Tuesday, December 30, 2008

Exactly like that, only different

Our society is governed by a means of associations, of comparisons. When you think about it, nearly every aspect of our life owes some significance to this thought. When friends compare different models of computers, they're exactly the same, only a little different. During a fight, a husband says to his wife she is exactly like her mother, only little different. We are always changing as people and as a society, and in order for us to understand something, we use comparisons. It's an interesting topic to think about in its own right, but listening to how other people compare themselves is equally entertaining.

For example, I was cruisin' along in the Camry today - it's an '85, if you're wondering - flirting with lines of girls on the hot beach strand. Actually, it's raining here. And there's no beach, no strand. We have Wal-Mart, and people fucking love that place. But anyhoo, my ghetto-rigged tuner was only picking up the soft-rock station, again. I heard Gwen Stefani's poppy classic "Rich Girl" rattle through the 1 1/2 working speakers. It was the first time I had heard the song in it's entirety, and I got a little kinky - I performed a role reversal with Gwen. It was hot.

I didn't really focus on the words, I focused on Gwen, the artist. I'll be the first to admit I know jack crud about Stefani, other than she used to sing for No Doubt. But from what she says in the HP commercial, we're practically the same person, only different. I couldn't help but think we follow the same passion: harnessing and defining creative energy. But she's rich, and has a hot body, and is so far successful. We're pretty much the same person, only different.

Yesterday at Barnes and Noble - my home away from home - two teenage girls were comparing their cell phones. They were different brands, different services, but functioned very similarly. One said, "It's exactly like yours, [slight pause] only different."

At the bar, I overheard a couple guys talking about women; more specifically, their female parts. The conclusion: They're all the same, just a little bit different.

I'm not sure this post has any real significance. But with all the talks of holiday gifts lately, and the excitement people show for their new-found material goods, I find it funny, curiously so, how that excitement will soon fade in the wake of a newer, updated and perceptibly better product, and how when that time of newness and recycled innovation comes around, that product will be compared to the ones they unwrapped Christmas morning. We have found ourselves in the fog of a disposable economy where differences - be they good or bad - are presented as new, and therefor, better. And unfortunately this method of comparison applies not only to material goods (though, there it seems most evident) but to people of status as well. I'm exactly like a lot of people, only different. And I think that's where many of us get caught up. At least I sometimes do...

Sunday, December 21, 2008

Tangerine dreams

I have a theory. It involves the effect of certain foods on your dreams. I am sure genotype construction, types of food, levels of stress, when the food was eaten and other factors are sure to have some measurable effect. But for me, if I eat citrusy foods within half hour of laying down, I get some wild-ass dreams. Like the other night...

I walked out of my apartment and stepped onto the streets of San Francisco. Weird. I then came across a park - one that I saw in Harlem, NY. I am walking and playing with people's dogs when I realize I have to pee. So I find a bush. In the middle of the day. With tons of people around. And I take a leak. I close my eyes for a moment, apparently it felt great, and when I opened them, I was standing there with nothing on but a towel. And it was wide open. And there was no more bush.

A group of black men walked by and stopped. I was in shock and stood with my arms spread - the towel's ends in each hand. They pointed and started to laugh. One said, "Haaahaha, man, you have a small-ass penis!" And his buddies chirped in. "Hey, everybody, come look at this guy's small weenie!" And yet I stood there. Towel open. I tried explaining there was a chilly breeze, that it's usually not that small, that I had stage fright. Each explanation only yielded more laughter. Then i looked down and it had disappeared.

I woke up sweating and immediately felt myself. Good. Still there. Still the same. Dreams are good, but threatening my manhood, well that's a different story.

Monday, December 15, 2008

Why couldn't it be me?

I'm sitting here, at my desk, in the sub-zero space known to be the office. At the risk of sounding like a bitch-fest, it has so far been one of those days. I walk in to a nagging, yelling, angry boss telling me I was wrong. I was wrong for other people screwing up and I was wrong for not predicting other people would screw up and I was wrong for not correcting the screw ups. Even though I haven't worked since Friday. I was wrong. And apparently I am in charge of three people now. Sounds cool, but if you realized the peasant's wages I earn, you would shat yourself in embarrassing laughter.

And I don't know what my deal is lately, but I've been in a crazy obnoxious mood. Have you ever felt like you were about to literally go insane? I think that's how I feel. Like any day now I am going to start seeing an imaginary friend who follows me everywhere. Maybe I'll start talking to him. His name will be Marc, or Steve, or whatever he wants. After all, I'll be the only one that can see him. I'm talking Drop Dead Fred kind of crazy. Which, by the way, was a phenomenal movie. It might be neat at first, but it wouldn't turn out nearly as cool as "A Beautiful Mind." I would be the real-life version. I'd get locked up for talking to myself in public, having intercourse with inanimate objects, and to top it off, I would only have a marginally OK mind. Nothing beautiful about that.

But my dissatisfaction with work is at an all-time high. This is higher than the moving-back-home incident of 2006 - and that was a hard time, indeed. I've passed the point of anger. For a while I wanted to literally staple people's mouths together. Now, it's more a self-inflicting pain I desire. The reason is simple. I could hypothetically staple every on the employees' mouths together and beat them senseless with their own shoes. But time has proven again and again and again that stupidity follows stupidity. And when the next batch of little fucktards comes through the door, I'm going to want to do the same thing. And that would just waste a lot of staples. So if I can mame myself in some way, I think we'll be better off.

In fact, I've recently taken to climbing high ladders to replace light bulbs and such - my only wish, that somebody bumps the madder and I come crashing down and break an arm. Worker's Comp, how lovely you sound. It's not that I'm lazy and not that I am afraid to leave. There are no jobs locally worth my time now. I look. Every day. And when I close my eyes, all I see is a sad face :(

That being said, I know that one day, some lucky little bastard is going to be hanging Christmas lights along the ceiling when he loses his balance and falls through the glass display case. Everybody will be rushing to help him. I will be standing back, crying, wishing it was me. That lucky little prick.

PS, it snowed here yesterday. :)

Monday, December 8, 2008

Is this burning an eternal flame?

Just to clarify, the title has nothing to do with this post. I just heard it on the soft rock station, and I think I'd publically like to add that song to my Confessions posts. And to spare you any surprise or confusion, this post is a little random.

1. I was introduced to the term "Hater Vision" about a year ago. I reside in a city with less than 100,000 people in Northern California. I had never heard of hater vision, but I guess I live a sheltered life because apparently this idea is pretty big. The concept: Have LCD video screens placed in your car, positioned so that only the people driving behind you can see the screen. The logic is flawless: I have so much money, I can afford to give the haters driving behind me something to hate me for. This guy knows what's up:

The mudflap! The goddamn mudflap!

But some people have opted to go achieve "middle-class hater" status.

Kind of interesting, I guess.

2. I spend way too much time Stumbling sites. I have my settings set to find humorous, funny things, so that I may have some refuge from my mundane job. Instead, I find this:

Here's my problem with it: It's not funny! That was supposed to be the "coolest prank to ever pull" but it's really not. Here's what would happen: The teacher would walk into class and say, "Ha, very funny, whoever did this. We are going to have class in the cafeteria because we'll make a mess in here. Before I call the janitor I will file a police report to fingerprint for which one of you little fuckers did this."

Plus, there is nothing grabbing about this. The first thing I thought of was how much time was spent pulling this off. I can bet it totally wasn't worth the effort. In short, I thought way too much about this to think it was funny. In fact, I grew angry at it.

3. Here is the story of a Bored Asshole.

Hey dumbass, here's an idea: Just donate the $7,500 to educational funds, and stop flaunting your affluence just to draw some attention to your bored, useless, pathetic self. While you're at it, throw some my way. Daddy needs a new pair of shoes.

4.My grandmother read my blog. She said, "I don't get it." It's my birthday today. I might go celebrate this weekend. But probably not. I started this Men's Health program that allows me one [they greatly emphasize this number] beer or wine per night. I guess that brings me to my novel, which is coming along ve-ry slo-wly. I guess it's a pretty common habit, but the plot has changed like 30 times. It usually changes when everybody I know gets married and they all start popping out babies, other peoples' happiness is a little depressing, isn't it? I wonder if there's a pill that can help me focus...

Fuckitol! Of Course!

Wednesday, December 3, 2008

Karma a la extreme

Don't you feel that it's much easier to only see the negative side of karma? You know, when something bad happens you think, "Hmm, I shouldn't have cheated on that test. I guess karma got me again." I seem to say that a lot more than, "Gee whiz, I'm sure glad I donated all my free time and what little excess money I have to the homeless shelter, and because of my good deeds I've been rewarded with a shiny new car and a beautiful girlfriend with rich parents."

It's sad, I know.

But I didn't post an AIDS Awareness post on Dec. 1, National AIDS Day, like many of the other bloggers participating in Bloggers Unite. And now I prepare myself to weather the repercussions.

I awoke this morning to unfriendly rapping on the front door. So I answered it - hair askew, robed in my finest flannel PJs, sans shirt (a scary sight at this point in my life). There stood a man with white hair. "Is Carol (roommate's made-up name) home?" he asked. I said she was in the shower. Sometimes Carol has clients meet her at the house, and I didn't know this man. I caught a glimpse of the driveway -- in the background was my roommate's car, hooked and loaded to the man's tow truck. Then came the curve ball. "I'm here to repossess her car."

Some might imagine that isn't the best way to welcome the morning -- eyes glued together, wearing no shirt, letting the 35 degree weather ferociously bite my nipples. But I persevered. That's what I do. I persevere.

I asked the man to hold while I went down the hall and woke Carol. While she tried to throw some clothes on I sculpted my bestest haphazard BS face and tried to knock that curve ball right outta the park. "You want some coffee?" I asked. "No, thanks. She owes $xxx amount, and I only accept cash," he said.

"OK. How do you expect her to have such a large sum of money at 8 in the a.m.?" He looked at me, searching for an answer, "These are the orders." Carol had overheard and came screaming down the hall she is paid to date and flaunted certified payment history from the bank.

By 8:30 I was making coffee for a strange man ready to "steal" - as the term should come to be known - with nipples erect like the Washington Monument. Carol is screaming on the phone to the bank. The man is talking to me about my day job. Carol starts crying. I tell her to pull it together. She cried more. The man got ready to leave. I said, "Pal. Don't take the car."

I know it didn't sound profound. But I didn't have a speech prepared. Silly me. So Carol spent the next 45 minutes running around town trying to collect a grip of cashola. I made this guy eggs. And more coffee. He finished nearly the entire pot. Then Carol came back with a wad of cash, but wanted a cashier's check. So I ran to the bank for her. The teller was a very attractive young lady. We flirted. Then some D-bag came from nowhere and kissed her. He had spikey hair. And an Abercrombie polo. Go figure. Real fuckin original, guy. I came home, the man left. Carol was still sobbing, call it the curse of the PMS. Then I went to work.

And I feel terrible, because I think all of this could have been prevented if I had written an AIDS post. So to those of you who have HIV or full-blown AIDS, I'm sorry I let you down. It is a serious and very real disease. Many of us think, "I know, I know" but the reality is there are still too many people who don't know. So please, help spread the word.

That said, who wants to get drunk?

Friday, November 28, 2008

Them b*tches are crazy

Pigeons annoy the crap out of me. You'll just be sitting on a park bench, trying to enjoy a nice turkey sandwich and before you know it you're swarmed by them. They look at you, side-eyed, and mock you. They scream Hoorlooorloorl - which is the sound a pigeon makes. And with each step they bob their heads. Which leads me to believe that pigeons are byproducts of South American drug shacks from long ago.

It was a nice nesting place, the pigeons thought. The warm, tropical climate made it comfortable and the lush scenery made them the envy of all their pigeon friends. One day a group of them went out for a joy flight, just soaring over the landscape, drinking in the beauty when, hark! They spotted a party. The barbecue was roaring, there were lots of people, lots of guns and everybody was nude. And pigeons looove to party, so they swooped in. They noticed how hyper everybody was. The adults were talking and dancing, still nude, and were very fidgety people. The children ran into the jungle and wrestled gorillas. And they ran back smiling, toting severed gorilla heads.

But the pigeons were a chill group. They just kicked it off to the side, sippin' on some tequila. One of the pigeons noticed a large mound of white powder all the human-peoples kept going to. So the pigeons slyly made their way over the the white mountain. Hoorlooorloorl, they said, giving head nods to the gunned lunatics. The gunned lunatics replied, "Hoorlooorloorl." People were smelling the powder. "I bet it's scented!" one of the pigeons exclaimed. Human-people were stirring it into their drinks and rubbing it all over their bodies. This party was legit.

Pigeons were at the time notorious for knowing how to get down, so they imbibed. "I don't smell anything," one said. "Well, maybe we need to smell a lot of it," another followed. Within minutes the pigeons were themselves nude, acting a fool.Hoorlooorloorl! Hoorlooorloorl! Hoorlooorloorl! Then the pigeons just started humping like crazy. "It's not mating season," one of the females said, "but this feels so right." And they had lots of crazy pigeon sex.

By the party's end, they decided this was too much fun to forget about. But they noticed the mound was quickly dwindling. So each of them swooped up a beak full of the happy powder and flew back to their pigeon village. They shared it with the locals. Hoorlooorloorl! Hoorlooorloorl! Hoorlooorloorl! all the pigeons screamed.

Pretty soon all the pigeons started doing their best friend's pigeon and lying to each other. There were lots of pigeon orgies and lots of diseases that ensued, and also lots of incest. Before long, there were too many pigeons and not enough magic powder. So they started going insane. But they still reproduced in great numbers.

So that brings us to today. Now, human-people can't enjoy a day at the park, alone, because of the conniving, codependency of these orphan birds. What was once a grand animal is now a twitchy, head-bobbing creature, desperate for attention and their next fix. Don't be fooled, them bitches are crazy.

Wednesday, November 26, 2008

The cursed case of the wicked wonders of why we do what we do

Lately I've been a little bummed. I met a girl I ended up liking, and something went wrong and now we don't talk. The not-talking isn't what bugs me, it's why we're not talking. The reason: There is no reason. Very awkward thing. But anyhow, this is a recounting of last weekend's trip that made me realize I'm totally not ready to grow up.

What is it about sporadic ideas that make them sound so appealing? And what is it about going out of town that makes you think, "Gee, I totally have money to spend. I'm just gonna live the good life?" I don't know the answer, but I spent last weekend in the city of lost hopes, moral vacancy and stereotypically blond people. But it wasn't LA per se, it was Hermosa Beach. Auggie lives in Hermosa Beach.

And as a note, I've changed, if only slightly, the names of people involved.

My friend, Papa Bear, called me up Monday and asked if I wanted to drive down with him. I said, "Sure, Papa Bear. Let's rock and roll." (What I said wasn't actually that gay.)

So we left at 8:30 in the p.m. on Thursday night. We didn't arrive to my friend Auggie's house until 4:30 in the a.m. Friday. Papa Bear dropped me there and headed to his girl's house in a land far, far away. When I woke up, about 9:30, everybody I knew was at work. So I did the only logical thing. Took a shower, got myself prettied up, and headed to Sharkeez for a beer. Which turned into a few more. And a shot. After realizing my money was going much too fast, I decided to head back to the crib. On the way there I passed this
and it made me smile. A little further down the strand, just feel from where I was staying, was this charming little watering hole.

And yes, if you're wondering, it did in fact smell like vomit. And yes, if you're wondering, I went inside and had a beer.

This carried on for several hours, until I met up with some old friends for dinner. And then it carried on after dinner. Next thing I know, I'm at some bar, August is buying shots of tequila...then my memory fades for what I can only assume to be about an hour. Cut to next scene, getting out of a cab at somebody's house. everybody else is hammered drunk. I'm not. I tried to go to sleep on the couch but was kept awake by somebody in this picture making the sex with one young lady, totally unafraid to express her pleasure through the art of moans and screams. And occasional thumps on the wall. And more screaming. So after the unanticipated marathon concludes, 5:42 a.m., I fall asleep and am awoken by somebody on the phone at 7:34, also in the a.m.

We go pick up Andy (also in the picture) and head to January's house. By 9 a.m. we crack our first beer and Andy tells us of his adventures. He went home with a zoo keeper. We laughed. Then laughed some more. She allegedly woke him up at 7, decked out in her safari attire. And we laughed some more. Until this weekend, I thought zoo keepers were mythical beings, chained down by their Dr. Doolittle-ish qualities. But they're real. And some have piercings in places that, well, just use your imagination.

So we keep drinking all day (complete waste of life, I know) and decide it a good idea to go out that night. We went to a place called Union Cattle. All I remember was a mechanical bull. I really wanted to ride it, but I couldn't even remember my name. But according to my bank account, I decided to order a few more drinks for myself. By midnight we left the bar, brought home a pizza I don't recall eating, and went to sleep. But not before we played lots of loud music and had an unofficial dance party.

The next day, not much happened. We hung out at Sharkeez again for Sunday Funday. I met these girls: I think their names were Amanda and Kim. If not, I apologize. Oh, and I saw this girl:

And I know what you're thinking. That's gross, right? Yeah. But only in SoCal. Thank you, semi-nude beach-goer.

Tuesday, November 18, 2008

Today in the news:

There is a lot of stupidity out there. I mean a lot. So, to bring a sense of normalcy to my daily screw-ups, I'm making fun of others. This will be a new little bit called, just like the title suggests, "Today in the news:"

1. Man nabbed after hitting girlfriend with sandwich

PORT ST. LUCIE, Fla. – A man faces a domestic battery charge after allegedly hitting his girlfriend with a sandwich as she was driving on Interstate 95 on Friday. Police said the 19-year-old man became angry and hit the woman in the arm and face with a sandwich, knocking her glasses off.

The victim nearly lost control of the car because she couldn't see the road and the man then allegedly ripped off the rear-view mirror and used it to shatter the windshield.

The man was freed on $7,500 bail.

Police haven't said what type of sandwich was involved.
I bet it was salami. You can't stop a man and his salami.

2. Resort plans nude "anything goes" party

CANBERRA (Reuters) – An Australian holiday resort will hold a month-long, nude "anything goes" party to combat an expected economic downturn, media reports said on Thursday.

"Tough economic times call for stiff measures," Tony Fox, the owner of the White Cockatoo resort in Mossman, in tropical Queensland state, told the Courier-Mail newspaper.

"It will be a hedonism resort, where anything goes for a month. It doesn't take rocket science to work out what it means," Fox said, naming March as the risque party month.

The controversial "clothes optional" resort made headlines three years ago when police were called to end partner-swapping parties after a swathe of public complaints.

"You've got to wonder what sort of people go and why. Where is the moral code of behavior and how do you stop jealousies and fights?" Cairns Catholic Bishop James Foley said after Fox's announcement.

But local regional Mayor Val Schier said she was not opposed to the event as long as no laws were broken.

"People in tropical north Queensland are extraordinarily creative," Schier said. "It is tough economic times and as long as it is with consenting adults, then there is no problem."

Australia's tourism in industry is being hit hard by global economic turmoil with official figures showing a 7.6 percent decline in overseas visitors in September.

Industry leaders expect holiday bookings may drop by up to a third in early 2009 and are planning a new international advertising campaign to coincide with the movie "Australia" starring Oscar-winning actress Nicole Kidman.

Fox said his resort was almost fully booked for the month-long rainforest party.
Not sure if I even have to say anything here. But I will. I wish I had enough money to fly to Australia. Now accepting donations and/or applications for FEMALE party company.

3. Wis. woman pleads no contest in corpse case
She was accused of keeping 90-year-old's body in Social Security scheme

MAUSTON, Wis. - A member of a religious sect pleaded no contest to a misdemeanor after being accused of leaving another member's corpse in her bathroom so the group could collect her Social Security checks.

Tammy Lewis entered the plea Monday and was fined $350.

Prosecutors accuse the 36-year-old Lewis and 58-year-old Alan Bushey of leaving 90-year-old Magdeline Middlesworth's body on the toilet in Lewis' home after she died there in March.

A criminal complaint says Bushey led the Order of the Divine Will sect and told Lewis that God would revive Middlesworth. The decaying body was found in May after Middlesworth's family expressed concern.

Prosecutors say they believe Bushey and Lewis wanted to go on collecting Middlesworth's Social Security payments.
Keep grandma on a leash!

4. Joaquin Phoenix quits acting to focus on music

The upcoming ‘Two Lovers’ will be his last performance on film
I don't even need to post the rest of the story. Who gives a flying rat's ass?

Monday, November 10, 2008

My affinity for cheese and disdain for early holiday propagandizing

There's just no simple way around it. I love cheese. And it's not something I see changing any time soon. And it is a very curious thing when people don't like cheese. Yeah, I didn't think it could happen either. But they're out there, watching you, judging you with that queso contempt. Is it a jealousy thing? Like, "O, I wish I liked cheese."

And I remain perplexed.

I like all kinds of cheese. Cheddar, mozzarella, asiago, pecorino romano, cotija, bleu cheese (crumbles and dressing), cheddar, jack, pepperjack. I like cheese dip, cheese sauce. You know those chocolate fountains? I want one of those with melted cheese. Nachos 24/7!?!?! Are you kidding me? I would be the happiest man alive. And there would be no reason for a soul mate. All I would need would be a blow-up doll...made entirely out of goat cheese.

But to temper happy thoughts of all things cheese, I realized that the holidays are upon us. And every year you hear some people bless the season and some people openly hate it. There's no right answer and no right opinion, but I can tell you this time of year drives me nuckin futs. And I always blamed it on my family. However, recent research has shed light on an interesting approach. The week of Halloween I walked into a store and found an ever-growing Christmas section in the rear of the store. And as I walked by, it hit me.

It was the aroma of "winter" scented things. You know the smell that when you smell it you think, "Ah, Christmas." But there it was, October 22. And already that smell was around. I think the reason people hate the holidays is because we are for so long exposed to all that drives the season. Over two months of candles and Christmas trees and stockings and Santas and fucking elves and yule logs and bright, cheery signs EVERYWHERE and after the first month, you become numb to it. But then it seeps its evil and cheery spirit into the masses. News reporters report about it, people make a full-time job out of shopping for other people, phoney-baloneys plaster smiles on and sing carols so highly-pitched you'd think they never crossed the puberty threshold. And that pisses me off. Walking down the street, have some stranger pop out of nowhere, "Merry Christmas!"

I just feel like screaming, "Fuck you, cheery man. This isn't a jack-in-the-box, you can't just pop out of nowhere and start spooking people, you creepy bastard." My point: two months is too much time to be exposed to this crap. It's just too much. By the time Christmas or Kwanza or Hanukkah or Festivus come around, no sane person wants to smell another scented pine cone or see another stocking or be heckled by little elves at the mall. All I want is a Big Gulp-sized cup filled with peppermint schnaaps and hot chocolate.

In short: cheese makes me happy. Two months of faux-happiness doesn't. Just buy me some cheese.

Wednesday, November 5, 2008

Plot-generated Story #1

I don't know how many of you have heard, but there are web-based tools that algorithmically generate plot scenarios. It is a little boost for an idea when you can't seem to create something on your own. And no, it's not cheating. After all, you are just given a few details and you go from there. I have decided to come up with a short story each week - in addition to my decreasingly-regular rants and musings - and I hope you enjoy.

My plots will be generated from Archetype.com and consist of only two parts - the protagonist's situation and a secondary character. For example, my first plot will be:

  • The story starts when your protagonist tries to return a lost object.
  • Another character is an office manager who has a gift for poetry.
  • So here it goes. This is, Jeremiah, the Mighty.

    It was a long time since Jeremiah was with a woman. And he blamed it on his depression. The more time that passed, the harder it was to go out and meet people and stay away from those adult-only websites. His login name, Jeremiah_the_Mighty. So that depression made it harder to go out and it was harder to go out because he was depressed.

    The cycle began, and had been going for almost a year.

    But it stopped a few weeks ago when Jeremiah was at work and, to seek a rush he hadn't felt in so long, entered a titty site. It opened and there were big, bouncy breasts everywhere. Jeremiah smiled. But somebody was coming! Oh no! So he closed it out just before Suzanne opened his door to ask where some files were.

    That was close, he thought to himself. But his heart was still racing. He wanted more. He began to sweat, feeling in his pants a swelling come about. So he entered another site, and another and another. It was joy unspeakable!

    But, he lost all perception of his environment and didn't hear Mr. Jacobs open the door. Mr. Jacobs tapped him on the shoulder and Jeremiah turned, sweat dripping down his cheeks, surprise in his eyes and a big, unnecessary boner.

    It was then Jeremiah was fired. His job was the only thing he had to keep him sane. And he had lost it. But Jeremiah the Mighty wouldn't leave without something to remember it by. When the rest of the office went to lunch Jeremiah cleaned out his desk. And he took the bottle of Scotch from Mr. Jacobs' desk, a stapler from Suzanne, a pack of cigarettes from Gordon and a bottle of perfume from Diana. He went home, turned on his computer, entered a no-no site and masturbated until he cried. Then he sprayed Diana's perfume, smoked Gordon's cigarette and took a glass of Mr. Jacobs' scotch. There was nothing he could use the stapler for. In fact, he wondered why he had taken it.

    By noon the following day he had finished the cigarettes and scotch. In a drunken stupor he had dropped the perfume and the bottle shattered in the kitchen, and his entire apartment now reeked of Diana. Mustering up energy and dignity, he decided to return the taken goods. Upon arriving at the office he was greeted by a new face, the face of his old job. The man held out his hand.

    -Russel's the name, managing's the game. It isn't quite so obvious why you walked into my office, but everyone here's told me that you are quite a shame.
    -Why are you rhyming?
    -Why do you smell of scotch, and not sweet mint? I'll remove you and discard you just like some dryer lint.
    -That doesn't make much sense. Is Mr. Jacobs here?
    -I only speak in rhyme, one sentence at a time, I know you want to see him, but he doesn't have the time.

    Jeremiah punched the office manager in the nose and he fell down. Even in fear and pain, the man still rhymed.

    -By George, by George, methinks he punched me in the face, my nose is bloody and I'm curled up in a ball of drab disgrace.

    Now the office was surrounding him, and Mr. Jacobs stood in the front.

    -I drank your whiskey, and smoked your cigarettes and dropped your bottle of perfume on the floor. As for the stapler, a cat was crying outside my window and I threw it down there. I think it hit a vagrant. Anyhow, you all know I have a problem. But I'm redirecting it. I'm starting a no-no website. So if any of you want, especially you, Suzanne, call me up. We'll take some pictures, make some videos or whatever.

    Jeremiah went on to create the most successful adult website in history, www.jeremiahthegreat.com and it's tagline won the Adult Film Literary prize, "Jeremiah the Great, Let's watch some porn."

    Suzanne was the most-viewed woman. Her name, Vixen McLottapuss.

    Friday, October 24, 2008

    I suck at life

    Life is a game. And as the title suggests, I suck big ol' donkey schlong. I may occasionally do things that are good, but I don't necessarily do them for the right reasons. Here's why:

    I recycle. And yes, I've heard it is good for the environment. It saves on landfill and saves resources and yadda yadda yadda. And I'm okay with that. In fact, I like that. But when it comes down to it, at the end of the day I'm really just trying to save a little room in the trash can. And don't get me started on those who classify themselves as recyclers with that air of superiority they dedicated recyclers seem to tout. You know the people, when they come over to your house, have a drink and ask, "Oh, I don't see a recycling bin. You do recycle, don't you?" They look at you condescendingly, and you, you just want to stab them in the face with a soldering iron.

    Oh, crap! What do I say? "Yeah, of course I recycle. Just set it on the counter and I'll take care of it later." But they stand there glaring at you. They know what you're up to. Oh yeah, they know. But screw 'em. At least you aren't a pompous prick.

    Saturday, October 18, 2008

    Whatever happened to...

    I'm sitting in the office of a public building. Downstairs, where I am, is an art gallery. Upstairs is a performing room where ballet and ballroom dancing classes, poetry recitals, yoga and many other classes are held. Right now, though, there is a hand drum class. And it echoes. I don't even have to go up there to tell you that there is one talented person and another who is not so talented. I'm glad I'm not hungover. That would be the pits.

    Since I have been here three hours already and have another hour to look forward to, I did the only respectable thing I could think of. I started at the sand colored door and daydreamed. I thought, pensive as I am, about things and fads of times past, and what happened to them. It was kind of like the VH1 cult classic "I Love the 90s," or "Where Are They Now?" but with things I actually care about.* But here are a few of the culprits:

    Micro Machines.
    Remember those zany commercials with the fast-talking John Moschitta? Sure you do. As soon as they let him go from the commercials it seems like there was nothing left the the Micro Machine legacy. My brief internet powerhouse search, which utilized only Google and Wikipedia, provided me that Moschitta is one of the fastest talking persons in history (try that for a pick-up line) and that he still occassionally appears on TV shows. Which is good, mostly because I thougt he was dead.

    The Original Trapper Keepr.
    Remember these bad boys? There used to be all types of sweet designs. The first week of school we used to compare them. "Oh, man. You have a jet!" "No way, ROBOTS!!!" Trapper Keepers were to 6th graders what the adult bookstore is to 17-year-olds...really freaking exciting. Then Mead sold out, like so many good companies do, and started with the Mead 5 Star series. Which, I admit, is handy for a professional adult. But here's my thought: You line up a Trapper Keeper against and 5 Star series organizer and I'll take the former. Hands down. It's like the tin cartoon lunchboxes that have made a cult comeback, it's time for the Trapper Keeper revolution.

    Lastly, before my aimless train of thought was disrupted by a poser art-enthusiast, I thought about Marc Summers. He was the icon, the face of Nickelodeon through its glory years. I mean, Double Dare, What Would You Do? and Wild and Crazy Kids. For the record, I found a Wikipedia entry on Mr. Summers and learned a few things you may find interesting. For example, this video of Summers' appearance on the Tonght Show with Jay Leno when he and Burt Reynolds got into it. Summers is also a rehearsed stage magician and now hosts Unwrapped on Food Network.

    * Let it be known I love those shows. But what kind of fashionable, respectable person of society would openly admit to such insolence? Honestly.**

    ** The Josh or his blog, Spoonful of Shut Up, in no way discriminate against nor stand party for the cultural decentralization these shows promote. They are mentioned in strictly humorous, referential terms to an era of radical clothing, whacky hairstyles, unprotected sex and a lot of cocaine.

    Saturday, October 4, 2008

    A List of My Dislikes: 5

    1. Walnuts in my baked goods. Seriously. Walnuts are acceptable in three forms only. Eating them raw. Eating them toasted. Eating them on a salad with a balsamic vinaigrette and dried cranberries. That's it. NEVER in cookies. And NEVER in brownies. I've had enough of this unholiness. Not only do they taste terrible, there is a mindset... a stereotypical attitude of the people that make them. When you politely decline and say, "No thank you. I don't really like walnuts," you can bet your lucky stars that EVERY single one of them has the same response. "Oh, no. You have to try these..." and here it comes... "I have a really good recipe."

    Oh, really? That's funny because I have a really good I WANNA PUT MY FOOT UP YOUR ASS! Do not brag about your nut-baking skills. Nobody wants to taste your culinary abortions. Please leave.

    2. Sweet pickles. Here's a little secret...there's nothing sweet about them. They smell terrible and taste like a big load of goop shot straight out of Satan's tallywhacker. But perhaps the thing I like least of these little hate sticks are the people that eat them. Not all people, but the ones who say stupid things. For example, "Oh, no. I don't really like sweet pickles." ...ok, we're starting off alright... "But I absolutely loooove relish." WTF? Why don't you do yourself a solid and stop lying to yourself. We're talking about pickles here, not abortions. It's okay if you like them, though I don't know how you could. I hope the next time you stick one of those disgusting little Martian penises in your mouth you choke.

    Not really, I just wanted to refer to sweet pickles as Martian penises. Because Martians are green. And penises are little. But really, Martian boners are funny. Trust me.

    3. Silk boxers. When women talk about wearing silk underwear, it's sexy. Because that s sound is so naughty. Sexy seductive silk stockings ssssswimming ssssslowly, ssssscintillating statues in sssslippery splendor. All these things and all these things. Plus, girls in underwear is just a hot picture. But for us penis-toting males, silk isn't so smooth. Especially in Redding temperatures where it's like 115 degrees. Any form of moisture and that shit sticks right to your leg. You sit down, and it gets all matted, creeping up your stomach. You get the worst wedgie of your life and you try to pull them down, but it's still sticky so the boxers sit slightly to the left. Not a lot, but just enough to make you uncomfortable throughout the rest of the day. And they're structurally unsound. I'm reminded of the Friends episode where Ross wears the leather pants...

    In that fragile state any sudden movement is grounds for tearing. So by the end of the day with sitting and standing and twisting and adjusting you are left with nothing more than a tangled, crumpled, ripped and off-centered pair of useless underwear. Damned be the manufacturers. I've fallen prey to your tricks one too many times.

    Sunday, September 28, 2008

    Walmart: The Wedding Warehouse Wonderworld

    I feel robbed. My bank, WaMu was bought and resold last week, all without my knowing. There was all this talk about people's money being insured up to $100,000. I have two problems with this. First, I don't even have $1,000 in my account, let alone 100 times that. Second, If you have more than $100,000 sitting in a bank account somewhere, chances are you are wise enough to move your money into other accounts to avoid losing that excess.

    But the economy's in a bad state. We all know it. We've seen, heard, felt, and heard and seen more about it every...single...day. But I didn't think it was this bad.

    How bad?

    Pretty peacocking bad. With people having less money to spend, low-price superhouses like Walmart are seeing some of their greatest growth in 10 years. Damned be the free competitive market this country used to be praised for. Will Walmart's balloon ever pop? I don't know. But I do know there is a stereotypical Walmart customer, and that the stereotype is there for a reason. This is no secret ---->

    Needless to say, last week I heard disturbing news.

    I was driving down the road listening to the soft rock radio station the other day when a female caller told Delilah how glad she was to be married at Walmart.

    I almost crashed into a tree.

    Apparently I'm the last to know of this phenomenon. Delilah seemed pretty savvy to the situation, so I did some research and came up with a Spoonful of Pathetic.

    Last year seven couples tied the knot at their local Walmart Supercenters. WTF?

    I'm not a woman, nor have I dreamt of my wedding since I was a bucktoothed child. But isn't there a certain novelty that might be associated with the institution of marriage? Just because a retail powerhouse is "like your second home," like one Walmart bride said, doesn't mean that should be the place to commit your life to another, does it? I mean, did they even close the store, or were there hundreds of partially nude maniacal children flailing about during the recitation of the vows? Was the sign, "No Shoes, No Shirt, No Problem" posted conspicuously, so the average Joe with a shopping cart filled with car tires, a pound of ground beef and a box of condoms can stop by, wearing nothing but tie-dyed elasti-pants and a straw hat and cheer his friendly shoppers on?

    I thought one day I would get married. Then I saw this. There's no hope. I think I'm gonna go cry.

    Wednesday, September 3, 2008

    Warning signs you will be a social outcast

    Different isn't bad. In fact, I think different is exciting. It throws a curve ball into the hum-drum, monotonous rituals we call our lives. But we are programmed to stop and question difference, because there is so much we expect to be the same. That's why we pick and choose what we remember. In the hustle and bustle of everyday life we, as humans, can't possibly remember every little detail. So we compartmentalize, stereotype, associate and sometimes brush off certain traits and behaviors of ourselves and others. Only to one day look back and say, "huh, shoulda seen that coming."

    Being the leftist that I am, I could give a crap less who is gay, straight, curious or confused. But in looking back, I should have known a member of my family was going to be gay. At the age of eleven he decorated his room in New Kids on the Block paraphernalia. We're talking about posters, lampshades, T-shirts and even a complete bedding set. OK, you may say. So what? Well he also had toys he played with. While his brother played with GI Joes and Tonka trucks, he played with barbies. Our family looked at this as childhood exploration. In his teens he wanted to wear purses, which his mother justified as "cool handbags." He also took noticeable interest in the latest fashions, and was fluent in floral arrangements. "He just has an eye for decoration," his mother would say. Needless to say, we've all known for some time that he is gay, though my grandmother still thinks there is "hope" for him to find a nice girl. Nobody gives a shit, but looking back is kind of a slap in the face. Gosh, it's easy to be blind.

    Or how about the kid in gym class that runs with his arms dangling by his side? It's not even comfortable to do that. In dodgeball, he was always the first to get out. In his defense, it's hard to dodge flying obstacles when you look like an epileptic fish, flopping about, gasping for your last breath. Sure, he may now be the head programmer for some computer company, but probably still a social outcast nonetheless.

    What about the kid who laughs without smiling. You didn't think it was possible, did ya? But it is. I've seen it. Next time you see a flock of children (yes, they run in flocks) just look for little Johnny-no-fun. All of the schoolmates laughing, smiling merrily in the playground. Then there is the kid in the corner making weird noises with a look of confusion on his face like, WTF am I doing? If you can't track him down by his awkward noises, just look for the kid running with no arms. They're probably hanging out together.

    In summation, the people described above are often seen as social outcasts. They are deemed as such by us of the 3rd-world country social standards of marginally-attractive citizens, and they often turn out to be functional, successful members of society. And sometimes our friends. But we can still laugh at them, as we sit home at our mother's house, alone, blogging about other people.

    God, I wish I was an outcast...

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    Wednesday, August 27, 2008

    Confessions: Movies

    In the good spirit of continuing the Spoonful of Secrets series, this entry is dedicated to the movies I wouldn't tell my friends I enjoy watching. And don't worry, none of my true friends care enough to even read this blog. So I guess I'm safe.

    So let's get this ball rollin, shall we?

    Number 1. When Harry Met Sally. As far as I'm concerned, this is Billy Crystal's defining role.
    "Had my dream again where I'm making love, and the Olympic judges are watching. I'd nailed the compulsories, so this is it, the finals. I got a 9.8 from the Canadians, a perfect 10 from the Americans, and my mother, disguised as an East German judge, gave me a 5.6. Must have been the dismount."

    Thanks to this movie, I learned at a young age that men and women can't just be friends. Eventually, one of them wants to sleep with the other. Thank you, Billy Crystal. But let us not forget Meg Ryan. Famous fake orgasm scene. Thanks to this movie I also know how to tell one of those from the real thing, too. So thank you, Meg Ryan. By the way, she's still certifiably boneable.

    Number 2. The Breakfast Club. Two words: Emilio Estevez. Long before coach Gordon (AKA "The Mighty Duck Man") Emilio was a bona fide badass. Check out this dialog between his character, Andy, and the rebel Bender:

    Andy: If I lose my temper you're totaled, man.
    Bender: Totally?
    Andy: Totally.

    And let the people say OOOOOOFFFFF! You don't screw with the Estevez. It's science.

    Finishing off the list at number 3 is Dirty Dancing. Why, you ask? The Swayze. P Swiz. What a G. Beyond his superb (questionable) acting skills, he dropped a couple beats on the soundtrack. She's Like the Wind. And I bet you can't find a girl over 17 years old who isn't familiar with the newly-rehashed term, "Nobody puts Baby in a corner!" The movie had it all, really. Wealthy parents, one bimbo daughter selling herself to the wealthiest man she could find, the good-girl that's really not-so-good, abortion, dirty dancing, betrayal, sex and love. Talk about complexity. And here's the kicker...Jennifer Grey is a babe. And just to end this with a pun, I would definitely put Baby in a corner ;)

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    Monday, August 25, 2008

    Confessions: Music

    First off I'd like to survey the topic of music. Sure, I rock out to Tool and Brand New, not to mention all things 80s. But there's much more to my many-layered musical-onion self. I often feel that music is more me than me, if that makes any sense. But some of it just doesn't seem appropriate to share with my friends, or even complete strangers. While I may well enjoy many such artists, I'd like to now focus on the greatest. Numero uno.

    You ready?

    Barry Manilow. The man is a musical genius. Sensational, even. In a world of Wu-Tang Clan and Backstreet Boys overnight-phenomena, listening to a little Manilow can really take the edge off. With hits like Mandy, Weekend in New England, and my personal favorite, Ready to Take a Chance Again, it amazes me that some people don't bow to this Manilo-ific legacy.

    Number two on the list: Britney Spears. Yeah, I said it. Oops, I did it Again, I mean, it started off as a teenage boy fantasy. Let's be real. Schoolgirl outfit. Hot girl. Bam. Music video sensation. But a few of my cousins listened to those CDs nonstop. It wasn't long before I meandered the streets thinking, "Isn't she lucky, this Hollywood girl?"

    Finally, my number three secret music icon is Elton John. I don't even feel embarrassed really. I feel liberated. A lyrical genius. Too many hits to name. The first time I went to third base with a girl, I remember The Way You Look Tonight playing in the background. Is it awkward that I associate nude, interpersonal touching with Sir Elton John? Sure, maybe a little. But I wouldn't have it any other way. I barely remember her name. But those lyrics will be with me forever.

    What are some of your musical confessions?

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    Sunday, August 24, 2008

    Confessions: A Prequel

    We all have secrets. There are things we like that we don't want anybody else to know we like. For example I wish I had a secret language that only my friends and I could speak and understand. I'm not so much afraid of the dark as I am afraid of sticking my hand down the garbage disposal.

    I saw it once in a scary movie and never felt the same.

    So I have decided to start a series of confessional entries. It will be my Spoonful of Secrets, one haunting/embarrassing/awkward confession at a time. The topics will not be of explicit, HBO at 2:00 in the a.m. soft-porn nature. Rather, they will be an insight to the things I find myself a closet follower of.

    It is my hope that you, loyal readers, will reply with a comment of your closet likes as well. I'll see you soon.

    Wednesday, August 20, 2008

    OMG! SOOOO ANNOYING, right!?!?!?

    OK, OK, you got me. I'm a texter.

    Yep, I said it. For the most part I prefer texting to talking on the phone. SERIOUSLY!! Granted, sometimes talking on the phone is necessary, sometimes it's even enjoyable (albeit rarely and in extremely moderate amounts.) I prefer to avoid confrontation whenever possible.

    But you know what really gets my goat?

    Do ya?

    Over-ecstatic texting. You may be familiar with my already-existing views on text message shortcuts, but this is a little different.

    If you are like me - a lost soul with only a passing sense of what's going on around him at all times because you had to move home with your mother, which brought to a very sharp point your already dry, sarcastic sense of humor (so you call it) because you crashed your car into a wall - then you probably have a friend who likes to text even more than you. But that's not so bad.

    What gets me is when EVERYTHING they say is SO EXCITING!!!

    My example friend, we'll call him Bruce, simply because I don't know anybody with that name and it sounds gangster -- "Hey pretty lady. I'm Bruce. Wanna go back to my mom's place, throw a sock on the door and get this party started?" See, that is irresistible to women, because the guy's name is Bruce. I digress... So my friend Bruce texted me the other day.

    Bruce: Hey buddy! What are you doing tonite?? I just got into town, let's hang out later!
    Me: ok. call me after dinner.
    Bruce: Sweet. We're gonna get CRAZY!

    My friend Bruce never gets crazy. He'll have one beer then say he's tired. I know the story. But yet he never fails to get super excited for nothing. If you were to hear the guy speak in person, never once has he gotten THAT EXCITED!!! SERIOUSLY!

    But this goes beyond text messaging. At work, where I play solitaire or IM my friends for the good majority of the day, I get instant messages of the same caliber.
    Me: Hey, how's your day?
    Another person: OMG!!! i can't stand this FREAKING PLACE!! why do i stay?!?!?! and sam called me last night, he was being SUCH an ass!
    Me: oh
    Them: I KNOW, RIGHT?!?! anyhow, how are you?!?!

    Being the largely impatient person I am, that shit gets me really excited, not in a good way. I start sweating, heart beating uncontrollably. I sometimes even pee a little. Why would you do that to me? Why?

    Case in point, don't become overexcited with me. I like a good laugh. But if you abuse your privileges you're likely to get a picture text message of my man-piece. It's happened before, and I don't intend to stop any time soon. Exclamation points are for emphasis, not for pissing me off.

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    Wednesday, August 13, 2008

    It's cheaper to rent

    I don't date. Well, I am not currently dating, I should say. Until about a year ago I never really cared to be in a relationship. You are probably familiar with the adage, "Why buy a cow when you get the milk for free?" But given my life experiences, I have been yielded what I call Chain Vicious, so you can't really blame me. It goes a little something like this.

    Meet girl at bar. Get drunk. Random hookup. Random hookup becomes regular booty call. This becomes relationship. Both people are surprised at how fast things have moved, so they start cheating on each other. But still have sex with each other. Without protection. They get knocked up. She starts popping babies out, he starts working double shifts at the local McDonald's to buy milk. They still cheat on each other. One day they may get married. Then again they might not. Either way, they hate their lives and are worse off for having met.

    I know, I know...you are probably thinking that's a little extreme. And it is. But my brain has two functions when it comes to the art of seduction.

    1.In this mode I tell myself I don't envision the relationship going anywhere, that I am just meeting this girl to enjoy myself, in whatever capacity that may be. I am relaxed, and tend to start these stories off very well.

    2.In this mode, I have asked the girl on a date because I have a huge crush and actually found her able to carry a conversation without talking about her best friend Tammy. But I get nervous. Do I be myself? She seems a little conservative, I wouldn't want to offend her right off the bat. But does she want to be offended? Why is she twiddling her hair? Quick, say something funny. No, not that! You bumbling idiot. Great, now she probably thinks you're an idiot. Oh shit, I'm sweating. Uncontrollably. Why is this happening? Look, she's laughing at me. Or was it the joke? Don't be stupid, nobody would laugh at that joke. Welp, you fucked it up. Good job, dummy.

    This all takes place in the first 20 minutes or so. So, if I act like this, it's considered a compliment. Remember that you little vixens.

    But that's what I think about when I meet a girl I like. I don't wonder why I'm single...these ramblings are plenty of reason. But recently I have thought, hey, maybe I should at least try to date somebody for a while. It always starts that way, then on the first or second date I always get "the feeling." And it is a curse, this feeling. I could be having the time of my life, laughing, making her laugh, intelligent, deep, thoughtful and penetrating conversation and then it happens. Without looking for it I find one flaw I can't let go.

    Some more notable flaws of the past have yielded
    Rachel: Eyes continuously opened large, like she was ALWAYS surprised
    Lisa: a laugh like dolphins mating feverishly
    Raychel: Walked to the fullest extent, up onto the tippy toes of each foot, with each step. There's no reason for that
    Erin: 1.Had a stupid laugh 2.Didn't know what psychology was 3.Always looked confused
    Kim: Used the nose wrinkle when she well shouldn't have. The nose wrinkle is reserved for a select few, at only a select few times. It's powers should not be exercised unless you're a complete bitch or trying to get me in the sack, which, I'm still waiting for...

    Anyhoodle, the last time I dated I spent a lot of money and was dissatisfied with the results...she stopped answering my calls. That's when my boss, who annoys me at work but is wise in worldly ways, gave me the motto by which I now abide.

    If it flies, floats or fucks, it's cheaper to rent.

    Thanks, boss.

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    Thursday, August 7, 2008

    I lost my virginity today

    I lost my virginity today. Much to my dismay, it didn't involve whipped cream and assless chaps. It lasted much longer than I expected, and hoped, and ended briefly with my valiant effort gently dismissed.

    Today, I went to jury duty.

    I have never before been to said duty of jurors. I have received a summons a time or two, but either was busy fighting massive infernos, curing diseases in remote sections of western Africa or keeping Tahoe blue, so I was never able to attend. Until today.

    Well, actually my summons requested I call in Monday night to see if I was to be called. But the message told me I was on juror standby (apparently the court system can drag you along for up to five days with this uncertainty). So I called yesterday, and sure as gravity I had to show up today. At 8 a.m.

    The courthouse foyer was much like an airport security area, just without the possibility of escaping your cruddy life for a few days. I was directed to a hallway where a line of summons-toting Joe-do-gooders waited to enter "the room." The perky juror summons assembly congregation receptionist badge-taker ladies herded us like cattle into the room - a large, square space with many chairs arranged (permanently) in no particular order. They were half-moon configured with the top of the arc in the back of the room. Random tables and chairs dotted the empty spaces. It was like a puzzle with no answer. So we waited in line - mooo - and waited some more.

    After being permitted to sit down I realized I had forgotten my book at home. For the next 20 minutes we watched informational and encouraging videos on the benefits of the "privilege," I believe was the term used, of sitting in a jury. One man, whom I initially considered a vagrant, was clothed in a Coors Light baseball cap, ripped T-shirt, ripped shorts, and completed with the faux pas sock/sandle combination. Really? When I walked by him i caught a whiff of booze. It smelt like this gentleman had enjoyed his 7:30 a.m. martini - judging by his outfit would have constituted a 40 of Natty Ice.

    This is how it relates to sex.

    Eventually 50 of us are called and we go to the court room. We take a recess, come back, take lunch, come back, take another recess, then at 3:30 I am called to sit in "the box." To me, this sounds an awful lot like dating. No complete exposure. Stop-and-go. Listen to a bunch of shit you don't really care about, all in hopes you win the prize.

    Up until that point I had been scheming a way to get out of jury duty. I thought of pretending I was extremely racist or saying that I knew one of the witnesses. But then I decided to man-up. Besides, there were no black people in the courtroom and only one Mexican guy. But he left before I had a chance to insult him. Selfish bastard. That is to say you realize there are heightened expectations, certain attachments that won't easily be broken. So you think about telling a lie, just to test the waters. Always come prepared with an escape plan.

    By this time I have heard so many stupid people comparing their life stories to the case and the attorneys explaining in depth how their history shouldn't interfere...whatever. So I tell I can be fair, don't have biases, blah blah, and all seems well. So what started off as a lie has merged its way into the truth. Win-win, right?

    Then, two minutes later, the plaintiff's attorney read the words I thought I would never hear, "We'd like to thank and excuse juror number 12." And to tell the truth, it came as a bit of a surprise. But when I really got to thinking about it, I think I was a little sad because I would have rather endured the trial and complained about it than not having to serve at all. And here it is. The two minutes of the most unsatisfying satisfaction you'll ever experience, hopefully. The almighty, "Um, okay. Why don't you get off of me and never call me again" scenario. After all, you probably won't see her again. Nor will you see the jurors. Which is good because she (other jurors) will probably tell her friends you are no good in the box.

    Case in point, I lost my jury duty virginity today. It was everything I expected, and not a bit more.

    There is just too much booty in these pants Humor-Blogs.com

    Saturday, August 2, 2008

    This one time when I was drunk...

    I am a man of stories. Sadly, none of those stories has anything to do with me saving infants from a burning building or dedicating every waking minute of my free time to curing a disease. No, no, nothing of the sort. And with my college days not far behind me, I remember some of those stories quite well.

    They usually started off with, "This one time, when I was drunk..."

    So, this one time, when I was drunk, I was out with my roommate. We'll call him Dub. Dub and I spent the afternoon at the beach tossin' back a few [many] brewskies. It should also be known that at this time in my life I regularly partook in the activity known to many as "getting stoned." And given the fact (yes, it's science) that smoking pot is often considered a social activity, we were regularly in the company of bikini-clad passerby with just a whiff of that lofty aroma. Anyhow, we befriended two of these young dames and agreed to meet up with them later.

    Went home, showered, then went back out.

    We, Dub and I, had a couple drinks with dinner and met up with the girls. Turns out, one of them had just had a run-in with her pseudo-boyfriend, not a big deal. Then she told us he had broken into her car a couple days before and was at the bar looking for her...too much drama so we bounced. We unintentionally did a pub crawl and by midnight we were ready to go home. So we hailed a cab.

    When we got in the cab, I saw a dark-skinned driver who uttered something with an accent. Being in southern California such as we were, I assumed him to be of Mexican descent.

    I'll tell you right now, I am most certainly not fluent in Spanish.

    But that didn't stop me. I, in terrible, slurred and broken high-school level Spanish, gave him directions to our house.

    Izquierda! No, derecha! Derecha!

    Some 20 minutes later we made it the two miles to our house. Dub ran inside to get some cash and I waited in the cab. And I waited. And I kept waiting. So I said, "Es--esppp--espera un minuto, poourrrfavoooor" and ran inside to see what happened. Dub was passed out on the couch, sitting Indian-style, a beer in one hand and a joint in the other. I took money from his shirt pocket, that had apparently been there all along, and ran it out to the cab.

    "Lo, lo siiento seniouwwr," I tried to apologize. When I looked in the window to hand him the money, a startling revelation. I jumped back in defense. This was not a Mexican-blooded man. He looked at me and screamed, "I'm Chinese. No Mexican! Chinese!" He ripped the money out of my hand and layed rubber.

    To this day I still feel bad. If you ever encounter this nationality-shifting cab driver, please extend to him my deepest apologies.

    Sunday, July 20, 2008

    Really? Do 'flamers' really start fires?

    Ignorance: the state or fact of being ignorant; lack of knowledge, education or awareness.

    That's how Webster's dictionary defines the word. My goal is to find a way to apply that to all the morons who believe that the recent fires in California are in direct relation to the state's approval of same-sex marriage. Honestly, get a freaking life. I guess the common argument is that the fires are God's way of punishing the state for allowing a sinful union of same-sex couples.


    I was under the impression that in the summertime, when temperatures are high, humidity is low, and grass and brush are dry that fires are much more common. In fact, there is an ENTIRE season dedicated to fighting fires! Let's go back 100 years, when it was fairly common for fires to ravage a million acres in a couple months. Same-sex marriage? Nope. Fires, certainly.

    I don't discriminate anybody's beliefs. What I do discriminate against is the level of ignorance one must have in order to postulate such an absurd claim.

    Let's be real; we, as a people, are always in a search for something to blame things on. Look at the government's crutch -- global warming.

    Warmer temperatures? Global warming. Childhood obesity? Must be global warming. Erectile dysfunction? It's that doggon global warming I've been hearing so much about.

    Taking it back to fires, its obvious that the majority of Christians feel it is sinful to marry somebody of the same sex. So now, this is a form of justification. Although, when I thought about it for a bit, it was kind of funny. Flamers - a derogatory name for gays - coincided with the act of their marriage starting fires...flamers starting flames...it's kind of funny. But it's still a stupid and completely unsubstantiated idea.

    Case in point: If you need to jump to such extremes to validate your beliefs, you either have too much time on your hands or you don't fully understand what it is you believe. And in the case of the latter, do your homework before you go around raising questions that have no foundation to stand upon. As far as fire history is concerned, once again, do your homework. The very first fire I fought was Arizona's Rodeo-Chediski complex -- the state's largest fire -- raking in more than 450,000 acres in 2002. Fires are not uncommon. They are the result of lightning strikes, unattended campfires and arson. They are not the result of two dudes, or chicks, starting a legal life together. Marriage represents cohesion, unity. Why, then, is it tearing so many of us apart?

    It must be that global warming...

    Wednesday, July 16, 2008

    Ok, enough already

    Really, it's getting old. And on a lighter note, you're just making me look bad.

    Why can't star athletes make up their minds? Yes, for the 10 seasons they play they attract fans, dazzle the cameras and just make the entire sporting experince that much better.

    And I'm cool with that.

    What I'm not cool with is when, after years of dedicated service, they retire...and then come back from retirement. I don't like it because it's never the same after. NEVER.

    Take Michael Jordan -- one of the greatest players of all time. Leaves the Bulls to go play baseball. We said our farewells, bade him adieu. But then he came back. No more #23. No, no no no. #45. And what happened? It wasn't the same. Then he switched teams and shit just went downhill.

    And Barry Bonds...really? 762 career home runs. A one-year contract for $15.8 million in 2007. And you're telling me you don't want to just kick it from now on? I don't know if he took steroids and for this matter I don't really care. But, if he did take them, wouldn't it just be easier to take them, work out all day and not have to worry about the media or perjury charges?

    Let's take a look at Brett Favre. The man is a surgeon with the football. A couple weeks ago I was at a park and saw Brett there just tossin the pigskin with some guy. A woman on the other side of the park was sitting on a bench breast-feeding her child. Brett got a little glare in his eye and chucked the football, knocked the baby clean off the teet and threw his hands up like he just won a prize. The mother started to get angry, but once she realized who threw the football, she threw her hands up and screamed, "That was AMAZING!", her bare bosm bouncing gently in the breeze.

    To be honest with myself - and also you, my loyal readers - that story may or may not have happened. See, I've never been to Wisconsin. I've never seen Brett Favre in person. But my point is this: we get it. You were amazing athletes. This has been your goal in life since you were 13 years old. And that's admirable. Do us all a favor and take your bijilions of dollars, go buy an island in the Caribbean and play naked beach football with the Playboy bunnies. That sounds a little more enjoyable than being hit by a 300-pound lineman. I dunno, that's just me.

    You'll always have your legend. But once you say you're done, then that's it. But stop making me look bad.

    The only thing I've dreamed about since puberty is retirement, and now you rub it in my face. No more deceit. I can't take it.

    Monday, July 14, 2008

    Californians are now required to be kooks, and I don't like it

    Let's play a little game. I will write a word and you say the very first thing that comes to mind. Ready?


    If your first thought was despicable, stupid, annoying or kookish, then, my friends, this is why we get along.

    I have disliked these ear-penetrating devices of Satan's thoughts since their inception. For a while, everybody wanted to get one because they were new, cool, hip or any other teenage colloquialism you might imagine. Heck, at one point when I upgraded my phone I was given one for free! I tried to leave it with the salesman, but he kept shoving it down my throat--figuratively, of course. So I took it. And when I walked in the door of my house, I unwrapped it, pushed the button a couple times, placed it in my ear, then threw it away.

    It felt very awkward, having only one ear meddled with. It was like a little BlueTooth leprechaun was swinging in my right ear, with no partner to balance out the left. Plus, there was at the time an air of superiority with those who partook in BlueToothy adventures. I saw them the same as the guys who wear their cell phones in the clip on their belt, everywhere they go. I never understood that, either. Are you waiting for a quick-draw challenge? I have never been in a situation where one phone call was so undeniably important that it couldn't ring just one more time. For Pete's sake, every phone on the market comes with caller ID. If you did miss a call, open that mother up and hit SEND twice. That simple. You don't even have to look at the number. But I digress.

    Many of you may know that as of July 1, it became illegal to talk on a cellular device of communications while driving a car in California--though it is still legal to text message, which is a thousand times more dangerous. Let's thank the kooks in congress for that one. Needless to say, I was forced to get a BlueTooth.

    I know, I know. You are probably saying, "Well, why not just call somebody back after you are done driving?" The reason is fairly simple, even though I haven't completely convinced myself that it is valid. I don't have a home telephone. My cell phone is it. And noting the fact that I have recently been given a lot more freelance work, I have used my phone more than I ever would have imagined. And at this point, if I can get a call when I am driving, I'll take it. My rent depends on it.

    My greatest concern, though, is that I will some day look like this guy. This guy, for those unfamiliar with the term, is a kook. He's at the dang dinner table! Why, in all of God's creation is it necessary, not only to talk on the phone, but a BlueTooth nonetheless, while you eat? Even his wife there looks annoyed. Just read her eyes. She is thinking, "Sweet Jesus, he's one of them! He looks like a successful businessman, so I'm sure she's trying to calculate how much half really is. And if I were an assuming man--which I very much am--I would also postulate that this kook wears his phone on a belt clip, even at the dinner table.


    But one thing that really urks my 'taters is yesterday, as I was driving down the freeway, I saw a police officer talking on his cell phone. It didn't seem business-like, either. He was laughing, talking, being happy. And this annoyed me, because had the tables been turned, I would be fighting a citation. So I drove next to him. Right next to him. I threw my arm up to flag him down. He looked, cell phone still in hand, and I threw my arms up like, Hey man, what the heck?

    Like I said, we were driving on the freeway, and my car is 23 years old, so when my hands went up, my steering wheel went right, then left, and played a little dodgeball with my hands. After I regained control, and wet my pants no less than three times, the officer looked at me, cell phone still in hand, and gave me the look like, Haha, asshole, we're even now.

    So thanks, California, for making me a kook.

    Sunday, July 6, 2008

    Is growing up really necessary?

    There comes a certain point in life in which you wake up (usually with whiskey still on your breath) and just say, "Man, I need to grow up."

    But does it happen?

    I had a long night last Saturday. I have been out of college for two years now. Though in the larger context of things I know that isn't that long, however right now it feels like an eternity since I have meandered the proverbial streets of all things careless.

    I'm no longer able to say, "I'm broke, I'm a student." While I may be broke, the only thing I study is my monkey-worthy data processing job.

    I can no longer claim that random hallucinogenic adventures are merely classified as "experimental." I can no longer, as a supposed productive man of society, go to a barbecue , have some beers, watch a UFC pay-per-view fight, have some more beers, go out for a night on the town with the boys, drink my bodyweight in Jack and Cokes, then, go to a bar I despise and dance with girls.

    Let me rephrase that. I sneakily convinced a number of girls to dance with me, not because my words were smooth, but because it was loud and I was able to lean on a post. I pointed to the girl, then to the dance floor. Somehow, three girls were unintelligent enough to accept that offer. Until I started "dancing" with them. I'm very glad in my school days I had the mental presence to routinely develop bar aliases. The girls weren't dancing with me. They danced with Dr. Jacob Weinstein, professor of Ancient Jewish Literature. Otherwise the real me might be awaiting a [several] restraining orders.

    Nights like that, much to my dismay, I cannot blame on being another "college night."

    Two years after you graduate, doing these things are not simple young, stupid stunts. Some may refer to a person who indulges in such activities as an alcoholic, a waste of life. But yet once every couple months I decide I need to wreck myself and do such things.

    At 24 years of age, I am wondering if I will ever grow up.

    Thursday, July 3, 2008

    Why Telemarketers?

    I don't recall any point in my life when I heard the words, "Golly, I want to be a telemarketer when I grow up" uttered from any set of lips. As a matter of fact, I am certain I never heard those words. But yet, we have them.

    They come in all shapes and styles too. There are the cheery ones, the glum ones; those who are in their phone-sale prime, and those who work at the Post Office. And it takes a psychologically strong type of person to be successful at it. You make calls, knowing that 60% of the time you will have people slam the phone in your ear before you ever get to mention whatever penis-enhancing product or marriage-reconciling service you offer.

    Have you ever called a complete stranger of a man, and tried to talk to him about potential erectile dysfunction? I have, and I wasn't even getting paid. Worst week of my life.

    And to be on the other end of the line, whoooo-wheeeee. I'm gonna tells you what's up. I don't know anybody who has actually bought into a service of this nature. But the most interesting part to me is how the psychology of telemarketing has evolved. I am below illustrating a time line of the evolution of telemarketing.

    Phone --> Telemarketer --> *69 --> Caller ID --> TME1 --> TME2.

    TME1 (TeleMarketer Evolution #1) are those annoying calls you receive, when as soon as you pick it up, there is a slight pause before anybody says anything. Like the executives have become so wrapped up in the mind-boggling number-crunching of it all, that the computer now dials calls for you. Immediately. Allllll day.

    TME2. This is the one that has a slight pause, but isn't even a person. It is a computer recording.

    So, the other day I received a call. It went something like this:

    me: Hello
    comp: (slight pause) Hello! You need to hurry. Your vehicle's warranty is nearly expired. Press ONE to connect with a service agent who can extend your warranty right now.

    The last two words, right now were announced like the Speed Boat races or Monster Truck rally guy, the one that screams "Sunday! Sunday Sunday!" in the most testosteroney voice you've ever heard.

    After I heard the way he made it sound, I got excited, mostly to do with the bottle-point-five of wine i had.
    "Oh crap, I need to extend my warranty!"
    So I pressed ONE. After nearly a minute on hold, a [insert your choice: hick, hill-billy, oakie, redneck, goat humper, dung slinger]-voiced lady answered, in a voice much raspier than my own,
    her: Make-n-model o'-yer car."
    me: Uh, Toyota Ca--
    her: I need the year!
    me: Oh, well, it's uh, an '85. 1985 Toyota Camry.
    me: Uh, hello. Can you extend my warranty please?
    (more silence)
    me: Ma'm, are you there?
    her: How in God's green earth does a'eighty-fi' Camry still got a warranty on 'er?
    me: Oh, but the man, the man before you told me I needed one. He--hello?

    It needn't be said my '85 gem is no longer under warranty. And is also needn't be said that answering the phone when I darn well shouldn't have was a bad move. I fed myself my own spoonful of shut up.