Yorkie
I was the last one on the plane. They were already closing the fuselage door and had announced boarding for the next flight as I ran up. I embarked and found my seat as the plane taxied toward the runway.
After stowing my briefcase, I looked around the craft. It was a typical commuter flight: half-full, people spread around to even out the weight. I was sitting across the aisle from an older woman and her pet dog.
At first, I didn’t realize it was a dog. She had it under the seat in front of her, confined to one of those little pet carriers that looks like a suitcase or an oversized purse. I realized it was a dog when it started yipping.
And it yipped a lot.
And every time it yipped, the lady would kick the case. Or hit the top of it. Or shake it.
And every time she did this, it made the little bundle of hair, teeth, and bows yip all the louder.
So she would kick the case.
So it would yip.
So she would kick the case.
So it would yip.
My amazement at discovering the location of Yorkshire Terriers’ volume control soon gave way to mild irritation, then distress, then an urgent plea that the stewardess bring me “just one more triple gin and tonic.”
She did.
About halfway through the flight, the dog got tired of being kicked. It quit yipping, and she quit kicking. In fact, it got so tired of being kicked, that it lay down on its back, with its tongue sticking out. It didn’t move the whole rest of the flight. It didn’t move when the plane landed. It didn’t move when she picked up the case and set it on her lap preparatory to disembarking. When it crossed her mind that maybe she had kicked her dog to death, the look on her face was priceless. I wake up laughing, remembering her face.
And how much she jumped when the dog woke up, that too was classic.
I just hope she learned her lesson.
Monday, May 31, 2004
Thursday, May 27, 2004
Spring Cleaning
The time has come to get my ass in gear. I'll never be a world famous internet personality if I don't do several things:
1. Post more regularly.
2. Restart my campaign of oral sex in exchange for links on other sites.
3. Fill my text with buzz words like HOT LESBIAN SEX, BRITNEY SPEARS, FREE PICS, PORN, and AUTOEROTICASPHYXIATION that are sure to get me hits on Google.
4. Get people who can actually write to start doing my posts.
5. Marry into the Gates family.
6. Comment on other blogs more.
As you can see, I have my work cut out for me. The first matter of business is to start cutting some of the dead weight off of the links bar. Blogs that haven't updated for several months are being cut. Over the next few days, I will be auditioning some other sites to fill those sad and atrophied shoes. If you'd like to place your site on my casting couch, send me a link.
See you 'round. I'll be here.
The time has come to get my ass in gear. I'll never be a world famous internet personality if I don't do several things:
1. Post more regularly.
2. Restart my campaign of oral sex in exchange for links on other sites.
3. Fill my text with buzz words like HOT LESBIAN SEX, BRITNEY SPEARS, FREE PICS, PORN, and AUTOEROTICASPHYXIATION that are sure to get me hits on Google.
4. Get people who can actually write to start doing my posts.
5. Marry into the Gates family.
6. Comment on other blogs more.
As you can see, I have my work cut out for me. The first matter of business is to start cutting some of the dead weight off of the links bar. Blogs that haven't updated for several months are being cut. Over the next few days, I will be auditioning some other sites to fill those sad and atrophied shoes. If you'd like to place your site on my casting couch, send me a link.
See you 'round. I'll be here.
Thursday, May 20, 2004
Sunday, May 16, 2004
Friday, May 14, 2004
Friday, May 07, 2004
Sunshine
The light glistens, amicably, off of the water. I look at it through the pink hues of my fourth rumrunner, then get bored with light and start looking at bikinis again. The faint, salty smell of sea air mixes with the aromas coming from my Romeo Y Julieta cigar and takes me back to easier days when I didn’t bare the weight of the world on my narrow shoulders. A seagull calls in the distance, and everything is so perfect that I don’t even want to shoot it.
Red flops down next to me, dripping sand and surf. She smells more like fish than usual, but I assume it’s just the ocean, and, for once, I allow her to get closer than the restraining order dictates. Her kisses mix with the seawater on her lips, and I realize that a little salt would go well with my drink. While we kiss, I discretely rub her sopping hair around my glass-rim.
Tonight, we’ll eat lobster and drink glass after glass of absinthe. Then we’ll stumble out to a moonlit beach where we will dance, barefoot, on a stretch of sand that is fairly free of jelly-fish. We’ll make love as the tide comes in, and fall asleep under the stars. Tomorrow, we’ll awaken to the stares of families on vacation and gain a new knowledge of public indecency laws. Holding manacled hand in manacled hand, we’ll endure our arrest and subsequent incarceration with a wormwood induced headache, and sand up our asses.
At least that’s the way it should be.
Fucking Ohio rain.
The light glistens, amicably, off of the water. I look at it through the pink hues of my fourth rumrunner, then get bored with light and start looking at bikinis again. The faint, salty smell of sea air mixes with the aromas coming from my Romeo Y Julieta cigar and takes me back to easier days when I didn’t bare the weight of the world on my narrow shoulders. A seagull calls in the distance, and everything is so perfect that I don’t even want to shoot it.
Red flops down next to me, dripping sand and surf. She smells more like fish than usual, but I assume it’s just the ocean, and, for once, I allow her to get closer than the restraining order dictates. Her kisses mix with the seawater on her lips, and I realize that a little salt would go well with my drink. While we kiss, I discretely rub her sopping hair around my glass-rim.
Tonight, we’ll eat lobster and drink glass after glass of absinthe. Then we’ll stumble out to a moonlit beach where we will dance, barefoot, on a stretch of sand that is fairly free of jelly-fish. We’ll make love as the tide comes in, and fall asleep under the stars. Tomorrow, we’ll awaken to the stares of families on vacation and gain a new knowledge of public indecency laws. Holding manacled hand in manacled hand, we’ll endure our arrest and subsequent incarceration with a wormwood induced headache, and sand up our asses.
At least that’s the way it should be.
Fucking Ohio rain.
Wednesday, May 05, 2004
What the Hell Happened to Me?
When I moved back here from Chicago, I lived alone, in a one-room cabin, in the woods, next to a fish pond that was home to bass, bluegills, geese, and ducks, without air conditioning, TV, internet, or telephone. I would lie awake at night, listening to the cicadas in the trees, the packs of wolves being slaughtered by nomadic tribes of Neanderthal, and the banjo tunes of the hill people. Often I would sit on my porch, martini in hand, and do nothing but…well…and do nothing.
Now that has all changed.
Now I live with my beautiful fiancee, two cats, an aquarium full of fishes ( most of which I can’t identify, and only one of which is named. He’s a bottom feeder, named after a former business associate ), a phone line with caller ID, call waiting and automatic redial, a cable internet which randomly throws scat-porn onto my screen, and a babble-box that sits in the corner loudly broadcasting 500 channels to distract me while it eats my everlasting soul, much like the parrot that says cute things while pecking at Prometheus’ liver.
Here’s the problem. I like TEE-VEE as much as the next guy, but why on Earth do I need five hundred channels if all that is going to do is give me 450 extra channels with nothing on? I was perfectly happy being irritated that I had 50 channels of absolute crap.
For your reading pleasure, here is a listing of the type of fecal detritus my tele spews out daily:
Charlie’s Angels: Full Throttle
My God! The only thing that made this movie worth watching was the thought that, with how bad this film is, maybe they won’t make another.
Law & Order
Don’t get me wrong. I like Law & Order. I think it is well-written, well-directed, well-edited, and well-acted. It is also on at least 97 channels at any given time.
Law & Order: Criminal intent
Another 23 channels.
Law & Order: SVU
Yes! All the excitement and macabre humor of the other two PLUS violent rape! This takes up another 30 channels to bring the Law & Order franchise up to an even 150 channels, 24/7.
Oh yeah, speaking of 24/7, Twenty-Four
Just how much shit can happen to the leader of the Lost Boys in one day?
Lost Boys
This movie did a great job of reminding me why the eighties are over (I mean, besides the relentless onslaught of time). Great closing line though, where you think that Grandpa is flipping out because he comes home to find a vampire in his house, and he says “One thing I never could stomach about living in Santa Carla: All the God-Damn vampires.” Oh, eighties flicks, you are sooooo clever!
Friends: 2 Hour Season Finale
Wow! It’s actually ending. I mean, I’m sad because this will mean that there is now even less stuff on Tee-Vee, but, well, two fucking hours? How can they make this last two hours? Ross, you’d better follow Rachel to Paris! Chandler, you and Monica better move to the ‘burbs where you will hang with a young Tom Hanks and raise that Hill-Jack Ohio baby! Joey, you’d better say “how you doin’?” and fuck someone! Phoebe, you’d better be dumb! There, shows over! Leave your keys in the ashtray on the way to your two hour special with Matt Lauer and Katie Couric. Matt The White, go freshen up. You have to be ready to eat sandwiches and use women in new and exciting ways next season in your new show.
I guess that’s a bit overly mean. I suppose that I’m really just upset about the whole situation. Now that Friends is ending, I’ll never get to see that monstrous, 2 hour, Friends: SVU crossover I’ve been dreaming of.
Later, guys, I’m gonna go see what’s on TV.
When I moved back here from Chicago, I lived alone, in a one-room cabin, in the woods, next to a fish pond that was home to bass, bluegills, geese, and ducks, without air conditioning, TV, internet, or telephone. I would lie awake at night, listening to the cicadas in the trees, the packs of wolves being slaughtered by nomadic tribes of Neanderthal, and the banjo tunes of the hill people. Often I would sit on my porch, martini in hand, and do nothing but…well…and do nothing.
Now that has all changed.
Now I live with my beautiful fiancee, two cats, an aquarium full of fishes ( most of which I can’t identify, and only one of which is named. He’s a bottom feeder, named after a former business associate ), a phone line with caller ID, call waiting and automatic redial, a cable internet which randomly throws scat-porn onto my screen, and a babble-box that sits in the corner loudly broadcasting 500 channels to distract me while it eats my everlasting soul, much like the parrot that says cute things while pecking at Prometheus’ liver.
Here’s the problem. I like TEE-VEE as much as the next guy, but why on Earth do I need five hundred channels if all that is going to do is give me 450 extra channels with nothing on? I was perfectly happy being irritated that I had 50 channels of absolute crap.
For your reading pleasure, here is a listing of the type of fecal detritus my tele spews out daily:
Charlie’s Angels: Full Throttle
My God! The only thing that made this movie worth watching was the thought that, with how bad this film is, maybe they won’t make another.
Law & Order
Don’t get me wrong. I like Law & Order. I think it is well-written, well-directed, well-edited, and well-acted. It is also on at least 97 channels at any given time.
Law & Order: Criminal intent
Another 23 channels.
Law & Order: SVU
Yes! All the excitement and macabre humor of the other two PLUS violent rape! This takes up another 30 channels to bring the Law & Order franchise up to an even 150 channels, 24/7.
Oh yeah, speaking of 24/7, Twenty-Four
Just how much shit can happen to the leader of the Lost Boys in one day?
Lost Boys
This movie did a great job of reminding me why the eighties are over (I mean, besides the relentless onslaught of time). Great closing line though, where you think that Grandpa is flipping out because he comes home to find a vampire in his house, and he says “One thing I never could stomach about living in Santa Carla: All the God-Damn vampires.” Oh, eighties flicks, you are sooooo clever!
Friends: 2 Hour Season Finale
Wow! It’s actually ending. I mean, I’m sad because this will mean that there is now even less stuff on Tee-Vee, but, well, two fucking hours? How can they make this last two hours? Ross, you’d better follow Rachel to Paris! Chandler, you and Monica better move to the ‘burbs where you will hang with a young Tom Hanks and raise that Hill-Jack Ohio baby! Joey, you’d better say “how you doin’?” and fuck someone! Phoebe, you’d better be dumb! There, shows over! Leave your keys in the ashtray on the way to your two hour special with Matt Lauer and Katie Couric. Matt The White, go freshen up. You have to be ready to eat sandwiches and use women in new and exciting ways next season in your new show.
I guess that’s a bit overly mean. I suppose that I’m really just upset about the whole situation. Now that Friends is ending, I’ll never get to see that monstrous, 2 hour, Friends: SVU crossover I’ve been dreaming of.
Later, guys, I’m gonna go see what’s on TV.
Friday, April 30, 2004
You Must Remember This…
Father time, that bastard, has got me by the balls. I blink, and another year has passed. With every breath I move that much closer to a shallow grave filled with scary clowns and the ghosts of all the Chinese whores I’ve killed.
In fact, time goes by so quickly, that I didn’t notice when I passed the 1 year of blogging mark. I started KOTWF April 10, 2003.
The next year will be filled with even more Bloggy Goodness.
Father time, that bastard, has got me by the balls. I blink, and another year has passed. With every breath I move that much closer to a shallow grave filled with scary clowns and the ghosts of all the Chinese whores I’ve killed.
In fact, time goes by so quickly, that I didn’t notice when I passed the 1 year of blogging mark. I started KOTWF April 10, 2003.
The next year will be filled with even more Bloggy Goodness.
Thursday, April 29, 2004
Noose
There are few constants in life. The world flows around us, beating us down in a maelstrom of change. Every time you think you understand life, it jumps up and hits you on the head like a wooden mallet or a cartoon piano. In my quarter century, I’ve been through a lot, and I’ve seen plenty. Hell! I’ve been to two county fairs and a hog-fuck, and nothing prepared me for this.
Red is no longer my girlfriend.
You see, a couple weeks ago, we were all lined up to go out. We were heading to a dirty, nasty, standing-room-only college bar that serves up almost as many horny drunk chicks as it does pitchers of beer, and Red decided to change her clothes no less than 5 times before we left while I lay on the floor, fucking around with my new piano.
She was finally ready, and I got up on my knees when she walked into the room.
KOTWF: Is that what you’re wearing out?
Red: What?
KOTWF: You heard me.
Red: Why?
KOTWF: You don’t look right.
Red: What is that supposed to mean?
KOTWF: Your outfit doesn’t look right. It’s missing something.
Red: (Angrily) Like what?
KOTWF: (Holding up diamond ring) Like this….
Red: OH MY GOD!!
KOTWF: Will you marry me?
Red: OH MY GOD!!
KOTWF: Will you marry me?
Red: OH MY GOD!!
KOTWF: Nevermind.
Red: Yes! Yes! I thought you would never ask.
KOTWF: And I thought you would never answer.
Being the sweet, loving Fiance that I am, I still took her out. And I bought her as many pitchers of Killian’s as she could drink.
There are few constants in life. The world flows around us, beating us down in a maelstrom of change. Every time you think you understand life, it jumps up and hits you on the head like a wooden mallet or a cartoon piano. In my quarter century, I’ve been through a lot, and I’ve seen plenty. Hell! I’ve been to two county fairs and a hog-fuck, and nothing prepared me for this.
Red is no longer my girlfriend.
You see, a couple weeks ago, we were all lined up to go out. We were heading to a dirty, nasty, standing-room-only college bar that serves up almost as many horny drunk chicks as it does pitchers of beer, and Red decided to change her clothes no less than 5 times before we left while I lay on the floor, fucking around with my new piano.
She was finally ready, and I got up on my knees when she walked into the room.
KOTWF: Is that what you’re wearing out?
Red: What?
KOTWF: You heard me.
Red: Why?
KOTWF: You don’t look right.
Red: What is that supposed to mean?
KOTWF: Your outfit doesn’t look right. It’s missing something.
Red: (Angrily) Like what?
KOTWF: (Holding up diamond ring) Like this….
Red: OH MY GOD!!
KOTWF: Will you marry me?
Red: OH MY GOD!!
KOTWF: Will you marry me?
Red: OH MY GOD!!
KOTWF: Nevermind.
Red: Yes! Yes! I thought you would never ask.
KOTWF: And I thought you would never answer.
Being the sweet, loving Fiance that I am, I still took her out. And I bought her as many pitchers of Killian’s as she could drink.
Friday, April 23, 2004
Welcome Back to the Wild World of Sports!
A lot has happened during the break so we’ll fill you in.
Firstly, as you may or may not realize, one of the primary reasons for the break was technical difficulties. You see, I’m what you call a computer wizard. And no, I don’t mean that I am an expert by any stretch. What I mean is that if there is something wrong with a computer, I resort to unplugging and replugging the fucking thing while performing ancient resurrection rites and praying that either magic will fire out of my fingertips and heal it, or lightning will shoot out of my ass and fry the fucking thing beyond all recognition.
Neither has occurred. Instead, I stand before you a broken, beaten man, with a very expensive, portable DVD player that used to act like a laptop. I even had Oarah, gentleman blogger and computer guru (kind of like a wizard, but more knowledgeable, less reliant on magic, and calmer), come look at the thing. He drank all my rum and announced that there was nothing wrong with it. It just doesn’t work.
Fuck.
No problem, I’ll just do my posts from work, right? Guess again, our blessed lady of maternity leave. The girl downstairs, for whom I am the backup, decided that she should shit out her beautiful new baby about a month ahead of schedule. Luckily, we had just hired her replacement.
About an hour before she went into labor.
So, needless to say, I have been slaving away in front of a computer which operates on some strange amalgam of SAP and one of those superheated pokers used by the Spanish Inquisitors. The premise of the system is this. I sit in a special “SAP Chair” where I am forced to do intricate algorithms in my head, while listening to Replacement Girl ask questions about why I don’t just write a new, more user friendly, system to replace this one, while randomly punching keys and hoping that one of them is the “fix everything I’ve just fucked up” button, and while a red hot poker comes up through the chair and skewers my catflap.
At least some of the time.
You see, I also got a promotion. The current director of marketing is retiring in May. I share an office with him, but I am the quality manager. I found it rather interesting, then, when I happened to see some ad copy that said “KOTWF, Director of Marketing” and had my email address on it.
I must have missed the memo talking about my NEW AND IMPROVED job description, as well as my exorbitant payraise.
I’m sure I would’ve been told if it was important.
Check in soon, I’ll be writing more regularly from now on.
There is more news, but I’m afraid I just don’t have time to tell you right now. I hear the SAP Forge heating up.
A lot has happened during the break so we’ll fill you in.
Firstly, as you may or may not realize, one of the primary reasons for the break was technical difficulties. You see, I’m what you call a computer wizard. And no, I don’t mean that I am an expert by any stretch. What I mean is that if there is something wrong with a computer, I resort to unplugging and replugging the fucking thing while performing ancient resurrection rites and praying that either magic will fire out of my fingertips and heal it, or lightning will shoot out of my ass and fry the fucking thing beyond all recognition.
Neither has occurred. Instead, I stand before you a broken, beaten man, with a very expensive, portable DVD player that used to act like a laptop. I even had Oarah, gentleman blogger and computer guru (kind of like a wizard, but more knowledgeable, less reliant on magic, and calmer), come look at the thing. He drank all my rum and announced that there was nothing wrong with it. It just doesn’t work.
Fuck.
No problem, I’ll just do my posts from work, right? Guess again, our blessed lady of maternity leave. The girl downstairs, for whom I am the backup, decided that she should shit out her beautiful new baby about a month ahead of schedule. Luckily, we had just hired her replacement.
About an hour before she went into labor.
So, needless to say, I have been slaving away in front of a computer which operates on some strange amalgam of SAP and one of those superheated pokers used by the Spanish Inquisitors. The premise of the system is this. I sit in a special “SAP Chair” where I am forced to do intricate algorithms in my head, while listening to Replacement Girl ask questions about why I don’t just write a new, more user friendly, system to replace this one, while randomly punching keys and hoping that one of them is the “fix everything I’ve just fucked up” button, and while a red hot poker comes up through the chair and skewers my catflap.
At least some of the time.
You see, I also got a promotion. The current director of marketing is retiring in May. I share an office with him, but I am the quality manager. I found it rather interesting, then, when I happened to see some ad copy that said “KOTWF, Director of Marketing” and had my email address on it.
I must have missed the memo talking about my NEW AND IMPROVED job description, as well as my exorbitant payraise.
I’m sure I would’ve been told if it was important.
Check in soon, I’ll be writing more regularly from now on.
There is more news, but I’m afraid I just don’t have time to tell you right now. I hear the SAP Forge heating up.
Wednesday, March 17, 2004
And This Here’s What We Call A Necktie
I had to go to Charleston, West-By-God-Virginia the other day for work. I had a couple of good meetings, and a nice dinner at Laury’s, an old train station that is now a five star restaurant. On the way home, my boss decided to stop at a little bar he likes in the hills of Ripley, West Virginia.
This place was great. It is an old barn/garage that has been converted into a bar, complete with pool-tables, a dance-floor, and flat screen television. Getting there was a bit of a trick, though. You have to drive down a back road until you come across a hole in a fence. You turn through the hole in the fence and into a field. After you go around the barn, you come over a ridge and find yourself looking at a parking lot with at least two-dozen cars in it. There is no road, no sign, no evidence at all that this place is a bar. You use the single halogen light to find your way from your car to the windowless door.
Once we were inside, everyone in the place turned to look at the two suits that just walked in. Every single eye was on us as we approached the bar and ordered a couple of scotches.
“We’re out of scotch.” Said the bartender.
“No Problem,” we said.
“Hey guys” spoke up a drunk at the bar, “I’ll buy your first round, and before you finish it I’ll be back with a bottle of Dewars, okay?”
“That’s really not necessary, we’ll drink something else.”
“No, I want to go get you a bottle of Dewars.”
“We’ll drink gin, or rum, or anything else you have.”
“Okay, let me at least buy your first drink for you.”
This is decidedly odd. Taking our cocktails that had been purchased by the man next to us, we surveyed the room.
“Hey!” said the mouth-breather to my left, “you guys lawyers or something?”
“No” I said, “We run a trucking company.”
“Yeah, right! You some kind of fucking narc or cop or something?”
“No, we run a trucking company.”
“Sure. What do you haul? Fucking cocaine or heroin?”
“No, just gravel, coal, that sort of thing.”
“Yeah right. Are you reporters doing a story on the bar? Are they in trouble?”
“No, we just wanted a drink.”
“Whatever, man” he said as he walked away.
I was beginning to feel that maybe we were not welcome in this place, being sharp-dressed city slickers from a bustling metropolis of 15,000. I guess I can understand their awe-filled terror. But, to make matters worse, we had brought our big-city gadgets. The boss pulled out his cell-phone, and the bartender suddenly said, “Hey, put that away.”
“What?”
“That’s one of them camera phones! We don’t want no pictures in here. I mean, just supposin’ a feller was in here with an old lady that ain’t exactly his old lady. He ain’t gonna be wantin’ no pictures tooked of him. I’m sure you can understand. I gotta look out for my customers and I’m sure some of them don’t want what they do in a picture.”
“Right. Just another drink then.”
It became time to go. We finished our drinks and settled our tab. Before we left, the bartender spoke again. “I just want to let you know that you guy’s are alright. I mean, you’re welcome here. You don’t have to worry about nothing, you’re welcome here. Okay?”
“Sure. Thanks. We like this bar.”
“Good. I just didn’t want you thinking there was any hard feelings or nothing. Y’all are welcome here any time. We’d love it if you came back, okay? Don’t worry about anything anybody says.”
“Okay. We’ll come back. Bye.” We said through our masks of confusion. On our way to the door, every eye watched us go.
We climbed into the truck and headed back through the field towards home.
I had to go to Charleston, West-By-God-Virginia the other day for work. I had a couple of good meetings, and a nice dinner at Laury’s, an old train station that is now a five star restaurant. On the way home, my boss decided to stop at a little bar he likes in the hills of Ripley, West Virginia.
This place was great. It is an old barn/garage that has been converted into a bar, complete with pool-tables, a dance-floor, and flat screen television. Getting there was a bit of a trick, though. You have to drive down a back road until you come across a hole in a fence. You turn through the hole in the fence and into a field. After you go around the barn, you come over a ridge and find yourself looking at a parking lot with at least two-dozen cars in it. There is no road, no sign, no evidence at all that this place is a bar. You use the single halogen light to find your way from your car to the windowless door.
Once we were inside, everyone in the place turned to look at the two suits that just walked in. Every single eye was on us as we approached the bar and ordered a couple of scotches.
“We’re out of scotch.” Said the bartender.
“No Problem,” we said.
“Hey guys” spoke up a drunk at the bar, “I’ll buy your first round, and before you finish it I’ll be back with a bottle of Dewars, okay?”
“That’s really not necessary, we’ll drink something else.”
“No, I want to go get you a bottle of Dewars.”
“We’ll drink gin, or rum, or anything else you have.”
“Okay, let me at least buy your first drink for you.”
This is decidedly odd. Taking our cocktails that had been purchased by the man next to us, we surveyed the room.
“Hey!” said the mouth-breather to my left, “you guys lawyers or something?”
“No” I said, “We run a trucking company.”
“Yeah, right! You some kind of fucking narc or cop or something?”
“No, we run a trucking company.”
“Sure. What do you haul? Fucking cocaine or heroin?”
“No, just gravel, coal, that sort of thing.”
“Yeah right. Are you reporters doing a story on the bar? Are they in trouble?”
“No, we just wanted a drink.”
“Whatever, man” he said as he walked away.
I was beginning to feel that maybe we were not welcome in this place, being sharp-dressed city slickers from a bustling metropolis of 15,000. I guess I can understand their awe-filled terror. But, to make matters worse, we had brought our big-city gadgets. The boss pulled out his cell-phone, and the bartender suddenly said, “Hey, put that away.”
“What?”
“That’s one of them camera phones! We don’t want no pictures in here. I mean, just supposin’ a feller was in here with an old lady that ain’t exactly his old lady. He ain’t gonna be wantin’ no pictures tooked of him. I’m sure you can understand. I gotta look out for my customers and I’m sure some of them don’t want what they do in a picture.”
“Right. Just another drink then.”
It became time to go. We finished our drinks and settled our tab. Before we left, the bartender spoke again. “I just want to let you know that you guy’s are alright. I mean, you’re welcome here. You don’t have to worry about nothing, you’re welcome here. Okay?”
“Sure. Thanks. We like this bar.”
“Good. I just didn’t want you thinking there was any hard feelings or nothing. Y’all are welcome here any time. We’d love it if you came back, okay? Don’t worry about anything anybody says.”
“Okay. We’ll come back. Bye.” We said through our masks of confusion. On our way to the door, every eye watched us go.
We climbed into the truck and headed back through the field towards home.
Tuesday, March 09, 2004
Some People Get All The Breaks
I came home yesterday, and there was a strange truck parked in my driveway. This wouldn't be a big deal, except that there is only room for one vehicle in my driveway, and this truck was taking it. I decided that, instead of parking on the street, I would block in the offending four-wheeler. That way, when s/he wanted to get out, s/he would have to come and ask me to move my car.
Not 15 minutes went by.
Very shortly, my neighbor Frank came over. Frank was slightly bloody, and wearing a cast and sling on his right arm.
"What the fuck happened to you?" I asked.
"I ran myself over" Frank replied.
"Of course." I said.
I turns out that Frank had been working on his transmission. It had not been quite right, so he parked it half in my driveway and half in his so that he could get under it and work on it easier. Of course, when he started fooling with the linkage, it knocked the transmission out of gear and the truck rolled down the hill, over his neck, collar bone, and arm, then came to rest on top of him. Luckily, he had his cell phone with him and was able to call the hospital to come and remove the offending vehicle. They parked said truck in my spot while they carted his sorry ass off to the ER.
I'm going to have him fix the transmission on my steam-roller.
I came home yesterday, and there was a strange truck parked in my driveway. This wouldn't be a big deal, except that there is only room for one vehicle in my driveway, and this truck was taking it. I decided that, instead of parking on the street, I would block in the offending four-wheeler. That way, when s/he wanted to get out, s/he would have to come and ask me to move my car.
Not 15 minutes went by.
Very shortly, my neighbor Frank came over. Frank was slightly bloody, and wearing a cast and sling on his right arm.
"What the fuck happened to you?" I asked.
"I ran myself over" Frank replied.
"Of course." I said.
I turns out that Frank had been working on his transmission. It had not been quite right, so he parked it half in my driveway and half in his so that he could get under it and work on it easier. Of course, when he started fooling with the linkage, it knocked the transmission out of gear and the truck rolled down the hill, over his neck, collar bone, and arm, then came to rest on top of him. Luckily, he had his cell phone with him and was able to call the hospital to come and remove the offending vehicle. They parked said truck in my spot while they carted his sorry ass off to the ER.
I'm going to have him fix the transmission on my steam-roller.
Friday, February 13, 2004
Experiment
I never really got into these rambling weblog entries that are so popular with the kids these days. You know, the ones where they write about the cute thing their fucking dog did last night, then follow that up with a pseudo-witty comment about the size of their floppy or something, and end with an acronym like LOL or ROFLMAO or maybe GBFFOAFITCOD.
So I thought I’d try it. Here’s my life for the last month:
Phoenix Cat
I have two cats. The elder of the two is The Right Honourable Sir Charles L. Rampant, Esquire (Charlie). The Kitten is Bunbury Wilde (Bunny). Charlie recently started spraying and had to be neutered, but that is not funny to anyone but Bunny, so we’ll not talk about it anymore. Bunny, however, is hilarious, mostly because I’ve never owned a retarded cat. Some of the things that attest to his retardation are that he breaths through his mouth, not his nose, he has serious inner ear problems so that he is constantly falling off of things or over stuff, and I have personally seen him run full-boor into objects like doors, walls, and other cats. Additionally, he likes to climb into the bathtub with Red and play with the bubbles (he has also fallen into the toilet and had to be pulled out and washed several times). But the thing that really cinches the deal is his uncanny ability to light himself on fire.
On numerous occasions, I’ve watched as a streak of orange flame barreled around the apartment. Each time, he has managed to put himself out without sustaining or causing any serious damage, but each time it happens I think that perhaps he has learned to not rub up against lit candles, and each time I am proved wrong.
Bankruptcy, Inc.
It seems like in order to be a customer of the company I work for, you have to file for bankruptcy protection at some point and cost us a shitload of money. Of course, we carefully screen all of our customers before we begin work for them, so I am not sure how this happens. I suspect that the screening process goes something like this:
US: I just need to ask you a few questions about your company, sir.
THEM: Okay, just let me finish burying my ex-wife and her lover.
US: Take your time….So, you like killing people, huh?
THEM: Almost as much as I like not paying people for work they’ve done.
US: Good, good.
THEM: Ready.
US: Okay. Tell me about your financial situation.
THEM: Well, once I sell this watch I took off the dead guy, I’ll have $100.
US: Good. So, we’ll put you down for $1,000,000 of credit, okay? Now, could I have the names of some other businesses you’ve worked with?
THEM: I did a deal with a guy named Beelzebub last week. Or was it Lucifer?
US: Doesn’t matter, we never actually call them anyway. Now then, would you be willing to accept 30 day payment terms?
THEM: No.
US: Sixty then?
THEM: I was thinking more like “Ragnorak” or “Just after the last trump.”
US: I’ll write down “A Cold Day In Hell” for payment terms, okay?
THEM: Fine by me.
US: Well, I have to admit that I’m not sure if this will work out.
THEM: If you take me as a customer, then I’ll send a hooters calendar every Christmas.
US: Deal.
Needless to say, we’ve written off several million in bad debt over the last few years.
The House
Moving Day is upon us. The Rats are crawling out from beneath the rosebush with their winches and pulleys, and Dom Deloise is flapping about, tangled in yarn, shouting something about a “shiny.” Soon I will be leaving my squalid apartment forever and entering my nice new house. Here are my reasons for leaving:
Current apartment has no insulation, heating bills are atrocious.
Downstairs neighbors like doing construction projects at 1:00am.
Landlord lets himself in whenever he wants to fix things I don’t want fixed.
Landlord never got around to installing little things like fire escapes.
Landlord scares me.
Absolutely no storage-space in the entire apartment.
No washer and dryer.
Rent is so expensive that I am moving out of an apartment into a three bedroom house and saving money.
Red wants to.
Well, that about sums up my major life changes for now. I’ll try to keep you posted on my goings-on from here on out, but it might be kind of sparse. After I get laid off today I have to go to my new house and put out my cat. GBFFOAFITCOD.
I never really got into these rambling weblog entries that are so popular with the kids these days. You know, the ones where they write about the cute thing their fucking dog did last night, then follow that up with a pseudo-witty comment about the size of their floppy or something, and end with an acronym like LOL or ROFLMAO or maybe GBFFOAFITCOD.
So I thought I’d try it. Here’s my life for the last month:
Phoenix Cat
I have two cats. The elder of the two is The Right Honourable Sir Charles L. Rampant, Esquire (Charlie). The Kitten is Bunbury Wilde (Bunny). Charlie recently started spraying and had to be neutered, but that is not funny to anyone but Bunny, so we’ll not talk about it anymore. Bunny, however, is hilarious, mostly because I’ve never owned a retarded cat. Some of the things that attest to his retardation are that he breaths through his mouth, not his nose, he has serious inner ear problems so that he is constantly falling off of things or over stuff, and I have personally seen him run full-boor into objects like doors, walls, and other cats. Additionally, he likes to climb into the bathtub with Red and play with the bubbles (he has also fallen into the toilet and had to be pulled out and washed several times). But the thing that really cinches the deal is his uncanny ability to light himself on fire.
On numerous occasions, I’ve watched as a streak of orange flame barreled around the apartment. Each time, he has managed to put himself out without sustaining or causing any serious damage, but each time it happens I think that perhaps he has learned to not rub up against lit candles, and each time I am proved wrong.
Bankruptcy, Inc.
It seems like in order to be a customer of the company I work for, you have to file for bankruptcy protection at some point and cost us a shitload of money. Of course, we carefully screen all of our customers before we begin work for them, so I am not sure how this happens. I suspect that the screening process goes something like this:
US: I just need to ask you a few questions about your company, sir.
THEM: Okay, just let me finish burying my ex-wife and her lover.
US: Take your time….So, you like killing people, huh?
THEM: Almost as much as I like not paying people for work they’ve done.
US: Good, good.
THEM: Ready.
US: Okay. Tell me about your financial situation.
THEM: Well, once I sell this watch I took off the dead guy, I’ll have $100.
US: Good. So, we’ll put you down for $1,000,000 of credit, okay? Now, could I have the names of some other businesses you’ve worked with?
THEM: I did a deal with a guy named Beelzebub last week. Or was it Lucifer?
US: Doesn’t matter, we never actually call them anyway. Now then, would you be willing to accept 30 day payment terms?
THEM: No.
US: Sixty then?
THEM: I was thinking more like “Ragnorak” or “Just after the last trump.”
US: I’ll write down “A Cold Day In Hell” for payment terms, okay?
THEM: Fine by me.
US: Well, I have to admit that I’m not sure if this will work out.
THEM: If you take me as a customer, then I’ll send a hooters calendar every Christmas.
US: Deal.
Needless to say, we’ve written off several million in bad debt over the last few years.
The House
Moving Day is upon us. The Rats are crawling out from beneath the rosebush with their winches and pulleys, and Dom Deloise is flapping about, tangled in yarn, shouting something about a “shiny.” Soon I will be leaving my squalid apartment forever and entering my nice new house. Here are my reasons for leaving:
Current apartment has no insulation, heating bills are atrocious.
Downstairs neighbors like doing construction projects at 1:00am.
Landlord lets himself in whenever he wants to fix things I don’t want fixed.
Landlord never got around to installing little things like fire escapes.
Landlord scares me.
Absolutely no storage-space in the entire apartment.
No washer and dryer.
Rent is so expensive that I am moving out of an apartment into a three bedroom house and saving money.
Red wants to.
Well, that about sums up my major life changes for now. I’ll try to keep you posted on my goings-on from here on out, but it might be kind of sparse. After I get laid off today I have to go to my new house and put out my cat. GBFFOAFITCOD.
Tuesday, January 20, 2004
These Things Have To Start Somewhere
The other day I was in a conversation with some people. The conversation turned to matters of recreational pharmaceuticals, and before I knew what I was saying, I had referred to marijuana as "Mexican Catnip."
I personally had never hear this phrase before, and neither had anyone else that I was talking to, but I think that it is pretty good. So here's the deal: if you have heard it before, let me know. If you haven't, then start using it as much as you can in conversation.
Just remember that you heard it here first.
The other day I was in a conversation with some people. The conversation turned to matters of recreational pharmaceuticals, and before I knew what I was saying, I had referred to marijuana as "Mexican Catnip."
I personally had never hear this phrase before, and neither had anyone else that I was talking to, but I think that it is pretty good. So here's the deal: if you have heard it before, let me know. If you haven't, then start using it as much as you can in conversation.
Just remember that you heard it here first.
Monday, January 12, 2004
Professional
My landlord, God bless his kooky little soul, has decided to start a newsletter which he will send to all of his tenants whenever an issue comes up that he feels the need to mention. This would be fine, if it weren't for the fact that he's...well...just read this excerpt, complete with all the grammatical errors and typos:
If you don't have a dog this isn't for you. Now don't get me wrong. I'm not doing a DNA test on the "poo", but the piles of poo surrounding the building is becoming astronomical. There is more poo than grass, and for the 2nd time I stepped in poo that was on the parking lot. Now if it's not you great, if it's a neighbor please tell them to call me, or beat the person to a pulp yourself for stress relief. If it is you, I don't care, I don't live there. I don't mow the grass, but if the city, a cop, sees you then they will fine you. I'm sure you have seen those ugly signs, "pet defecation is prohibited by city ordinance #3876846378423.234289723987234.234. My personal request/suggestion is to go across the street in the park the hospital created with the mountain of dirt if you don't want to pick it up. This will keep my shoes clean.
I don't know. Maybe I'm being too critical, but if I were to write this, I would probably proof-read it. And I'd try to sound a little bit more professional. And I wouldn't publicly distribute something where I instruct people on how to break the law.
Unless you count that article I wrote on how to dispose of dead hookers.
My landlord, God bless his kooky little soul, has decided to start a newsletter which he will send to all of his tenants whenever an issue comes up that he feels the need to mention. This would be fine, if it weren't for the fact that he's...well...just read this excerpt, complete with all the grammatical errors and typos:
If you don't have a dog this isn't for you. Now don't get me wrong. I'm not doing a DNA test on the "poo", but the piles of poo surrounding the building is becoming astronomical. There is more poo than grass, and for the 2nd time I stepped in poo that was on the parking lot. Now if it's not you great, if it's a neighbor please tell them to call me, or beat the person to a pulp yourself for stress relief. If it is you, I don't care, I don't live there. I don't mow the grass, but if the city, a cop, sees you then they will fine you. I'm sure you have seen those ugly signs, "pet defecation is prohibited by city ordinance #3876846378423.234289723987234.234. My personal request/suggestion is to go across the street in the park the hospital created with the mountain of dirt if you don't want to pick it up. This will keep my shoes clean.
I don't know. Maybe I'm being too critical, but if I were to write this, I would probably proof-read it. And I'd try to sound a little bit more professional. And I wouldn't publicly distribute something where I instruct people on how to break the law.
Unless you count that article I wrote on how to dispose of dead hookers.
Friday, January 02, 2004
Why Doesn't Anyone Ever Play With Me?
At my mother's annual Christmas Eve party, everyone always ends up wanting to play Christmas Charades. This usually involves my friend Steve sitting down and coming up with some Christmas Categories, then writing down a bunch of Holiday answers. These get put in a hat and pulled out by the players as they take their turns.
This year, I got to write the clues instead of Steve. Here are some of the categories and clues I came up with:
Category One: Things You Don't Want To Find Christmas Morning.
Grandma: Post-Reindeer
The Head of your Prize Racehose Next to You in Bed
A Foot In Your Stocking
A Dead Hooker
Satan and a host of ghoulish imps awaiting you in the flames at the bottom of a gaping pit, holding many fiendish devices of torture and laughing, laughing...
Matrix: Revolutions
In-Laws
Category Two: Christmas Movies That Will Never Be Made.
Frosty the Drag Queen
It's a Horrible Life
I Saw Daddy Kissing Santa Claus
Rudolph, The Red Nosed Venison
Perry Como's Christmas in Baghdad
It Was An Accident, Charlie Brown!
A Lovecraft Christmas
Santa's Dirty Little Secret
Now no one wants to play charades with me anymore...
At my mother's annual Christmas Eve party, everyone always ends up wanting to play Christmas Charades. This usually involves my friend Steve sitting down and coming up with some Christmas Categories, then writing down a bunch of Holiday answers. These get put in a hat and pulled out by the players as they take their turns.
This year, I got to write the clues instead of Steve. Here are some of the categories and clues I came up with:
Category One: Things You Don't Want To Find Christmas Morning.
Grandma: Post-Reindeer
The Head of your Prize Racehose Next to You in Bed
A Foot In Your Stocking
A Dead Hooker
Satan and a host of ghoulish imps awaiting you in the flames at the bottom of a gaping pit, holding many fiendish devices of torture and laughing, laughing...
Matrix: Revolutions
In-Laws
Category Two: Christmas Movies That Will Never Be Made.
Frosty the Drag Queen
It's a Horrible Life
I Saw Daddy Kissing Santa Claus
Rudolph, The Red Nosed Venison
Perry Como's Christmas in Baghdad
It Was An Accident, Charlie Brown!
A Lovecraft Christmas
Santa's Dirty Little Secret
Now no one wants to play charades with me anymore...
Tuesday, December 30, 2003
A Merry Messy Christmas!
They say you can have too much of a good thing. I personally never understood that. I say “Everything in Excess! Moderation is for Monks!” How can there be such a thing as too much scotch? What about garlic? Who could ever honestly say that you can have too much garlic?
I guess the girl I took to senior prom could…and Lestat…but besides them….
Anyway, this holiday taught me the true definition of “too much of a good thing.” Families are good, right? Well I have four.
Four fucking families.
Actually more like six, but I only saw four of them this Christmas.
Here they are, in no particular order:
Red’s Parents and Siblings
My mother, stepfather, and siblings
My father, stepmother, aunts and uncles
Me, Red, and the cats
Here it is, the “KOTWF, Red, & Company Schedule For Manic Holiday Madness!”
Dec. 23rd : Faux Christmas Eve
7:00am Arrive at work, ready to fly through the day and have everything done so that I can be out of there and at my dad’s house by 4:00
12:00pm Realize that I’m completely fucked and will probably have to work late
4:30pm Raise the bar in the “Who Can String Together The Best Series Of Curse Words Contest” we have going at the office by using the phrases “Rat Piss Cancer Fuck,” “Grey-Turded,” and “Scat-Porn Watching” in the same sentence. Throw something and storm out of the office with a shout of “You can all burn in hell. Have a Merry Fucking Christmas!”
5:15pm Arrive at Dad’s an hour and fifteen minutes late, and three shots behind. Catch up in 5 minutes using flaming shots of 151.
5:20pm Borrow stepmother’s makeup pencil to draw singed eyebrows back on. Make mental note to blow out shots from now on.
5:45pm Finish applying burn cream, return to bar
8:00pm Stumble to table, gorge self on goose, sirloin, oyster stuffing, and scotch-cream. Drink a little more.
9:30pm Sit down to a calm family game of Trivial Pursuit.
11:00pm Stand up, shout obscenities, kick Trivial Pursuit board across room and go back into the bar to finish my Christmas Eve Vigil.
Dec. 24th : Real Christmas Eve; Faux Christmas Day
7:00am Open one eye, sit up, smack head into invisible, rum-induced wall of pain. Lurch towards coffee maker.
8:00am Finally realize where I am.
8:15am Red, Dad, Stepmom, Siblings all come into kitchen. They don’t look much better than me.
8:30am Open first bottle of champagne. Day is looking up.
8:45am Begin opening presents. Got a great power-tool set. Become excited about tools then realize that this proves I am getting old.
12:00pm Leave dad’s and go home.
12:30pm Arrive at home. Realize that I still have hours of wrapping to do. Open a bottle of champagne.
3:00pm Go to hospital to visit Grandmother who has pneumonia. Realize that being sick has not stopped her from being able to talk non-stop.
4:20pm Arrive at Mom’s house late for her annual Christmas Eve Party. Realize with horror that the party is dry.
5:00pm Remember the half bottle of rum in my trunk. Run out to my car giggling like Michael Jackson in a candy store.
8:00pm Off to Red’s parents. THEY HAVE RUM TOO!!!!
10:00pm Home again! Now I can start really drinking.
12:30am Red and I go to sleep.
1:00am Wake up to make sure that Santa has filled Red’s Stocking. Damn is it heavy!
2:00am Wake up again to make sure that the heavy stocking has not fallen from the mantle.
3:00am Ditto
4:00am Ditto
5:00am This is getting old. Decide to start a pot of coffee and open a bottle of Champagne, which brings us to:
Dec 25th : Christmas Day
5:30am Open another bottle of champagne
6:00am Start drinking coffee with rum, to save champagne for Red.
6:15am Start cooking eggs and bacon.
6:30am Wake Red up. Get bitched at for half an hour because I have the balls to wake her at 6:30 on Christmas morning. Hear her use the phrase “Jesus Fucking Christ” which strikes me as incredibly funny on this day in particular.
7:00am Finish breakfast. Open Stockings. Santa Brought Red, that’s right, another bottle of champagne!
8:00am Arrive at mom’s. Begin opening presents.
12:30pm Arrive at dad’s for presents with extended family.
2:30pm Arrive home. That champagne Santa brought is probably cold by now.
2:35pm Yup. It’s cold. It’s pretty damn good too.
4:00pm Arrive at Red’s parents for Christmas dinner and more presents.
5:00pm If I smoke all of these cigars that I got, I will immediately die of lung cancer. The only consolation is that I won’t have to wait for my liver to go first.
5:30pm Open huge poster of the Rat Pack. This makes me very happy for some reason.
6:00pm Eat still more stuff.
10:00pm Finally arrive home. Collapse in fetal position on living room floor. Refuse to be touched by anything citing “Yuletide Over-Stimulation” as my reason.
10:30pm Begin crying when I realize that I have to be at work at 7:00am the next day.
God Bless us, Everyone!
They say you can have too much of a good thing. I personally never understood that. I say “Everything in Excess! Moderation is for Monks!” How can there be such a thing as too much scotch? What about garlic? Who could ever honestly say that you can have too much garlic?
I guess the girl I took to senior prom could…and Lestat…but besides them….
Anyway, this holiday taught me the true definition of “too much of a good thing.” Families are good, right? Well I have four.
Four fucking families.
Actually more like six, but I only saw four of them this Christmas.
Here they are, in no particular order:
Red’s Parents and Siblings
My mother, stepfather, and siblings
My father, stepmother, aunts and uncles
Me, Red, and the cats
Here it is, the “KOTWF, Red, & Company Schedule For Manic Holiday Madness!”
Dec. 23rd : Faux Christmas Eve
7:00am Arrive at work, ready to fly through the day and have everything done so that I can be out of there and at my dad’s house by 4:00
12:00pm Realize that I’m completely fucked and will probably have to work late
4:30pm Raise the bar in the “Who Can String Together The Best Series Of Curse Words Contest” we have going at the office by using the phrases “Rat Piss Cancer Fuck,” “Grey-Turded,” and “Scat-Porn Watching” in the same sentence. Throw something and storm out of the office with a shout of “You can all burn in hell. Have a Merry Fucking Christmas!”
5:15pm Arrive at Dad’s an hour and fifteen minutes late, and three shots behind. Catch up in 5 minutes using flaming shots of 151.
5:20pm Borrow stepmother’s makeup pencil to draw singed eyebrows back on. Make mental note to blow out shots from now on.
5:45pm Finish applying burn cream, return to bar
8:00pm Stumble to table, gorge self on goose, sirloin, oyster stuffing, and scotch-cream. Drink a little more.
9:30pm Sit down to a calm family game of Trivial Pursuit.
11:00pm Stand up, shout obscenities, kick Trivial Pursuit board across room and go back into the bar to finish my Christmas Eve Vigil.
Dec. 24th : Real Christmas Eve; Faux Christmas Day
7:00am Open one eye, sit up, smack head into invisible, rum-induced wall of pain. Lurch towards coffee maker.
8:00am Finally realize where I am.
8:15am Red, Dad, Stepmom, Siblings all come into kitchen. They don’t look much better than me.
8:30am Open first bottle of champagne. Day is looking up.
8:45am Begin opening presents. Got a great power-tool set. Become excited about tools then realize that this proves I am getting old.
12:00pm Leave dad’s and go home.
12:30pm Arrive at home. Realize that I still have hours of wrapping to do. Open a bottle of champagne.
3:00pm Go to hospital to visit Grandmother who has pneumonia. Realize that being sick has not stopped her from being able to talk non-stop.
4:20pm Arrive at Mom’s house late for her annual Christmas Eve Party. Realize with horror that the party is dry.
5:00pm Remember the half bottle of rum in my trunk. Run out to my car giggling like Michael Jackson in a candy store.
8:00pm Off to Red’s parents. THEY HAVE RUM TOO!!!!
10:00pm Home again! Now I can start really drinking.
12:30am Red and I go to sleep.
1:00am Wake up to make sure that Santa has filled Red’s Stocking. Damn is it heavy!
2:00am Wake up again to make sure that the heavy stocking has not fallen from the mantle.
3:00am Ditto
4:00am Ditto
5:00am This is getting old. Decide to start a pot of coffee and open a bottle of Champagne, which brings us to:
Dec 25th : Christmas Day
5:30am Open another bottle of champagne
6:00am Start drinking coffee with rum, to save champagne for Red.
6:15am Start cooking eggs and bacon.
6:30am Wake Red up. Get bitched at for half an hour because I have the balls to wake her at 6:30 on Christmas morning. Hear her use the phrase “Jesus Fucking Christ” which strikes me as incredibly funny on this day in particular.
7:00am Finish breakfast. Open Stockings. Santa Brought Red, that’s right, another bottle of champagne!
8:00am Arrive at mom’s. Begin opening presents.
12:30pm Arrive at dad’s for presents with extended family.
2:30pm Arrive home. That champagne Santa brought is probably cold by now.
2:35pm Yup. It’s cold. It’s pretty damn good too.
4:00pm Arrive at Red’s parents for Christmas dinner and more presents.
5:00pm If I smoke all of these cigars that I got, I will immediately die of lung cancer. The only consolation is that I won’t have to wait for my liver to go first.
5:30pm Open huge poster of the Rat Pack. This makes me very happy for some reason.
6:00pm Eat still more stuff.
10:00pm Finally arrive home. Collapse in fetal position on living room floor. Refuse to be touched by anything citing “Yuletide Over-Stimulation” as my reason.
10:30pm Begin crying when I realize that I have to be at work at 7:00am the next day.
God Bless us, Everyone!
Monday, December 15, 2003
Wednesday, December 10, 2003
Did I Mention That I'm Fucked?
Red's been out-of-commission with a particularly nasty case of the flu, so I've had plenty of time for introspection. While she lay on the couch moaning, drinking nasty-red-menthol-smelling-ass-tasting-heart-stopping-ball-crushing-flu-medicine-shit and watching 17 back-to-back episodes of Law and Order: The Early Years, I was staring at the wall in my office, railing silently against fate, fortune, and Pat Sajak, downloading every episode I could find of SNL Celebrity Jeopardy, and refusing to work. And here's why:
I don't know where to start!
I have a two day audit next week of EVERYTHING I have done for the last year. This auditor is going to dig through files, interview employees, read reports, wash behind my ears, and give me a really thorough prostate exam, without a reacharound. And this has me a little stressed out. You see, it's not like I haven't been doing my job for the last year, because I have. It's just that when it comes down to it, and you know someone has 16 hours to dig into every little detail, you just know they are going to find the "T" you didn't dot, the "Eyes" you didn't cross, and your secret stash of Forbidden Farm Girl Sex Acts (take that Google!).
So, now I'm scrambling around, trying to fit another year's worth of work into five days. How do I do it? Chex Mix, Ramen, Gin, Espresso, and a constant loop of that obnoxious song "He's Going the Distance" by Cake.
With any luck, I'll have a total breakdown and be committed before Monday.
Red's been out-of-commission with a particularly nasty case of the flu, so I've had plenty of time for introspection. While she lay on the couch moaning, drinking nasty-red-menthol-smelling-ass-tasting-heart-stopping-ball-crushing-flu-medicine-shit and watching 17 back-to-back episodes of Law and Order: The Early Years, I was staring at the wall in my office, railing silently against fate, fortune, and Pat Sajak, downloading every episode I could find of SNL Celebrity Jeopardy, and refusing to work. And here's why:
I don't know where to start!
I have a two day audit next week of EVERYTHING I have done for the last year. This auditor is going to dig through files, interview employees, read reports, wash behind my ears, and give me a really thorough prostate exam, without a reacharound. And this has me a little stressed out. You see, it's not like I haven't been doing my job for the last year, because I have. It's just that when it comes down to it, and you know someone has 16 hours to dig into every little detail, you just know they are going to find the "T" you didn't dot, the "Eyes" you didn't cross, and your secret stash of Forbidden Farm Girl Sex Acts (take that Google!).
So, now I'm scrambling around, trying to fit another year's worth of work into five days. How do I do it? Chex Mix, Ramen, Gin, Espresso, and a constant loop of that obnoxious song "He's Going the Distance" by Cake.
With any luck, I'll have a total breakdown and be committed before Monday.
Thursday, December 04, 2003
The Service Sucks, But the Floor Show is Great!
“I know John Bobbit!”
This was how she introduced herself to me, as she stumbled from her place at the bar, lurching unsteadily toward my inner thigh.
“What?” I said.
“You know! John Bobbit. The Dick-Cut-Off-Guy.”
“Yes,” I said, “I know who John Wayne Bobbit is.”
“I don’t just know who he is, I know him!” she replied as her hand came to rest just a few inches from my wedding tackle. I glanced at Red, to make sure that she was not becoming angered at this woman’s unwarranted advances.
Red had her own problems. The hand that wasn’t digging its nails into my leg was massaging Red’s chest. Suddenly this was a more interesting conversation than I thought.
“How do you know John Bobbit?” I asked.
“They don’t believe me!” she shouted towards a couple of people sitting at the bar. Ah yes, the wonderful logic of tequila shots was working its magic on her already fragile brain. “I’m from West Palm Beach. Do you believe me?”
“Of course I do. How did you meet him?”
“After his wife or girlfriend or whatever did the choppity-chop on his Johnson, he got that prosthetic, or extender or whatever.”
“I thought he just had it stitched back on, I didn’t think it was prosthetic.”
“What the fuck do you know?” she snapped, “Anyway, he had his dingus stapled back on and then the first place he ever showed off his frankencock was at a strip club that my friend owns in West Palm Beach. I don’t know what’s so special about it though. He can’t even get hard now! Did I tell you I’m from West Palm Beach?”
“No.” I said solemnly.
Red couldn’t take it anymore and began laughing so hard that she couldn’t breath. She actually began to squeak as she struggled for air, and her face began to turn purple. That’s when the drunk began yelling, “Help! Help! She can’t breath! She’s having a heart attack. Somebody come do CPR! Somebody call 911. I’ll give her boyfriend mouth-to-mouth!”
This didn’t help Red. She began squeaking and laughing so hard that she fell out of her chair. That’s when people starting thinking that maybe she really did need CPR. The fact that I was laughing at her only made me look like a callous asshole (which I am) and it took quite a bit of reassuring through my guffaws to stop the bartender from calling an ambulance.
I finally managed pry her hand off of my thigh, and she lumbered off toward the bar to fetch another cocktail. On the way, she coughed so hard that she almost fell over, and righted herself only by grabbing the arm of a passing man and pulling herself up. In the process, she knocked him from his feet. She also spun around and landed back in Red’s lap, where she proceeded to use both hands and Red’s chest to bring herself back to full-upright. This started another laughing fit that nearly ended with the paramedics.
She talked about John Wayne Bobbit for about ten more minutes, but didn’t say anything new. Finally, she put her cigarette out in my martini, pulled the Christmas tree in the lobby over on herself, and left the building.
God I love my town.
“I know John Bobbit!”
This was how she introduced herself to me, as she stumbled from her place at the bar, lurching unsteadily toward my inner thigh.
“What?” I said.
“You know! John Bobbit. The Dick-Cut-Off-Guy.”
“Yes,” I said, “I know who John Wayne Bobbit is.”
“I don’t just know who he is, I know him!” she replied as her hand came to rest just a few inches from my wedding tackle. I glanced at Red, to make sure that she was not becoming angered at this woman’s unwarranted advances.
Red had her own problems. The hand that wasn’t digging its nails into my leg was massaging Red’s chest. Suddenly this was a more interesting conversation than I thought.
“How do you know John Bobbit?” I asked.
“They don’t believe me!” she shouted towards a couple of people sitting at the bar. Ah yes, the wonderful logic of tequila shots was working its magic on her already fragile brain. “I’m from West Palm Beach. Do you believe me?”
“Of course I do. How did you meet him?”
“After his wife or girlfriend or whatever did the choppity-chop on his Johnson, he got that prosthetic, or extender or whatever.”
“I thought he just had it stitched back on, I didn’t think it was prosthetic.”
“What the fuck do you know?” she snapped, “Anyway, he had his dingus stapled back on and then the first place he ever showed off his frankencock was at a strip club that my friend owns in West Palm Beach. I don’t know what’s so special about it though. He can’t even get hard now! Did I tell you I’m from West Palm Beach?”
“No.” I said solemnly.
Red couldn’t take it anymore and began laughing so hard that she couldn’t breath. She actually began to squeak as she struggled for air, and her face began to turn purple. That’s when the drunk began yelling, “Help! Help! She can’t breath! She’s having a heart attack. Somebody come do CPR! Somebody call 911. I’ll give her boyfriend mouth-to-mouth!”
This didn’t help Red. She began squeaking and laughing so hard that she fell out of her chair. That’s when people starting thinking that maybe she really did need CPR. The fact that I was laughing at her only made me look like a callous asshole (which I am) and it took quite a bit of reassuring through my guffaws to stop the bartender from calling an ambulance.
I finally managed pry her hand off of my thigh, and she lumbered off toward the bar to fetch another cocktail. On the way, she coughed so hard that she almost fell over, and righted herself only by grabbing the arm of a passing man and pulling herself up. In the process, she knocked him from his feet. She also spun around and landed back in Red’s lap, where she proceeded to use both hands and Red’s chest to bring herself back to full-upright. This started another laughing fit that nearly ended with the paramedics.
She talked about John Wayne Bobbit for about ten more minutes, but didn’t say anything new. Finally, she put her cigarette out in my martini, pulled the Christmas tree in the lobby over on herself, and left the building.
God I love my town.
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