O, Sweet Rejection

So, as many of you loyal readers know, I recently reacquired my testicles. Not in the physical sense; they have always been hangin out, waiting for something to do. But I called them into action, and they responded. I had been battling my natural instinct to ask this girl out. However, I find myself torn between loyalties. I started going to this coffee shop before she started working there. And I like the place a lot.

Let me preface my situation by letting you know that I am not afraid of rejection. I have been there before, and its cool, because better things always await. So, anyhoo, here we go. The coffee shop girl looked really good today. I complemented her and we chatted our normal chit-chat. As I was sitting down drinking my coffee, and I got the urge. I decided I have very little dignity, but I have enough to spare asking this girl out. So I did. This is a summary of how the conversation went as I was leaving today:

HER: (smiling coyly) Bye. Have a good rest of your day.

ME: So, do you have any plans this weekend?

Um, no. Not really.

Well we should hang out. What do you say?

(smiling coyly, once again) Yeah... maybe.

Maybe? Well, let me get your phone number and--

Um, I need to think about it

Think about it...Like I said before, I have indeed been rejected. But holy moly, never have I before been delivered the line I have to think about it. In all honesty, I didn't know how to take it. I thought at first, well hey, maybe this is a joke. But no. I think she was genuinely dissatisfied with my proposition. It doesn't happen often, but at least this rejection is funny enough to write about.

Do You Spank Your Children?

I think its funny. I find it absolutely hilarious when people go off on tangents in the opinion section of the newspaper, or on blogs, or even spouting it off to your face the topic of spanking children. I know that it is still a widely practiced tool for disciplining one's children. However, talking about it in public places seems to be more of a cultural and societal sin than cheating on your spouse, or marrying for financial security.

The thing that is funny, to me, is that many of those people who so openly refuse the idea of spanking children - and to some extent, condemn those who do practice it - use what they consider to be verbal disciplines. Maybe I am reading too much into this, or maybe I am retarded, but hear me out. Those verbal reprimands are often much more traumatizing than a slap on the butt. For example; I am sitting at a coffee shop as I write this. There is a gorgeous girl that works here and I like their coffee, but I digress. A couple tables away sits two women (roughly 35-45 years old) and two children (one is a freshman in high school - I eavesdropped - and the other is about six years old). The younger of the children has a colored pencil he found on the floor, and is drawing on the back of a flyer. The mother of the two children, who, simply put, looks like an uber bitch, is talking to the other lady, who seems relatively disinterested.

The mother takes a break - long enough for me to take a drink of my coffee - and the little child gently taps her on the shoulder and says in complete innocence, "M-mommy, can I have some water? I'm thirsty." This nappy-haired bitch removed his hand from her shoulder and began flinging her pointer finger in this child's face saying: "You don't need to interrupt me. I am sick and tired of you thinking what you need to say is more important than what I have to say." I would have ended the conversation here, but she didn't. "You are very rude and are being very inconsiderate of me and [insert other lady's name] and I DON'T appreciate it one bit. And look at this! You are wasting paper. If you are going to color, you need to use the entire sheet of paper. Don't waste paper. That kills trees. Do you want to kill trees?"

The child didn't answer, and with good merit. He was about to ball his eyes out. I would have cried if she was my mother. That, to me, is much worse a punishment than taking a swatting on the behind. At least that sting fades after a few minutes. Those harsh words will resurface 15 years from now when he decides to use his bitch-mother's head as a Christmas tree ornament. And I will applaud him.

CBEST, or Should I Say, C-WORST?

I am preparing to take the CBEST test this Saturday. In high school (yes, I am revisiting the glory days) I was a peer tutor for algebra. But since my statistics class during the first semester of junior college in 2001, I have not taken a math class. I never thought I would be classified as legally retarded. Not until I picked up the CBEST book the other day.

There are many things in there I vaguely remember like the Quadratic equation and the Pythagorean Theorem. But let's be real, I have actually had to sit down and reteach myself how these things are applied. I have graduated from a well-recognized 4-year institution, and have never felt so academically inadequate. Up until this time I have imagined myself to be so well-educated that I shan't need study for such a test. After all, I did graduate high school once. But reviewing these things seems to be more like something from an episode of 'Are You Smarter than A 5th Grader?' At this point in my life, it seems as though all the things I learned in high school have flown the proverbial coup. What I needed to remember, I have. All those other seeming useless facts and equations are tucked away deep into the darkest crevices of my memory bank, locked and blanketed by the covetous protection of what need not be recanted.

This has truly, thus far, proven to be a humiliating experience. In all my years of scholastic things and such, my academic virtues have never been rendered so subject to fleeting insecurities as trying to do something I simply don't remember how to do.

Be not afraid, though. I assure you I will come from that test site Saturday as the victor, and the almighty California Basic Education Skills Test; the defeated.

An Open Letter to United Airlines

Dear United,

My faith in your good service has come to an abrupt halt. You perturb me. I have seen TV commercials and heard of supposed "blackout dates" and "hidden fees", but not until two nights ago did I realize they were, in fact, the most unforgiving manifestation of reality in existence. Trailed by the un-saintly (I am here coining a term) overdraft charges by financial institutions and things of the sort, I never expected a free flight to cost me $85.

I realize that though your marketing and sales gurus (self-proclaimed, I'm sure) believe themselves to be some direct offspring of a conceptual genius, I find your indirect and manipulative shenanigans to be indisputably pathetic. And more so, your customer service leaves something to be desired.

The service representatives are friendly, but in spending anywhere from 7 to 13 minutes deciphering what was actually said, I become rather frustrated. Your representatives should represent your company, who's history and success is rooted deep in American soil, not the concept of cheaper labor. They are trained as mindless drones, reading off a sheet of paper, not answering any questions but instead raising some; like, why the hell am I stuck talking to you? Can you not think for yourselves? Do they lock you in a basement and recite by memory all United's many shotgun responses?

I have earned my 25,000 miles in travel on your airline alone. You tell the consumers that after acquiring 25,000 miles, one is entitled to a free trip in the continental US. I have held my end of the bargain, don't you believe you should do the same? I can understand a $10 charge for booking and taxes and whatnot. I cannot and will not justify giving you $85 for you to do nothing more than to respect your word. You disgust me.

WTF?

I'm not completely sure, but I think I had an epiphany today. I felt a whirling of thoughts; all logic and reason was cast aside, and I saw a truth. That truth: I am a pussy.

I never have a hard time approaching and talking to a girl. Normally I initiate conversation, then things follow in natural order. Albeit, at this point in time, I can't progress. In the past few months I have been going to a coffee shop close to my house more and more regularly. It is often hard to find any solitude at my house, so I go there in seek of peace and withdrawing. Instead, my cognitive faculties are normally rendered useless by a rather attractive young dame who just so happens to be a barista (if I'm allowed use of that term). Talking to her isn't the problem. We make small talk, sure. But small plays a crucial role in the transition between when you meet somebody and when you sleep with them. Trying to decide if it is wise to pursue this girl is the problem. I don't know if she has a boyfriend, and that weirds me out. I don't remember ever caring if a girl was involved or not - and yes, there have been times when I knew, but just didn't care. This girl, though, perplexes me. Plus, this is my favorite coffee shop. Would the silent whispers and downcast glances of failed nothings be too much to endure on my afternoon strive for freedom? I think I am thinking too much. But I continue.

My approach to girls in the past has stemmed from the basic thought that I probably won't end up dating this girl regularly because either: a)We hook up and I never talk to her again or, b)I want to see her again, because I truly find her physically attractive and mentally stimulating, but get too excited and freak her out by moving too fast. With her, in all the small-talk (and surprisingly intelligent) conversations we have had, I theoretically feel like I could enjoy spending time with her (though, as we know, theory and practice all-too-often collide).

Anyhow, I can't seem to throw my self-respect right out the window like usual and just make the move. I feel like a 14 year-old virgin, and not in the good way... Is retaining and exercising a system of moral values learned as a child part of maturity? Because, if so, I don't want to grow up / I'm a Toys 'R Us kid / There's a million things at Toys 'R Us that I can play with...

Enthusiasm Drives Me Nuts

Enthusiastic store employees really piss me off. Take today, for example. I was doing my J-Man thing at the neighborhood Costco, bee-lining straight from the entrance to the pharmacy line. Friday evening, apparently, is the secret hang-out for all those hot moms with tight pants and a ponytail we all want to indulge in. Eh-hem. Anyway, there I was; standing in the pharmaceutical line. I watched as an elderly couple walked (well, the woman was in a wheel chair, so they stroll-walked…stralked?) to a stand next to the pharmacy. They were examining a volume-increaser…some As Seen on TV type of thing. There were two different brands and the couple carefully examined each. Just when the woman turned her head to look for a salesman, BAM! Right out of nowhere this squirrelly guy bounced his way behind the stand with a smile like he just fucked a supermodel.

“How ya folks doin? My name’s Brian. So I see you’re looking at the two finest models we have. Let me tell you about the …”

I noticed his voice increased steadily, like because they were old they were probably deaf, or stupid…or maybe both. He kept referring to the “electronic technologies” that were involved in the volume increaser. I don’t actually know if I have ever heard of somebody single-handedly making up so many fictitious terms. It began to hurt my brain, so I lost focus until I heard, “Well, I don’t know first hand how they work, but I tell you true, I have gotten nothing but great feedback from both of those products right there. I may not know which is best, but I know that you will be happy with whatever purchase you make. Happiness is a promise, and you will be happy. That’s my guarantee to you.”

This little pencil-dick with his greasy, curly, slicked-back hair and faux diamond earring stud actually just said “That’s my guarantee to you.” He was definitely the type of guy who took all the Costco training videos, went home, took off his dirty, mangled Docker’s Khakis and jerked off to every one of those videos. Then he probably had a nice glass of wine, combed his hair again, and jerked off to all his customer service awards, in chronological order.

Do you ever feel like that?

Totally Agree with This [C;ICK HERE] Story

Ha ha, freaking hilarious. I completely agree with the article "Renee Zellweger Has Issues" (click on the title of this blog to be directed to the website). I agree with all except where he asks:

Does OJ Simpson still wake up every day and trip out about having gotten away with butchering his ex-wife?

My response: No. He doesn't trip out. He simply channels all his negative anger into the media-pleasing act of armed robbery and kidnapping. That, I think, is a much healthier way to deal with frustration.

Flight of the Conchords

"Don't let anybody tell you you're not humpable / Because you're bumpable / Well I hope this doesn't make you feel uncomfortable"

I am a relatively new fan of the Flight of the Conchords, but I love 'em. Yes, I do.

San Francisco: Conquered

You may be familiar with the song, or social phrase, I Left My Heart in San Francisco. You may be less familiar, however, with a phrase like "I left my wallet/dignity/dinner in San Francisco/on the side of the cab". I saw it all.

My friend, Mark, drank many drinks. Subsequently, he wandered out of the club we were in and disappeared for a number of hours. Despite our many efforts to call him, we were awarded no response. It was decided best to find a taxi to get us back home. My friend, or "source", estimated $35-50 for the ride. We sat in steady rain on a busy street corner for 30 minutes trying to find a cab that would take us back to Belmont for less than $100. Apparently, my "source" is the equivalent of a fucking retard. Anyway, all 15 people were able to...eventually...find 3 taxis to take us back. We finagled our driver to give us the ride for $70. Just as we were getting ready to flag ours down, we saw Mark across the street; confused and worthless. We called him over and asked where he had been. The conversation went something like this:
"Hey (gurgle, gurgle) guys" he said with a surprising smile on his face.
"Mark, where the hell were you?"
"I--I--I fell asleep in a doorway."
"Where? How do you find a doorway and decide its a good idea to fall asleep?"
"I don't know. It was in that alley over there. I woke up and some bum was hangin out. We talked, but I don't even remember what he said."

It was at this point that his twin brother gave him a distinct look of disgust and our cab arrived. We got in and ventured the 25 minute drive. The driver, who was already somewhat displeased that he agreed to drive us that distance, became further displeased 15 minutes down the road. Mark's head was bobbing in the front seat. Bobbing, bobbing bobbing. Then Mark's window rolled down. His head still bobbing. Then on the outside of Kevin's window we saw a stream of bodily fluid quickly dry in the cold night air. Vomit. Mark vomited on the side of the cab. A pungent odor soon manifested itself in the cab and I saw the cab driver tense up. After apologizing and promising him a large tip, he continued to drive us the last 15 miles (we were very gracious). We gave the driver $100 and went inside to take shots of vodka. Mark slept in his car.

Be sure this was only one of many, many episodes we encountered in our 48 hour stint. All in all, we conquered San Francisco.

San Francisco!

I am about to embark on a journey to the diverse lands of San Francisco. I can already smell the stale, salty air and see the bums sleeping on the sidewalks. This is a city pregnant with things that are to many people yet unknown, and to even more people never want to be known. There are two celebrations going on. First is my friend Aaron's birthday. Wooo. Next is my one week countdown until I am able to drive. Another woooo. Anyway, I will be letting you know how this weekend fares, though I know it will fare well. Good day.

Do I Have Ulcers?

Hypochondria: The persistent conviction that one is or is likely to become ill, often involving symptoms when illness is neither present nor likely, and persisting despite reassurance and medical evidence to the contrary. Also called hypochondriasis.

I'm pretty sure I'm a hypochondriac. The other day I was drinking a cup of coffee (I drink many, many cups throughout the day) when I felt a sudden pain in my belly. I passed it off as nothing until when, a few minutes later, I remembered my boss, who also drank a lot of coffee, had just found out he had ulcers. "Oh my God!!!" I thought to myself. I have ulcers.

This painful realization has riddled my sub-conscience and disallowed me any form of sound sleep. Last night, I had a dream that the doctors found one such ulcer, and when they cut me open to explore it, it turned into a black hole and consumed everything in sight! First the doctor, then the nurse, then I, myself, was sucked into that cavity of good-for-nothingness. Yes, my own stomach ate me.

More Cyanide and Happiness

Cyanide & Happiness @ Explosm.net

Good Times

Despite my somber tone in the post just before this, I did have a rather enjoyable weekend. I had a two good friends come into town. One, who is a cop (God help us all), stayed all weekend, which was sweet. We went out to some bars and of course the late-night Denny's trip. My other friend showed up Saturday afternoon and just stayed the night, for she had a long road trip ahead of her. But she came out too and as a result, had an even longer, hungover drive. But anyhoo, great weekend and good times with good people.

Dead End

I hate working dead-end jobs. Granted, I only really do it to have a little extra spending money. But boy howdy, it takes every ounce of energy to not go home in a terrible mood - which is good because the work I do is little more than thoughtless repetition. Dead-end jobs once had a great place in my life. You could just show up stoned, make a little money and go home to party. Now, I don't smoke and rarely party. This shit sucks.

Great Song

This song always gets me.

Johnnys daddy was taking him fishin
When he was eight years old
A little girl came through the front gate holdin a fishing pole
His dad looked down and smiled, said we cant leave her behind
Son I know you dont want her to go but someday youll change your mind
And johnny said take jimmy johnson, take tommy thompson, take my best friend bo
Take anybody that you want as long as she dont go
Take any boy in the world
Daddy please dont take the girl

Same old boy
Same sweet girl
Ten years down the road
He held her tight and kissed her lips
In front of the picture show
Stranger came and pulled a gun
Grabbed her by the arm said if you do what I tell you to, there wont be any harm
And johnny said take my money, take my wallet, take my credit cards
Heres the watch that my grandpa gave me
Heres the key to my car
Mister give it a whirl
But please dont take the girl

Same old boy
Same sweet girl
Five years down the road
Theres going to be a little one and she says its time to go
Doctor says the babys fine but youll have to leave
cause his mommas fading fast and johnny hit his knees and there he prayed
Take the very breath you gave me
Take the heart from my chest
Ill gladly take her place if youll let me
Make this my last request
Take me out of this world
God, please dont take the girl

Johnnys daddy
Was taking him fishin
When he was eight years old

I Hate People

So, I hate people. Why? You ask. Well, there are many, many reasons. However, I am only giving you one of them right now. The term: Just Joshin' ya. I am so completely annoyed when I hear that term that I literally imagine slitting my wrists; not with razors or knives or scissors, or anything cool like that, but instead with paper cuts. I would rather (in a Utopian world, of course) paper-cut slit my wrists than listen to that mumbo-jumbo. The saying just reminds me of some retard who considers himself a young professional (another term that annoys me) with a cheap button-up shirt and coffee-stained Docker's Khakis saying to one of his few cubicle buddies, "Hey, your wife called, and she's real mad...haha! just Joshin' ya! Haha, wasn't that funny?"

Out of all the names in the English language, as well as all other languages, why was Josh chosen? The simple mention of that phrase depicts a lot of responsibility. I, as a following Josh, am expected to constantly uphold the comedic valor of all Josh's previous. Sometimes, I don't want to be funny. Yeah, its hard not to, but I can go a day without making somebody laugh, and guess what. I like it. No. I LOVE it. muuaaaahahaha.

So, I think we should all do our parts as active members of society, and totally change that name from Josh to something a little more gay...maybe Jeff (Just Jeffin' ya) or Keith, because "Just Keithen' ya" could sound a lot like "Just queefin' ya", which would lead to all sorts of jokes in itself.