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
Post contains 160 words, total size 1 kb.

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
Post contains 202 words, total size 1 kb.

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
Post contains 364 words, total size 2 kb.

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
Post contains 370 words, total size 2 kb.

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
Post contains 540 words, total size 3 kb.

There's a lot of blogospheric twittering and rachetjaw regarding what Ahmadinejad will say or do on the 22nd. I'm just glad the 22nd falls after my vacation; at least I'll be relaxed and fresh when I'm ionized by the 'illumination in the sky on the Night of the SiraÂ’a and MiiraÂ’aj'. Or whatever.

I suppose from the pragmatic perspective, there's nothing you or I can do to affect the situation. The way I see it, there's really only a couple people in the entire world who could stop any kind of craziness anyways. Unfortunately, these people are all politicians who've become notoriously hamstrung by second guessers and naysayers. Suffice to say, they're not people of action. I mean, if Teddy Roosevelt was president; we'd have answered Ahmadinejad's threats by hurling so many tons of explosives at Iran that it would become the eighth wonder of the world: the only glass bowl visible from space.

In light of these developments, I've begun getting my affairs in order. And by that I mean preparing to do all those things I ever said I would do if the world was ending. Granted, the world may not end; but I'd imagine nuclear warfare would probably mean the end of a lot of fun things for a pretty long time. That being said, I've taken out a huge cash loan under false pretenses (heh, 'small business'). I already spent a tiny chunk of it on a box of Cubans, a rental Ferrari and a week at the Mirage. The rest of it I'm going to gamble away in one roll of the dice. Or maybe a poker tournament, I haven't decided yet. Oh yeah, and I want a flamethrower too, not for anythign specific, just seems like it would be a lot of fun. Of course, all of this unsecured debt combined with my uncannily horrible luck prety much insures that there will be no fireworks. Which I see as a trade off; I mean, my bad luck will be what saved all of humanity. I figure everyone wouldn't mind slipping me a dollar to help pay back the small business loan right? So on the 23rd, do me a favor and hit the tipjar.

Shit. We don't have a tipjar. I should have known.

Do you guys have any plans?
more...

Posted by: shank at 03:34 PM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
Post contains 453 words, total size 3 kb.

So, I was riding a bus today, and I had an odd experience. I'm kind of a tall guy, so I usually extend my legs underneath the seat in front of me, but i try to keep them out of the aisle. Well, as we pull up to the stop; this hugely obese fuckface in front of me stands up. And plants a hugely obese heel squarely on the toe of my shoe.

It was kind of strange. See, I couldn't move my toe in time to get out of the way, and once the full weight of this behemoth was resting on my foot, it sure as hell wasn't going anywhere. So I had no choice but to sit there for a second until Humongo shifted to the other foot; at which point I pulled my flatted shoe back towards myself.

"Oh. I'm sorry! Was that your toe?"
"Yeah." Yeah it was. Now it's probably more useful as a spatula. But yeah, that was my fucking toe.
"Hmm. I'm sorry dear." She purses her lips and smiles.
"No biggie." I manage to crease a grin across my face.

I looked down at my shoe, the shoes that I shine every weekend, and this woman's fucking heel print is burled into the leather. I get off the bus wondering if that shit's going to come out. I'm thinking probably not.

Posted by: shank at 04:29 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 234 words, total size 1 kb.

Okay, so I'm not high. But if I was, at least I'd have an excuse for posting this kind of crap. more...

Posted by: shank at 03:21 PM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
Post contains 381 words, total size 2 kb.

I've got a few weekend tradations, one of them is drunk dialing. Drunk dialing is a true artform. It's got a basic structure, but upon this framework the dialer is provided the opportunity to express themselves.

There's only one rule of drunkdialing:
Don't dial unless you're happy drunk. If you're depressed or angry drunk, not only are you a shitty wingman, but you've got no business drunkdialing.

My personal style of drunk dialing is a little more nuanced, I like to think. Usually, I dial long distance. This makes it more of an event, becuase you're calling a friend that you probably don't see that often. Sometimes I'll dial family too, because the family that calls you drunk off their face at two am is the family that loves you. But most of the time I dial non-family folks. Like Jenelle.

Another thing I stick to is weekends. Although there's something to the weeknight drunkdial, it kind of makes you look like a soak if you're not on vacation. Plus, you can be pretty sure that if you drunk dial someone on Saturday night, they're probably not going to be too irritated with you since they don't have to work in the morning.

The length of the conversation is up to you. I tend to talk a long time, mostly because I'm drunk, but also because I'm just a windbag in general. If no one answers, I usually feel obligated to weave an extremely loud, obscenity laced screed that usually climaxes with an insuation that the callee's mother is a loose woman.

The other of my weekend traditions is cooking. Aside from the obvious benefits of cooking (having something to eat, thusly avoiding death by starvation), it's a great way to spend some time with people. With the amount of spare time in the weekends, it also affords one the opportunity to make a stock of leftovers from which to choose for weekday lunches.

This weekend, it's fried chicken. In the South, fried chicken is serious business; so it takes a little time to prepare. I just put it in the fridge for it's buttermilk soak. I have no idea why pepole do that, my grandmother showed it to me so I just do it. well, sort of. I've mutilated her recipe a little by adding hot sauce to the soak; but hey, that's progress for ya.

After soaking, it gets seasoned heavily with a blend of spices, coated lightly in flour, and fried in Crisco. Grandma always said that frying chicken in anything other than shortening was just plain old Yankee bullshit.

After frying, the peices are cooled and served. Grandma also said that eating fried chicken while it's still hot from the fryer is plain old corporate bullshit that KFC came up with to save money. I think it's just as fine either way, but it seems pointless to argue with a former Screven County Women's Baseball League pitcher who's holding ten pounds of cast iron kitchenware in her hands.

Why post about fried chicken and drunk dialing in the same post? Because absolutely nothing soothes a hangover like great fried chicken.

Posted by: shank at 09:26 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
Post contains 526 words, total size 3 kb.

These two co-workers walked into my office today and started speaking spanish to eachother. Normally it wouldn't bother me, but they basically sat at my desk and made themselves at home. Personally, I thought it was pretty damn rude.

So I stabbed them with my letter opener. Just kidding, but I did go over to their desks and 'crop dust' it. If you know what I mean.
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We do people insist on coming to bother you when you're obviously busy? Dude, I'm happy that you're able to get paid a salary for doing nothing of value; but I was not offered that job. So please, go take the trash out or something.
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How frigging hard is it to lay carpet? Why the hell is it taking 3 weeks to recarpet my office? Seriously, I'd be in a much better mood if I could have my door back. Then I wouldn't have to sit out here in this damn cubicle and get bothered by foreigners and lazy, clock-milking layabouts.
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24 days until I go on vacation. 576 hours. 34,560 minutes. 2,073,600 seconds.

And counting.

Posted by: shank at 05:23 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 188 words, total size 1 kb.

I've had it with all these health products that are sold as panaceas. Someone I know was talking about how they went on this '30-day cleanse' and lost all kinds of weight. Yeah dude, I had a friend that tried that right after we finished up a 12-day backpacking trip. It's fucking called giardia.

Or the guy on TV selling a book of home cures for everything from high blood pressure to erectile disfunction. Hey, I got an idea I'll sell you: QUIT HAVING A SODA AND A BIGMAC AT EVERY MEAL, YOU WILDEBEEST! Really people; if you're so concerned about your weight or your health; take a look at your shitty lifestyle and maybe cutdown on the bonbon's or something.

Or the pills that are basically ten glasses of juice condensed into a capsule. People go out and buy all this shit that's supposed to be 'natural' or organic or whatever. I mean, if you want to be naturally healthy maybe you should try, I don't know, eating some fruits and vegetables. Maybe a little fish too. "Step away from the SlimJim and no one gets hurt."

And don't get me started on diet sodas. That's like smoking light cigarettes - all the cancer, and only half the fun. If you're going to drink soda every day, just drink theregular shit; because when your adult-onset diabetes develops, at least you can say it tasted good.

People fuckin' baffle me. If you're a lazy fucker who stuffs your face with shitty foods and doesn't exercise; you're gonna get hopelessly fat. Trying to circumvent this by giving yourself a month-long case of the shits or taking a few vitamins isn't going to change the fact that you're a lazy fucker who stuffs your face with shitty foods and doesn't exercise. There's no pill for that.

On some crappy reality show recently they had this obese girl who wanted to be thinner, right? The course of the show is like 40 days or something. I'm not sure what kind of logical association disorder this girl has; but woman, you're not going to drop 150lbs in 40 days. We could put you on an all-crack diet and we wouldn't get those results. To me, even airing the show just reinforces for some people that weight can be dropped easily. Listen, even Jared had to walk to Subway everyday. Let's try and be honest with ourselves, okay?

Posted by: shank at 07:13 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 419 words, total size 2 kb.

I'm sorta the king of snap judgments. When I know what I want, I don't want to have to wait for it, or beat around the bush, or be strung along like some fucking halfwitted dunce. Cut the shit, because if this line of shit is your way of telling me my offer isn't acceptable, then counter-offer and let's finish this up.

Like car shopping. I do a lot of preliminary independant research before I go car shopping; so you can beat your bottom dollar I know everything about the car before I ever even show up at the dealership. But car salesmen are the fucking worst people to deal with. Most car salesmen don't know shit except the rules of Frustrating Negotiation. Chances are, the salesman you're talking to has been selling cars for years at all kinds of different dealerships; so when you ask him a question (Is this a totally new model, or was it sold in overseas markets before it came to the US? Does it share a platform with any other model?) he's probably going to be clueless. These people have effectively masterd the art of generalization. I don't even bother talking to them unless I'm buying a used vehicle. When I want something new, I bring in my trade and a couple grand and get the hell out. Oh, but shank, what about incentives? Dude, those are predetermined and they're going to give you every single one you qualify for. Of course, to do that, you'd have to be a senior citizen who's a retired military vet and a teacher with Farmer's Insurance. But most of the time they'll offer about 3 grand in dealer incentives off the price of a car with a 27K or more sticker price. I'm telling you, talking to these people is like talking to Mickey Mouse - they just smile and shake their heads.

My big brother, on the other hand, is the complete opposite. He's got the persistence of a Bangkok watch salesman and the calm perseverance of a kindegarten teacher. I went shopping for trucks with the guy once (on a whim mind you, he wasn't even seriously considering a purchase) for four fucking hours. Four hours! Towards the end I became hungry, which meant I was a scowling little bitch. Our search for the right truck with the right motor and transmission and the right kind of seats and the right kind of bed spanned probably 70-80 miles of driving, three dealerships, and what must have been a parade of these asshole salesmen. One of them was so shitty, we ended up using the damn sales manager as a go between.

Of course, being a snap judger means sometimes I have to acknowledge that I made a mistake, or that I jumped too soon. But that's okay with me, because I figure that's good for a person - gives them a sense of humility. Which a guy like me really needs sometimes since I'm always so goddamn right about everything.

Posted by: shank at 03:34 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
Post contains 509 words, total size 3 kb.

I'm not the kind of guy who gets hung up on convuluted morality or religious doctrine. If you want to stay in bed on the Sabbath instead of...doing...whatever it is any given church might expect you to do, I don't have a problem with that. If you're pro-choice or pro-life, I don't care. And if you don't want to eat unclean animals or drink beer, that's fine too. I mean, you might be missing out on the glory that is an ice cold Bud Light and a handful of spicy pork rinds; but I'm totally cool with that.

However, I hold a special place in my heart for liars and thieves. Understand here, that I'm talking about pure liars and thieves too. Not someone who downloads free music or sneaks into a movie theater. I'm referring to Ken Lay, Micah Wright, anyone who's ever broken into my home (even that bastard that stole my bike when I was like 14), and cheating spouses. Granted, if you're going to cheat on your wife or masquerade as an armed services vet; I'm not neccesarily going to get worked up about it. I will, however, reserve for you the lowest of regards; and may attempt to kick your ass, depending (variably) on proximity and drunkedness.

Why? Because liars and thieves represent the worst outcome of what many consider to be a noble species. Whether you agree with the whole 'noble man' thing is up to you I suppose, considering man's propensity for violence. Considering that though, violence is a somewhat natural and universal horror - all animals are capable of and exhibit it on occasion. Lieing and stealing, on the other hand, decieve with the intent to control or possess - two urges that many animals (with exception to survival of the fittest) have no appetite for. Granted, animals will lure in prey or fight over food supply - but those are survival conditions. In the cases I'm referring to; humans lie, cheat, and steal because they're greedy, manipulative fucks. They're furthering their political agenda, they're attempting to skim millions (in addition to their multi-million dollar salary) from pensions, or they're taking shit just because they can. And that last one is probably the worst reason to do anything. But that's probably a whole 'nother post.

Posted by: shank at 04:36 PM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
Post contains 385 words, total size 2 kb.

There are times when it becomes painfully obvious to myself that I must look like the biggest child at work. It doesn't help that I'm the youngest by a wide margin, and that I'm one of the only males; but firmly clinching the title of Child in A Man's Body doesn't really bother me too much. I find it funny for the most part.

For instance, my desk is littered with toys. I've got a couple Tanlges, a rubber/bendy thingie, a couple flexible action figures of some cartoon characters, a table-top football setup; and the wall behind my chair is papered with photos from racing events, Vegas trips, and the like.

My wardrobe is probably a joke amongst my co-workers as well. Although I usually where dress shirts and slacks, I only occasioanlly wear a tie or designer shoes; and I only shave like every three or four days. I looked down at my shoes this morning, and as I was coloring in the worn spots on the black leather with a Sharpie I realized that I've had these shoes since I was in college. I mean, I've got a nicer pair of shoes, but I don't want to fuck them up, so I don't wear them every day. If I come to work wearing my Florshiems, a silk tie, and a fresh shave; it means I'm going to be sitting down with the million-dollar club and hashing out strategy. Unfortunately that doesn't happen as often as I'd like; but I'm working to change that.

And then there's my personality: highly informal, colloquial and humorous. I tend to fun around with my higher-ups when most other people wouldn't. Not in a disrespectful manner or anything; some of them just have that open-door type of style and don't mind a little back and forth. Plus, those guys are really funny if you can get them going; so I don't rib them unless they're in that comfortable mode.

So basically when you put all this together, I look like a typical kidployee. I suppose it would strike some people as highly unprofessional behavior - except I tend to produce satisfying results. I get lots of accolades and praise, but part of me wonders if that's just because they don't expect good work from a dude that looks like Shaggy most days. I'm pretty sure the praise is just their way of trying to motivate me to dress more for the office instead of the playground, and for the love of Pete, put the goddamn toys away. Personally? I get a kick out of it.

Posted by: shank at 03:58 PM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
Post contains 438 words, total size 3 kb.

So, today and tomorrow we have these management training seminars. They're pretty interesting, but they're mostly geared to folks who aren't business school grads; so I spend most of the time passively paying attention. By that I mean I doodle. I'm a really good doodler, to wit (click for bigger):

Hey, everybody's got a gift right? Anyways, I have some serious ADD, so it actually helps me concentrate on the speaker or discussion if I've got something low-level going on in the background. Anyways, I'm into my fifth or sixth hour of this boredom born masterpiece when a woman next to me leans in and whispers "Fill me in the diddle with black." Excuse me? For a second there I'm pretty sure this woman wants something that I can't give her.
"What?" I whisper back, still not paying attention to her.
"Fill in the middle black." I'm still a little confused, then I realize that this nosy wench is trying to tell me how I should doodle.
"Nah. Nothing else is filled in."
"Yeah! Fill it in, make it black."
"Nah, nothing else is black." I try to chuckle, because chuckling when people say something stupid to you usually seems to make them back off. I'm surprised that this woman is so invested in the elements of design; but I refuse to ruin the fruit of my labor.
"Well, do we have another color?" Sweet Jesus woman!
"It wouldn't look right, everything else is lines." She gave up here which is good, because I was fearful that I might have to start explaining positive and negative space to her; and that would just be too much work for a doodle. But I'll be goddamned if someone whom I'm unacquainted with is going to try and critique my doodling. That's just plain rude.

Posted by: shank at 04:33 PM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
Post contains 308 words, total size 2 kb.

The vast majority of television programming is recockulous. It's worthless shite aimed squarely at a severly retarded audience. I got bit by a shark this weekend, and as a result I've been forced to spend much time on the couch, layed up watching TV*. It's been horrible, but lucky for you; I'm willing to wade into the sewers and bring you back warning of what lies beneath.

The Real World - This show used to be my guilty pleasure, but after watching two or so hours of it on Sunday afternoon, I'm a changed man. All these monkeys do is get fucked up and start arguments with eachother. Every episode was the same damn thing - get money, get drunk, get pissed at a roommate. I mean, these people are supposedly trying to get a business off the ground, but all I ever see them do is get plastered and scream at eachother. At least back in the day, there was a little fucking going on. How the level of programming over there at MTV has slipped. Sigh.

Wife Swap - I finally thought the censors had allowed hardcore porn on TV. Man was I disappointed to see this garbage. Okay, two husbands trade wives for a week or something, and then at the end, the wives get to dole out prize money. First off, what kind of dumbfuck signs up for this? I'm guessing one of these people who's up to their eyeballs in unsecured debt, and whose only recourse is to pimp his wife out to someone he doesn't even know for the entertainment of the American public. At any rate, these women get shipped off and exposed (inevitably) to some strange family that's completely opposite of their own. Madness ensues, tantrums are thrown, the parade of the absolutely pathetic marches on.

Deal or No Deal - No deal. Really Howie, pack your cueball haircut up and move to the gameshow channel you washout. Remember "Bobby's World"? That was the shit man, now look at you.

Reality TV in general is a cancer on society. Half of MTV's lineup is reality TV and each show stars the same lameass, wastes of a twentysomething losers as the next. Not only are they on Real World/Road Rules Challenge 42, but it's the same people that were on the original shows. I think I saw a dude with a cane and a colostomy bag on the last episode. Again, amazingly pathetic. I can make an exception for something like American Gladiators, or it's new incarnation 'Pros vs Joes'; because at least it's pure competition. Don't give me this rehersed, recycled, scripted drama bullshit.

Hell, worthwhile television can only be found on a select few channels:
Discovery Channel - Everything you ever wanted to know, and then some.

History Channel - It's like regular TV drama, except it really happened. Which, you know, makes regular TV look like the History Channel's dorky little brother who's always trying to be like him. God, what a loser.

National Geographic Channel - Watching a Mara River crocodile pick off some unsuspecting wildebeest never gets old. Plus, they air a bunch of shows on everything from weather to UFO's.

Speedvision - Roadracing. Watch, learn, practice on your hometown streets.

Comedy Central - Although I wish they'd bring back a lineup that was heavier on standup comedy, as I regard standup as probably one of the most entertaining artforms; they still have some decent programs. I watched Ron White do his new thing with the Rednecks of Comedy Tour (or whatever), and it was an absolute rip. If I was a comedian I'd be Ron White; which is why I'm glad he's doing it. So I don't have to. more...

Posted by: shank at 03:08 PM | Comments (5) | Add Comment
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Smut Thursday: The Early Edition

So, apparently this past weekend I ate something that didn't agree with me, and we still haven't come to a compromise. Well, either that or a demon has taken up residence in my GI tract. I've never seen so much sick shit come out of my body, quite literally in some cases.

It all started Monday afternoon. I got back from the beach, and just putzed around the house getting everything in order for the rest of the week. That's when the rumbling started. I spent a goodly portion of the evening expelling fluids. It wasn't too painful for the first 20 minutes or so, and I actually tried to make a game of it; but after that I started getting scared. For a while I wondered if I was going to start deflating or something; but finally the flow slowed to a trickle.

Yesterday I got nothing; it was the complete opposite of the day before. I think if I would have tried to spit or pee, I would've just produced dust. Everything today was fine until the afternoon - when the demon once again began to rumble. Now, as I've told you before, I'm very picky about my bathrooms. This makes using one at work, especially for what I really needed to do, very difficult. Plus, right about the time I was on the verge of bursting; a group of auditors from the state showed up. Seriously, I ran all over my workplace at a dead sprint from about 12:30 until 4:00. I would run down to records, pull the info I needed, sprint back to my office, toss it on the desk and sprint to the bathroom. Then I'd come back from the bathroom, grab the info from my desk, coallate it on the elevator, sprint to the auditors, drop it off, spin right back around and make a beeline for the bathroom. All the while while fighting the incredible instinct to let something foul explode from my face or my ass. It fucking sucked.

The part that really pissed me off was the end of the day. The VP asked me into her office to have one of those chill-down sessions. You know, you and the higher-ups have been busting ass all day and they want to sit down with you and take a load off. Hey, normally I'm all about that shit. Get out the Cubans you rich assholes, let's tell some dirty jokes! But today was not the day. So I'm sitting there trying to get out of the office while these people are all chatting it up. I begin backing away from the group while they're busy yapping; I'm trying not to sweat, pinching the quarter and simultaneously swallowing that massive amount of spit that seems to fill your mouth seconds before you spray your lunch all over someone's wall. I was inching towards the door, but eyeing the trashcan just in case. I really didn't want it to come to me shoving my ass in a trashcan in front of those who would one day vouch for my work experience, but I was wearing a pair of really nice pants and I wasn't about to ruin them. As soon as I passed the office threshold, I was racing down the hall towards the men's room. I distinctly remember unclasping my belt and loosening my pants before I was even in the bathroom. I slammed the door, locked it, and began what I can only describe as the most disgusting, privately humiliating experience of my life. It's a good thing it was late enough that most people had already gone home, because I'm pretty sure the muffled sound coming through the walls would have set someone wretching. Or at least to the nearest phone to call the paramedics or something. It took me like ten minutes to clean the stupid bathroom up. I just hope I have a job in the morning. more...

Posted by: shank at 07:33 PM | Comments (7) | Add Comment
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Went to the dentist yesterday. I've mentioned before that I hate going to the doctor and being poked, probed, or otherwise...violated. Can't stand it. Now, my teeth are extraordinarily healthy (no fillings, nothing), amazing considering I don't give them much thought between the two brushings they get each day. I'm definitely glad for it though; and I don't normally mind seeing the dentist. Except when the dental hygienist inflicts excruciating pain on me with her implements. Where the do those evil bitches get those fuckers from anyway? Do they shop for supplies in the torture aisle at Home Depot or what? This bitch was scraping my teeth with something roughly the size of a gaff one might use to bring a championship marlin on board. Fucking OW.

So while she's clawing and burrowing at and around my teeth and gums, I'm sitting there trying not to flinch. I mean, I don't want this battle axe thinking I'm some kind of pussy right? Then she scrapes right along the gumline on one of my prize molars. This shudder runs throughout my whole body, everything goes limp, I can even feel the hair on my arms cringing. My body shook itself right out of the chair and onto the floor.
"GEEEEAAWWWWW!" I screamed.
"Oh," she coos, all grandmotherly, "Must've been a little root showing." She titters, giggles almost.
I push myself up off the floor and back into the chair. I'm pretty sure this woman had a tazer in her pocket, because I damn near lost bowel control.
A few minutes later she finishes up, and I rinse. I look down at that bib they put around me, and it's fucking spotted with blood. MY blood. I did a quick check with my tongue to make sure all my teeth were still there, because by the looks of that bib I was probably going to bleed out pretty soon. Did she accidentally stab my jugular? Exactly what the fuck is going on here?

The dentist comes in. Finally, a licensed professional. They lean me back, and this fucker, who must have the easiest job this side of a candybar salesman at fat camp; does little more than touch each tooth with the end of his metal implement. Literally, he spoke seven words to me, waved the sign of the cross with over my yawning mouth, and split. Fuck! Come back here dude, you gotta stitch me up! Fucking nurse Gein over here just tried to turn my mouth into a patchwork quilt! What about the Hippocratic Oath you son of a bitch?!

I didn't know you could get thrown out of a doctor's office. I thought that was only, like, bars and shit. Damn.

Posted by: shank at 05:01 PM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
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Is 'tomorrow' an actual place in time, or simply a concept? I mean, people often will reference 'tomorrow' at 2am when they're actually talking about the very same day. The thing is, this doesn't confuse anyone; which I assume means that there's a conceptual understanding of tomorrow. Tomorrow isn't simply defined as the day following 12am; it's more like, the day that follows my sleep; whenever that may be. Which I kind of like, since I tend to enjoy thinking about time and it's passage as a more conceptual, fluid progression as opposed to a linear model. You know that's one of the reasons why the Navajo language was so effective as a code? Their concept of time is more similar to a woven mat than the European concept of a time line.

And check this out, Tom Cruise's new movie isn't doing so hot. People are saying it's because he's been so openly wingnutting his way through press appearances. I caught this article off Drudge from FoxNews that throws the numbers out on how bad the movie's doing, and how Paramount is pissing its pants over the cash losses. Then I hit this sentance:
And that's the irony here: "M: I3" is a terrific action film. Director J.J. Abrams did a great job, and the entire cast from Cruise right through to the team and various supporting players do a convincing job.
Cruise has several fantastic stunts that will take your breath away. It would be a shame if everyone waited to watch it at home on small screens.
For some reason, after the article had spent some time discussing the suckitude of the film at the box office; this portion just felt odd. Then it dawned on me. Who owns Fox? Hmm...yeah, wait for it; Paramount. Nice ad placement, but I think I'll wait for the DVD. There are just too many reasons to avoid theaters anyways.

The wife and I just bought this digital video camera, and it's one bad mofo too. I'm thinking of rigging up an in-car mount for the camera to record track days from the cockpit perspective. Which is another hobby I think I might start back up with again. I ran a full season of SOLO-II events and won 1st in my class for the region. Haven't hit the track in the past year or so since then though. Maybe I'll start back up. It would give me an excuse to use the cam.

Posted by: shank at 02:52 PM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
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So, I finally finished my MBA. Made my last presentation to the client company on Monday, and they were pleased. The faculty actually congratulated me on earning my MBA on the spot, which gave me the warm fuzzies. Yeah, sometimes I do get the warm fuzzies. Does that make me gay? I don't think so, but I'm no expert. Anyways, I give you the:

more...

Posted by: shank at 09:15 PM | Comments (7) | Add Comment
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