion on the subject means absolutely nothing from an authoritative standpoint; but it's not even based in generally accepted fact. But there it is on ABC. She's not the only one though. It seems that every celebrity has made a point out of championing some cause or forwarding some opinion or another. For some reason we just care what celebrities have to say these days, even if it's in reference to something which they know absolutely nothing about.
Posted by: shank at
05:08 PM
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September 13, 2005
Once Again, Television astounds me.
Tommy Lee, of Motley Crue 'fame', has his own goddamn idiotic reality show now. Yes, after climbing to the apex of his popularity in early 2002 as the man who gave Pamela Anderson hepatitis-c, Tommy Lee is back and wishes to reclaim his crown as the king of complete idiocy.
I know, it's impossible to think that Tommy could ever surpass the entertainment milestone he established when he banged the absolute crap out of his wife on video; but we are once again beholden to this thespian virtuoso. How, you say? How does one outstrip such a legacy? Apparently, by building said reality show around your midlife enrollment in a four year college.
So if you didn't get enough of Tommy's retardedass shenangians back in '86; or back in '99 when he and his wife released their little home video - he's back for your viewing pleasure.
You know, and the thing of it is, his college life seems to suck. I haven't seen any drugs, drunkedness, fights, road trips, keg stands, ramen, crazy parties, hell - the fucker's not even broke; an equal component in my college experience to the others listed here. What a shitty show.
But then again, what could I possibly have expected.
I know, it's impossible to think that Tommy could ever surpass the entertainment milestone he established when he banged the absolute crap out of his wife on video; but we are once again beholden to this thespian virtuoso. How, you say? How does one outstrip such a legacy? Apparently, by building said reality show around your midlife enrollment in a four year college.
So if you didn't get enough of Tommy's retardedass shenangians back in '86; or back in '99 when he and his wife released their little home video - he's back for your viewing pleasure.
You know, and the thing of it is, his college life seems to suck. I haven't seen any drugs, drunkedness, fights, road trips, keg stands, ramen, crazy parties, hell - the fucker's not even broke; an equal component in my college experience to the others listed here. What a shitty show.
But then again, what could I possibly have expected.
Posted by: shank at
04:06 PM
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September 12, 2005
HereÂ’s a tip for youÂ…
If you drink twelve bottles of Stella Artois and play high stakes poker with these guys you will lose your money. I speak from experience. My old lady did better than I did and I consider myself semi-pro.
It was a distracting game in many ways, what with most of the crowd drinking some nipple drink that looked like a BJ without whipped cream, and the total disregard for my dignity.
At one point I was peeking at my cards when a shrill, deafening siren erupted from the other side of the room. It sounded like a burglar alarm going off.
Binx threw his cards down and started yelping.
“It’s the weather station! It’s the weather station!”
“What the fuck are you talking about? I asked.
Everyone was frozen in their seats wondering if it was some kind of toxic mold detector gone off or if we needed to pull out the gats.
Binx, beside himself with excitement, jumped from his chair and ran across the room. He was staring down at what looked like an answering machine.
“Severe storms! Dime sized hail!”
I realized he was reading off of some kind of ticker tape that the machine was printing. No one had the gumption to actually get up and go see.
“It’s the weather station,” Mrs. Binx said. “He likes to monitor the weather. It almost never goes off…this must be something serious.”
The rest of the crowd seemed nonplussed.
“Shit,” said. Binx. “It’s two counties away.” He seemed genuinely sad about that.
The evening is foggy after that point, but I distinctly remember losing and eating an entire bag of Chex Mix which substituted for my dinner. I seem to remember declining the offer of a bowl and pouring the contents into my mouth.
Sunday morning we had to pick up the kid from the rents. I still hadnÂ’t had a meal so we figured weÂ’d go to out to lunch at a Mexican place I like that serves extreme margaritas. We arrived at the rents to find the kid wearing makeup. The kidÂ’s only five and I realize they like to play dress-up and what not, but she looked like she had black eyes. I also smelled something foul but couldnÂ’t put my finger on it. The look on my face must have said it out loud.
“Oh,” Nanna said, “She really stinks. You’re going to have to drive with the windows open.”
“What?”
“You have to drive with the windows open. She put on perfume. A whole lot of it…all different kinds.”
And right she was. We had to drive with the fucking windows open because the kid smelled like the inside of a termite fumigation tent.
We gave her two baths, used every kind of soap we had, every shampoo. It barely made a dent. This morning when I got in the car to go to work I was overwhelmed by the remaining stench. ThereÂ’s no getting rid of it.
Not only that, but now I think I reek of it because people have been looking at me funny since I walked in the building. I hope these fumes arenÂ’t fucking flammable.
It was a distracting game in many ways, what with most of the crowd drinking some nipple drink that looked like a BJ without whipped cream, and the total disregard for my dignity.
At one point I was peeking at my cards when a shrill, deafening siren erupted from the other side of the room. It sounded like a burglar alarm going off.
Binx threw his cards down and started yelping.
“It’s the weather station! It’s the weather station!”
“What the fuck are you talking about? I asked.
Everyone was frozen in their seats wondering if it was some kind of toxic mold detector gone off or if we needed to pull out the gats.
Binx, beside himself with excitement, jumped from his chair and ran across the room. He was staring down at what looked like an answering machine.
“Severe storms! Dime sized hail!”
I realized he was reading off of some kind of ticker tape that the machine was printing. No one had the gumption to actually get up and go see.
“It’s the weather station,” Mrs. Binx said. “He likes to monitor the weather. It almost never goes off…this must be something serious.”
The rest of the crowd seemed nonplussed.
“Shit,” said. Binx. “It’s two counties away.” He seemed genuinely sad about that.
The evening is foggy after that point, but I distinctly remember losing and eating an entire bag of Chex Mix which substituted for my dinner. I seem to remember declining the offer of a bowl and pouring the contents into my mouth.
Sunday morning we had to pick up the kid from the rents. I still hadnÂ’t had a meal so we figured weÂ’d go to out to lunch at a Mexican place I like that serves extreme margaritas. We arrived at the rents to find the kid wearing makeup. The kidÂ’s only five and I realize they like to play dress-up and what not, but she looked like she had black eyes. I also smelled something foul but couldnÂ’t put my finger on it. The look on my face must have said it out loud.
“Oh,” Nanna said, “She really stinks. You’re going to have to drive with the windows open.”
“What?”
“You have to drive with the windows open. She put on perfume. A whole lot of it…all different kinds.”
And right she was. We had to drive with the fucking windows open because the kid smelled like the inside of a termite fumigation tent.
We gave her two baths, used every kind of soap we had, every shampoo. It barely made a dent. This morning when I got in the car to go to work I was overwhelmed by the remaining stench. ThereÂ’s no getting rid of it.
Not only that, but now I think I reek of it because people have been looking at me funny since I walked in the building. I hope these fumes arenÂ’t fucking flammable.
Posted by: Pixy Misa at
10:32 AM
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September 09, 2005
What Your Drink Says About You
Sometimes you see that lone person in a bar. They'll be mulling over their drink, or maybe they'll be toying with it seductively, or watching the game, chatting with the barkeep. But we've all seen them, and there are a few that you can mark right off the bat; without ever talking to them, you already know what's going on.
Girl sitting up front, drinking a top shelf apple martini - "I'm spending someone else's money."
Guy sitting up front, drinking a top shelf apple martini - "I'm sucking someone else's dick."
Husky drunk girl next to the tap drinking dollar drafts - "I got kicked out of this bar for knocking a guy's teeth out once."
Husky drunk guy next to the tap drinking dollar drafts - "I stock groceries at Walmart. And my shift starts in half an hour."
Guy, shot of whiskey and a beer, both gone in less than a minute - Probably just robbed a bank.
Gal, surrounded by other gals, drinking Zima or Michelob Ultra - Just turned 21, trying not to ruin her GPA.
Guy, two fingers of single malt on two rocks, not stirring, gently sipping - Needs to take his bottle of Johnny Walker and get a room. This is a bar dammit, not a library.
Gal, cigar, gin and tonic - "If my ex could see me now."
Guy, early fifties, lots of rings, cigar, gin and tonic - "Did I tell you I was All-American back in '76?"
All this talk is making me thirsty. Shank out.
Girl sitting up front, drinking a top shelf apple martini - "I'm spending someone else's money."
Guy sitting up front, drinking a top shelf apple martini - "I'm sucking someone else's dick."
Husky drunk girl next to the tap drinking dollar drafts - "I got kicked out of this bar for knocking a guy's teeth out once."
Husky drunk guy next to the tap drinking dollar drafts - "I stock groceries at Walmart. And my shift starts in half an hour."
Guy, shot of whiskey and a beer, both gone in less than a minute - Probably just robbed a bank.
Gal, surrounded by other gals, drinking Zima or Michelob Ultra - Just turned 21, trying not to ruin her GPA.
Guy, two fingers of single malt on two rocks, not stirring, gently sipping - Needs to take his bottle of Johnny Walker and get a room. This is a bar dammit, not a library.
Gal, cigar, gin and tonic - "If my ex could see me now."
Guy, early fifties, lots of rings, cigar, gin and tonic - "Did I tell you I was All-American back in '76?"
All this talk is making me thirsty. Shank out.
Posted by: shank at
08:34 PM
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September 08, 2005
Okay, Out With It
Alright. Everyone here does something weird, maybe even something others would consider revolting. Those dirty little secrets we try to hard to keep from other people. Maybe you lay silent farts in public places, quietly crop-dusting your way across the office lobby. Or maybe you're that sick bastard who whacks it to pictures from National Geographic. Me? I pick my nose. And eat it. Keeps me healthy. Fact of the matter is, I've been eating those little bastards my whole life (well, not all of them) and I'm the healthiest person I know, hands down.
Anyways, what's yours?
Anyways, what's yours?
Posted by: shank at
10:00 PM
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September 06, 2005
Labor Day Weekend
Day 1: Waited all day for the cable guy, afraid even to go in the shower in case he came. As usual, he showed up with five minutes to spare in the six hour window I was quoted. During the six hour wait I ate an entire package of Oreos. When he finally did show up he was clueless and no help whatsoever. I offered him a can of Coke and he was visibly angry that I didnÂ’t have diet. Day one completely wasted.
Day 2: Woke up with a pounding headache. Bought a new home theater system and spent seven hours trying to hook it up. Two more trips to the store for extra cables that cost almost as much as the system. One trip to the liquor store that was well worth it. Went to a Mexican themed party and ate a lot of shit with ground beef, rice and beans. Hosts put on a home video of their latest vacation and turned off all the lights. I debated making a scene about the video and the banality of all participants. Choose to leave quietly instead without saying good bye. Took my bottle and slammed the door loudly. By 9:00PM was in safe harbor on my couch.
Day 3: Woke up with the running shits. Spent another five hours trying to hook up the home theater system, in between running to the shitter and lying on the couch moaning. Watched hazy TV and steamed over hours lost setting up home theater incorrectly. Had insomnia and debated the value of my life for several hours.
End report.
Day 2: Woke up with a pounding headache. Bought a new home theater system and spent seven hours trying to hook it up. Two more trips to the store for extra cables that cost almost as much as the system. One trip to the liquor store that was well worth it. Went to a Mexican themed party and ate a lot of shit with ground beef, rice and beans. Hosts put on a home video of their latest vacation and turned off all the lights. I debated making a scene about the video and the banality of all participants. Choose to leave quietly instead without saying good bye. Took my bottle and slammed the door loudly. By 9:00PM was in safe harbor on my couch.
Day 3: Woke up with the running shits. Spent another five hours trying to hook up the home theater system, in between running to the shitter and lying on the couch moaning. Watched hazy TV and steamed over hours lost setting up home theater incorrectly. Had insomnia and debated the value of my life for several hours.
End report.
Posted by: Pixy Misa at
10:09 AM
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September 02, 2005
The Dream
I had the dream about the horseshoe crabs again last night.
I havenÂ’t seen a horseshoe crab, living or dead, in at least fifteen years. The horseshoe crab, for those ignorant of such creatures, is basically a great big 300 million year old sea spider with a hard shell and a scary underbelly. The more educated amongst you [cough] might know them by the name Limulus Polyphemus.
The dream is always the same. IÂ’m at the beach in my trunks, standing at the waters edge. I am precariously balanced on one leg, standing upon the hard back of one of these critters. My opposite leg is bent at the knee and raised, like Ralph Macchio in the crane stance. When I look toward the incoming breakers, ten of thousands of these creatures are emerging from the sea and are headed directly for me. Every few seconds a wave breaks at my feet, washing over my crabby footstool and threatening my fragile balance. As more crabs emerge toward me, threatening whatever menace they harbor, the closest specimens flip themselves over to expose their devilish looking underside, the part that IÂ’m afraid of.
I always wake up as I lose my balance and fall into crabs.
I have no idea what significance this dream has in relation to my life. My childhood experience with these creatures was limited to picking them up by the tail and whacking other unsuspecting children in the back as hard as I could. TheyÂ’ve got some weight to them and a big crab could easily send a twelve year old to the ground if you swung hard enough. I remain puzzled and disturbed, even at this late hour of the day.
I havenÂ’t seen a horseshoe crab, living or dead, in at least fifteen years. The horseshoe crab, for those ignorant of such creatures, is basically a great big 300 million year old sea spider with a hard shell and a scary underbelly. The more educated amongst you [cough] might know them by the name Limulus Polyphemus.
The dream is always the same. IÂ’m at the beach in my trunks, standing at the waters edge. I am precariously balanced on one leg, standing upon the hard back of one of these critters. My opposite leg is bent at the knee and raised, like Ralph Macchio in the crane stance. When I look toward the incoming breakers, ten of thousands of these creatures are emerging from the sea and are headed directly for me. Every few seconds a wave breaks at my feet, washing over my crabby footstool and threatening my fragile balance. As more crabs emerge toward me, threatening whatever menace they harbor, the closest specimens flip themselves over to expose their devilish looking underside, the part that IÂ’m afraid of.
I always wake up as I lose my balance and fall into crabs.
I have no idea what significance this dream has in relation to my life. My childhood experience with these creatures was limited to picking them up by the tail and whacking other unsuspecting children in the back as hard as I could. TheyÂ’ve got some weight to them and a big crab could easily send a twelve year old to the ground if you swung hard enough. I remain puzzled and disturbed, even at this late hour of the day.
Posted by: Pixy Misa at
01:06 PM
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