July 23, 2008
What you see in this chart, is a drop in oil price from it's high around $146, to today's close at $124. I know it's a little geeky looking, but basically each vertical bar represents the trading range for a given day; with the left pointing hashes representing opening prices, the right pointing ones the close. The columns across the bottom show trading volume.
This represents roughly a 13% loss from its high - on July 11th. Some of the more optimistic folks are calling this the ol' bubble popping.
I call it a response to the changing regulatory environment , obvious demand destruction, the long term possibility of the expansion of drilling operations in the U.S.; AND the bubble popping. The latest inventory report showed 2.9 million barrels of gasoline inventories; when only 500,000 were expected. Guess it got a little to expensive and people quit buying it, hm? Maybe? Yeah?
Yee haw.
"Why is cheap oil so important, when there are so many other financial problems?" you might ask. Well, as the price of oil decreases, it does two things that make you and I (as people with dollars in our wallets) richer. Firstly, it tends to shore up strength in our currency, since oil is bought and sold in dollars. Although it's not neccesarily a two-way street, there's a bit of cyclical action that ties them very closely. That action is the second thing that cheap oil does - it puts spending money in our pockets. Not just in the form of cheaper oil or gas; but in the trickle down effects of cheaper petroleum products in general, fertilizers, plastics, and every item that is brought to your home by anything (a plane, a train, a truck) that runs on petroleum based products. As Americans find they've got more spending money, they can pay back debts, make new purchases, and maintain a healthy economy. Healthy economy = strong dollar.
In all honesty, I'd be surprised if it continued to drop so precipitously. I'm still expecting it to drop in value, but there's a lot of dust left to settle; so I think it'll take some time. It'll be interesting to see how things take shape in the coming weeks.
Linkish Update: Ed Morrissey puts together a nice little aggregation of the facts on what increased production could do to global supply and, more importantly, U.S. dependance on unstable and unfriendly regimes.
Posted by: shank at
02:05 PM
| Comments (5)
| Add Comment
Post contains 433 words, total size 3 kb.
Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez, visiting Moscow to pursue weapons and energy deals, on Tuesday called for a strategic alliance with Russia to protect his country from the United States.
Chavez might be one of my favorite dictators. If they were on collectible cards like pro athletes, I'd keep his in a plexiglass case. His card and Ahmadinejad's; right next to each other. Anyways, back to the article:
The newspaper Kommersant, generally regarded as reliable, reported Tuesday that Chavez is looking to order Ilyushin jets, diesel-powered submarines, Tor-M1 air defense systems and possibly tanks. It did not specify its sources."
As anyone who's seen The Hunt for Red October can tell you, a diesel-powered sumbarine couldn't sneak up on a deaf retard dogpaddling in his backyard pool - not to mention ambushing something like the new nuclear Virginia-class subs. Or as I like to call them, billion-dollar cans of whoop-ass (my favorite? This one, because I was there).
Of course, upon reading that diesel submarine thing, I was immediately curious about 'Ilyushin jets'. According to wikipedia, Ilyushin hasn't made a fighter plane since the stone age; and they mostly build transports these days. Unless you count these Il-28's, that apparently make great museum peices.
The way I see it, Putin (who, let's be honest, is the real mastermind behind Medvedev) is laughing his ass off. He's selling off all his old junk to Chavez, who's happy to buy it because he's suffering from some paranoid fantasy that the US has it out for him. If the US has it out for you bro, diesel subs and 70's era jet planes aren't going to help.
Posted by: shank at
07:09 AM
| Comments (2)
| Add Comment
Post contains 287 words, total size 2 kb.
July 17, 2008
A ‘vulnerable’ man cut off his own head with a chainsaw after being ordered to move out of his home to make way for developers, police believe.David Phyall’s severed head was found beside the power tool inside his housing association flat shortly after receiving his eviction notice.
Vulnerable? Sweet baby Jesus. The icing on the cake is that his place was a total dump. I mean, if you're going to make your last stand, don't to it at this place:
At least shoot for a Holiday Inn or maybe a nice rental by the beach. Which begs the discussion: If you could have any residence in the world, which one would be worth swallowing a running chainsaw?
Posted by: shank at
08:26 AM
| Comments (1)
| Add Comment
Post contains 134 words, total size 1 kb.
July 16, 2008
Yesterday, while The Dub was speakalating from his podiator oil tanked. Ended the day with the biggest drop in 17 years, to be exact. Of course, if you're a dark pool kind of person, this drop in price could be due to large investment banks selling off to cover losses in other sectors, or Fed manipulation through something akin to their oft rumored Plunge Protection Team. YMMV.
But anyways, back to my theory here. I always assumed it would be baby steps over the course of a few years that would get us to a drop in oil prices, but Kudlow caught something I hadn't been anticipating:
A new report from Wall Street research house Sanford C. Bernstein says that California actually could start producing new oil within one year if the moratorium were lifted. The California oil is under shallow water and already has been explored. Drilling platforms have been in place since before the moratorium. TheyÂ’re talking about 10 billion barrels worth off the coast of California.
Yowza. Domestic demand is decreasing, and we could be on the verge of increasing domestic supply. Of course, we still have a few kinks in the supply chain to unwind; and those will take time too.
But let's do some imaginatin' here. If talk of ramping up production in the US was responsible for even half of yesterday's decrease in the price of oil; what do we think actual increase of production will do?
Update:
Related? Mini nuclear reactors.
Updated Again:
Crude, Gas, Distillate inventories show unexpeceted increases, oil prices drop another $6 in trading. Invisbile hand, consumer response to (possibly manipulated) high prices both unavailable for comment. It'll be interesting to see how the crude price ends today. Most times, these initial reactions backpedal over the course of the day.
Posted by: shank at
07:37 AM
| Comments (5)
| Add Comment
Post contains 340 words, total size 3 kb.
July 14, 2008
Here's an unrelated one:
A: Your ears. more...
Posted by: Jim at
09:04 AM
| Comments (3)
| Add Comment
Post contains 40 words, total size 1 kb.
July 11, 2008
A Friday linkeroo from Bristol, with...love. I say go ahead and clear the undergrowth. The worst case scenario is that people get upset; but they'll find another place to get 'er done. The best case scenario is that the outdoor giggity continues, only now it draws viewership. Hell, the park could even start charging a nominal ticket price for people who just want to see the show. No to mention the opportunity for sales dollars from refreshments and memorabilia.
I'm going to honor the traditional Friday pastime and try to leave work early today. I have to go get a part for my weed-whacker today, and the store is in the opposite direction of my house. The upside is that I get to go home and tinker with a gas-powered machine. Nothing soothes the soul quite like that. I guess the other upside is that I'll be able to take the bypass back home, that goes around the city. That'll be a nice drive.
Speaking of driving, I've been getting awesome MPG lately. My car is rated by the EPA at 22/27. I noticed a few months ago that I was getting about 31mpg in mixed driving to and from work each day. I checked the oil, because sometimes a low oil level can drive MPG up. It needed about a quart, so I dropped some in. Then I went to fill up last weekend and it had gone to 32; almost 20% over the highest EPA estimate. Suck it OPEC!
Just finished one of the more stressful weeks of the year at work. We're putting together the expense and FTE budgets for FY09, and as usual, it's been a real bear. We try and project for every expense, and I mean every. CEO approval is required for any and all increases in the budget, and I've had to go to the mat for spends that are less than one one-hundredth of a percent of our gross revenue. I suppose that's a good thing though, to be fiscally responsible; especially when you're in a sector where 2% margins are par for the course. At any rate, work had been a little stressful, and I'm looking forward to a few days to myself.
Hope you enjoy yours too.
Posted by: shank at
10:24 AM
| Comments (3)
| Add Comment
Post contains 392 words, total size 2 kb.
I'm not sure if this is for research or an attempt to delay the cataclysm. Either way it's pretty funny and I bet you could get a load of cash for a bag full of cow farts if you put it on eBay.
But let's look at this rationally for just a minute. Cows are being targeted because of the volume of ass gas they produce. Why do they fart so much? Because of their diet. Farts start out as the air you ingest when you eat. You take in a lot more air when you consume foods like greens and leafy vegetables.
So...
If cow farts cause global warming, and;
Vegetables cause cow farts, then;
Veggies cause global warming.
The solution to the global warming problem is very simple. Start feeding cows meat and outlaw vegetarianism*. Vegans should probably be shot on site just on general principle.
Hat tip to Peppers Ghosts.
* Helen would get exempted due to her exceptional hottie factor.
Posted by: Jim at
08:58 AM
| Comments (7)
| Add Comment
Post contains 190 words, total size 2 kb.
Oh well, I'll get to those later. Good to hear from you.July 10, 2008
This opens the game theory box. Even without the photographic evidence throwing doubt on the launches, it will be easy to find out if Iran did, in fact, play 4th of July yesterday; and to what extent. That's what satellite images are for. The real question is; if Iran is faking it, do you call them on it or not?
The answer to that question, of course, depends on what you think Iran is going to do if you call them out. Ahmadinejad doesn't exactly strike me as someone who's long for this world, so calling his bluff might just result in real missle launches. Of course, what's the difference to the rest of the world between a launch they don't know is fake and a real launch? Nothing. It would simply be needless escalation.
I'm wondering if the best official course of action is to do nothing, let the blogosphere out them, and then snicker at them from behind closed doors. We're getting a free peek at Iran's hand, and seeing that they've got two pair of jokers that have aces scribbled on them in magic marker.
I mean, a fake missle launch really isn't even saber-rattling; it's like, I don't know, waving around a picture of a saber and yelling "Clang clangitty-clang!"
Posted by: shank at
11:56 AM
| Comments (24)
| Add Comment
Post contains 243 words, total size 2 kb.
July 09, 2008
Nine. Percent.
Posted by: shank at
10:35 AM
| Comments (1)
| Add Comment
Post contains 8 words, total size 1 kb.
July 03, 2008
Despite what some people might say. Case in point: I have a link for you, which you may have already seen or read about elsewhere. However, I want you to know that by clicking on this link, you do so at your own peril. Just so you know, when I read it I couldn't even come up with anything to say. Yes, shank, rendered speechless.
Others were able to survive the jarring mental impact of Satullo's imploding, oxymoronic drivel and cobble together coherent analysis; in case you need some smellin' salts.
Posted by: shank at
09:32 AM
| Comments (1)
| Add Comment
Post contains 148 words, total size 1 kb.
July 02, 2008
Looks like we met 15 of our 18 goals on Iraq so far. That's pretty good to hear, considering the pissing and moaning that has been coming from the peanut gallery all along. I mean, 83% ain't going to get you on the honor roll or anything either; but it's good to see that we're tracking well.
And here's something all bloggers can get behind - water-boarding MSM 'journalists'.
Posted by: shank at
09:57 AM
| No Comments
| Add Comment
Post contains 151 words, total size 1 kb.
July 01, 2008
She says, "Thanks, too, to all of you who come here and make me laugh and think and feel compelled to occasionally post something."
I assume she wasn't referring to me in that line, but I can't help but think that I might have left a positive, supporting comment at her place once or twice. Probably on accident. Anyways, it got me thinking about how much communication has changed in the past ten or fifteen years, let alone the past fifty.
Here I am, bouncing around the blogosphere, posting here, commenting there; and I might have actually had a net positive effect on someone else. It's a donation I threw down the rabbit hole, not even realizing I was doing it or where it might land. An unintended cosmic favor.
And then I realized, people do that for me too. I like comments as much as anyone else, maybe more, because they are the essence of what we all crave - proof, through the white noise and static, that we're not alone. I mean, even when comments aren't neccesarily in agreement they're still interesting because they're an opportunity for unbridled ridicule.
So in the spirit of Jen's post, I say thanks to you too.
Posted by: shank at
02:29 PM
| Comments (4)
| Add Comment
Post contains 219 words, total size 1 kb.
Water quality has been a concern for the sailing events, given that many coastal Chinese cities dump untreated sewage into the sea. At the same time, rivers and tributaries emptying into coastal waters are often contaminated with high levels of nitrates from agricultural and industrial runoff. These nitrates contribute to the red tides of algae that often bloom along sections of China's coastline.
Posted by: shank at
07:04 AM
| Comments (1)
| Add Comment
Post contains 79 words, total size 1 kb.
June 27, 2008
I'm wondering to myself who the hell that 18% is, and if they're ever heard of the Bill of Rights. There are actually Americans out there who think that we don't have the right to own firearms? WTF!? I guess I shouldn't be surprised though, because I suppose if you think about it; probably 20% of the population also thinks people shouldn't all have the right of free speech. Which is fucking depressing.
What is scarier is that the Supreme Court had an even narrower gap in opinion on the firearms issue. I mean, it clearly says that shit in like, I don't know; the first fucking page of the Constitution. Jesus Christ!
Posted by: shank at
10:21 AM
| Comments (1)
| Add Comment
Post contains 141 words, total size 1 kb.
Posted by: shank at
07:46 AM
| No Comments
| Add Comment
Post contains 12 words, total size 1 kb.
June 25, 2008
"Since the use of marksmen to kill pigeons appears to have been carried out as a first, rather than a last resort, and not out of a concern for public health, but rather because the animals were deemed inconvenient by players, you appear to be in clear violation of the law,” PETA vice-president Bruce Friedrich said.
Let's ignore, for the moment, the fact that shooting the pigeons wasn't the first resort; and that it was, to a degree, out of a concern for public health. Why? Well, because this guy is too easy of a target for me to make fun of, and I just can't delay gratification any further. So let's just have at it:
You sir, are a pussy. And a pussy's pussy at that. You may very well be the only soul on the face of this earth who gives a flying feathered fuck about a couple of shot up pigeons. If they were endangered animals, or maybe homeless children; I could see your point. But we're talking about some ruddy pigeons here, not snow owls.
I mean, I understand you've got a hobby; Pussies for the Ethical Treatment of Animals. That's great, and in conjunction with your meds, it may be the only thing keeping you out of a mental hospital. But you know what? No one else gives a shit. I have hobbies. I like cars and bikes. But you don't see me running my stupid face at people who treat cars and bikes in a manner that I consider unethical; and this is because I realize that no one else gives a shit.
Please, leave us in peace to play tennis and shoot the garbage-eating pigeons who shit on the tables we eat off of.
It's this kind of shit that really makes me worry about our future. Maybe John Galt was right. I mean, if we're willing to eat pigeon shit in our lunch just to avoid killing the pigeons who would shit on our food, we deserve to die from whatever we catch eating pigeon shit. I bet those PETA fucks are all a bunch of bed-wetting nannystaters who think we should get out of Iraq too. Just let the pigeons shit all over us.
Posted by: shank at
09:45 AM
| No Comments
| Add Comment
Post contains 399 words, total size 2 kb.
June 10, 2008
So. . . let 'em rip SBDers!
Dr. Fiedlerheim, pioneer of the testicle-ectomy, showing off his latest crop - the freshly shorn balls of Hillary Clinton. When questioned about the abnormally high quantity, Dr. Fiedlerheim stated, "Well, genetic tests and carbon dating showed, of course, that two of them belong to Mrs. Clinton. The other two apparently belonged to Mr. Clinton up until approximately January 21, 1998. "
The balls were donated to a charity auction, and purchased by an anonymous bidder with the handle 'Hopey McChangitude'.
Posted by: shank at
01:49 PM
| Comments (2)
| Add Comment
Post contains 129 words, total size 1 kb.
June 09, 2008
Since it's once again an election year, I figured this was very timely filler. Without further ado; my worthless opinions: more...
Posted by: shank at
10:21 AM
| Comments (1)
| Add Comment
Post contains 1032 words, total size 6 kb.
June 05, 2008
We check in to the hotel, kick it with the family for a little while, and get ready to go to the wedding. It was a sort of long ceremony, because it was a wedding mass; but it was fairly interesting. As we exit the chapel, the entire wedding party is lined up; and you're supposed to walk down the line shaking hands and what not. At the very end of the line is my uncle, father of the groom. This dude is probably 6'5, maybe 500lbs: he's a big.mother.fucker. I remember as a kid he scared me just by bellowing at me. I respect the hell out of him now, and even enjoy trading stories and a good laugh over beers. I look down the line and he's looking straight at me, and he's not smiling.
I'm frantically thinking if I did something bad in church, or maybe if my fly is down or something. I can't figure it out. I'm getting closer and closer, and I'm certain he's inside my head saying "I'm going to rip your arm off and beat you with the bloody stump." We get up to him, and before I can stammer a pathetic plea for mercy, he wraps his giant hand around mine, pulls me close and growls, "I paid a lot of money for this open bar, and I expect you and your brother to make sure these people don't make a profit." He releases me and I nearly pass out from terror.
We hop in the car with The Wife, my brother, his wife, and their baby; and I approach my brother.
"Dude, Tony says we have to put a serious dent in the bar tonight."
"Yeah, and I don't want to be roasted on a spit tomorrow for not following through on direct orders."
We converse with The Wives about our situation, mainly to make them aware that we are, in no uncertain terms, under strict directive to get retarded drunk.
Unfortunately, I'm feeling like 80 different kinds of ass. We get to the reception at this exclusive golf club, and it's gorgeous. For some reason, it's all I can do to keep my head off the table. I'm propped up in my seat like ten pounds of shit in a five pound bag. At The Wife's suggestion, I go grab some appetizers. It's at this point that I realize I haven't had anything to eat since breakfast, and that was nearly 8 hours ago. I grab a few small items, a glass of juice, and head back to the table. I'm hoping the food will deliver a pick me up.
Dinner comes around, and I'm only feeling slightly better. I've had probably a beer and a half, and they were in tiny 10oz glasses. My brother is looking at me like I'm a bitch, and I glance over at my Uncle's table and he's staring straight back at me sharpening a combat knife. God this is going to suck. I choke down the rest of the food, and pass on dessert. I just can't eat anymore. The cake is cut, and my brother grabs me by the collar and drags me up to the bar.
"Listen fuckstick, you need to get all your shit in one sock and start sucking back booze. I am not dying on this hill for you today."
"Dude, I am exhausted man. I seriously fe-"
"Yes, we'd like a beer and a bloody mary for my friend Shirley here," he says to the bartender. End of discussion. I'm feeling a little better, I guess because I'm no longer hypoglycemic, and I decide a bloody mary is a good starting point.
"Extra spicy, please," I add.
I love bloody's. Salsa that gets you drunk, a stroke of genius! I walk back to the table sipping my bloody and thinking that maybe my brother is right. I mean, free drinks all night? Sack up buddy!
After I have my first bloody I'm feeling normal. I hit the bar, order another spicy bloody, a beer for The Wife, and figure I'll throw a beer in for my brother too. Things are going good.
Forgive me the lack of details, as things come in and out of focus, but somewhere around bloody #6 I switch to doubles of whiskey with a beer back. We're running around the reception hall, in a god-forsaken conga line (which equates to failure of a field sobriety test in most states south of the Mason-Dixon), with our neckties hanging out of our back pockets. We take periodic bar breaks, and I continue with the double and a beer combo. I'm not even sure if my brother is drinking anymore. I guess he is.
On my fourth or fifth round of whiskey and beer at the bar, I slam my drinks and bring back The Wife's order. As soon as I drop her drink off to her, I know exactly what I must do. I must vomit. I think I actually jogged past her, handing her the beer, and sprinted the rest of the way to the mens room.
Keep in mind here that this is a private golf club.
I slam right through the bathroom door passing the stalls; for some reason that I do not know. Maybe it was because the bathroom door opened in, and in my highly inebriated state, I couldn't shut the door, then open the stall door behind it.
Before I'm within arms length of the urinal, I'm projectile vomiting into it. My momentum is so great, my drunkedness so clumsy, and the second heave is so hard that I hit my head on the urinal. I'm flushing and heaving at the same time, and I hear a familiar voice.
"Hey man! It's okay, you're going to be alright!"
I look up and I see my brother, who happens to be taking a leak in the urinal next to me. My world brightens; my brother! "Dude, I'm so glad you're here- GAHAAAHAHAAHAGAGGAGGGGG!" I have never been so happy to see my big brother in my entire life. What a great guy. Meanwhile, there's the Shank Brothers, one with his dick in one hand and the other on his brother's back, while Shank the Younger yacks gallons of vomit into the urinal. Well, that's sort of an exaggeration. It wasn't really going into the urinal at this point; I was making a Pollock out of the place.
I have this thing, I guess it's guilt, that makes me want to clean up my own puke. I don't throw up really at all, but ever since I was a kid I've always felt really bad about puking, and I always try to clean it up.
When my brother notices that I've grabbed some paper towels and I'm about to start cleaning up my puke, he grabs me and drags me out of the bathroom. And straight to the bar. He orders us both a beer, and says "Dude, that's sick! I can't believe you were about to clean that up. They've got people for that." I slam my beer and order another. There's nothing worse than that after barf mouthfeel.
We go back into the reception, and I simply continue the evening like I didn't just destroy the bathroom. I don't realize it at this point, but there's an ever so nuanced spattering of barf on my shoes and the bottom of my pant leg. Apparently no one else noticed either, because no one said shit to me all night. I see my cousin's (brother of the bride) girlfriend drinking scotch. I laugh and say, "That's awesome! Wanna trade?" "Well actually-," he says; but I walk off to do something else that I think is funny. I hit the bar, and rejoin the group. My cousin comes up to me and says "About that trade thing, heh." I look at him and say "Hey man, you're going to have to talk to my agent."
"Who's that?"
"The wife!" I yell as I laugh and change the subject. It's only funny once dude, I'm thinking to myself.
As we're getting ready to leave, my cousin comes up again and says "About that trade thing-". Thinking that he's kind of beating a dead joke, I ignore it and say "Well bro, looks like we're heading out. See you tomorrow?"
"Nah, we're flying out early in the morning."
"Ah damn. Well, we should do this more often," I say as I hop into my brother's rental and shut the door. I finally realize that my cousin is being a little creepy. I mean, I like the guy a lot, but not enough to let him take a swing at The Wife, sweet baby Jesus!
We get in the car, and everyone but the baby is drunk. Dad is buzzing hard and has become ornery, but subdued. My brother is drunk and happy, but not obliterated. That role was left entirely up to myself. The girls are drunk but since they're not morons, they look dead sober travelling with the three of us.
My brother hops behind the wheel, and Dad takes shotgun with his Blackberry GPS. He commences to shout the directions at my brother that his GPS is speaking.
"Turn right...onto...highway 211."
"TURN RIGHT ONTO 211!"
"Merge onto-"
"MERGE!!" he screams, frantically waving his hand in a rightward motion.
"Dad, I can hear the GPS," my brother says, speaking over him.
"Bullshit, ooo dunno where're goin," Dad slurs. He's like this when he's had four or so.
"I drove here, I can get us back."
"Betchu can't, feggin liar," he retorts.
"Actually. I can," he says, rather tersely.
"Fine. Buck a mile, but'n ooo get los, you owe ME buck."
"Deal."
"An I ain't sayin' shit." Dad emphasizes this last word by leaning over and giving my brother one of those big-eyed stares that parents do. My brother smiles, because he got what he wanted out of the deal; for dad to shut the hell up.
We get back to our hotel, and he and I are still ready to have some fun. I mean, it's only 9pm. We hit the bar right next door for a sixer, and decide that now is a perfect time to take my rental car (a Ford Focus) and test the limits of American engineering.
There was a big grassy vacant lot behind our hotel, and we decide that's an ideal location. We scout it out in his rental, an SUV, to make sure there aren't any hidden hazards in the undergrowth. The grass was about knee high, and the lot was bordered on two sides by a hedge, and one by a chainlink fence about four feet high that bordered a drainage gully about six feet deep. The lot checks out, so we grab the Focus.
This is a tradition that my brother and I have. We showed up to my wedding in a PT Cruiser that was covered from bumper to bumper in mud and foliage. Did you know those things can take a parking block at 20mph?
Anyways, I had purchased the extra insurance policy on my car for this exact purpose. We have a standard game that we play. One man takes the driver's seat, and the other is navigator. The driver, of course, pilots the vehicle at appropriately reckless speeds; while the navigator is in charge of. . . well, only the e-brake. Basically, he just pulls it when he decides it's a good time. So we end up going around this field in a large circle, doing powerslides and generally looking like two midgets trying to fuck a football. It's great fun.
We do maybe ten laps, and pull off to survey the damage. Well hell, all the mud is on one side of the car; so we jump back in and begin doing laps in the opposite direction. I stomp the gas and we tear off into the field. At about 40mph, my brother screams, yanks the e-brake, and I instinctively spin the wheel. The car comes to a complete halt.
"Dude, what's with the brake? I wasn't even turning!"
"Look to your left asshole!" I do as he says and realize that we're about two and a half feet from the chain link fence. If he hadn't grabbed that brake handle, we'd be planted firmly at the bottom of the gully. "Oooh, yeah. Thanks for that buddy." We tear off and continue our laps, this time minding the fence.
After a few more minutes of this, I decide to show off my road racing skills. We go into an empty parking lot, and begin doing a figure eight track around two light poles. We also take turns seeing who can do the longest power slide. Then on our way back to the parking space, I decide I might as well test the 5mph bumpers, and glide right into the corner of the hotel building. Everything checks out.
Satisfied with our road test of the 2006 Ford Focus, we slam the rest of the six pack and go up to bed.
This would be the last time in my life that I consume more than 10 drinks in one night.
Posted by: shank at
12:31 PM
| Comments (4)
| Add Comment
Post contains 2299 words, total size 12 kb.
May 28, 2008
I had noticed the clock earlier, it was fairly hard not to. It had a giant face on it, probably 12 inches or more, with a huge pendulum hanging from it. I mean, the pendulum alone was a good four feet long; about four inches across at the top, widening down to a bulb at the bottom that was nearly as big as the clock face. The clockface had a metal box on the backside, that I assume held the various gears, that was probably 5 or 6 inches on each side. It looked quite odd hanging on the wall, because there was no housing or design to the clock itself. It consisted simply of these three components and absolutely nothing else.
Apparently, the G/F and her teenage son had hung it on the wall, and Father-In-Law decided he thought it looked like crap. I don't generally agree with anything he says, but he was right. It was held onto the wall by two screws at the top corners of the box behind the clock face; anchored into the plaster or concrete or whatever the walls were. It hadn't been tightened down, so the clock hung at a down-facing angle, which meant the pendulum wouldn't swing right. So here's this disgusting clock barely hanging on the wall, and it doesn't even work.
So he asks me for help. I was cornered, I had no excuses (I was on vacation), so I was enlisted into service. He wants to take the screws out, rework the anchors, and screw it back in; so I agreed to hold the monstrosity while he was doing that. This was a mistake. I didn't realize it; but picture this thing, it's all fucking brass, and it's hanging about six feet high. I stand under it and try to maintain it's position while he starts removing the screws. The weight isn't that bad, maybe 45 or 50 pounds.
A couple minutes later, he's got the screws out, and I'm the only thing supporting the clock. I'm beginning to second guess my estimate, maybe this bastard weighs 60. As I'm standing next to it, holding it about shoulder height, I realize the ultimate stupidity of what we're doing. This clock looks stupid because it's a fucking grandfather clock without the giant wood cabinet. No wonder it's all hanging off balance, grandfather clocks don't hang, they're perched inside the cabinet so that the pendulum swings from a level platform.
"Hey, um. This thing looks like a grandfather clock without the box."
"Yeah, that's exactly what it is." Father in Law says this with a bit of pride, and I realize that I'm dealing with a dumbass. This clock will never work right in it's current state.
"So...maybe what you should do is build a housing for it, so that it doesn't hang, so much as it's supported by a shelf or...I don't know, a cabinet?" I try not to let the sarcasm come through, but the clock assembly is beginning to feel very heavy. I start to get mad. I'm sitting here trying to 'fix' something that is 1)not going to work because 2)what we're doing is not going to solve the problem and 3)this fucking thing is ugly anyways. Not to mention it's 4) fucking heavy, which makes this stupid solution not even worth the effort. It will not improve functionality or appearance, it will simply return the clock to its currently Ridiculous Clock status. The solution here is to put the goddamned grandfather clock into a fucking grandfather cabinet like it's supposed to motherfucking be. Why in the fuck would you remove such a heavy peice of shit from a functional design, only to hang it on your wall so that it looks like shit and works like shit and might as well be a big fucking 60lb peice of brass shit hanging on your living room wall? SHIT!
I tell him to unscrew the pendulum from the clock body itself, because it's really heavy. He does that and it's so heavy he almost drops it on the ground. We set the two peices down on the couch and I try to explain to him without slapping him around and calling him names that we probably need a more functional solution. I'm actually very good at this, as I routinely find myself diplomatically telling people at work that their ideas are stupid and wrong. He wants to stick to the Two Stupid Fucking Screws Idea, and I decide I don't give a shit about this Ridiculous Clock anyways. It's just not worth it.
I hope that damn thing falls off the wall and crushes him while he's home alone some day; and he bleeds out. What a fucking Ridiculous Clock.
Posted by: shank at
12:53 PM
| No Comments
| Add Comment
Post contains 849 words, total size 5 kb.
101 queries taking 0.1594 seconds, 326 records returned.
Powered by Minx 1.1.6c-pink.
