Things with you and me have been super keen awesome since we started dating. They were so good that we decided to move in together. That's a big step for any couple, because living in proximity to each other 24/7 can expose the warts in any relationship. Thankfully, the worst thing we ran into for awhile was a situation of assured mutual destruction involving snoring. That venue, in the dark of night in our bedroom, cultivated a new horror. Many times, I thought you would wake, and I would talk with you, or you with me. The next morning, though, upon questioning, the truth would come to light. You never actually wake up, and you are evil while you sleep.
The first sign of trouble happened with the snores. You fell asleep while I was reading, and regaled me with the song of the sea, if the sea sounded like a wrench in a garbage disposal. This continued for half an hour or so, until you rolled over and mumbled that I was keeping you awake. Slowly, I lowered my Kindle and looked to you.
"You were asleep for awhile there" I said, slightly confused.
"No I wasn't" you said matter of factly.
"You were snoring. Very loudly. The cat got scared."
"I wasn't snoring. I wasn't asleep."
We looked at each other for several moments, not knowing where to go from there. You took the initiative.
"Stop reading. I want to sleep." Then, you rolled over, and started snoring within a minute.
Little moments like this happened here and there, but the cold of winter seemed to suss out your sleep anger better than anything. I awoke one night to find you ensconced in the blanket and both comforters, like a happy little warm burrito. I found an edge and slowly tried to take back some modicum of warmth, but sleepy Shay Shay decided that this should not be.
"What are you doing?" you growled from inside your cocoon.
"Can I have some of the blankets?" I pleaded, putting Oliver Twist to shame with my earnestness.
"You have them all."
I laughed as I thought you were joking, but you followed with "I'm cold, I need more" and you snuggled even tighter into your nest of betrayal. I was forced to get an afghan from the living room, hoping that in your infinite mercy that you wouldn't steal that too.
Other nights you would simply respond to questions in various grunts and growls, leaving only the icy cold of your response to overshadow the icy cold of your nighttime demeanor. By far, though, the worst incident came recently. Late into the night, I awoke to find myself lying on my side, teetering shockingly close to the edge of the bed. You, in turn, were sprawled out luxuriously across the massive expanse of real estate you had conquered like a slumbering British empire. I tentatively inched away from the edge, only to have you sluggishly push back. I could gain no ground, so I reached over and shook your arm.
"Baby, you need to give me some space here. I'm laying on the edge of the bed."
Like any good orator or mattress dictator, you knew that brevity and a lack of mercy were key to domination. You sighed, looked over to me, and laid me to waste with two words.
"Live dangerously."
Sunday, February 19, 2017
Wednesday, August 31, 2016
Dear Booregard Flapjack
When my girlfriend and I decided to move in together, I had a painful decision to make. We wanted a cat in our new apartment, and Murphy the Customer Service Cat seemed to be the closest thing to that. Unfortunately, he had been living with my parents for years now, and if there is something that Murphy hates other than lightning, children, the cold, being wet, any food other than his cat food, and being held, it would be change. So, we went to local animal shelters to find our new pet.
Initially, we fell in love with a seven year old grey cat named Jasmine. We were going to name her Jean, since, you know, Jean Grey. I personally visited her half a dozen times, waiting until closer to the moving date to adopt. Then, I went to visit one day, and she had an "adopted" sign on her cage. I pet her for a last time, dreading having to tell ShaWal (she says she is more famous than JLaw, so she should get a shortened name too) that we had missed out on Jean. As I slowly walked out of the cat area, I felt something hit my shoe. This is what I saw:
I came closer to the door, careful to stay out of reach, and tried to see who this was. The tag on the door said Boo. In the time it took me to read his name, I felt a tap on my chest.
I put in the papers a week later, and the newly christened Booregard Flapjack came home with me. He and Murphy took well to each other, as they shared the same loves of food, sleeping, food, food, and waking me up to get food. Things seemed as if they would glide along for the few weeks before the move to the new apartment. Then, like he does with everything, Buster the Calamity Collie ruined everything.
My sister brought this awful excuse to a vacuum to visit. At first, Boo took a page from the book of Murphy and simply tried to ignore him. When Buster thrust his oily, dripping rat face directly at Boo, Boo would simply cry and walk away, the same as most people's response to him would be. Somehow, while the humans were all away, Buster did something to Boo so egregious, so alarming, and so unforgivable that Boo could have no more.
The next time Buster arrived, Boo did his best to be a good kitten. He sat around, high in his tower, snuggling with his pineapple pillow.
Whether it was Buster's mucusy whines, or his shrill, horrid barks, Boo suddenly sprang into action. Every hair on his mighty pelt stood tall. He eyed down Buster, looked to Murphy, who was lazily napping in a sunbeam, and called him to action with a call to action.
Certainly, this battle cry was less "Once more to the breach dear friends!" and more "Leeeeeeeee-roy Jenkins!", but it did the job. Moments after you took off towards Buster, Murphy stumbled after you, since it seemed like the thing to do at the time. Buster got very excited for several seconds, thinking that finally someone, anyone would play with him, but Boo let out a shriek and smacked Buster clean across the snout. Murphy, realizing that this wasn't a fun run for food, panicked and quickly veered off to hide in a closet, thinking he had done something terrible and would be punished. We found him there over an hour later, upset and brooding. Buster realized that this was not a love tap, and ran to the best possible hiding spot he could muster from his pea sized weasel brain- a corner two feet away. With Buster doing his best impression of Baby in the corner, Boo proceeded to change the script and go Roadhouse on him, until he was pulled away.
Things would never be the same, as Boo used his Flapjack sense to know when the dog was near, and would go into fits of fury. He had to be locked in the guest room any time the dog was over, lest we have to dig a Buster sized whole in the sultry summer heat.
Boo has never treated any other animal thing way. I guess he just knows awful when he sees it.
Initially, we fell in love with a seven year old grey cat named Jasmine. We were going to name her Jean, since, you know, Jean Grey. I personally visited her half a dozen times, waiting until closer to the moving date to adopt. Then, I went to visit one day, and she had an "adopted" sign on her cage. I pet her for a last time, dreading having to tell ShaWal (she says she is more famous than JLaw, so she should get a shortened name too) that we had missed out on Jean. As I slowly walked out of the cat area, I felt something hit my shoe. This is what I saw:
The next time Buster arrived, Boo did his best to be a good kitten. He sat around, high in his tower, snuggling with his pineapple pillow.
Whether it was Buster's mucusy whines, or his shrill, horrid barks, Boo suddenly sprang into action. Every hair on his mighty pelt stood tall. He eyed down Buster, looked to Murphy, who was lazily napping in a sunbeam, and called him to action with a call to action.
Certainly, this battle cry was less "Once more to the breach dear friends!" and more "Leeeeeeeee-roy Jenkins!", but it did the job. Moments after you took off towards Buster, Murphy stumbled after you, since it seemed like the thing to do at the time. Buster got very excited for several seconds, thinking that finally someone, anyone would play with him, but Boo let out a shriek and smacked Buster clean across the snout. Murphy, realizing that this wasn't a fun run for food, panicked and quickly veered off to hide in a closet, thinking he had done something terrible and would be punished. We found him there over an hour later, upset and brooding. Buster realized that this was not a love tap, and ran to the best possible hiding spot he could muster from his pea sized weasel brain- a corner two feet away. With Buster doing his best impression of Baby in the corner, Boo proceeded to change the script and go Roadhouse on him, until he was pulled away.
Things would never be the same, as Boo used his Flapjack sense to know when the dog was near, and would go into fits of fury. He had to be locked in the guest room any time the dog was over, lest we have to dig a Buster sized whole in the sultry summer heat.
Boo has never treated any other animal thing way. I guess he just knows awful when he sees it.
Sunday, May 15, 2016
Dear Racist Old Man at the Chinese Restaurant
When I take my lady out, I go all out. That's why, on our usual Tuesday date I took her to the nice Chinese place, not the one that gets all of the health code violations. We settled into our booth, perused the selections, and caught up on each other's day. Shortly after we ordered, but before I could start daring her to eat a spoonful of hot mustard, we both keyed in on a conversation that was occurring at the booth behind her.
It should be noted that, at this fine dining establishment, there is only one non-Asian server. She wasn't working this day, so one of the ladies with a heavier accent was taking the order. Her name tag informed us that she had the unwieldy Mandarin name of "Jessy". There was a father, mother, child, and grandfather trying to order, at least I think they were there. There was so much camouflage clothing I was only able to make out shapes when they moved. The darling little boy of about ten spent that entire meal playing a game on a tablet, giving only monosyllabic answers when he was addressed. Mom and dad were much too enthralled with Grampy's shenanigans to care that their child specifically asked to have fried rice substituted for any vegetables that might come with the meal, of course.
"I don't know what to order. None of this makes sense" he grumbled at the menu. "What's lo mein?"
Jessy, who is a fine server, patiently started to explain, "Those are thick noodles cooked.."
"If I wanted noodles, I'd get Italian" old granpappy interjected. "Tell you what. If you was dating an American guy, what would you get him to eat?"
Jessy stared somewhat blankly, trying to formulate a response to this that didn't involve a claw hammer.
"You understand what I'm saying? If you had an American husband, what kind of food in here would you get him to eat?" Clearly, we must all be foreigners eating this inedible Chinese food. I give her credit for not trying to shove a hamburger into his idiot maw. The mother at the table had a knee slapping laugh. "Oh Dad, don't say things like that. Just get sweet and sour chicken."
"I want some damn barbeque chicken. Just order me something", old Paps chortled and then proceeded to blow his nose on the nice linen napkin at his place.
We refused to listen after that. My lovely girlfriend left Jessy a forty percent tip for not setting that family ablaze, or more realistically breaking into tears at the ignorant and cruel things the family of redneck morons guffawed at her. The good news is, from the lack of any water or veggies at the table, the whole family will probably be dead from obesity or scurvy before two long.
It should be noted that, at this fine dining establishment, there is only one non-Asian server. She wasn't working this day, so one of the ladies with a heavier accent was taking the order. Her name tag informed us that she had the unwieldy Mandarin name of "Jessy". There was a father, mother, child, and grandfather trying to order, at least I think they were there. There was so much camouflage clothing I was only able to make out shapes when they moved. The darling little boy of about ten spent that entire meal playing a game on a tablet, giving only monosyllabic answers when he was addressed. Mom and dad were much too enthralled with Grampy's shenanigans to care that their child specifically asked to have fried rice substituted for any vegetables that might come with the meal, of course.
"I don't know what to order. None of this makes sense" he grumbled at the menu. "What's lo mein?"
Jessy, who is a fine server, patiently started to explain, "Those are thick noodles cooked.."
"If I wanted noodles, I'd get Italian" old granpappy interjected. "Tell you what. If you was dating an American guy, what would you get him to eat?"
Jessy stared somewhat blankly, trying to formulate a response to this that didn't involve a claw hammer.
"You understand what I'm saying? If you had an American husband, what kind of food in here would you get him to eat?" Clearly, we must all be foreigners eating this inedible Chinese food. I give her credit for not trying to shove a hamburger into his idiot maw. The mother at the table had a knee slapping laugh. "Oh Dad, don't say things like that. Just get sweet and sour chicken."
"I want some damn barbeque chicken. Just order me something", old Paps chortled and then proceeded to blow his nose on the nice linen napkin at his place.
We refused to listen after that. My lovely girlfriend left Jessy a forty percent tip for not setting that family ablaze, or more realistically breaking into tears at the ignorant and cruel things the family of redneck morons guffawed at her. The good news is, from the lack of any water or veggies at the table, the whole family will probably be dead from obesity or scurvy before two long.
Wednesday, February 17, 2016
Dear Valentine's Day, Part II
Three years ago, I wrote a piece about Valentine's Day. Since then, I have found love, and as it is common knowledge that once you find someone, they stay with you forever, it is time for me to write this follow up piece. As an ex-smoker makes an exaggerated cough around current smokers, letting them know fully well of the disdain they now feel, I must now turn against my former brethren.
Valentine's Day is about celebrating love. Not just the love you have for a significant other, but your love for everyone. In lambasting the holiday, you are announcing your hatred for this world and all who walk it. Your tiny, black heart isn't represented in the large, red, chocolate filled ones available at retailers, and that is not our fault. Perhaps this burning, foul stench of bitterness and animosity is why you are single, but it isn't Valentine's Day's fault.
Fie upon thee for your pronouncements of "Happy Single's Awareness Day". This is not an attack on you. You are just as bad as a person who complains that there is no White History Month just because February is dedicated elsewhere.
Yes, you are as bad as a racist. And you wonder why you are alone.
Valentine's Day is about celebrating love. Not just the love you have for a significant other, but your love for everyone. In lambasting the holiday, you are announcing your hatred for this world and all who walk it. Your tiny, black heart isn't represented in the large, red, chocolate filled ones available at retailers, and that is not our fault. Perhaps this burning, foul stench of bitterness and animosity is why you are single, but it isn't Valentine's Day's fault.
Fie upon thee for your pronouncements of "Happy Single's Awareness Day". This is not an attack on you. You are just as bad as a person who complains that there is no White History Month just because February is dedicated elsewhere.
Yes, you are as bad as a racist. And you wonder why you are alone.
Tuesday, December 22, 2015
The Mauling of the Faithful 2015
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.
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.
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.
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*What is your graduation year?
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*Why did you decide to attend
Alumni Weekend this year?
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*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
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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.
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