At night, I can recognize a car at a distance; just by the shape of its glowing taillights.

The new iPod commercial, the one with all the dancers holding colored iPods; I'm pretty sure the music playing is DJ QBert. I haven't checked to be sure, but if it's not him then it's someone who's either sampling the same beat or simply being a biter.

I can remember the way things look. Like pages in books, notes, diagrams, photographs, all that stuff. Not only can I remember them, but it's almost like re-seeing them.

The only super power I've ever wanted though, was to have my own soundtrack. Like, everywhere I went I could just pick a song from my head and have it play on the nearest radio/jukebox. If I wanted to though, I wouldn't want it to be automatic. Yeah, that would probably just cause problems.

If you could have any superpower, what would it be?

Posted by: shank at 08:19 PM | Comments (5) | Add Comment
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I walked out to my car yesterday afternoon and was much chagrined to find that some a-hole had parked their BMW about six inches off my port side. Jerk. I purposefully park far away from other people so as to avoid any door dinging. It means I have to park in the very back, but that's okay with me. I have legs.

So as I'm cursing and trying to shoehorn myself into the driver's seat, I look down through this person's window and see an uneopened peice of mail. Aha, gotcha goddamnit! I'm going to get your name off that peice of mail and harbor a silent grudge against you, you fucking prick! So I did, and I do.

But then I saw something sitting next to the envelope that lightened my mood. I felt instantly avenged in my irritation at this person, and even smiled. What could it have been, the simple sighting of which would quench my anger and soothe my ill temper? Why, it was a big ol' box of these.

That's what happens to people who spend their lives irritating others. Fate smiles upon them and says, "Now you shall piss yourself forever more...bitch."

Posted by: shank at 03:29 PM | Comments (5) | Add Comment
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So I was cruising around work the other day, asking people about which doctors they see, which doctors I shouldn't see, etc. I work at a hospital, so there's lots of info available. Well, I go to the Medical Staff Office, and one of my friends is like, "Dude, I can look up the doctor you're going to see, and tell you if he's got priviledges here."
"Well, why does that matter?"
"I guess it doesn't matter as much as it's a safegaurd. Every doctor on staff goes through background checks, reassignment, etc."
"Okay, look up Dr. Fuckface."
So he looks up my doctor and lo and behold; he's not on staff.
"Hey man, this doesn't neccesarily mean your doctors a quack or anything."
"Yeah right. Aren't they all?"
"Well, if he's strictly a family medicine guy then he probably just refers his admits to a doctor on staff because he doesn't want to have to work weekends or call."
"Hmph."
"Check with the AMA. They have a website."

At this point, my shit is starting to squick. The Wife is sending me to some weirdo guy who got his medical degree in Tajiqistan, and probably uses the same needle every day.
I go to the AMA website and look his name up. He's not a member (surprisesurprise). But he is listed. WTF does that mean? He told the AMA he was a doctor, but didn't want to pay the membership fees? He's a fucking doctor! Goddamnit, he can afford to pay the membership fees!

So really the only thing I know for certain about my doctor is that he couldn't pass a preliminary background check or drugscreen, and that the AMA is reluctant to claim him.

It's a good thing I'm documenting all this. If you guys don't hear from me on Friday afternoon, it'll probably be because I've been kidnapped by Dr. Mengele and taken to his secret lab; where he will perform some fucked up experiment or another. Fucking quarter me and try to stich my arms where my legs used to be and vice versa. Fuck!

Posted by: shank at 05:07 PM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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So, I go to the doctor this week for a check up. I't been widely documented that I don't enjoy going to the doctor. It's not a thing I have against doctors per se, it's just a thing I have about the actual visit. Don't enjoy it. Don't give blood either, don't even know my own blood type; definitely don't like needles. Don't like being examined, don't like being scrutinized, don't like being violated by someone who I can't call by their first name. Hey, if you're gonna be piercing my skin or spelunking my orifices with some kind of scary implement, I should be able to call you whatever the fuck I want. Especially since I have to pay your sick ass for the favor.

I haven't been inside a doctor's office in easily four years. And before that I hadn't been in another few years either - and that was only because I had a broken wrist. I'm not kidding. I don't go to the doctor.

The Wife is a nurse, so she's all hell bent on me getting a checkup. Which means bloodwork.

Oh, let it sink in. In my entire life, I've had blood taken from my body maybe twice. I can't remember if they took blood at the MEPS when I was applying for OCS, but I know I had to have bloodwork done when I was about ten years old. Scared the piss out of me. It didn't help that it was at Quantico, and the guy in front of me had just gotten back from some far-flung deployment and was having several vials drawn. I thought I was going to pass out.

I hate going to the doctor. I try not to be mean to the MD, but I can't help coming off just a tad surly. Seriously, I don't care if I get prostate cancer; you're not putting that, there. I'd at least like to be drunk for something like that. I'd just as soon go under anesthetic and have them remove the damn gland than be conscious for what I can only imagine would be the most traumatising event of my sheltered existence.

Posted by: shank at 05:33 PM | Comments (5) | Add Comment
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Now, I don't know if this clothes thing is something with all women or just The Wife; but I'd be willing to bet it's virtually universal.

For instance, The Wife currently owns seven pairs of flip-flops. I just went around the house and counted them. Of course, this doesn't include any that might be in her car, but we'll get to that later. Seriously, who honestly needs that many pairs of flip-flops? Dude, I own 11 pairs of shoes total, and that includes snowboard boots and 2 pairs of shoes I've worn twice in the past two years.

Then there's the outfits thing. Like, we went on the honeymoon right? So I packed up enough clothes for a week: clean boxers and socks for each day, a couple t-shirts, a couple pairs of shorts, one or two nicer shirts, and a pair of decent jeans. She, on the other hand, packed up like two or three outfits for every day we were gone.
"We're going to an island! We're probably going to spend most of our time in bathing suits." I just didn't get why she needed twice the clothing that I was bringing. Then she encapsulated it for me:
"I just don't know what I'm going to feel like wearing."

My brain is a lock-step logic machine, so when she made this statement I almost passed out. What did she mean 'feel like wearing'? What the hell is that? It's clothes, how can you 'feel' like wearing one thing over the other? How can she 'feel' like wearing anything other than what conditions call for? Does this mean if she 'feels' like wearing a fur coat in July that she truly would? In that case, we'd never get to travel anywhere because we'd 'feel' like bringing her entire wardrobe everywhere. The situation was terribly confusing. She finally crammed whatever she 'felt' like bringing into her suitcase. Yeesh.

I get out to the car to load it up, and what do I see? A fucking closet on wheels. Seriously, there are pairs of shoes (sneakers, boots, heels; and of course, flip-flops), pants, a few blouses, a light sweater, some socks, her lab coat, and a plastic grocery bag of trash. Christ! If she had to make a sudden stop, she'd probably get clubbed over the head with a flying boot or something. What really worries me, is that we're thinking of getting her a larger car when we have kids. We're going to lose the little bastards in there if it's her daily driver! Hell, one of my crumbsnatchers is going to go missing and we'll find him three years later in the back of our mid-size sedan, buried under a mountain of women's apparel and subsisting on remnants dug out of Chinese take-out boxes.

WTF is up with the clothes, woman? And wouldn't you know, if I leave a pair of shoes sitting by the goddamn bed I catch hell for it. It's not my fault she's the only one that trips over them. Maybe if she got rid of all the goddamn flip-flops and wore something that covered her toes, she wouldn't be stubbing the motherfuckers on everything.

Posted by: shank at 05:10 PM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
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