Matt Lesley has started an erotic subset of the Brony community he calls UniPorn. You can imagine what the horn is.
Tracey Dolan Portwine brings all the boys to the yard, and many are still buried there.
Keith Seichrist chops down his own Christmas tree every year. Lucky for him he always finds one right in the neighbor's living room.
Erin McSpadden sings a haunting song that lures chipmunks to their watery death.
Mike Muszynski ran a successful hamburger blog until he mistakenly rated a turkey burger as the best burger in Frederick, MD. He now spends his days eating Necco wafers as penance.
Jordan Riccio yells "Play Freebird!" at every concert he goes to. He has also been the recipient of an atomic wedgie a world record 42 times.
Scree! Scree! Jeff Tolbert scort scortt SCREEE! That's right, even dolphins mock you.
Jesse Howell's acting career really turned around after he started going by the stage name Melissa McCarthy.
Laura Brockmeyer learned at a young age that you can never wear enough sunscreen. Or mayonnaise. Either one is good.
Samantha Wentling was kicked out of a Juggalo convention because even they have standards.
Christopher Law went to a Halloween party as Inspector Gadget in 2005. He hasn't gone out of character since, which slightly impedes his career as a dance instructor. Go Go Gadget Jazz Hands!
Bridgett Heard has been known to hypnotize goldfish at the pet store to do her bidding. They have been less than effective at robbing banks to secure her fortune.
David Wendig writes Perfect Strangers erotic fan fiction under the pen name Sexy Poppinfresh.
Sharon Waller keeps a lucky Dutchman's foot on her keychain.
Matt Quimby found fruitful work as the token white guy in Tyler Perry movies.
Elizabeth Friedel spoke in a fake British accent for seventeen years after seeing the movie Snatch came out. It come out in the year 2000, so her friends will finally talk to her again come 2017.
Jamie Doud Lasko was fired from the Teddy Bear Hospital for practicing medicine without a license.
Anela Collazo knows every word to Louie Louie and refuses to share.
Jacqueline Slosky once fought a chair to the death.
Karmn G. Rod is the reason Steven Weber hasn't gotten decent work since Wings.
Nancy Fisher North has been trying desperately to get the nickname Nan C. Westside.
Hanna Gribble's main work credit is as the final script supervisor for every Adam Sandler film since 2001.
Joel Van Goor will make millions when he discovers a way to tattoo an animated GIF of Rerun dancing.
Christopher Beasley has spent his life proving that The Song That Never Ends will someday do just that.
Clare Zuraw was excommunicated from the church because she couldn't stop making raygun noises anytime anyone said the word "pew".
David Gregory is the Peep Eating champion of Korea.
Katiedid Langrock is reading this on a laptop she fashioned from Gobots and cat hair.
Margaret Randall Alldredge thinks tube tops and overalls are the next big fashion trend.
Margie Webber still cranks dat soljaboy at all weddings and bar mitzvahs.
Gus Medina's version of the song "My Favorite Things" would make Red Foxx blush.
Zach Rothstein is known as "The Man of 1000 Faces". He keeps most in his freezer.
Katie Sill gives sandwiches to the homeless. Ghost pepper sandwiches.
Mike and Layla Asplen describe their style of parenting as "Monkey Torture". They refuse to expand on the matter.
Andrea Buntz Neiman coats herself in margarine every night before bed. When asked why, she says that butter is too fattening.
Laura Wienand has been barred from every high school football game in Pennsylvania for excessive taunting. The lewd gestures were icing on the cake.
Valerie Sedai bullied me through college because she refused to believe I was prettier than her. She might have better hair now though. Might.
Travis Shaw is revered in most archaeological circles for once getting so far into the zone that he passed out. When he woke up the site he was excavating was filled back in, but a completely accurate recreation of Peewee's playhouse was built on the site out of pottery shards and pipe stems, and was inhabited by the bones of an indentured servant dressed as Cowboy Curtis.
Emily Miller became the first American in 100 years to get scurvy after her macaroni and cheese diet somehow went awry.
Katie Cavallo's career as a professional luchador will start and end next week.
Elizabeth O'Sullivan was fired from her job at Chuck E Cheese for banishing noisy children to the Ball Pit after getting drunk on power and Mad Dog.
Natalie Litofsky only drinks 10 ounce beers, because she knows those last two ounces are the devil.
Jodi Bailey will be the last thing most of us will ever see.
Julie Stricker won't drink red wine because she says it goes right to her head. That may be because she tends to inject it into her eyeballs.
Annelise Montone's one woman version of The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants has been called "haunting", "pointless", and "graphically violent".
Ryan Protos is proud to announce he has been officially sponsored by FourLoko.
Bodine Boling created the whip, but has disavowed the Nae Nae.
Kurt Lewis will not leave his house until he remembers where he put the activator for his jericurls.
Angela Desmond proudly owns America's largest collection of Bumpits, outside of Texas that is.
Joyce Phelps believes that the most tragic character ever written is not Willy Loman, but Dumb Donald. Read her 200 page college dissertation to find out why.
Steve Nickerson's music video for his band's most popular song "Everybody's Twerking for the Weekend" has a shocking 36 views on Youtube,
Scott Humburg wears pants less than Winnie the Pooh.
Christopher Neu successfully held out his goth phase until he turned 31.
Vicki Fisher will be miserable once I find an old gypsy woman to make everything she eats taste like newspaper. Vicki could evade this if she finally admits she tried to hit me with a Snapple bottle when we were little.
Megan Usilton is still angry that she lost the role of Dobby in Harry Potter, even though she looks the part.
Tuesday, December 22, 2015
Sunday, December 13, 2015
Dear Gin Blossoms
All of our lives we are told to not judge a book by its cover. I've found, most of the time, I can make a fairly decent judgement of a book by the cover design. That's how I initially judge every Kindle deal I get in the email. If the cover has a beach scene or a horse, I don't buy it. Shaky writing, bicycles, or cool art, I read the description. Fabio shirtless with a wench, well, that's a buy no matter the price. Maybe the whole point of the idiom is to not make snap judgements, but whoever made it up should have been clearer.
Before Thanksgiving, I was able to relive the '90s twice in a week. On a Thursday, a local ska band called The Smizokes was having a reunion show in Baltimore, and on Saturday the Gin Blossoms were playing in Delaware. I idolized the ska band in high school, and my New Miserable Experience cassette was worn down through middle school. I had high expectations for both shows, so surely life was going to kick me in the nards.
I saw a flyer entering the Ottobar for the Smizokes show announcing that the ska show was downstairs, while The Insane Clown Posse was having a party upstairs. Visions of juggalos danced in my head as I walked in to the venue as the first opening band greeted me with forgettable, bland third wave ska an a sparse crowd egregiously divided between thirteen year olds and thirty five year olds ignored each other. The teenagers were dressed in their finest punk concert gear: shiny leather studded jackets, concert shirts, and Chuck Taylors. My peers were more hodgepodge in jeans, buttoned shirts, and sensible comfy shoes. Ska isn't dead, it just goes to bed at a more reasonable hour.
My fears were unnecessary. The worst makeup I saw was not from a juggalo, but from a misguided teenaged girl who used a beautician's shotgun to apply eyeliner. The Smizokes played hard, well, and all ages joined each other to dance on the floor.If the band or their fans had gotten 18 years older, neither showed it, at least until 10PM came around and we all shuffled home to read and get a good night's sleep.
Clearly if the local band had emerged triumphant after almost two decades, then the Gin Blossoms, who constantly tour, would put on one hell of a show. My girlfriend and I drive out to Harrington Casino with my 90's playlist shuffling through the Ipod. We got to the casino, grabbed some dinner, played some slots, and went to the auditorium about twenty minutes before the show was set to start. Things were immediately amiss. The place was packed, and a line at least fifty people long snaked from the bar. We didn't really think that when the tickets said that the doors opened two hours before the show that everyone would show up then. I quickly assumed that this was some sort of reverse concert. The cool people all showed up super early, most people were seated, and the cool thing to do was to wear your tshirts tucked into your jeans. Alarmed and confused, we sat in the last row, in two of the only open seats.
The weirdness continued as a nicely dressed man took the stage. He announced that the show was about to begin, yet the crowd ignored him and continued to chat. Reading from a list, he counted down the acts that would be playing soon. No one heeded him until two magic words were uttered, "Garth" and "Brooks", and nothing short of a standing ovation occurred. How in the bland sterile halls of IKEA hell does a crowd set to see an alernative rock band cheer that loud for Mr. Trisha Yearwood. Not even in Delaware. The next biggest cheer came when for some reason Wal Mart was mentioned. Oh wait, the reason was that this was in Delaware. Anyway, the band came on, and immediately the entire crowd sat. A whole sea of people sat extremely still as the ban d launched into their set, well, all except for the two morons in front of me. He, a stout lad in his late thirties, kind of shimmied while trying not to drop his beer. She, a stouter muffin topped, tramp stamped lass of the same age, tried to bounce up and down but somehow failed even at this. I decided that if everyone else was going to be a drag, so was I, so I tapped the guy and asked him to sit down. Had I a cane and a hearing aid, I couldn't have felt older.
You, the Blossoms of Juniper, did not help matters. Yes, the show was good, and you were proficient with the songs. Something, however, was practiced, unemotional, and sterile. After one of my favorite songs, Found Out About You, the lead singer kind of leaned back, sighed, and said "That was some good rockin'" like he was remarking about the weather or a peach harvest. If the band isn't really getting into things, how the hell should the audience? The damning part of the evening was when, during some banter between songs, the lead singer asked how many people actually knew who the band was. I chuckled until some furtive hands shot up. Shockingly few hands. Maybe 20 out of the whole very large crowd. This didn't phase him at all, like he was used to large casino crowds coming out to their shows as an alternative to staying home and watching reality tv or throwing rocks at the local harlot. This wasn't a band where dedicated fans sought them out after years of listening to their music. This was a band that walked off stage, grabbed a beer, then walked back onstage without anyone chanting for an encore, because they knew it wouldn't happen. They just started back into their scheduled encore, which was some good rockin' too.
Before Thanksgiving, I was able to relive the '90s twice in a week. On a Thursday, a local ska band called The Smizokes was having a reunion show in Baltimore, and on Saturday the Gin Blossoms were playing in Delaware. I idolized the ska band in high school, and my New Miserable Experience cassette was worn down through middle school. I had high expectations for both shows, so surely life was going to kick me in the nards.
I saw a flyer entering the Ottobar for the Smizokes show announcing that the ska show was downstairs, while The Insane Clown Posse was having a party upstairs. Visions of juggalos danced in my head as I walked in to the venue as the first opening band greeted me with forgettable, bland third wave ska an a sparse crowd egregiously divided between thirteen year olds and thirty five year olds ignored each other. The teenagers were dressed in their finest punk concert gear: shiny leather studded jackets, concert shirts, and Chuck Taylors. My peers were more hodgepodge in jeans, buttoned shirts, and sensible comfy shoes. Ska isn't dead, it just goes to bed at a more reasonable hour.
My fears were unnecessary. The worst makeup I saw was not from a juggalo, but from a misguided teenaged girl who used a beautician's shotgun to apply eyeliner. The Smizokes played hard, well, and all ages joined each other to dance on the floor.If the band or their fans had gotten 18 years older, neither showed it, at least until 10PM came around and we all shuffled home to read and get a good night's sleep.
Clearly if the local band had emerged triumphant after almost two decades, then the Gin Blossoms, who constantly tour, would put on one hell of a show. My girlfriend and I drive out to Harrington Casino with my 90's playlist shuffling through the Ipod. We got to the casino, grabbed some dinner, played some slots, and went to the auditorium about twenty minutes before the show was set to start. Things were immediately amiss. The place was packed, and a line at least fifty people long snaked from the bar. We didn't really think that when the tickets said that the doors opened two hours before the show that everyone would show up then. I quickly assumed that this was some sort of reverse concert. The cool people all showed up super early, most people were seated, and the cool thing to do was to wear your tshirts tucked into your jeans. Alarmed and confused, we sat in the last row, in two of the only open seats.
The weirdness continued as a nicely dressed man took the stage. He announced that the show was about to begin, yet the crowd ignored him and continued to chat. Reading from a list, he counted down the acts that would be playing soon. No one heeded him until two magic words were uttered, "Garth" and "Brooks", and nothing short of a standing ovation occurred. How in the bland sterile halls of IKEA hell does a crowd set to see an alernative rock band cheer that loud for Mr. Trisha Yearwood. Not even in Delaware. The next biggest cheer came when for some reason Wal Mart was mentioned. Oh wait, the reason was that this was in Delaware. Anyway, the band came on, and immediately the entire crowd sat. A whole sea of people sat extremely still as the ban d launched into their set, well, all except for the two morons in front of me. He, a stout lad in his late thirties, kind of shimmied while trying not to drop his beer. She, a stouter muffin topped, tramp stamped lass of the same age, tried to bounce up and down but somehow failed even at this. I decided that if everyone else was going to be a drag, so was I, so I tapped the guy and asked him to sit down. Had I a cane and a hearing aid, I couldn't have felt older.
You, the Blossoms of Juniper, did not help matters. Yes, the show was good, and you were proficient with the songs. Something, however, was practiced, unemotional, and sterile. After one of my favorite songs, Found Out About You, the lead singer kind of leaned back, sighed, and said "That was some good rockin'" like he was remarking about the weather or a peach harvest. If the band isn't really getting into things, how the hell should the audience? The damning part of the evening was when, during some banter between songs, the lead singer asked how many people actually knew who the band was. I chuckled until some furtive hands shot up. Shockingly few hands. Maybe 20 out of the whole very large crowd. This didn't phase him at all, like he was used to large casino crowds coming out to their shows as an alternative to staying home and watching reality tv or throwing rocks at the local harlot. This wasn't a band where dedicated fans sought them out after years of listening to their music. This was a band that walked off stage, grabbed a beer, then walked back onstage without anyone chanting for an encore, because they knew it wouldn't happen. They just started back into their scheduled encore, which was some good rockin' too.
Sunday, October 11, 2015
Dear Wine Afficianado at The Giant Crab
When I spend $30 at a seafood buffet in Myrtle Beach, I expect two things: ungodly portions of food and horrifying meat sweats. What I don't expect was the garbage I heard spewing from the booth behind me, where you and your husband sat.
Around plate two, just when I was really hitting my groove and annihilating large colonies of hush puppies and calamari, I noticed that both the manager and your waitress had arrived at your table. The manager was attempting to apologize to you for something, but you continually cut her off.
"That ain't good enough. I tol' her" you snapped. You then brandished a glass filled with a wine, the color of which I can only describe as "muppet blood".
"I tol' her I wanted Sutter Home. This ain't Sutter Home." Your husband mumbled something that sounded either like a vague agreement with you, or some southern friend bastardization of a passage from the Necronomicon. I did get a chance to admire the fact that it was quite obvious that, in addition to saving money by buying hobo wine, your husband option to buy one supertooth to replace his top three front teeth. It was just one big wall of tooth with no gap, which gave him the superpower of gnashing up inhuman quantities of peel and eat shrimp.
I won't go further into the yelling. It's unnecessary, because the bottom line is that you were berating a restaurant staff for not giving you a two buck chuck. Unless they replaced your boxed wine with Mad Dog or Thunderbird, you have no grounds for complaint. They did you a favor, unless the Sutter Home is the only thing pickling your white trash hick body and keeping you looking so fresh from the swamp. The manager looked like she was ready to punch your husband's SooperToof (patent pending) straight out of his face. I made sure to let her know that she did a wonderful job, and that you were a base, unrelenting simpleton for arguing about such a ridiculous thing, and for berating people who have to watch people like you shovel an ocean load of seafood into their drooling, feculent craws every night.
Around plate two, just when I was really hitting my groove and annihilating large colonies of hush puppies and calamari, I noticed that both the manager and your waitress had arrived at your table. The manager was attempting to apologize to you for something, but you continually cut her off.
"That ain't good enough. I tol' her" you snapped. You then brandished a glass filled with a wine, the color of which I can only describe as "muppet blood".
"I tol' her I wanted Sutter Home. This ain't Sutter Home." Your husband mumbled something that sounded either like a vague agreement with you, or some southern friend bastardization of a passage from the Necronomicon. I did get a chance to admire the fact that it was quite obvious that, in addition to saving money by buying hobo wine, your husband option to buy one supertooth to replace his top three front teeth. It was just one big wall of tooth with no gap, which gave him the superpower of gnashing up inhuman quantities of peel and eat shrimp.
I won't go further into the yelling. It's unnecessary, because the bottom line is that you were berating a restaurant staff for not giving you a two buck chuck. Unless they replaced your boxed wine with Mad Dog or Thunderbird, you have no grounds for complaint. They did you a favor, unless the Sutter Home is the only thing pickling your white trash hick body and keeping you looking so fresh from the swamp. The manager looked like she was ready to punch your husband's SooperToof (patent pending) straight out of his face. I made sure to let her know that she did a wonderful job, and that you were a base, unrelenting simpleton for arguing about such a ridiculous thing, and for berating people who have to watch people like you shovel an ocean load of seafood into their drooling, feculent craws every night.
Sunday, September 6, 2015
Dear Gender Warriors
I work for a company that has recently came under fire for labeling their toy sections "Boy's" and "Girl's". This is unacceptable to some people because apparently we shouldn't put gender labels on anything, and people should be able to decide what they want based on their own feelings. If we say that a toy is for boys, then there is no way a girl will ever play with it, but if it is just labeled as "toy", the ban has been lifted and children will no longer fear imprisonment or persecution for their choices. That's what I've come to understand, or maybe it's just that people need to complain about something, and always have to push their beliefs on everyone else. The bottom line is, no matter what you label something, as long as people don't just respect other people's decisions, as long as no one is getting hurt, then nothing is going to change for the better.
This week, I was distributing clearance items throughout the departments of the store that I supervise. Needless to say, with school having started, much of the Back to School items have gotten drastically reduced. At the bottom of one pallet, I opened a box only to find what would generally be described as a "girl's bookbag", at least before the gender war began. It looked something like this:
Kid: (very quietly): I don't know.
Woman: (clearly upset but putting on a happy face for her kid): I think this is really nice.
Kid (still almost whispering) Maybe. I don't know.
My coworkers and I deal with things like this often. We step in and try to cheer up kids that are upset, we mess around with friendly kids, and just try to joke with the guests. It makes a shift go by quicker, and honestly makes you feel better. It seemed to me this kid should be looking at a Ninja Turtles backpack, or an Avengers, really anything a little kid would use. For his mom to be showing him something so plain and more grown up, something must have happened there. My guess would be, from his tentative answers, he probably had a Paw Patrol bookbag or something that the kids in his school made fun of him for, and his mom was trying to find something so he wouldn't get picked on. Had I thought my actions through, I might not have done what I did, but I wouldn't be me or have half the stories on this blog if I ever put thought into my actions.
Me: Hey there buddy, are you in luck! You need a new bookbag?
The little kid turned and looked way way up to my face, and slowly nodded. I smiled and grabbed the spangly mess of a bookbag out of it's box, and displayed it proudly to him.
Me: This is the absolute best bookbag we have. I was hiding them in the back, but my bosses found them and told me I had to put them out here so that other people get a chance to own something this cool. If there's still one left, I am buying it when I leave today!
The kid looks at me like I was a poorly dancing polar bear, or maybe just a giant man standing in front of him holding a pink kitten backpack.
Kid: That's a girl's bag.
Me: It is?
I look it up and down, pretending to be confused.
Me: I don't think it is. This looks like a boy cat to me. I think his name is Reginald.
Kid: I think it's a bookbag for girls to wear.
Me: Pffft. I don't care. This thing is awesome.
Me: You sure you don't want this?
Me: Alright kid, your loss.
Me: Wow! That one's almost as cool as this one. Are you buying that one?
Kid: (staring at his mom) Maybe.
Me: Aww man, really? Is there another?
Kid: Yeah, it's good!
His mom smiles really wide and mouths "Thank you so much" to me. I nod and hang the cat-astropic bookbags on the wall.
I wave to the kid.
Me: Have a good day, guys!
The kid shouldn't have had to think twice about anything. He should have bought a bookbag he liked, and been happy with it. Idiots have kids, and teach their idiot kids to be ignorant like they are, and everyone is worse off in the end.
This week, I was distributing clearance items throughout the departments of the store that I supervise. Needless to say, with school having started, much of the Back to School items have gotten drastically reduced. At the bottom of one pallet, I opened a box only to find what would generally be described as a "girl's bookbag", at least before the gender war began. It looked something like this:
except it had more sass and sparkles. There were only three left, and I joked with some coworkers that we had found our new gang colors. Still chuckling, I pushed the mostly empty pallet to the back of the store where the meager remnants of the school supplies had gone to die. In front of the backpacks, a woman was sitting on the little three inch high shelf below the bookbag display. She was facing her son, a very small boy who was sitting on the floor, arms around his knees, and head resting on his kneecaps. She was holding a bookbag much more suited to a high schooler, just a plain design of turquoise and black.
Woman: Do you think this one is better?
Kid: (very quietly): I don't know.
Woman: (clearly upset but putting on a happy face for her kid): I think this is really nice.
Kid (still almost whispering) Maybe. I don't know.
My coworkers and I deal with things like this often. We step in and try to cheer up kids that are upset, we mess around with friendly kids, and just try to joke with the guests. It makes a shift go by quicker, and honestly makes you feel better. It seemed to me this kid should be looking at a Ninja Turtles backpack, or an Avengers, really anything a little kid would use. For his mom to be showing him something so plain and more grown up, something must have happened there. My guess would be, from his tentative answers, he probably had a Paw Patrol bookbag or something that the kids in his school made fun of him for, and his mom was trying to find something so he wouldn't get picked on. Had I thought my actions through, I might not have done what I did, but I wouldn't be me or have half the stories on this blog if I ever put thought into my actions.
Me: Hey there buddy, are you in luck! You need a new bookbag?
The little kid turned and looked way way up to my face, and slowly nodded. I smiled and grabbed the spangly mess of a bookbag out of it's box, and displayed it proudly to him.
Me: This is the absolute best bookbag we have. I was hiding them in the back, but my bosses found them and told me I had to put them out here so that other people get a chance to own something this cool. If there's still one left, I am buying it when I leave today!
The kid looks at me like I was a poorly dancing polar bear, or maybe just a giant man standing in front of him holding a pink kitten backpack.
Kid: That's a girl's bag.
Me: It is?
I look it up and down, pretending to be confused.
Me: I don't think it is. This looks like a boy cat to me. I think his name is Reginald.
The kid giggles.
Kid: I think it's a bookbag for girls to wear.
Me: Pffft. I don't care. This thing is awesome.
I put the backpack on and strut a little. He laughs again. I take it off and hold it out.
Me: You sure you don't want this?
Kid: No, thank you.
Me: Alright kid, your loss.
I point over to his mom, and the bookbag she's holding.
Me: Wow! That one's almost as cool as this one. Are you buying that one?
Kid: (staring at his mom) Maybe.
Me: Aww man, really? Is there another?
I start rooting through the backpacks on the wall.
Me: That's the last one! If you're getting it, you better hold onto it. People are going to be really jealous.
Kid: Yeah, it's good!
His mom smiles really wide and mouths "Thank you so much" to me. I nod and hang the cat-astropic bookbags on the wall.
Me: Alright Reginald, I'll be back at four to get you.
I wave to the kid.
Me: Have a good day, guys!
The kid shouldn't have had to think twice about anything. He should have bought a bookbag he liked, and been happy with it. Idiots have kids, and teach their idiot kids to be ignorant like they are, and everyone is worse off in the end.
Sunday, August 30, 2015
Dear Pumpkin Spice People
We get it. You won. Everything is going to become pumpkin spiced soon, as it did last year, and the year before. You've turned fall from a season of harvest and turning leaves to the over-saturation of a lackluster flavor that doesn't even taste like the thing it says it is. How about you do the honorable thing and quit bragging about it then?
I don't need the posts about your pumpkin spiced lattes, your pumpkin pie flavored pancakes, or your spicy pumpkin netty pot add in. When Muhammed Ali won a match, he danced around. He didn't pull down his trunks and pee on his opponent, and then force his vanquished foe to legally change their name to "Shitty Loser". Show some damned class.
I like my pancakes to taste like little pieces of heaven, small pats of butter, and however much maple syrup I choose to guzzle as a chaser. I don't need them to taste like cinnamon, nutmeg, or allspice, just mapley diabetes inducing pleasure.
Do any of you even know what pumpkin tastes like? It tastes like an unappetizing version of butternut squash. That's why canned "pumpkin" that you use to make your pies and the pumpkin pie spice you snort to dull the pain that your ugly cardigan brings to you is made of yams for the former, and spices for the latter. No pumpkins were smashed in the making of your fall fetish.
Somehow, some way, I will make maple, the Rocketeer, or Asylum 880 cigars into a seasonal phenomenon, then you'll have to hear allllllll about it, because turnabout is fair play, bitch.
I don't need the posts about your pumpkin spiced lattes, your pumpkin pie flavored pancakes, or your spicy pumpkin netty pot add in. When Muhammed Ali won a match, he danced around. He didn't pull down his trunks and pee on his opponent, and then force his vanquished foe to legally change their name to "Shitty Loser". Show some damned class.
I like my pancakes to taste like little pieces of heaven, small pats of butter, and however much maple syrup I choose to guzzle as a chaser. I don't need them to taste like cinnamon, nutmeg, or allspice, just mapley diabetes inducing pleasure.
Do any of you even know what pumpkin tastes like? It tastes like an unappetizing version of butternut squash. That's why canned "pumpkin" that you use to make your pies and the pumpkin pie spice you snort to dull the pain that your ugly cardigan brings to you is made of yams for the former, and spices for the latter. No pumpkins were smashed in the making of your fall fetish.
Somehow, some way, I will make maple, the Rocketeer, or Asylum 880 cigars into a seasonal phenomenon, then you'll have to hear allllllll about it, because turnabout is fair play, bitch.
Sunday, August 2, 2015
Dear Axe Body Spray
I have many different things that I do in the course of the day at my new job. A big one is building new setups of products on the ends of aisles, making them look good for the guests in the store. Some sections are better to do this in than others. Anything towards the back of the store is quite, and you don't get bothered much. Of course the opposite is true at the front end, so I was already not thrilled to have to build a new one in the shampoo and cosmetics section, located right near the front and on the main walk. People constant stop you and ask questions, and a 30 minute job gets stretched by an hour.
On this day, I was unlucky. I was in the worst of the swarm. Not only was I constantly answering questions, but I was around the cologne, soap, and shampoo. It was a nauseating cloud of fragrance and I worked as hard as I could to get done and move along. I had just gotten all of the shelves cleared, and was ready to restock when I hear a whoosh of aerosol and the prickly awful sound of youths giggling. Before I was able to freeze the urchins with my dead eyed disapproval stare, the unsupervised preteens had set off probably half of a can of Axe Body Spray in the aisle next to where I was working. After they shrieked, dropped the can and ran, I tried to be a hero and clean up the aisle. Well, I was sure, I was soon, and I am always larger than life, and while I was strong, I was not fast, and I was in no uncertain terms fresh from the fight. I had let Bonnie Tyler down. I was no hero. Stuck in an aisle that smelled like the entire population of Secaucus, New Jersey had recently met there to listen to Bon Jovi and wish they lived in New York City, I had no choice but to turn tail and run.
I worked frantically as the fumes seeped into every pore of my being. Tears would have been streaming from my face from the acrid stench, except there were none to be had. How can one cry when they've seen the end times and they know that everything is useless. Customers hurried past, giving me horrified looks like I was the one who decided to pretend he was a 12 year old on the way to a Homecoming Dance. I was almost finished, The end was in sight, and I tore open cardboard, threw products to shelf willy nilly, and slapped up price tags. I was almost free to succumb to the fumes and die in piece, when I heard this behind me.
Teen Girl #1: Wow. That is STRONG!
Teen Girl #2: I know, right?
Now I really was reverting back to a 12 year old. The mean teen girls were mocking me to my face. I was about to turn around and give then the dead eyes when they continued.
Teen Girl #1: It. Smells. Soooooo. Goooooooooood.
Teen Girl #2: I know, right?
They thought the scent which I can only guess was originally marketed as Floral Nose Sodomy was good. The folks at Axe had done their job. Whatever concoction of plant pubes and donkey pheromones they mixed really did attract young girls. As my nose and eyes started to bleed from prolonged exposure, a worse realization hit me: anyone that was over 18 that wore this demon spunk had to be a pedophile. There was no other way, because they were wearing something that only teen girls could find enchanting. It needed to be locked up with the nicotine gum, and closely monitored for who purchased it. Anyone out of high school that wore it had more than likely recently quoted Wooderson and probably was really into GTL. They needed to be locked up immediately.
I tried to warn everyone, but by then I had lapsed into an Axe induced hysteria. My coworkers tell me they had to restrain me as I had barricaded myself in the Seasonal department with a wall of grills, spraying lighter fluid everywhere and threatening to burn the place down, because fire was the only was to ever get clean.
On this day, I was unlucky. I was in the worst of the swarm. Not only was I constantly answering questions, but I was around the cologne, soap, and shampoo. It was a nauseating cloud of fragrance and I worked as hard as I could to get done and move along. I had just gotten all of the shelves cleared, and was ready to restock when I hear a whoosh of aerosol and the prickly awful sound of youths giggling. Before I was able to freeze the urchins with my dead eyed disapproval stare, the unsupervised preteens had set off probably half of a can of Axe Body Spray in the aisle next to where I was working. After they shrieked, dropped the can and ran, I tried to be a hero and clean up the aisle. Well, I was sure, I was soon, and I am always larger than life, and while I was strong, I was not fast, and I was in no uncertain terms fresh from the fight. I had let Bonnie Tyler down. I was no hero. Stuck in an aisle that smelled like the entire population of Secaucus, New Jersey had recently met there to listen to Bon Jovi and wish they lived in New York City, I had no choice but to turn tail and run.
I worked frantically as the fumes seeped into every pore of my being. Tears would have been streaming from my face from the acrid stench, except there were none to be had. How can one cry when they've seen the end times and they know that everything is useless. Customers hurried past, giving me horrified looks like I was the one who decided to pretend he was a 12 year old on the way to a Homecoming Dance. I was almost finished, The end was in sight, and I tore open cardboard, threw products to shelf willy nilly, and slapped up price tags. I was almost free to succumb to the fumes and die in piece, when I heard this behind me.
Teen Girl #1: Wow. That is STRONG!
Teen Girl #2: I know, right?
Now I really was reverting back to a 12 year old. The mean teen girls were mocking me to my face. I was about to turn around and give then the dead eyes when they continued.
Teen Girl #1: It. Smells. Soooooo. Goooooooooood.
Teen Girl #2: I know, right?
They thought the scent which I can only guess was originally marketed as Floral Nose Sodomy was good. The folks at Axe had done their job. Whatever concoction of plant pubes and donkey pheromones they mixed really did attract young girls. As my nose and eyes started to bleed from prolonged exposure, a worse realization hit me: anyone that was over 18 that wore this demon spunk had to be a pedophile. There was no other way, because they were wearing something that only teen girls could find enchanting. It needed to be locked up with the nicotine gum, and closely monitored for who purchased it. Anyone out of high school that wore it had more than likely recently quoted Wooderson and probably was really into GTL. They needed to be locked up immediately.
I tried to warn everyone, but by then I had lapsed into an Axe induced hysteria. My coworkers tell me they had to restrain me as I had barricaded myself in the Seasonal department with a wall of grills, spraying lighter fluid everywhere and threatening to burn the place down, because fire was the only was to ever get clean.
Sunday, June 28, 2015
Dear Letter Y
You are not useful. Really, what are you good for at all? Lazy people use you to ask "Why?", which pisses me off to no end. Do you think you are more important than W and H, you pretentious jerk? If it wasn't for you, we'd have a nice 25 letter alphabet, and if something at my store cost $0.25, I could ask for an alphabet coin. The customer would slide me a quarter, and we would be so freaking awesome. You ruin this.
I can cite two reasons why you are the most worthless and disposable. First, listen to any child sing the ABC song. Everything is good and normal until they hit you, and suddenly it is "W,X, Y and Z". You have to be tied to Z just so people remember you. Without Z you would be Pete Best, Chad Channing, and Brian Jones all wrapped up in a suck ass bundle.
The other reason would be your whole vowel nonsense. "And sometimes Y". Really? When has it ever been Y? They gave this one to you, just like they give a participation trophy to the kid on the little league team they stick in right field for one inning. All he does is twirl in circles and chew on his glove the whole time, but he gets a trophy. That's you.
I can cite two reasons why you are the most worthless and disposable. First, listen to any child sing the ABC song. Everything is good and normal until they hit you, and suddenly it is "W,X, Y and Z". You have to be tied to Z just so people remember you. Without Z you would be Pete Best, Chad Channing, and Brian Jones all wrapped up in a suck ass bundle.
The other reason would be your whole vowel nonsense. "And sometimes Y". Really? When has it ever been Y? They gave this one to you, just like they give a participation trophy to the kid on the little league team they stick in right field for one inning. All he does is twirl in circles and chew on his glove the whole time, but he gets a trophy. That's you.
Sunday, June 21, 2015
Dear Online Comment Posters
Sometimes old adages are around still because they are true. "Don't look a gift horse in the mouth", "An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure", and "Don't feed the bears" all still are relevant today. The one that stands out above all others is "Those that talk the most have the least to say". Nowhere is this more evident than on the internet.
If I ever want to feel terrified with the world around me, I'll click on any random news story and scroll down to the comments section. After the three or four idiots are done fighting on who posted "First" first, and then question each others heterosexuality, the real show starts. It really doesn't matter what the article was about, because the comments will never be about anything remotely close to it. The politics of the day or just plain rampant racism, homophobia, sexism, misogynist banter, and plain old name calling will fill pages and pages of the saddest story known to man. If someone can make it until the third page until the Hitler card is pulled, then humanity gets to go on another day.
To say that the people that feel the need to make their horrible opinions known to the world have nothing better to do would be needless. If I'm reading an article about how the Phillies should eat money to get Papelbon traded, the comments section should contain Bible verses, a discussion that if Papelbon was black, they would get less for a trade, a rundown of the latest episode of Game of Thrones, or any number of links to porn or pyramid schemes. I want people to discuss teams to trade him to, or the prospects we should get. Comments on news articles about any crime always devolve into a rampaging screamfest about the death penalty.
At random, I brought up an article on comedian Lisa Lamponelli losing over 100 pounds. It was a nice article, congratulating her for a healthy life choice. This was the third comment:
Next, I looked at an article about a 17 year old boy in New Jersey that was killed when a granite slab fell on him and killed him. This was a featured comment:
Classy. As you can see, this man is a top commenter. He does this all the time. On top of that, two people liked the comment. This isn't a discussion on jokes being PC or not. It's about a time and a place for jokes. Clearly, we've lost the right to post our comments, because we can't handle the freedom.
Anyone, learn from me. No one even cares what you have to say until you get a blog. Then, your opinion is gospel. People eat it up like a nice lobster bisque, no matter how much you make fun of children.
If I ever want to feel terrified with the world around me, I'll click on any random news story and scroll down to the comments section. After the three or four idiots are done fighting on who posted "First" first, and then question each others heterosexuality, the real show starts. It really doesn't matter what the article was about, because the comments will never be about anything remotely close to it. The politics of the day or just plain rampant racism, homophobia, sexism, misogynist banter, and plain old name calling will fill pages and pages of the saddest story known to man. If someone can make it until the third page until the Hitler card is pulled, then humanity gets to go on another day.
To say that the people that feel the need to make their horrible opinions known to the world have nothing better to do would be needless. If I'm reading an article about how the Phillies should eat money to get Papelbon traded, the comments section should contain Bible verses, a discussion that if Papelbon was black, they would get less for a trade, a rundown of the latest episode of Game of Thrones, or any number of links to porn or pyramid schemes. I want people to discuss teams to trade him to, or the prospects we should get. Comments on news articles about any crime always devolve into a rampaging screamfest about the death penalty.
At random, I brought up an article on comedian Lisa Lamponelli losing over 100 pounds. It was a nice article, congratulating her for a healthy life choice. This was the third comment:
"jcextraSat May 11 2013 Reply 1 8 I guess she will certainly be able to raise her legs now for the endless pieces of Black **** she wants to take on a weekly basis, lol and SHE STILL HAS THE JAY LENO CHIN. That will never DISSOLVE. Maybe thats why her mouth is so FILTHY or could it be from sucking GIGANTIC DICKS, lol"That person clearly needs helped, but damned if I'm going to be the one to do it.
Next, I looked at an article about a 17 year old boy in New Jersey that was killed when a granite slab fell on him and killed him. This was a featured comment:
Steven Wolff · Top Commenter
Well, they can just carve his birth date and the day he died on it and give it to his relatives.
Classy. As you can see, this man is a top commenter. He does this all the time. On top of that, two people liked the comment. This isn't a discussion on jokes being PC or not. It's about a time and a place for jokes. Clearly, we've lost the right to post our comments, because we can't handle the freedom.
Anyone, learn from me. No one even cares what you have to say until you get a blog. Then, your opinion is gospel. People eat it up like a nice lobster bisque, no matter how much you make fun of children.
Sunday, June 14, 2015
Dear St. Mary's College Alumni Reunion 2015 Survey
This afternoon, I returned home from my 10 year college
reunion. It was a weekend I desperately needed. After losing my job
a few weeks ago and living in the turmoil of not knowing what comes next, the
antidote seemed to be getting together with several of my best friends and
returning to the place where we all met. It was a place where I honed my
sense of humor, where I broke out of the uncomfortable shell I lived in through
high school, and a place I hold dear in my struggling, meat clogged heart.
Getting home, I had an email already awaiting me, with a survey to let them know what I thought. Since I have no secrets with me readers, I chose to post it here.
Getting home, I had an email already awaiting me, with a survey to let them know what I thought. Since I have no secrets with me readers, I chose to post it here.
*What is your graduation year?
|
|
|
|
*Why did you decide to attend
Alumni Weekend this year?
|
|
|
|
*How did you hear about Alumni
Weekend?
Check all that apply. SMCMail Mailed brochure Friend/Word of mouth St. Mary's website SMCM Email Other: |
*When were you last at St. Mary's?
3-5 years
3-5 years
|
Sunday, May 17, 2015
Dear Dead Trees
My days off can be more structured and busy than my work days. Whether this is because I refuse to do much more than exercise and lightly clean after work, or because I've successfully guilted myself to believe if I'm not working on something, I will accelerate my already rapid aging process, I pile jobs on. I set my alarm earlier, spend less time screwing around on the internet, and have a ready-to-go to-do list on my Google Keep. My last day off had many of the usual projects, but I had decided to finally take out the four dead trees that lined my driveway: two ten foot Crepe Myrtles, and the twenty foot Evergreens that were spitting upon their name.
The crepe myrtles went easily, possibly too easily, like fat little goats led to Whoopie Goldberg's doorstop to sate her bloodlust. I moved on to the evergreens, giving a little wave to the neighbors as I set to chopping the first. It was dead, but more more dense, and my axe fought bitterly. The neighbor children laughed and played, and their joy mocked my struggle. In order to keep my spirits high, I began singing the ancient lumberjack song learned by all protege axe-men from the Delaware Valley in the late 1980's. The first verse helped me power through the first of three joined trunks.
"We never come out at night
Only when the sky is bright
Out in the woods, you've seen us here before
Swinging and cutting
Ohhh, we're chopping the trees but our eyes are of the forest"
Sweat beaded bravely on my brow, and through the second verse I tore through the tree.
"So many would pay to see
What we do to these damn trees
The woods are wild, a hurricane tamed by the purr of a chainsaw
Nothing's the matter if you're in it for lumber, you're gonna get real far"
The tree fell like a punch drunk boxer. It landed in a glorious shower of dry needles and twigs. The children applauded me as I grabbed the trunk and dragged it to the woods to rot like a lost hobo. There was an extra swagger in my step as I walked back to the last dead tree, belting out the chorus of the song off my Woodsmen brethren.
"Oh-oh here I come. Watch out wood, I'll chop you up.
Oh-oh here I come, I'm a Tree Cleaver."
I gripped my axe heroically, wound up with gusto, and took a massive swing at the trunk. I connected with a thunderous blow, and instantly a shower of needles rained down on my shining, noble head. I swiped them away with my filthy work glove, and as I went to grip the axe again, I saw that several of the needles were still alive. In fact, they were vibrate, green, and inchy squinching their way up my gloves to my delicious flesh. These were not needles. They were catapillars.
People have drank the Kool-Aid on caterpillars for years. Oh, they are so pretty with their colors. They turn into beautiful butterflies! Have you looked at the body of a butterfly? It is not beautiful. It belongs in the Arctic, systematically slaughtering a group of researchers or oil workers. I frantically shook them from my gloves before they could dissolve my skin and slurp it up with their disgusting food hoses. Relief was short lived, as I realized that my shirt was covered with more green weasel tubes. Luckily, I am a trained professional. I calmly assessed the situation and shrewdly figured the best course of action.
Screaming, I wildly ripped my parasite infested shirt and flung it into the branches of the tree, returning the filth from whence they came. The children next door somehow sensed that something was wrong, and ran for their house. As far as I know, it was too late and they had been infested as well. There was no hope left for any of us. I retreated quickly to my garage, where a cigar and Moxie soothed my jangled nerves. The trees were fighting back, and Shyamalan was right. The bastard was right all along.
The crepe myrtles went easily, possibly too easily, like fat little goats led to Whoopie Goldberg's doorstop to sate her bloodlust. I moved on to the evergreens, giving a little wave to the neighbors as I set to chopping the first. It was dead, but more more dense, and my axe fought bitterly. The neighbor children laughed and played, and their joy mocked my struggle. In order to keep my spirits high, I began singing the ancient lumberjack song learned by all protege axe-men from the Delaware Valley in the late 1980's. The first verse helped me power through the first of three joined trunks.
"We never come out at night
Only when the sky is bright
Out in the woods, you've seen us here before
Swinging and cutting
Ohhh, we're chopping the trees but our eyes are of the forest"
Sweat beaded bravely on my brow, and through the second verse I tore through the tree.
"So many would pay to see
What we do to these damn trees
The woods are wild, a hurricane tamed by the purr of a chainsaw
Nothing's the matter if you're in it for lumber, you're gonna get real far"
The tree fell like a punch drunk boxer. It landed in a glorious shower of dry needles and twigs. The children applauded me as I grabbed the trunk and dragged it to the woods to rot like a lost hobo. There was an extra swagger in my step as I walked back to the last dead tree, belting out the chorus of the song off my Woodsmen brethren.
"Oh-oh here I come. Watch out wood, I'll chop you up.
Oh-oh here I come, I'm a Tree Cleaver."
I gripped my axe heroically, wound up with gusto, and took a massive swing at the trunk. I connected with a thunderous blow, and instantly a shower of needles rained down on my shining, noble head. I swiped them away with my filthy work glove, and as I went to grip the axe again, I saw that several of the needles were still alive. In fact, they were vibrate, green, and inchy squinching their way up my gloves to my delicious flesh. These were not needles. They were catapillars.
People have drank the Kool-Aid on caterpillars for years. Oh, they are so pretty with their colors. They turn into beautiful butterflies! Have you looked at the body of a butterfly? It is not beautiful. It belongs in the Arctic, systematically slaughtering a group of researchers or oil workers. I frantically shook them from my gloves before they could dissolve my skin and slurp it up with their disgusting food hoses. Relief was short lived, as I realized that my shirt was covered with more green weasel tubes. Luckily, I am a trained professional. I calmly assessed the situation and shrewdly figured the best course of action.
Screaming, I wildly ripped my parasite infested shirt and flung it into the branches of the tree, returning the filth from whence they came. The children next door somehow sensed that something was wrong, and ran for their house. As far as I know, it was too late and they had been infested as well. There was no hope left for any of us. I retreated quickly to my garage, where a cigar and Moxie soothed my jangled nerves. The trees were fighting back, and Shyamalan was right. The bastard was right all along.
Sunday, April 19, 2015
Dear Mockingbird II, The Mockening
Without you, I could never keep a hope for an all encompassing goodness in this world. You give me that hope, because I know it has to exist, if only to be a counterbalance to the fetid, rank evil that was thrust upon this world when you came into it.
I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that you are back. Even though I cut down the tree that you had once called your home, there would be no reason to think you'd go back into that fiery pit from whence you sprang. Even though I burned that tree, fire did not purify the earth. Your stink had set in, like a cabbie's BO in car upholstery.
It's the same as last time, where you only make you awful noise at night, and you do it all through the night. You've used whatever sorcery comes innate with your demonhood to move your nest further away, yet calculate the exact angles and trajectory to spew your racist dribble in order for it to echo directly through my window.
I have no recourse. There is nothing I can do. My only choices are a stuffy, warm room, or a refreshing cool breezy and the sounds of woooWHOOOOO wooWHOOOOOOO eeeeeyrp eyrrrrrrrrp eyyyyyyyyyyyrp SMAPPLECRUNCH. Noises that refuse to let my brain turn off. Noises that will not let me relax. Noises that shake my existence to the core and challenge all that I hold sacred.
I will find a way to beat you. Whether it's earplugs, a plague of locusts, or defying the Geneva Convention, I will be the last thing that you see.
No one interrupts my sleepy time.
I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that you are back. Even though I cut down the tree that you had once called your home, there would be no reason to think you'd go back into that fiery pit from whence you sprang. Even though I burned that tree, fire did not purify the earth. Your stink had set in, like a cabbie's BO in car upholstery.
It's the same as last time, where you only make you awful noise at night, and you do it all through the night. You've used whatever sorcery comes innate with your demonhood to move your nest further away, yet calculate the exact angles and trajectory to spew your racist dribble in order for it to echo directly through my window.
I have no recourse. There is nothing I can do. My only choices are a stuffy, warm room, or a refreshing cool breezy and the sounds of woooWHOOOOO wooWHOOOOOOO eeeeeyrp eyrrrrrrrrp eyyyyyyyyyyyrp SMAPPLECRUNCH. Noises that refuse to let my brain turn off. Noises that will not let me relax. Noises that shake my existence to the core and challenge all that I hold sacred.
I will find a way to beat you. Whether it's earplugs, a plague of locusts, or defying the Geneva Convention, I will be the last thing that you see.
No one interrupts my sleepy time.
Sunday, April 12, 2015
Dear Econolodge
I don't consider myself naive, but I suppose the naive would not have the capability to make that determination. In my decade in the hotel industry, I've seen some proverbial "things" and many of them cannot be unseen. However, I like to think in the happy little hamlet I live in, there's a certain limit to the ills that can occur, so long as someone stays away from the "wrong" part of town. In my town's case, that is a one block radius surrounding a bar and liquor store that act as an outlet for most of the hedonism in the area. I recently learned how little I actually knew.
The Econolodge in town has been there for quite some time. Sure, it isn't fancy. Nestled between the urgent care clinic and the Popeye's chicken, it's not exactly in prime real estate. Anything bathed in an overwhelming mist of chicken grease and antiseptic can't be THAT luxurious. My friend T, who I have mentioned before, called me, telling me that he was in town with his job as the world's tiniest archeologist, and that he'd been put up by his company in this hotel. We made plans to meet up after his shift ended on his second day in town.
When he go to my house, he was slightly rattled. When he told me what he had to endure, it sounded fantastical, but I knew he wouldn't lie. I told him we'd go together to get his things, and that he could stay with me for the next couple of nights until he had to leave town. We got into his tiny-mobile and took off.
Pulling up, it struck me that while somewhat outdated, the motel didn't look all that bad on the outside. It was a little worn, and a little faded, but I'd seen much worse. He pointed to a door on the ground floor, and noted he had seen three different men come and go from that room within an hour the night before. There were no signs of life at this time, so we went upstairs and entered his room.
The first thing I could tell when entering the room was that they had used a freshener to eliminate smoke. All hotels use pretty much the same thing, as it is the most effective, but if you know the smell of that chemical, it's just about the same as smelling the smoke. This mocked the frail "No Smoking" sign above his small television. Being trained to inspect rooms for housekeeping, I decided to see how the room stacked up to the threshold of cleanliness my hotel deemed acceptable. Surprisingly, I found little evidence of dust on picture frames or the head board. The bathroom, while small, and dimly lit, was fairly clean in comparison to a truck stop men's room, but not quite acceptable for a paying hotel guest. Lifting the sheets, I didn't find any evidence of the dreaded bedbug, which relieved T., but this was where the good news ended.
As I checked the walls and ceiling, I couldn't help but notice the small dime to quarter sized patch holes all around the room at odd intervals. Likewise, it was clear at some point someone had pulled both the towel rack and shower curtain rod out of their mounts on the wall. The front door showed signs of having been kicked in at least once, if not daily, and the security chain was nore of a decoration at this point that anything functionally useful. In the words of Willem Dafoe, there was a firefight. Snitches had most definitely gotten stitches in this room. T. opened the fridge to see that the bottom has entirely rusted out, and the not-so-subtle stench of despair and rot crept from it's eggshell painted bowels into the room.
Finally, T noticed that the front of the nightstands had cardboard taped to the bottom to make sure nothing rolled under them. Lifting the one, we found bottle caps and garbage, but the true gold was underneath the second. Countless cigarette butts confirmed my previous guess, but the real winner was the slightly used crack pipe that lay amid them all. We took this as a cue that our time was done, and hurried to the car. As we drove away, we noticed that a man had taken a seat outside of the room below T's. He sat smoking a cigarette, not looking at us, but also, not-NOT looking at us. It being four in the afternoon, I couldn't think of much reason the man would have to be sitting in a chair outside of the door of a cheap hotel, but then something hit me. The chair he was sitting in looked nothing like the chairs that were in T's room. Yes, it was a wooden chair, but nothing about it was the same as the sitting chair I had seen. The man had brought this chair from home.
Yes, this pimp had found the chairs at the Econolodge not to his liking, so he brought a chair from home. Pimpin' ain't easy, especially if your ass isn't comfortable.
The Econolodge in town has been there for quite some time. Sure, it isn't fancy. Nestled between the urgent care clinic and the Popeye's chicken, it's not exactly in prime real estate. Anything bathed in an overwhelming mist of chicken grease and antiseptic can't be THAT luxurious. My friend T, who I have mentioned before, called me, telling me that he was in town with his job as the world's tiniest archeologist, and that he'd been put up by his company in this hotel. We made plans to meet up after his shift ended on his second day in town.
When he go to my house, he was slightly rattled. When he told me what he had to endure, it sounded fantastical, but I knew he wouldn't lie. I told him we'd go together to get his things, and that he could stay with me for the next couple of nights until he had to leave town. We got into his tiny-mobile and took off.
Pulling up, it struck me that while somewhat outdated, the motel didn't look all that bad on the outside. It was a little worn, and a little faded, but I'd seen much worse. He pointed to a door on the ground floor, and noted he had seen three different men come and go from that room within an hour the night before. There were no signs of life at this time, so we went upstairs and entered his room.
The first thing I could tell when entering the room was that they had used a freshener to eliminate smoke. All hotels use pretty much the same thing, as it is the most effective, but if you know the smell of that chemical, it's just about the same as smelling the smoke. This mocked the frail "No Smoking" sign above his small television. Being trained to inspect rooms for housekeeping, I decided to see how the room stacked up to the threshold of cleanliness my hotel deemed acceptable. Surprisingly, I found little evidence of dust on picture frames or the head board. The bathroom, while small, and dimly lit, was fairly clean in comparison to a truck stop men's room, but not quite acceptable for a paying hotel guest. Lifting the sheets, I didn't find any evidence of the dreaded bedbug, which relieved T., but this was where the good news ended.
As I checked the walls and ceiling, I couldn't help but notice the small dime to quarter sized patch holes all around the room at odd intervals. Likewise, it was clear at some point someone had pulled both the towel rack and shower curtain rod out of their mounts on the wall. The front door showed signs of having been kicked in at least once, if not daily, and the security chain was nore of a decoration at this point that anything functionally useful. In the words of Willem Dafoe, there was a firefight. Snitches had most definitely gotten stitches in this room. T. opened the fridge to see that the bottom has entirely rusted out, and the not-so-subtle stench of despair and rot crept from it's eggshell painted bowels into the room.
Finally, T noticed that the front of the nightstands had cardboard taped to the bottom to make sure nothing rolled under them. Lifting the one, we found bottle caps and garbage, but the true gold was underneath the second. Countless cigarette butts confirmed my previous guess, but the real winner was the slightly used crack pipe that lay amid them all. We took this as a cue that our time was done, and hurried to the car. As we drove away, we noticed that a man had taken a seat outside of the room below T's. He sat smoking a cigarette, not looking at us, but also, not-NOT looking at us. It being four in the afternoon, I couldn't think of much reason the man would have to be sitting in a chair outside of the door of a cheap hotel, but then something hit me. The chair he was sitting in looked nothing like the chairs that were in T's room. Yes, it was a wooden chair, but nothing about it was the same as the sitting chair I had seen. The man had brought this chair from home.
Yes, this pimp had found the chairs at the Econolodge not to his liking, so he brought a chair from home. Pimpin' ain't easy, especially if your ass isn't comfortable.
Monday, April 6, 2015
Dear Barfly
Yesterday, I drove to Philly to get my taxes done. I do this every year, because it's what I do. My accountants father did my parents taxes, and his father did my grandparents taxes in their tiny kitchen, at the same table my grandmother used to sit at and listen to the radio while smoking cigarettes and throwing whatever produce was handy at my uncles.
This time, there was a backup by the time I got there, so I walked to the Polish butcher down the road for some babka and fresh kielbasa, and then walked to a different Polish butcher for more of the same. That killed roughly half an hour, so with little other options left, I took a seat at the bar next to my accountants to watch the Flyers game on TV and wait. I got a grilled cheese and coke and settled in for the inevitable loss that the Broadstreet Bullies were cooking up, and was able to enjoy this midday meal for about thirty seconds before you and your idiot friend at the other end of the bar got louder.
Your friend, who was obscuring you, must have been going through some sort of midlife crisis, just for the fact that he was dressed like an 18 year old delinquent despite being in his forties. Obviously, you'd both been drinking for quite some time, even though it was only 2PM on a Saturday. I only heard you for a bit, until you stood up and blessed us all with your full glory. Thinning hair dyed jet black and Brylcreemed straight back to a greasy perfection, glasses that were just try to be a bit too hip but that were undermined by the combination of the Flyers sweatshirt that was tucked into your jorts adn the boat shoes you were wearing with socks.
You both were loudly and obscenely bemoaning your soon to be ex wife, peppering any pause with a phrase meaning "Copulating female dog". You wished upon her several venereal disease, most of which I am fairly certain you would have been the cause of, and eventually moved on, for some reason fixating on all of the elderly cats in their twenties that you wanted to hit.
It's not my place to begrudge someone the grieving of their lost marriage. I have no idea what or if she had done something, or if you were to blame. That never came up in your ranting and drunken proclamations. What I do know is that you are a dude in a bar at 2PM, drunk off his ass in a pair of jorts. I'm thinking you were at least a part of the problem here. This kind of thing doesn't just start because you were dumped. She didn't leave you, and you decided it was time to tuck in that stained sweatshirt, hike up those socks, and get thee to a brewery. Part of that was already there, and damned if it isn't going to help you rake in all those sweet sweet kitty cats you were talking about so vulgarly.
This time, there was a backup by the time I got there, so I walked to the Polish butcher down the road for some babka and fresh kielbasa, and then walked to a different Polish butcher for more of the same. That killed roughly half an hour, so with little other options left, I took a seat at the bar next to my accountants to watch the Flyers game on TV and wait. I got a grilled cheese and coke and settled in for the inevitable loss that the Broadstreet Bullies were cooking up, and was able to enjoy this midday meal for about thirty seconds before you and your idiot friend at the other end of the bar got louder.
Your friend, who was obscuring you, must have been going through some sort of midlife crisis, just for the fact that he was dressed like an 18 year old delinquent despite being in his forties. Obviously, you'd both been drinking for quite some time, even though it was only 2PM on a Saturday. I only heard you for a bit, until you stood up and blessed us all with your full glory. Thinning hair dyed jet black and Brylcreemed straight back to a greasy perfection, glasses that were just try to be a bit too hip but that were undermined by the combination of the Flyers sweatshirt that was tucked into your jorts adn the boat shoes you were wearing with socks.
You both were loudly and obscenely bemoaning your soon to be ex wife, peppering any pause with a phrase meaning "Copulating female dog". You wished upon her several venereal disease, most of which I am fairly certain you would have been the cause of, and eventually moved on, for some reason fixating on all of the elderly cats in their twenties that you wanted to hit.
It's not my place to begrudge someone the grieving of their lost marriage. I have no idea what or if she had done something, or if you were to blame. That never came up in your ranting and drunken proclamations. What I do know is that you are a dude in a bar at 2PM, drunk off his ass in a pair of jorts. I'm thinking you were at least a part of the problem here. This kind of thing doesn't just start because you were dumped. She didn't leave you, and you decided it was time to tuck in that stained sweatshirt, hike up those socks, and get thee to a brewery. Part of that was already there, and damned if it isn't going to help you rake in all those sweet sweet kitty cats you were talking about so vulgarly.
Sunday, March 29, 2015
Dear Buster the Calamity Collie
I am an animal lover. In addition, most animals love me. The only exceptions to this rule include every Mainecoon cat ever born, because they were forged from the very fires that heat Satan's jiffypop, an obese blob of pudding, fur, and hatred that was once a cat named Baby, and you, Buster the Calamity Collie. Oh, yes, you act like you love me. You pretend that all you want is my acceptance, love, and all the tummy rubs I can give. Your actions speak much louder than this, though, and your aggression will not stand. You can't fool me by placing your head on my leg, or by discretely placing your head under my hand so that I have little choice but to pet you. Yours is the face anxiety.
Yours is the face of impending, unrelenting, unstoppable chaos and fear.
People think you are so delightful with your boundless energy and constant need for attention. That's because they only see you in small doses. They also don't tend to realize that you are like a case of tinnitus mixed with an opera sung by Cher and Gilbert Godfrey. You are always emitting noise, be it loud, soft, high pitched, or gratingly low. You can be sitting on a comfortable couch, surrounded by people you love, and still constantly whine for an hour through the GODDAMNED FINALE OF HARPER'S FREAKING ISLAND...just because you want to. You are the reason people drive slow in the left hand lane. You give people that feeling of slimy cold unease they get when they sweat too much and then enter a store with really strong air conditioning. You are the reason there will never be a sequel to The Rocketeer, even though Billy Campbell still looks great and the technology available would make it look amazing. You cannot be happy until everyone else is miserable, and that is highlight with every last interaction you've ever had with Murphy the Customer Service Cat.
Murphy is the nicest, most happy-go-lucky cat to ever walk this earth, and this infuriates you. If he walks by, on his way to get a small drink of water, or to find a place to nap, you viciously growl, jump up, and try to eviscerate him with the teeth that you haven't rotted out with years of drug and alcohol abuse. Poor little Murphy, not the most sprightly of felines, is forced to duck, dodge, and flee for his life. He can be found later, wedged behind whatever cover he can find, still winded and confused at the level of hostility and aggression that was hurled at him. Then, there's his playtime. Murphy's chief joy in life comes from the few precious little fuzzy balls I bought him years ago at the grocery store. There's only a certain type he likes, which they no longer make, so he doesn't have many. Should he politely stand at the bannister, as he does, and gently lower a paw to request I throw him a ball to play with, you, you bastard son of sin and sacrilege, go into a frenzy, trying to intercept the ball. Should he actually get the ball and begin to sing his joyful ball playing song, you lift your head and howl in misery, trying to cover the sounds of merriment with pain and anguish.
You even turn the nice things I do for you into awful lessons in the futility of pleasing you. A few weeks ago, you spent the majority of my day off acting like a normal, well behaved canine. I decided to reward you by taking you for a drive. The lurid, high pitched mating call you cackled at every passerby could not be stifled by the radio, and you forced my hand at keeping the windows closed as you carpet bombed the car.
Not learning from my mistake, I saved a jar of peanut butter I had finished off and gave it to you to lick clean. Two days later, you again pretended to be a "good boy" and I tried to scratch under your chin. From the front of your jaw to your collar was a solid, unyielding crusty shell of dried peanut butter and a complete lack of shame. You thrilled in the fact that you had made me touch that mess, and let out a shrill keening wail as I tried to disinfect my hand. Still trying to be a hero, I tried to clean you with a wet paper towel. At first you acted like a petulant child, turning your head away from me whenever I tried to get near. Then you snapped at me, struggled, and tried to hide behind a chair the did nothing to conceal you. When I raised my hands in frustration and cried out "Why won't you let me help you?" you lifted your head, smirked at me, and fire burned in your eyes. Also, I am fairly certain, you turned into a horrible looking lizard, but only for a second. Then you were just plain, awful, feculent Buster.
If you were a person, you would split your time between watching reality television and pulling the Hitler card on people in the comments section on the Fox Sports forums while Wayans Brothers movies play on your VCR. Every one but Blankman, because you hate Blankman.
Yours is the face of menace.
Yours is the face of impending, unrelenting, unstoppable chaos and fear.
People think you are so delightful with your boundless energy and constant need for attention. That's because they only see you in small doses. They also don't tend to realize that you are like a case of tinnitus mixed with an opera sung by Cher and Gilbert Godfrey. You are always emitting noise, be it loud, soft, high pitched, or gratingly low. You can be sitting on a comfortable couch, surrounded by people you love, and still constantly whine for an hour through the GODDAMNED FINALE OF HARPER'S FREAKING ISLAND...just because you want to. You are the reason people drive slow in the left hand lane. You give people that feeling of slimy cold unease they get when they sweat too much and then enter a store with really strong air conditioning. You are the reason there will never be a sequel to The Rocketeer, even though Billy Campbell still looks great and the technology available would make it look amazing. You cannot be happy until everyone else is miserable, and that is highlight with every last interaction you've ever had with Murphy the Customer Service Cat.
Murphy is the nicest, most happy-go-lucky cat to ever walk this earth, and this infuriates you. If he walks by, on his way to get a small drink of water, or to find a place to nap, you viciously growl, jump up, and try to eviscerate him with the teeth that you haven't rotted out with years of drug and alcohol abuse. Poor little Murphy, not the most sprightly of felines, is forced to duck, dodge, and flee for his life. He can be found later, wedged behind whatever cover he can find, still winded and confused at the level of hostility and aggression that was hurled at him. Then, there's his playtime. Murphy's chief joy in life comes from the few precious little fuzzy balls I bought him years ago at the grocery store. There's only a certain type he likes, which they no longer make, so he doesn't have many. Should he politely stand at the bannister, as he does, and gently lower a paw to request I throw him a ball to play with, you, you bastard son of sin and sacrilege, go into a frenzy, trying to intercept the ball. Should he actually get the ball and begin to sing his joyful ball playing song, you lift your head and howl in misery, trying to cover the sounds of merriment with pain and anguish.
You even turn the nice things I do for you into awful lessons in the futility of pleasing you. A few weeks ago, you spent the majority of my day off acting like a normal, well behaved canine. I decided to reward you by taking you for a drive. The lurid, high pitched mating call you cackled at every passerby could not be stifled by the radio, and you forced my hand at keeping the windows closed as you carpet bombed the car.
Not learning from my mistake, I saved a jar of peanut butter I had finished off and gave it to you to lick clean. Two days later, you again pretended to be a "good boy" and I tried to scratch under your chin. From the front of your jaw to your collar was a solid, unyielding crusty shell of dried peanut butter and a complete lack of shame. You thrilled in the fact that you had made me touch that mess, and let out a shrill keening wail as I tried to disinfect my hand. Still trying to be a hero, I tried to clean you with a wet paper towel. At first you acted like a petulant child, turning your head away from me whenever I tried to get near. Then you snapped at me, struggled, and tried to hide behind a chair the did nothing to conceal you. When I raised my hands in frustration and cried out "Why won't you let me help you?" you lifted your head, smirked at me, and fire burned in your eyes. Also, I am fairly certain, you turned into a horrible looking lizard, but only for a second. Then you were just plain, awful, feculent Buster.
If you were a person, you would split your time between watching reality television and pulling the Hitler card on people in the comments section on the Fox Sports forums while Wayans Brothers movies play on your VCR. Every one but Blankman, because you hate Blankman.
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