Yes, I love to read.
No, I won't read fucking Twilight.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Ode to the Weird
She’s old and dumpy, her salt and pepper hair was androgynous and frightening close to my own hair due, the result of shaving my head seven months ago and just letting it grow. I wonder if she had a similar approach.
Dolly is fat enough her gut sagged to her knees. She displayed an ability to embrace a sense of obliviousness that included ignoring the fact that other people were in the room.
I was both impressed at the ability, and, as she paused the steady feed of off brand potato chips to pound on her chest and cough a mighty cough, I realized, appalled. She wiped the screen off with the sleeve of her stonewashed sweater that I don’t think she could have zipped up if she wanted.
I consider myself to be more honest than cruel while taking none of the responsibility when the two seem inseparable. I’ve heard there is no greater population of minorities that are openly mocked than those of the obese, and so I want to be clear, this account of Dolly isn’t written to defame that population at all.
See, she has too many foibles to ignore! Her massive girth is coincidental or possibly just a bonus. Her indifference is what gets to me. I say indifference because she has the ability to pay attention. She’s simply not interested in the rest of the world. And I suspect she’d wear stretchy pants even it weren’t on her list of options.
Her job includes her talking on the phone. Dolly is the loudest person on the floor, and she never leaves. For her hour lunch, she hefts herself out of her chair and waddles down the hallway to clock out.
She pulls herself along with a slow lurches that include her whole body. It’s hard enough on her she gasps the whole way and pauses halfway down the twenty foot stretch of hallway to catch her breath.
Back she comes to play solitaire and eat chips for an hour and work on the 64oz of soda she brings encased in a bright yellow mug—that is strangely absent of NASCAR markings.
Her cell phone is on vibrate, and when she gets a call you can hear it from three rooms away. Why that’s less obtrusive than a ring.
She has loud phone conversations in the bathroom. I hope to god she’s finished her business and is milking her bathroom break, rather than the horriblely efficient alternative.
She puts her phone on hold rather than pushing a mute button. The difference being pushing mute stops the person on the phone from hearing anything on your end, while pushing hold puts the customer on hold which gives you ten seconds before the phone starts beeping a beep that suggests there is a large vehicle backing up somewhere.
She makes a random, “Pshhhhaaaaaw,” sound for no apparent reason.
You can’t help but notice Dolly, and she’s just weird enough I would be upset if she didn’t work here.
Dolly is fat enough her gut sagged to her knees. She displayed an ability to embrace a sense of obliviousness that included ignoring the fact that other people were in the room.
I was both impressed at the ability, and, as she paused the steady feed of off brand potato chips to pound on her chest and cough a mighty cough, I realized, appalled. She wiped the screen off with the sleeve of her stonewashed sweater that I don’t think she could have zipped up if she wanted.
I consider myself to be more honest than cruel while taking none of the responsibility when the two seem inseparable. I’ve heard there is no greater population of minorities that are openly mocked than those of the obese, and so I want to be clear, this account of Dolly isn’t written to defame that population at all.
See, she has too many foibles to ignore! Her massive girth is coincidental or possibly just a bonus. Her indifference is what gets to me. I say indifference because she has the ability to pay attention. She’s simply not interested in the rest of the world. And I suspect she’d wear stretchy pants even it weren’t on her list of options.
Her job includes her talking on the phone. Dolly is the loudest person on the floor, and she never leaves. For her hour lunch, she hefts herself out of her chair and waddles down the hallway to clock out.
She pulls herself along with a slow lurches that include her whole body. It’s hard enough on her she gasps the whole way and pauses halfway down the twenty foot stretch of hallway to catch her breath.
Back she comes to play solitaire and eat chips for an hour and work on the 64oz of soda she brings encased in a bright yellow mug—that is strangely absent of NASCAR markings.
Her cell phone is on vibrate, and when she gets a call you can hear it from three rooms away. Why that’s less obtrusive than a ring.
She has loud phone conversations in the bathroom. I hope to god she’s finished her business and is milking her bathroom break, rather than the horriblely efficient alternative.
She puts her phone on hold rather than pushing a mute button. The difference being pushing mute stops the person on the phone from hearing anything on your end, while pushing hold puts the customer on hold which gives you ten seconds before the phone starts beeping a beep that suggests there is a large vehicle backing up somewhere.
She makes a random, “Pshhhhaaaaaw,” sound for no apparent reason.
You can’t help but notice Dolly, and she’s just weird enough I would be upset if she didn’t work here.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
A Question of Truth
The next sentence is true. The previous sentence was a lie.
Something about paradox is fascinating to me. Maybe it's because I view it as the father, or at the very least, the grandfather of hypocrisy.
Something about paradox is fascinating to me. Maybe it's because I view it as the father, or at the very least, the grandfather of hypocrisy.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Army of Bastards
Hi everyone!
I want to help support people in their endeavors. Generally speaking, cooperation over competition has always had more appeal to me. I thoroughly enjoy a good competition though. I gladly admit that.
In fact, today, I’m asking for you guys to cooperate out a fellow bastard comptete. His name is Kevin; and he wants to peddle into Hell.
Ok, not literally into the unholy plane or even in a Dante’s Inferno kind of way. He wants to ride there along with three other men and four other women. You can click HERE for the details or just sit there, shut up and read my version of the gist of things.
Riders will get to Downievill, California to face at least 70 miles of off-road terrain and should expect about 12,000 feet of climb and can expect areas of exposure. Then men will race Mark Weir and the females are taking on Rachel Weir.
Both riders are good enough they’re giving all riders an hour head start, and to win one must simply finish within an hour of the finishing time and they win a $5000 mountain bike. Piece of cake, right?
Wrong! This is the fifth Hell Ride, and there has yet to be a winner.
To vote for Kevin, click HERE. You’ll have to enter a valid email and then check your inbox to verify the vote by clicking a link. I’ve done it many a times and haven’t gotten a lick of spam from it. Don’t be scared! Do the right thing and help send Kevin to hell!
Remember people! I’m always interested in helping my fellow bastards out—so if you have a cause that needs some attention—let me know. My Bastard’s Ears are open and my army is gathering.
I want to help support people in their endeavors. Generally speaking, cooperation over competition has always had more appeal to me. I thoroughly enjoy a good competition though. I gladly admit that.
In fact, today, I’m asking for you guys to cooperate out a fellow bastard comptete. His name is Kevin; and he wants to peddle into Hell.
Ok, not literally into the unholy plane or even in a Dante’s Inferno kind of way. He wants to ride there along with three other men and four other women. You can click HERE for the details or just sit there, shut up and read my version of the gist of things.
Riders will get to Downievill, California to face at least 70 miles of off-road terrain and should expect about 12,000 feet of climb and can expect areas of exposure. Then men will race Mark Weir and the females are taking on Rachel Weir.
Both riders are good enough they’re giving all riders an hour head start, and to win one must simply finish within an hour of the finishing time and they win a $5000 mountain bike. Piece of cake, right?
Wrong! This is the fifth Hell Ride, and there has yet to be a winner.
To vote for Kevin, click HERE. You’ll have to enter a valid email and then check your inbox to verify the vote by clicking a link. I’ve done it many a times and haven’t gotten a lick of spam from it. Don’t be scared! Do the right thing and help send Kevin to hell!
Remember people! I’m always interested in helping my fellow bastards out—so if you have a cause that needs some attention—let me know. My Bastard’s Ears are open and my army is gathering.
Monday, June 23, 2008
I Think You Mean FUNday!
I’ve been wondering how Monday’s got such a bad reputation. My current place of employment has weekend hours, but 99% of the employed work the standard M – F, eight hours a day sort of shift.
Today, being Monday, my place of employment is rife with something that is being easily shrugged off. People are in bad moods, going home early and in some cases, not even showing up.
And, when it’s not actually Monday, I’ve had people in a shitty mood explain that in their work world, today is their Monday—meaning they just started the work week.
Now, there are some people who will tell me it’s not the fact that it’s Monday, they’re just having a bad day—any ill effects are coincidental with the day of the week.
I like the Monday Factor because it really demonstrate how willing we are to shrug off any and all accountability. Maybe you hate your job and you need an entire day to muster up the energy to deal with the impending week’s worth of work—but not liking your job is hardly a unique condition. Even people who love their jobs don’t love everything about that job.
I’m not confused by all the bad things being more obvious when there are no days behind you. Current day work conditions don’t help much either—most places I hear about not only don’t offer vacation time, if they do you can count on the fact that it is NOT paid time off.
Some of you do though! And good on you—I try not to begrudge other their good fortune, but it’s hard not to be resentful, especially if you look at the distribution of wealth. We’re not, though. Not in this one.
My favorite people who rage on Mondays are the people who seem to be completely blind to the fact that they have some input on their own lives. They spend the last half of Friday dicking around and then big surprise! The following Monday doesn’t just roll out nice and smooth for them and suddenly the universe is conspiring against them—they’re just that important to the Grand Scheme.
When it comes down to it, none of us enjoy the fact we spend the making someone else rich and paying taxes while we do it. But don’t blame Monday—especially since it’s such a good night for sports.
Today, being Monday, my place of employment is rife with something that is being easily shrugged off. People are in bad moods, going home early and in some cases, not even showing up.
And, when it’s not actually Monday, I’ve had people in a shitty mood explain that in their work world, today is their Monday—meaning they just started the work week.
Now, there are some people who will tell me it’s not the fact that it’s Monday, they’re just having a bad day—any ill effects are coincidental with the day of the week.
I like the Monday Factor because it really demonstrate how willing we are to shrug off any and all accountability. Maybe you hate your job and you need an entire day to muster up the energy to deal with the impending week’s worth of work—but not liking your job is hardly a unique condition. Even people who love their jobs don’t love everything about that job.
I’m not confused by all the bad things being more obvious when there are no days behind you. Current day work conditions don’t help much either—most places I hear about not only don’t offer vacation time, if they do you can count on the fact that it is NOT paid time off.
Some of you do though! And good on you—I try not to begrudge other their good fortune, but it’s hard not to be resentful, especially if you look at the distribution of wealth. We’re not, though. Not in this one.
My favorite people who rage on Mondays are the people who seem to be completely blind to the fact that they have some input on their own lives. They spend the last half of Friday dicking around and then big surprise! The following Monday doesn’t just roll out nice and smooth for them and suddenly the universe is conspiring against them—they’re just that important to the Grand Scheme.
When it comes down to it, none of us enjoy the fact we spend the making someone else rich and paying taxes while we do it. But don’t blame Monday—especially since it’s such a good night for sports.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Strangeness Afoot (50th Post!)
I love bizarre news. The tendency for negative events to get fierce coverage lend the stories documenting all of the weird things that happen to us in our misunderstood existence a welcomed appeal.
That said, a foot has washed upon the Canadian shore of Vancouver, near the Campbell River, again. This is the sixth time this has happened.
Think about that for a second. Walking along the beach, hand in hand with your lover, friend, escort--whatever, when the thoughts you've been savoring along with the view are jarred away as you stop and do a double take at what is normally a mundane event (oh wow, a lone, dirty shoe!), and notice that rather stiff looking sock...
"Is that fuckin' foot?" You wonder. After a few of what I would hope are the strangest seconds on this particular day, you would get close enough to confirm that oh yes, that is indeed a severed foot you have stumbled upon.
That happened six separate times in the same area. And, like a rape statistic, that's just reported events (I don't know about you, but I'm not sure I could resist having a foot in a jar on my coffee table, that's a jackpot in my book).
The latest foot, it looked severed, but not all of the six do. One commonality is they were all in shoes. While police are refusing to speculate, but facts are facts. Shoe soles create enough buoyancy to float and keep the meat away from most of the oceans feeders (Should that feeters or is that not punny?). And going one step back, any body in the water--never mind how it got there, eventually begins seperating.
However, how the foots achieved their infamous severed status is all speculation--crime syndicates, boating accidents, medical waste disposal gone wrong, not loving Jesus enough--really you can fill in the blank however you like. My current favorite for the small fleet of feet is they're from victims of that 2004 Tsunami. I like the image of Mr. Foot drifting about the currents for 4+ years.
But, I'm a romantic.
That said, a foot has washed upon the Canadian shore of Vancouver, near the Campbell River, again. This is the sixth time this has happened.
Think about that for a second. Walking along the beach, hand in hand with your lover, friend, escort--whatever, when the thoughts you've been savoring along with the view are jarred away as you stop and do a double take at what is normally a mundane event (oh wow, a lone, dirty shoe!), and notice that rather stiff looking sock...
"Is that fuckin' foot?" You wonder. After a few of what I would hope are the strangest seconds on this particular day, you would get close enough to confirm that oh yes, that is indeed a severed foot you have stumbled upon.
That happened six separate times in the same area. And, like a rape statistic, that's just reported events (I don't know about you, but I'm not sure I could resist having a foot in a jar on my coffee table, that's a jackpot in my book).
The latest foot, it looked severed, but not all of the six do. One commonality is they were all in shoes. While police are refusing to speculate, but facts are facts. Shoe soles create enough buoyancy to float and keep the meat away from most of the oceans feeders (Should that feeters or is that not punny?). And going one step back, any body in the water--never mind how it got there, eventually begins seperating.
However, how the foots achieved their infamous severed status is all speculation--crime syndicates, boating accidents, medical waste disposal gone wrong, not loving Jesus enough--really you can fill in the blank however you like. My current favorite for the small fleet of feet is they're from victims of that 2004 Tsunami. I like the image of Mr. Foot drifting about the currents for 4+ years.
But, I'm a romantic.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Slick Bastards
I don’t know how many lawsuits any given mega corporation is involved in at any given time, but it seems to make sense that any institution with global size operations has a near constant present in so many societies is going to also constantly be in legal battle.
One of the shadier cases I’m not seeing reported while the vultures are all abuzz over Tim Russert dying involves Exxon Oil, who recently appealed to the Supreme Court to halt a human rights lawsuit that was filed against it in 2001.
The Indonesian providence of Aceh has 11 villagers from various villages who suffered rampant human rights abuse at the hands of the Indonesian military. Exxon has been doing all they can to get the case thrown out by appealing their way up the judicial ladder. The secondary effects of this seemingly expensive and futile maneuvering is it prolongs the start of the actual trial. But why would that be desirable?
Could it have something to do with the name of the case? It’s official legal reference is “Exxon Mobil v. John Doe, 07-81.”
The Acehnese plaintiffs’ fear for their safety has been recognized as legitimate, permitting their identities to be listed as John and Jane Doe. I’ve admitted to being a cynic (which I in turn blame on my bad habit of paying attention to the world) so I can’t help but see Exxon’s dance as a move that hopes that their employees, aka the Indonesian military, might dig out a name or two, as the dead can’t sue.
Maybe the multiple appeals is fairly standard practice, maybe it’s generally better for any company getting sued to have the case take as long as possible to get to trial to wear down the not-so-wealthy, and my mistrust is misplaced.
Wait, who are we talking about? Oh yeah! An oil company. Assuming the worse in this case is nothing but sound. I mean, did you see “There Will Be Blood”? That guy was a jerk! I don’t know what other proof you people need about oil companies being bad.
And for the record, the heiarchy of corporated evil empires goes: Oil, tobacco, Wal-Mart. Write that down somewhere, it’ll be on the test for sure.
Also, am I the only one raising an eyebrow about Indonesia renting out their military?
One of the shadier cases I’m not seeing reported while the vultures are all abuzz over Tim Russert dying involves Exxon Oil, who recently appealed to the Supreme Court to halt a human rights lawsuit that was filed against it in 2001.
The Indonesian providence of Aceh has 11 villagers from various villages who suffered rampant human rights abuse at the hands of the Indonesian military. Exxon has been doing all they can to get the case thrown out by appealing their way up the judicial ladder. The secondary effects of this seemingly expensive and futile maneuvering is it prolongs the start of the actual trial. But why would that be desirable?
Could it have something to do with the name of the case? It’s official legal reference is “Exxon Mobil v. John Doe, 07-81.”
The Acehnese plaintiffs’ fear for their safety has been recognized as legitimate, permitting their identities to be listed as John and Jane Doe. I’ve admitted to being a cynic (which I in turn blame on my bad habit of paying attention to the world) so I can’t help but see Exxon’s dance as a move that hopes that their employees, aka the Indonesian military, might dig out a name or two, as the dead can’t sue.
Maybe the multiple appeals is fairly standard practice, maybe it’s generally better for any company getting sued to have the case take as long as possible to get to trial to wear down the not-so-wealthy, and my mistrust is misplaced.
Wait, who are we talking about? Oh yeah! An oil company. Assuming the worse in this case is nothing but sound. I mean, did you see “There Will Be Blood”? That guy was a jerk! I don’t know what other proof you people need about oil companies being bad.
And for the record, the heiarchy of corporated evil empires goes: Oil, tobacco, Wal-Mart. Write that down somewhere, it’ll be on the test for sure.
Also, am I the only one raising an eyebrow about Indonesia renting out their military?
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Monday, June 9, 2008
Smart Bastards: Not Your Friend
They say one should never discuss sex, politics or religion in polite company. So, I figure we gotta knock out the other two.
I'm all for spirituality, but not much beyond the rawest sense where much is hard to to put into words. Religion on the other hand, is a lot harder for me to get behind. Let's get back to that though.
Humans are believed to exist in such numbers that we have more or less taken on a relatively consistent pace of existence. One of the consequences is the thing we call intelligence is normalized which creates a bell curve.
Chris Rock has a great analogy for this. I'm too lazy to find the actual bit, but the gist of it goes like this: In school, there were five smart kids, five dumb kids and twenty of the rest of us!
Basically, most people are of an average intelligence (between 85 and 115 IQ's) with just as many unintelligent people as there are above intelligent people. Keep that in mind while I jump to the next point.
Historically, looking at the oldest religions--never mind the council of Versia or any of that, and how the religions initially treated the faithful (and god help you if you weren't counted among the faithful)--they discouraged literacy and education in general, dissension of thought,
Never mind the Lords of the town. Stick to the thankless holy toil that provides their riches and know that you WILL be rewarded in the Kingdom of God! You know, after you're dead. And if you don't, well kids, gather around while we riddle you with stories of where all your worse fears and nightmares are birthed.
Divine is obedience. To question is to endulge in the blasphemous. Tool might not have said it best but they said it well, "There's no love in fear."
And who ruled these common folk? The privileged, who tended to be the educated, who tended to be intelligent.
I don't want to end on a sour note, so let me just say religion can be really good for a lot of people and their communities, and I know many people out there are good hearted folk who feel better about the world after their once a week meeting.
And, just like anything it only takes a few bad examples to leave a bad taste in ones mouth for quite some time. It's unfortunate that many of those bad eggs rise to the positions of power, and they are the ones taking advantage of what should be a good and true institution.
I think problems, social friction if you will, have something to do with an underlying message behind many religions--that there is but a single way to correctly live ones life, which means anything differing from your core beliefs is a threat. Which for me is counter intuitive. Anything true and powerful should stand all the taller and all the straighter to opposition in whatever form.
I'm all for spirituality, but not much beyond the rawest sense where much is hard to to put into words. Religion on the other hand, is a lot harder for me to get behind. Let's get back to that though.
Humans are believed to exist in such numbers that we have more or less taken on a relatively consistent pace of existence. One of the consequences is the thing we call intelligence is normalized which creates a bell curve.
Chris Rock has a great analogy for this. I'm too lazy to find the actual bit, but the gist of it goes like this: In school, there were five smart kids, five dumb kids and twenty of the rest of us!
Basically, most people are of an average intelligence (between 85 and 115 IQ's) with just as many unintelligent people as there are above intelligent people. Keep that in mind while I jump to the next point.
Historically, looking at the oldest religions--never mind the council of Versia or any of that, and how the religions initially treated the faithful (and god help you if you weren't counted among the faithful)--they discouraged literacy and education in general, dissension of thought,
Never mind the Lords of the town. Stick to the thankless holy toil that provides their riches and know that you WILL be rewarded in the Kingdom of God! You know, after you're dead. And if you don't, well kids, gather around while we riddle you with stories of where all your worse fears and nightmares are birthed.
Divine is obedience. To question is to endulge in the blasphemous. Tool might not have said it best but they said it well, "There's no love in fear."
And who ruled these common folk? The privileged, who tended to be the educated, who tended to be intelligent.
I don't want to end on a sour note, so let me just say religion can be really good for a lot of people and their communities, and I know many people out there are good hearted folk who feel better about the world after their once a week meeting.
And, just like anything it only takes a few bad examples to leave a bad taste in ones mouth for quite some time. It's unfortunate that many of those bad eggs rise to the positions of power, and they are the ones taking advantage of what should be a good and true institution.
I think problems, social friction if you will, have something to do with an underlying message behind many religions--that there is but a single way to correctly live ones life, which means anything differing from your core beliefs is a threat. Which for me is counter intuitive. Anything true and powerful should stand all the taller and all the straighter to opposition in whatever form.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Excuse Me, I Was Promised A Hand basket
The end is near! And has been since we humans have been explaining the cosmos away via deities of varying malice and temperaments. Which, as near as I can tell went hand with the development of agriculture.
You have to wonder if there is a collective end though, at least I do. Armageddon is all the rage, which shouldn’t really be a surprise after the fun the world had when the year 2000 was coming up on us. I kind of miss that Y2K frenzy. I’m a fan of all the learning channels, but I’ve noticed and irritating trend of the doomsday shows in heavy rotation.
But, lucky for us, there are many doomsday scenarios for us to worry over. They Mayan calendar ends in 2012, which apparently many people interpret as time ending rather than the Mayans coming to the inevitable conclusion that their calendar is going to have to either end or keep going and going. “Why project our calendar more than 2000 years ahead?. Does that make sense to anyone else? Let’s go sacrifice something!”
So, 2012 is the new Y2k. I think it ends December 20th(ish).
How far ahead do historians really expect ancient calendars to go? One would think that a cut off line is more or less a necessity. For all we know the calendar not going past 2012 could be an arbitrary result of some ancient practicality.
What I love is how centered we are on ourselves. Our definition of “the world” ending usually equates to humans being wiped out…probably because of something humans did.
But, if your trust in humanity is just so thorough you can’t entertain the wonderfully ironic notion that we will be our own undoing, there’s plenty of other ways for the world to still end!
I’m kind of a romantic. The idea of our planet having an energy or inner life force seems like a thing of fiction, but I like it. So the notion that the earth could possibly be cleansing itself via earthquakes, tornados, floods, wildfires, tsunamis, etc is really appealing.
I've noticed this “weather” thing has been around for awhile and the natural cycling patterns might be so complex and long lasting we might not even be observing what we think we are.
If the Gaia thing isn't doing it for you consider the current global climate! How many wars are going on? How many violent deaths are occurring daily? And in front of who?
And if you’re still not happy with your world ending choices, I’m afraid your last option is as classic as it gets—Jesus coming back, to both love and judge you. Repent—or else!
You have to wonder if there is a collective end though, at least I do. Armageddon is all the rage, which shouldn’t really be a surprise after the fun the world had when the year 2000 was coming up on us. I kind of miss that Y2K frenzy. I’m a fan of all the learning channels, but I’ve noticed and irritating trend of the doomsday shows in heavy rotation.
But, lucky for us, there are many doomsday scenarios for us to worry over. They Mayan calendar ends in 2012, which apparently many people interpret as time ending rather than the Mayans coming to the inevitable conclusion that their calendar is going to have to either end or keep going and going. “Why project our calendar more than 2000 years ahead?. Does that make sense to anyone else? Let’s go sacrifice something!”
So, 2012 is the new Y2k. I think it ends December 20th(ish).
How far ahead do historians really expect ancient calendars to go? One would think that a cut off line is more or less a necessity. For all we know the calendar not going past 2012 could be an arbitrary result of some ancient practicality.
What I love is how centered we are on ourselves. Our definition of “the world” ending usually equates to humans being wiped out…probably because of something humans did.
But, if your trust in humanity is just so thorough you can’t entertain the wonderfully ironic notion that we will be our own undoing, there’s plenty of other ways for the world to still end!
I’m kind of a romantic. The idea of our planet having an energy or inner life force seems like a thing of fiction, but I like it. So the notion that the earth could possibly be cleansing itself via earthquakes, tornados, floods, wildfires, tsunamis, etc is really appealing.
I've noticed this “weather” thing has been around for awhile and the natural cycling patterns might be so complex and long lasting we might not even be observing what we think we are.
If the Gaia thing isn't doing it for you consider the current global climate! How many wars are going on? How many violent deaths are occurring daily? And in front of who?
And if you’re still not happy with your world ending choices, I’m afraid your last option is as classic as it gets—Jesus coming back, to both love and judge you. Repent—or else!
Monday, June 2, 2008
Serious Discussion, Please
Fuzzy Wuzzy was a bear.
Fuzzy Wuzzy had no hair.
Fuzzy Wuzzy wasn't fuzzy,
Was he?
Discuss.
Fuzzy Wuzzy had no hair.
Fuzzy Wuzzy wasn't fuzzy,
Was he?
Discuss.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Oh The Newly Wed
My car sucks when it comes to music. I have a cassette player. Remember those? Needless to say I don’t have any cassettes around so I find myself at the mercy of the radio. Being a man of good taste, I hate pretty much all the music stations of which there isn’t much variety (welcome to Southern Utah!), which leaves National Public Radio or me and my own thoughts. So, depending on the mood of the voices (they’ve had some great story ideas) I generally listen to national public radio.
I don’t brag about it, and this acknowledgment of the fact is only that. I’ve met the people who announce how they listen to national public radio like its some sort of credential before they begin their tirades’—that’s not me. This isn’t a tirade. I have no creditable credentials.
But oh the buzz over the state of California using it’s laws to treat gay couples like equal citizens rather than the second class citizens they are! Meaning, they’re going to let them join into the semi-holy union of marriage. New York wants to be hip too, so they’re playing some fast catch up, so you can expect to hear more about that in the news.
I say the union is semi-holy because for some reason the institution of marriage is pulled taught in a tug of war between church and state even though I think I read somewhere that’s not supposed to happen.
Really, to the government, being married is a tax status that identifies you and another person as an individual unit—it some senses. This is a fucking blog people, do we really need to go over the super fine points?
Generally, the religious interpretation of the union is that you promise your god you love this person standing next to you and you’re going to do your damnedest be nice no matter what life throws at you. Your god being the busy deity she/he is, sends a representative to oversee and acknowledge the union and collect the necessary fee.
Poof! You’re married. Sex is magically ok and you get a new piece of jewelry. Insurance benefits may apply.
I wonder what all the fuss is about? Is marriage really that cool? Maggie Gallagher and Linda J. Waite wrote an entire book about it, called The Case for Marriage: Why Married People Are Happier, Healthier, and Better Off Financially.
According to the authors, I’m not entirely correct in my quick and unromantic description of marriage. They say, “"Getting married doesn't merely certify a preexisting love relationship. Marriage actually changes people's goals and behavior in ways that are profoundly and powerfully life enhancing."”
They go on to say the easiest realms of life to see benefits in are within the subjects of health, wealth and self reported sexual fulfillment (think quality over quantity all you “same box of cereal the rest of your life” people).
They also say married people live longer than non married people. Especially for the men who are more likely to act in ways that seriously endanger their lives, we call them road trips, bar nights, and room mates. They’re also less likely to tell some things to anyone but their wives (so less stays bottled up).
The authors compared married people with cohabitating people to see if the results could be the consequences of living with someone. They claim there’s a difference between the two because there are different expectations and effects that govern the hard to see driving force of the relationship.
Apparently, if one starts to look at marriage academically it has a lot of listed benefits backed up by all sorts of studies. The general consensus is that at the very least married folk appear happier, live longer, have better sex and tend to be better off financially.
Which makes me think, if it’s so good for people, how could a government—who’s main purpose is to look out for a people, actively deny such a benefit from anyone?
Maybe they’re afraid o what’s next on the social calendar for second class citizens--minorities attending college? Are women going to want to vote? Are people going to want to join any religion they want?
I’m telling you guys, it’s just getting harder and harder to be a white dude.
I don’t brag about it, and this acknowledgment of the fact is only that. I’ve met the people who announce how they listen to national public radio like its some sort of credential before they begin their tirades’—that’s not me. This isn’t a tirade. I have no creditable credentials.
But oh the buzz over the state of California using it’s laws to treat gay couples like equal citizens rather than the second class citizens they are! Meaning, they’re going to let them join into the semi-holy union of marriage. New York wants to be hip too, so they’re playing some fast catch up, so you can expect to hear more about that in the news.
I say the union is semi-holy because for some reason the institution of marriage is pulled taught in a tug of war between church and state even though I think I read somewhere that’s not supposed to happen.
Really, to the government, being married is a tax status that identifies you and another person as an individual unit—it some senses. This is a fucking blog people, do we really need to go over the super fine points?
Generally, the religious interpretation of the union is that you promise your god you love this person standing next to you and you’re going to do your damnedest be nice no matter what life throws at you. Your god being the busy deity she/he is, sends a representative to oversee and acknowledge the union and collect the necessary fee.
Poof! You’re married. Sex is magically ok and you get a new piece of jewelry. Insurance benefits may apply.
I wonder what all the fuss is about? Is marriage really that cool? Maggie Gallagher and Linda J. Waite wrote an entire book about it, called The Case for Marriage: Why Married People Are Happier, Healthier, and Better Off Financially.
According to the authors, I’m not entirely correct in my quick and unromantic description of marriage. They say, “"Getting married doesn't merely certify a preexisting love relationship. Marriage actually changes people's goals and behavior in ways that are profoundly and powerfully life enhancing."”
They go on to say the easiest realms of life to see benefits in are within the subjects of health, wealth and self reported sexual fulfillment (think quality over quantity all you “same box of cereal the rest of your life” people).
They also say married people live longer than non married people. Especially for the men who are more likely to act in ways that seriously endanger their lives, we call them road trips, bar nights, and room mates. They’re also less likely to tell some things to anyone but their wives (so less stays bottled up).
The authors compared married people with cohabitating people to see if the results could be the consequences of living with someone. They claim there’s a difference between the two because there are different expectations and effects that govern the hard to see driving force of the relationship.
Apparently, if one starts to look at marriage academically it has a lot of listed benefits backed up by all sorts of studies. The general consensus is that at the very least married folk appear happier, live longer, have better sex and tend to be better off financially.
Which makes me think, if it’s so good for people, how could a government—who’s main purpose is to look out for a people, actively deny such a benefit from anyone?
Maybe they’re afraid o what’s next on the social calendar for second class citizens--minorities attending college? Are women going to want to vote? Are people going to want to join any religion they want?
I’m telling you guys, it’s just getting harder and harder to be a white dude.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Have a GREAT Weekend
I woke up knowing something was off. It was in the light.
I wake up about the same time every morning. I have to have to burn some serious midnight oil and get deep into the a.m. hours to throw that wake up time off. The time does change, but it does so slowly. I don’t want to meet the person who hates daylight savings more than I.
The morning shadows were thicker than they should be. There was no wind roaring and no rain battering the windows. It was just cloudy enough to suggest it.
Driving to work, the cloud cover quickly thickened to a stormy blue-grey and rain began ending it’s fall on my windshield. If this were a Simpsons episode, there’d be an evil man flashing an overbite, hands steepled saying, “Eeeeexcellent.”
Sometimes the gloom brings me down. This storm brought no such despair. I smiled as the drizzle set in.
Here it is, almost a three day weekend with everyone trying to get ready to squeeze every possible minute of enjoyment from the allotted time and here comes the rain, wind on the tails of a cold front!
I’ll be stuck at home while Mrs. Bastard works. Laughing and playing my DS and savoring the misery while I can. And probably working on my drinking.
I know, I know, when you think it through, the bad weather is a burden on us humans as a whole. The hardcore people are still going to go out there and brave the rain and cold winds and will be bragging it up for most of the following four day work week.
And then the next week they’ll be at the office nursing their colds, sinus infections and god only knows what other else has been breeding between episodes of not finishing off antibiotics and by the second week of June my incubation will come to full fruition and it’ll be me cursing life.
But this weekend—it’ll be me warm, drunk and laughing. They say to pick your battles which is really just another way of saying pick your victories. It’s a win for the Bastard and I’m taking it.
I wake up about the same time every morning. I have to have to burn some serious midnight oil and get deep into the a.m. hours to throw that wake up time off. The time does change, but it does so slowly. I don’t want to meet the person who hates daylight savings more than I.
The morning shadows were thicker than they should be. There was no wind roaring and no rain battering the windows. It was just cloudy enough to suggest it.
Driving to work, the cloud cover quickly thickened to a stormy blue-grey and rain began ending it’s fall on my windshield. If this were a Simpsons episode, there’d be an evil man flashing an overbite, hands steepled saying, “Eeeeexcellent.”
Sometimes the gloom brings me down. This storm brought no such despair. I smiled as the drizzle set in.
Here it is, almost a three day weekend with everyone trying to get ready to squeeze every possible minute of enjoyment from the allotted time and here comes the rain, wind on the tails of a cold front!
I’ll be stuck at home while Mrs. Bastard works. Laughing and playing my DS and savoring the misery while I can. And probably working on my drinking.
I know, I know, when you think it through, the bad weather is a burden on us humans as a whole. The hardcore people are still going to go out there and brave the rain and cold winds and will be bragging it up for most of the following four day work week.
And then the next week they’ll be at the office nursing their colds, sinus infections and god only knows what other else has been breeding between episodes of not finishing off antibiotics and by the second week of June my incubation will come to full fruition and it’ll be me cursing life.
But this weekend—it’ll be me warm, drunk and laughing. They say to pick your battles which is really just another way of saying pick your victories. It’s a win for the Bastard and I’m taking it.
Friday, May 16, 2008
The Uninteresting Tale of an Unexpected Sabbatical
The computer I write at is tucked away in the corner of my bedroom. It’s actually a docked laptop, but it gets the job done. I’ve been nowhere near the damn thing for the last week. And like a relationship slowly sinking into the waters of ruin, it was for a lot of little reasons.
Many little boring reasons that stacked up on me and wore me down! The energy to blog just wasn’t there.
Usually, I write a lot. And while this blog is both important and gratifying, the behind the scenes fiction I work on tends to come first. However, if it makes you readers feel any better, I haven’t been writing anything. And for me that’s a little weird.
But, I suppose I needed it. Like weeks of not getting enough sleep and finally being overtaken by exhaustion, one crashes at a decent hour and enjoying a twelve hour nap, the break felt needed and imposed. I wish life hadn’t come up to initiate it. I mean, don’t you like going to bed when you chose to?
They tell me people who exercise regularly should take two weeks off from their routine twice a year to let their bodies rest up. Maybe thing of it as something like that.
So yes my friends, all is well. And yes, the Bastard lives, and so does the blog.
Many little boring reasons that stacked up on me and wore me down! The energy to blog just wasn’t there.
Usually, I write a lot. And while this blog is both important and gratifying, the behind the scenes fiction I work on tends to come first. However, if it makes you readers feel any better, I haven’t been writing anything. And for me that’s a little weird.
But, I suppose I needed it. Like weeks of not getting enough sleep and finally being overtaken by exhaustion, one crashes at a decent hour and enjoying a twelve hour nap, the break felt needed and imposed. I wish life hadn’t come up to initiate it. I mean, don’t you like going to bed when you chose to?
They tell me people who exercise regularly should take two weeks off from their routine twice a year to let their bodies rest up. Maybe thing of it as something like that.
So yes my friends, all is well. And yes, the Bastard lives, and so does the blog.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Sick Bastard
I never get sick on weekdays when I could spend the day on the couch being miserable but entertained by my thoughts of everyone else working.
This weekend it was food poisoning from a local joint. I woke up Saturday after turning in before 11pm on a Friday with a gut full of air. I felt like I'd been inflated with some sort of noxious gas.
My burps were sour and farts were not to be trusted. I couldn't stand upright without a stomach cramp. I was still feeling ill when Monday came all too fast. Responsibility demanded I head to work, and really the worse was over. But I was tired, I didn't get much sleep, and I still wasn't trusting solid food.
So, there you have it. I can't really say I'm sorry for not getting a post up yesterday, but don't worry. I'm here to stay--until they buy me out.
But! I do have some good news. I have been actively creating bastard-type content with the hopes of getting an actual website up and going. You may have noticed going to bastardsmouth.com redirects you here. Someday--soon, I'm hoping, it'll be a nice, bastard friendly website.
I don't have an ETA for the site to go live, but I do have a programmer I'm blackmailing to do my bidding! I don't plan on creating everything myself either, so if you have content of any kind you think might appeal to us bastards, get a hold of me.
You guys can help, if you're so inclined. Keep telling your friends about Bastardsmouth.com and if you have a content request--email me!
bastardsmouth@gmail.com
I like interviewing people, reviewing albums or even other blogs. Really, I'm like the fat girl who's lost a lot of wait here--easy.
But until then, I'll keep up the posting and content creating! Long live bastards (and easy women who stumble into parenthood! Love you mom! We'll meet someday dad, you know, if you're alive!)
This weekend it was food poisoning from a local joint. I woke up Saturday after turning in before 11pm on a Friday with a gut full of air. I felt like I'd been inflated with some sort of noxious gas.
My burps were sour and farts were not to be trusted. I couldn't stand upright without a stomach cramp. I was still feeling ill when Monday came all too fast. Responsibility demanded I head to work, and really the worse was over. But I was tired, I didn't get much sleep, and I still wasn't trusting solid food.
So, there you have it. I can't really say I'm sorry for not getting a post up yesterday, but don't worry. I'm here to stay--until they buy me out.
But! I do have some good news. I have been actively creating bastard-type content with the hopes of getting an actual website up and going. You may have noticed going to bastardsmouth.com redirects you here. Someday--soon, I'm hoping, it'll be a nice, bastard friendly website.
I don't have an ETA for the site to go live, but I do have a programmer I'm blackmailing to do my bidding! I don't plan on creating everything myself either, so if you have content of any kind you think might appeal to us bastards, get a hold of me.
You guys can help, if you're so inclined. Keep telling your friends about Bastardsmouth.com and if you have a content request--email me!
bastardsmouth@gmail.com
I like interviewing people, reviewing albums or even other blogs. Really, I'm like the fat girl who's lost a lot of wait here--easy.
But until then, I'll keep up the posting and content creating! Long live bastards (and easy women who stumble into parenthood! Love you mom! We'll meet someday dad, you know, if you're alive!)
Thursday, May 1, 2008
I’m Father of the Year! (But only by comparison)
If you haven’t heard about Josef Fritzl as I’m assuming most of us have, here’s the quick, (skip it if you already know) lowdown. It’s fucking bizarre and getting weirder with each day.
Josef Fritzl, 73, built a sound proofed living area with an electronically sealed door 24 years ago to properly seal away his kidnapped daughter Elisabeth who was around 18. He told his wife she had run away indefinitely. A letter in her handwriting validated the lie.
Over the course of 24 years seven children were born. Three of the fruits of incest are raised upstairs as notes written in Elisabeth’s handwriting arrive with the infants who grow up thinking their unwanting parents abandoned. One pregnancy yielded twins but only one of them survived. Fritzl says he disposed of the tiny body in a furnace.
Seven kids later the oldest daughter Kerstin lapses into a coma. Elisabeth’s days of pleading pay off and Fritzl decides to play his Kid on the Doorstep card. This note says she is unable and unwilling to care for her daughter.
At the hospital the doctors can’t rouse Kerstin. They are fed the same story about Elisabeth’s disappearance. The hospital contacts the news and a message goes out asking for Elisabeth to PLEASE contact the hospital as they need more information to help her.
Elisabeth had a TV in her chamber (see, Fritzl wasn’t a TOTAL monster—she could watch TV!) and saw the message. She convinced her capture/rapist/father if he let her out she would answer their questions and stick to the story about the cult—which makes me mad as I hope to start my own cult soon and I do NOT appreciate Fritzl furthering their defaming. I’ll let you guys know when you can apply.
As soon as she was alone, she confessed it all to the police.
End of low down.
If a writer friend had pitched this as a story of fiction to me I think I would have replied with something like, “C’mon, what the fucking fuck, that’s a little too far fetched!”
News like this is such a slap in the face it’s almost too much to wrap one’s mind around. There’s almost too much to consider. I’ve tried to though.
Imagine growing up in cellar room. Everyday, the same electrically powered lights to see you through the day. You’ve been born into a prison for committing a crime of fate. You’re a living byproduct of the choices of a cold, ugly man. You’ve never seen the sun. You’ve never run further than the length of a hallway. You eat what he brings you.
Imagine at eighteen your father who has already abused you lures you into the cellar, drugs and binds you. Imagine you’re pregnant and are going to give birth in your prison, assisted only by the man who captured you. As your father ages he tells you if anything happens to him, poisonous gas will fill the chamber.
Imagine trying pleading for the life of your oldest daughter who you’ve raised in the chamber for the last nineteen years goes into a coma and it takes days to convince him to take her to the hospital but only after you’ve penned a note saying your are unable and unwilling to take care of Kerstin. The same bittersweet note you’ve written to free three of your surviving children.
I mentioned the case gets stranger with each passing day. Apparently Fritzl rented out a room to a man for twelve years—all he knew about the cellar Fritzl disappeared into is that if he or anyone renting a room, it was grounds for immediate eviction.
There’s been no comment from Mrs. Fritzl yet. One hopes an intense naïveness and overly trusting nature clouded her vision and she couldn’t really see what was going on. I’m trying to fight my own cynical nature until she comments and explains what happened.
Which I think is what most of us are thinking—how could something like this happen?
Josef Fritzl, 73, built a sound proofed living area with an electronically sealed door 24 years ago to properly seal away his kidnapped daughter Elisabeth who was around 18. He told his wife she had run away indefinitely. A letter in her handwriting validated the lie.
Over the course of 24 years seven children were born. Three of the fruits of incest are raised upstairs as notes written in Elisabeth’s handwriting arrive with the infants who grow up thinking their unwanting parents abandoned. One pregnancy yielded twins but only one of them survived. Fritzl says he disposed of the tiny body in a furnace.
Seven kids later the oldest daughter Kerstin lapses into a coma. Elisabeth’s days of pleading pay off and Fritzl decides to play his Kid on the Doorstep card. This note says she is unable and unwilling to care for her daughter.
At the hospital the doctors can’t rouse Kerstin. They are fed the same story about Elisabeth’s disappearance. The hospital contacts the news and a message goes out asking for Elisabeth to PLEASE contact the hospital as they need more information to help her.
Elisabeth had a TV in her chamber (see, Fritzl wasn’t a TOTAL monster—she could watch TV!) and saw the message. She convinced her capture/rapist/father if he let her out she would answer their questions and stick to the story about the cult—which makes me mad as I hope to start my own cult soon and I do NOT appreciate Fritzl furthering their defaming. I’ll let you guys know when you can apply.
As soon as she was alone, she confessed it all to the police.
End of low down.
If a writer friend had pitched this as a story of fiction to me I think I would have replied with something like, “C’mon, what the fucking fuck, that’s a little too far fetched!”
News like this is such a slap in the face it’s almost too much to wrap one’s mind around. There’s almost too much to consider. I’ve tried to though.
Imagine growing up in cellar room. Everyday, the same electrically powered lights to see you through the day. You’ve been born into a prison for committing a crime of fate. You’re a living byproduct of the choices of a cold, ugly man. You’ve never seen the sun. You’ve never run further than the length of a hallway. You eat what he brings you.
Imagine at eighteen your father who has already abused you lures you into the cellar, drugs and binds you. Imagine you’re pregnant and are going to give birth in your prison, assisted only by the man who captured you. As your father ages he tells you if anything happens to him, poisonous gas will fill the chamber.
Imagine trying pleading for the life of your oldest daughter who you’ve raised in the chamber for the last nineteen years goes into a coma and it takes days to convince him to take her to the hospital but only after you’ve penned a note saying your are unable and unwilling to take care of Kerstin. The same bittersweet note you’ve written to free three of your surviving children.
I mentioned the case gets stranger with each passing day. Apparently Fritzl rented out a room to a man for twelve years—all he knew about the cellar Fritzl disappeared into is that if he or anyone renting a room, it was grounds for immediate eviction.
There’s been no comment from Mrs. Fritzl yet. One hopes an intense naïveness and overly trusting nature clouded her vision and she couldn’t really see what was going on. I’m trying to fight my own cynical nature until she comments and explains what happened.
Which I think is what most of us are thinking—how could something like this happen?
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Dentaly Challenged
Last time I had a tooth turn on me it was a molar. Luckily, I was in college and had zero medical coverage so all I could really afford was to have the bastard pulled. Mrs. Bastard's job provides decent dental, so when a corner chipped off during a vigorous contest with a candy coated malt egg, I went in hoping it was a some drilling and a filling.
After my dentist got into my tooth (who loves the smell of burning tooth? OMG me too!) we found out it was not to be so. The choice to make (after he removed the sexy dental damn and the device that helps keep the mouth open) was pull it or do a root canal.
Being kind of young yet, it seemed like the smart thing to do was to get a root canal. Oh, who the fuck am I kidding--I had insurance for once in my life so I opted to keep my Bastard's Smile in tact. Otherwise, I'd be down two teeth.
Apparently most teeth have three roots--unless you're a bastard. Then you get to have four, which makes for more drilling and an extra nerve to pull out. That forth root, however, was infected.
Apparently, some of a root canal's bad reputation stems from infected roots. The PH level of the infection has a neutralizing effect on anesthesia. So if the dentist keeps on drilling--you're gonna feel it.
My dentist opted to throw on a temporary filling and have me come back in ten or days.
TEN or so days later, I'm back in the chair. Infection is gone. My first root canal is finally going to happen! No more of this "just the tip, baby" bullshit.
After I was all numbed up and my mouth properly wedged open he explained the procedure and how it was going to take at least an hour, probably an hour and a half. His assistant put headphones on me and handed me the remote. She explains it's not cable, just a bunch of movies.
The chair goes back into the laying position and the ceiling TV comes on. The drill starts spinning but I can still hear the shows. I began flipping through the movies, just letting the channel change, not really looking at what's on.
I stoppedthe channel surfing randomly as my dentist positioned himself above me, his trusty drill in hand.
What's on? Cast Away.
What part? Every one's favorite I'm sure--the part where he takes out a tooth with a rock and an ice skate.
I can't help it--I have a morbid sense of humor I guess. I start laughing. Apparently this isn't a common reaction to ungassed patients. He stopped and looked questioningly at me. I gestured up as best I could. If he'd looked up a second later he'd had missed the scene and I'd just be the crazy guy who thinks root canals are funny. But he gazed up in time.
He laughed while I chuckled and drooled. "See," he said, flipping his tooth drill back on. "It could be worse!"
After my dentist got into my tooth (who loves the smell of burning tooth? OMG me too!) we found out it was not to be so. The choice to make (after he removed the sexy dental damn and the device that helps keep the mouth open) was pull it or do a root canal.
Being kind of young yet, it seemed like the smart thing to do was to get a root canal. Oh, who the fuck am I kidding--I had insurance for once in my life so I opted to keep my Bastard's Smile in tact. Otherwise, I'd be down two teeth.
Apparently most teeth have three roots--unless you're a bastard. Then you get to have four, which makes for more drilling and an extra nerve to pull out. That forth root, however, was infected.
Apparently, some of a root canal's bad reputation stems from infected roots. The PH level of the infection has a neutralizing effect on anesthesia. So if the dentist keeps on drilling--you're gonna feel it.
My dentist opted to throw on a temporary filling and have me come back in ten or days.
TEN or so days later, I'm back in the chair. Infection is gone. My first root canal is finally going to happen! No more of this "just the tip, baby" bullshit.
After I was all numbed up and my mouth properly wedged open he explained the procedure and how it was going to take at least an hour, probably an hour and a half. His assistant put headphones on me and handed me the remote. She explains it's not cable, just a bunch of movies.
The chair goes back into the laying position and the ceiling TV comes on. The drill starts spinning but I can still hear the shows. I began flipping through the movies, just letting the channel change, not really looking at what's on.
I stoppedthe channel surfing randomly as my dentist positioned himself above me, his trusty drill in hand.
What's on? Cast Away.
What part? Every one's favorite I'm sure--the part where he takes out a tooth with a rock and an ice skate.
I can't help it--I have a morbid sense of humor I guess. I start laughing. Apparently this isn't a common reaction to ungassed patients. He stopped and looked questioningly at me. I gestured up as best I could. If he'd looked up a second later he'd had missed the scene and I'd just be the crazy guy who thinks root canals are funny. But he gazed up in time.
He laughed while I chuckled and drooled. "See," he said, flipping his tooth drill back on. "It could be worse!"
Monday, April 28, 2008
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Dear Consumers: You're Still Dumb and We McLove It!
A bad, bad, bad experience with some evil McNuggets and puking from wake to sleep soured me on McDonalds years ago. Mrs. Bastard and I were only dating then, but she split the meal with me, so we bonded as we tried not to puke on each other. It helped me prove I was a gentleman. I let her heave her guts into the toilet while I used the sink.
Today, if someone suggests McDonalds as a lunch destination, I send an elbow right above their eye, grab them by the collar and through clenched teeth growl, “You go get me a WHOPPER!”
I’ve accepted the fact that I’ll be avoiding McDonalds for the rest of my life. If Jack in the Box could kill children with their undercooked hamburgers (ala that 1993 outbreak of e coli ) I’m pretty sure ol’ Ronald McDonald could rape some kids in from of their moms, set the family on fire and piss all over the ashes and the general populous would still be happily ordering Big Mac’s.
Adding to the many reasons to be annoyed is their expanding menu in the hopes of competing with other franchises. More coffee flavors? Your ship’s sinking Starbucks! Sub style sandwiches that aren’t deep fried and drenched in mayo? Methinks I hear Subway’s death toll sounding! And who are the people renting their fucking movies from a red vending machine in McDonalds?
They aren’t stopping there either. In Britain, McDonalds has decided to make their food more appealing to the tea and crumpet crowd.
“Oh good, Bastard!” You say. “They’re improving the quality of their product! Maybe now their burgers will grow fungus like normal burgers placed under glass!*”
Wrong again, asshole! McDonalds hired British fashion designer Bruce Oldfield, to redesign the staff uniforms at McDonalds. This is what he came up with:
I just love the McScarf! Nothing makes feel better about mass produced deep fried grease food than having it served by well dressed employee. It’s just fucking classy and that just proves how classy I am for super sizing my meal.
You have to wonder when the U.S. uniforms will be changing and how it will appeal to our American sensibilities. I’m envisioning a McHooters situation, but with more of a classy low cut shirt to show off the girls and maybe some of the tuxedo print t-shirts for the boys. Oh, and minimum wage and shitty insurance for all!
*Watch the extras on Super Size Me—they don’t.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Spreading the eWealth!
I apologize for posting this later in the day—later than I would have liked anyways. I typically have my article written before heading out for work on Monday and Thursday. I read over of it, make any corrections and the post it from work. I figure since I don’t smoke it counts as a break. Anyways, today was crazy right out of the shoot—but that’s a whole other blog. So, I apologize to anyone who checked and checked and checked for the new blog.
_
Once upon a time, when my daughter was three she threw a hellacious fit—we’re talking yelling and screaming, feet and fist pounding on the floor, head spinning in circles while pea-green fluid shot out like half kinked hose kind of a fit. All provoked because she had missed a family favorite TV show known as The Simpson.
Our parental reaction was simple; we turned off the cable. I admit it was with a smug sort of pleasure that I showed her all of the static filled channels. For three glorious years we didn’t have TV. The dusty beast stayed off unless we were playing a video game or watching a movie.
I graduated college and moved into a house where the cable is bundled in with the rent—having it off wasn’t an option thanks to a housing association. College had choked much of the life out of my casual reading habit and so once again, we have cable TV and it didn’t sound like the most horrible idea in the world.
It was incredibly strange to have it back on. I was in shock at all of the reality TV programming, all with huge amounts of editors and writers listed in the credits. People were being anything but real and I couldn’t stomach any of it. It seemed the only “real” things left on TV was sports and nature shows.
There are only handfuls of shows I watch of my own accord. Mrs. Bastard is a Law and Order junky and it’s not a bad show, so I can stay in the room while she’s getting her fix.
I hear good things about Lost—which I haven’t watch mostly to aggravate my good friend Flo, just for shits ‘n giggles, and I hear Hero’s is awesome.
My problem with TV shows is the initial reasons one likes a show and gets attached become lost as the seasons wear on and the focus becomes keeping viewers as opposed to staying true to a story—or I end up being among the minority of fans who go down with the ship, so to speak, as the series isn’t picked up. Deadwood, for example, is probably my favorite show ever that never got finished.
I like good stories be it in book form or show form. I wouldn’t say I’m an anime fan, but I do watch some anime. The difference for me is anime fans will sit through shitty storylines simply because they are watching anime. And I don’t read manga, so I have that level of separation as well.
The main problem is all the quality story anime is hard to come by. If you don’t’ have high speed internet I’m not sure how you would access it. Adult Swim has picked up some of the series but so much is lost in the translation I’d rather read the subtitles (subbed) instead of the voice over version (dubbed).
Mrs. Bastard and I both work. We have one car and kids. Often times she’s not done with work until the early a.m. so unless I want to bundle up the kids after midnight to go fetch her home—I’m without a car all evening.
Going out to the movies is incredibly rare—and when we do get the opportunity it’s usually after all the good movies have left town—and if they’re rated “R” they do so fast.
We have one movie theater company in town and what movies are played is heavily influenced by the Mormon standards (they aren’t supposed to watch R rated movies). So, There Will Be Blood was here for all of a week.
Joox.net is my salvation and not everyone knows about it, so I’m taking some time to spread the wealth on my own prompting. Meaning Joox didn’t call me up and say, “Hey Bastard, give us a shout out! Here’s a pile of money.” Joox has TV shows, movies, documentaries, anime, kid cartoons…really there’s just so much. I’ve been watching Blood (in the anime section).
It’s not perfect—not everything will load, but most of it does. And there’s nothing you need to download except maybe a quick update that lets you view the programs with their software. It’s all streamed, like YouTube. Also similar to the Tube, you can upload programs as well.
Free is undeniably nice and I justify (rationalize, whatever!) watching it without a ticket or receipt because typically if something is good, I like to own my own copy. Where as if I find some music I like, I try and buy t-shirt or go to their concert—something that puts the funds closer to the artists.
So, if you’re life doesn’t permit you to get out as often as you like for whatever reason, check Joox out. And if you see something like don’t be shy about trying to get some money their way. And if it sucks—fuck ‘em! At least the price was right.
_
Once upon a time, when my daughter was three she threw a hellacious fit—we’re talking yelling and screaming, feet and fist pounding on the floor, head spinning in circles while pea-green fluid shot out like half kinked hose kind of a fit. All provoked because she had missed a family favorite TV show known as The Simpson.
Our parental reaction was simple; we turned off the cable. I admit it was with a smug sort of pleasure that I showed her all of the static filled channels. For three glorious years we didn’t have TV. The dusty beast stayed off unless we were playing a video game or watching a movie.
I graduated college and moved into a house where the cable is bundled in with the rent—having it off wasn’t an option thanks to a housing association. College had choked much of the life out of my casual reading habit and so once again, we have cable TV and it didn’t sound like the most horrible idea in the world.
It was incredibly strange to have it back on. I was in shock at all of the reality TV programming, all with huge amounts of editors and writers listed in the credits. People were being anything but real and I couldn’t stomach any of it. It seemed the only “real” things left on TV was sports and nature shows.
There are only handfuls of shows I watch of my own accord. Mrs. Bastard is a Law and Order junky and it’s not a bad show, so I can stay in the room while she’s getting her fix.
I hear good things about Lost—which I haven’t watch mostly to aggravate my good friend Flo, just for shits ‘n giggles, and I hear Hero’s is awesome.
My problem with TV shows is the initial reasons one likes a show and gets attached become lost as the seasons wear on and the focus becomes keeping viewers as opposed to staying true to a story—or I end up being among the minority of fans who go down with the ship, so to speak, as the series isn’t picked up. Deadwood, for example, is probably my favorite show ever that never got finished.
I like good stories be it in book form or show form. I wouldn’t say I’m an anime fan, but I do watch some anime. The difference for me is anime fans will sit through shitty storylines simply because they are watching anime. And I don’t read manga, so I have that level of separation as well.
The main problem is all the quality story anime is hard to come by. If you don’t’ have high speed internet I’m not sure how you would access it. Adult Swim has picked up some of the series but so much is lost in the translation I’d rather read the subtitles (subbed) instead of the voice over version (dubbed).
Mrs. Bastard and I both work. We have one car and kids. Often times she’s not done with work until the early a.m. so unless I want to bundle up the kids after midnight to go fetch her home—I’m without a car all evening.
Going out to the movies is incredibly rare—and when we do get the opportunity it’s usually after all the good movies have left town—and if they’re rated “R” they do so fast.
We have one movie theater company in town and what movies are played is heavily influenced by the Mormon standards (they aren’t supposed to watch R rated movies). So, There Will Be Blood was here for all of a week.
Joox.net is my salvation and not everyone knows about it, so I’m taking some time to spread the wealth on my own prompting. Meaning Joox didn’t call me up and say, “Hey Bastard, give us a shout out! Here’s a pile of money.” Joox has TV shows, movies, documentaries, anime, kid cartoons…really there’s just so much. I’ve been watching Blood (in the anime section).
It’s not perfect—not everything will load, but most of it does. And there’s nothing you need to download except maybe a quick update that lets you view the programs with their software. It’s all streamed, like YouTube. Also similar to the Tube, you can upload programs as well.
Free is undeniably nice and I justify (rationalize, whatever!) watching it without a ticket or receipt because typically if something is good, I like to own my own copy. Where as if I find some music I like, I try and buy t-shirt or go to their concert—something that puts the funds closer to the artists.
So, if you’re life doesn’t permit you to get out as often as you like for whatever reason, check Joox out. And if you see something like don’t be shy about trying to get some money their way. And if it sucks—fuck ‘em! At least the price was right.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Interview with the Bastard: A Musician with a Keyboard
I'm glad I'm a writer. I write stuff all the time but most of it's fictional though. However, this era of self publishing allows for things like this lil blog o mine to be very gratifying. Nothing quite makes you feel like a writer like having people read what you are writing. I know, the elegence of my style steals the breath, no?
That said, I'm glad my outlet wasn't in something like music. I mean, I'm glad all you musicians exist but I would never want to be one. I have kids so there's only so much drinking I squeeze into a day. But, I imagine nothing makes you feel like a musician like having people hear your stuff and respond--love it or hate at least you got a reaction, right?
So it is with much respect I imagine I am itroducing you guys to an independent artist named Brandon via an interview. He did everything it takes to get a record length project together. His label, Webbed Hand Records www.webbedhandrecords.com electronicly publishes and distributes the albums, as well as the projects of many other indepentents. And, much like this blog, it's all free and done in the hopes of bigger things.
Brandon has made three albums to date. His current work is described as electronic music and I would say appeals to people who don't mind listening to something that is more suggestive of a mood as opposed to something you're going to be banging your fist to.
INTERVIEW
Where do you find your inspiration for your music? Who
would you say has influenced your own sound and style?
As far as inspiration goes, so far I have found it in women. I know, sounds cliche, but its true. Both of TNOL's official albums were inspired by two different women.
In regards to influence, I cannot really pin any specific artist for that. I mean, when I play guitar, it's metal...chugge chugga shit. When I sit down with a keyboard in front of me, well...this is the result.
My style, however, is one that I think is not as common. I tend to create audio with a feeling in mind, so it is something that feels alive, with purpose.
How hard is it to describe your style of music to
people? You use the word “Ambient” to describe most of
your work. Do you feel your music is more accessible to
people who are in a certain mood, or more for people
seeking to share the mood you, the artist, is setting?
Well, I tend to use the word "Ambient" as this will put the listener in a certain frame of mind, they will know what to expect. I am uncertain how my music affects people at this point, as I am still new to the whole electronic scene.
I think people that listen will identify with what is happening at that moment. A response I often hear, is when people have listened to the whole album, how they cannot believe 45 minutes or close to an hour has gone by.
Apparently I have done a good job at taking the listener with me on which ever journey they choose to hear.
Could you explain the process of self publishing a
record? Where did you find your label?
Well, initially I wanted to do it on my own. As any artist would love to have as much control as possible. Though, in my situation, I was not known at all. As I said, this was the first project and first attempt at releasing an album.
I scoured the Internet for a net label (which typically will allow free download of their music) that had the same idea/vision as me musically. Just with a real record label, net labels try to stick to a pre-determined genre. I found an ambient net label called: Webbed Hand Records (www.webbedhandrecords.com), their catalog was pretty extensive.
My first album was the 88th release. My last release was 99, and that was done in about 3 months. So the label is growing pretty quickly. As far as the process, it was so easy with WHR, I emailed the owner, shopped my album and I got approval that the label was interested in releasing it.
There was no smoke and mirrors, I just submitted it and it was approved.
How much time does it take you to to piece your record
together? Is there much excess material when you are
done? If so, what do you do with it?
Hah, If I told you, would you even believe me? Ok, here are the secrets. The first album, Lullaby was done in two working days. Now, as jaws drop, let me explain. The music flows...it is ambient, so a lot of pads and synths are used.
I play freehand, not writing the material...but recording it as I go. This makes the process pretty quick. Once I record a section, I go back and will edit note length or a flawed note. The mixdown of those two days however, the music mumbo jumbo, such as effects and EQ took about three weeks.
Then I mastered it, which took another couple of weeks...so, the actuall composition was the shortest part...to get it to SOUND the way it does took about a month and a half. The second album Shores took about 5-6 days to compose, as I was being a little harder on myself. The mix and mastering process took even longer, again, because it was the follow up album.
As far as excess material, no...in these two albums, there is none. Each album...the music was composed as one track and THEN it is cut up, post. So, the first album was released as 11 tracks, but when recorded, it was one 52 minute track. I do have material that is created as experiments or of a genre that is not ambient, I have plans to release a B-sides album shortly.
What are some of the difficulties you face when
recording a record all by yourself? Have you ever
found yourself unable to shape your sounds just how
you want them?
The difficulty is there, no doubt. For instance, anyone who has ever jammed with musicians will know that you only have one job...your instrument. When composing solo, it is just that: Composing. I have to attempt to hear multiple melodies, rhythm, and texture (as it IS ambient).
As far as me being unable to create something...no, I haven't run into that issue yet. I am pretty capable at getting what I want...again, thus far, haha.
After all of your solo projects, do you have any
interests with working with other musicians?
You know, I do miss the "band" element. Those are my roots you know...being in many bands growing up, playing shows and such.
However, at the moment, I really enjoy the musical freedom by doing what *I* want to do. I have had offers for E-bands (music projects that send files over the net), but turned them all down so far.
What are you working on now?
Well, I am involved in a number of projects. At the moment, I am focusing on a project called: We Destroy Forcefields. It takes a unique spin on sonic creation. All of the audio will be created soley with guitar and bass.
Now, when hearing that...people tend to assume it will be multiple guitar harmonies, but remember...I am working with electronics now :) The result is an experimental fusion of guitar and what sounds like synths, pads, choir elements and rhythmic elements, but all with the guitar.
How do you know when you have a finished record? Are
you looking to satisfy a number of tracks, or an album
length or . . . ?
This is actually the hardest thing a musician faces I think...when to say enough is enough. Most work, I prefer to be a tad long, only so the listener doesn't feel jipped, but if a piece were short, then it just would be.
You cant repeat the same thing over and over you know. With the WDF project, I am looking to satisfy a track amount, as it started as an experiment...turned out nice, but will most likely only have one release. The ambient works have been geared towards length.
________________________
Current Projects for You to Enjoy:
MySpaces:
The Nature of Light
Alceste
We Destroy Forcefields
Webbed Hand Records:
The Nature of Light: Shores of Jupiter
The Nature of Light: Lullaby for Madisen
Aleste: For
__________
Any questions you have for Brandon can be emailed to me at bastardsmouth@gmail.com or directly to him as soon as he ok's publishing his email. Also, if you have something you want reviewed or interviewed, same deal.
That said, I'm glad my outlet wasn't in something like music. I mean, I'm glad all you musicians exist but I would never want to be one. I have kids so there's only so much drinking I squeeze into a day. But, I imagine nothing makes you feel like a musician like having people hear your stuff and respond--love it or hate at least you got a reaction, right?
So it is with much respect I imagine I am itroducing you guys to an independent artist named Brandon via an interview. He did everything it takes to get a record length project together. His label, Webbed Hand Records www.webbedhandrecords.com electronicly publishes and distributes the albums, as well as the projects of many other indepentents. And, much like this blog, it's all free and done in the hopes of bigger things.
Brandon has made three albums to date. His current work is described as electronic music and I would say appeals to people who don't mind listening to something that is more suggestive of a mood as opposed to something you're going to be banging your fist to.
INTERVIEW
Where do you find your inspiration for your music? Who
would you say has influenced your own sound and style?
As far as inspiration goes, so far I have found it in women. I know, sounds cliche, but its true. Both of TNOL's official albums were inspired by two different women.
In regards to influence, I cannot really pin any specific artist for that. I mean, when I play guitar, it's metal...chugge chugga shit. When I sit down with a keyboard in front of me, well...this is the result.
My style, however, is one that I think is not as common. I tend to create audio with a feeling in mind, so it is something that feels alive, with purpose.
How hard is it to describe your style of music to
people? You use the word “Ambient” to describe most of
your work. Do you feel your music is more accessible to
people who are in a certain mood, or more for people
seeking to share the mood you, the artist, is setting?
Well, I tend to use the word "Ambient" as this will put the listener in a certain frame of mind, they will know what to expect. I am uncertain how my music affects people at this point, as I am still new to the whole electronic scene.
I think people that listen will identify with what is happening at that moment. A response I often hear, is when people have listened to the whole album, how they cannot believe 45 minutes or close to an hour has gone by.
Apparently I have done a good job at taking the listener with me on which ever journey they choose to hear.
Could you explain the process of self publishing a
record? Where did you find your label?
Well, initially I wanted to do it on my own. As any artist would love to have as much control as possible. Though, in my situation, I was not known at all. As I said, this was the first project and first attempt at releasing an album.
I scoured the Internet for a net label (which typically will allow free download of their music) that had the same idea/vision as me musically. Just with a real record label, net labels try to stick to a pre-determined genre. I found an ambient net label called: Webbed Hand Records (www.webbedhandrecords.com), their catalog was pretty extensive.
My first album was the 88th release. My last release was 99, and that was done in about 3 months. So the label is growing pretty quickly. As far as the process, it was so easy with WHR, I emailed the owner, shopped my album and I got approval that the label was interested in releasing it.
There was no smoke and mirrors, I just submitted it and it was approved.
How much time does it take you to to piece your record
together? Is there much excess material when you are
done? If so, what do you do with it?
Hah, If I told you, would you even believe me? Ok, here are the secrets. The first album, Lullaby was done in two working days. Now, as jaws drop, let me explain. The music flows...it is ambient, so a lot of pads and synths are used.
I play freehand, not writing the material...but recording it as I go. This makes the process pretty quick. Once I record a section, I go back and will edit note length or a flawed note. The mixdown of those two days however, the music mumbo jumbo, such as effects and EQ took about three weeks.
Then I mastered it, which took another couple of weeks...so, the actuall composition was the shortest part...to get it to SOUND the way it does took about a month and a half. The second album Shores took about 5-6 days to compose, as I was being a little harder on myself. The mix and mastering process took even longer, again, because it was the follow up album.
As far as excess material, no...in these two albums, there is none. Each album...the music was composed as one track and THEN it is cut up, post. So, the first album was released as 11 tracks, but when recorded, it was one 52 minute track. I do have material that is created as experiments or of a genre that is not ambient, I have plans to release a B-sides album shortly.
What are some of the difficulties you face when
recording a record all by yourself? Have you ever
found yourself unable to shape your sounds just how
you want them?
The difficulty is there, no doubt. For instance, anyone who has ever jammed with musicians will know that you only have one job...your instrument. When composing solo, it is just that: Composing. I have to attempt to hear multiple melodies, rhythm, and texture (as it IS ambient).
As far as me being unable to create something...no, I haven't run into that issue yet. I am pretty capable at getting what I want...again, thus far, haha.
After all of your solo projects, do you have any
interests with working with other musicians?
You know, I do miss the "band" element. Those are my roots you know...being in many bands growing up, playing shows and such.
However, at the moment, I really enjoy the musical freedom by doing what *I* want to do. I have had offers for E-bands (music projects that send files over the net), but turned them all down so far.
What are you working on now?
Well, I am involved in a number of projects. At the moment, I am focusing on a project called: We Destroy Forcefields. It takes a unique spin on sonic creation. All of the audio will be created soley with guitar and bass.
Now, when hearing that...people tend to assume it will be multiple guitar harmonies, but remember...I am working with electronics now :) The result is an experimental fusion of guitar and what sounds like synths, pads, choir elements and rhythmic elements, but all with the guitar.
How do you know when you have a finished record? Are
you looking to satisfy a number of tracks, or an album
length or . . . ?
This is actually the hardest thing a musician faces I think...when to say enough is enough. Most work, I prefer to be a tad long, only so the listener doesn't feel jipped, but if a piece were short, then it just would be.
You cant repeat the same thing over and over you know. With the WDF project, I am looking to satisfy a track amount, as it started as an experiment...turned out nice, but will most likely only have one release. The ambient works have been geared towards length.
________________________
Current Projects for You to Enjoy:
MySpaces:
The Nature of Light
Alceste
We Destroy Forcefields
Webbed Hand Records:
The Nature of Light: Shores of Jupiter
The Nature of Light: Lullaby for Madisen
Aleste: For
__________
Any questions you have for Brandon can be emailed to me at bastardsmouth@gmail.com or directly to him as soon as he ok's publishing his email. Also, if you have something you want reviewed or interviewed, same deal.
Monday, April 14, 2008
HAPPY BIRTHDAY FLO
I have a handful of friends…somehow. I try not to think too hard about the how or why. If I were having a barbeque or a party, I could easily fill my house up with at least twenty or so people, and just because there’d be free booze at any rager I was hosting.
The best friend variety is a bit harder to come by. When I say best friend, I mean the kind of friend you can call because you need some help chopping up a body and getting rid of the various pieces of meat—no questions asked. At this point in my life, I’ve had friends come and go for all the little reasons people slip in out of our lives—distance, time, you get married and stop calling, but I’ve managed to keep a few true friends close.
Today my minions (you did know you’re all my minions . . . right? Sorry this is how you had to find out) I’d like to acknowledge one such friend on today, his birthday—a man I call Flo.
“A man named, Flo? That’s kind of weird!” You might be saying. Normally I retort by snarling something snide—but I’m way too drunk, so this time I’m just hurling an empty whiskey bottle at your back-talking face.
His real name is Erik, and the story of why he is nicknamed Flo isn’t that cool—basically it’s an evolved and shorted version of a name someone else was signing on a crude drawing someone drew in middle school art class.
And that’s the shitty thing about nicknames—you’re not allowed to pick your own.
We called him Flo all through high school, and the nickname had almost gone away much to his delight when he joined me at college. While showing him around and introducing him to the professors, I called him “Flo.”
One of the professors instantly liked it, and eventually the entire department, students and facality took to calling him Flo like crack in a ghetto.
In celebration of his birthday, I’d like to recount just a few of our adventures that won’t result in him getting a divorce.
PRANK CALLS
Generally speaking, prank calls are just funny.
Once, we called a local restaurant at 11pm and explained to the manager our friend who was due at the air port in an hour had snuck out on us. He loved their restaurant, and we suspected he was there. We told him our friend went by “Stinky.” We didn’t know what he was wearing or who he was with but we desperately needed to know if he was there.
After he went table to table asking “Is your name Stinky?” he told us no one was there going by that name.
We asked if there was one last thing he could do for us?
“What’s that?”
“Could I roger you in the bum?”
I don’t know why we thought that phrase was so funny—but we did, and that’s usually how ended the call. I’m chuckling now in fact.
In high school, I hated some kids. And through this hatred Flo and I bonded. Many a weekend were spent at his place passing time harassing them. And nothing passes the time like pushing *67 and prank calling your sworn enemies.
The guy we hated the most was in drama and his shit just did NOT stink. His mom was a doctor and he was that rich kid who had it all and really, he deserved to flaunt that fact. He’d say things like, “Well maybe your parents should have been doctors!”
His name was Jeremy and he had bit that gay twang in his voice. We’d call him and say “Who is this?”
“He’d say, “Jeremy, duh. You called me.”
I’d try and put the same twang in my voice and say, “You can’t be Jeremy! I’m Jeremy! Do you suck dick? No, I suck dick—so I’m Jeremy.”
Our crowning achievement in messing with that dude was calling all the video stores to cancel his accounts (with the same gayish voice the whole time).
DRUNK
He turned 25 (I think) in Phoenix whilst on a college related trip. Across from our Hotel was a styling little bar called The Metro.
The drink he was digging on the most at the time is known as an “Audios Mother Fucker,” one of those girly blue drinks with tons of alcohol that tastes no stronger than juice.
We walked around the Metro chugging those girly drinks like it were ladies night and we were ladies. When that drunken hunger took us, we got some directions to a Denny’s supposedly in walking distance.
Three blocks later with nothing but darkened streets surrounding us, we decided the Grand Slam Breakfast probably wasn’t worth getting stabbed over—so we headed back.
Just in time to discover a van full of ten or so of our fellow students driving off to get a midnight meal—so we jumped in. Now keep in mind we were the only ones drunk and the only ones not Mormon.
Our conversation at the shared dinner table went about like this:
“Did you see that chicks tits at the bar?”
“They were fucking huge!”
“Fuck! I fuckin’ know! Man, titty fucking is cool.”
“Hahaha—even Jesus would have jizzed his holy seed all over those!”
We’re lucky we didn’t end up walking back to hotel.
FLOGGING MOLLY
Flo’s favorite band is Flogging Molly. We go to Vegas to see them play now and then. One such trip we met the drummer, George, wandering around the casino. Flo introduced himself and told him how he had flown out to Dublin, Ohio last summer to see them play.
During the concert the lead singer Dave King paused between songs and said, “Where are those two bastards who flew in from Ohio!”
Of course, the whole crowd was going crazy so he couldn’t see us jumping up and down, waving our arms and George must have been drunk or stoned as he confused the details—but it’s a moot point. We got a song dedicated to us by one of the best current day punk bands in the fuckin’ world! And that will for ever kick ass.
So today’s the day! Happy birthday Flo. I’m privileged to count you as one my best friends. And thanks for helping me get rid of that body. That was the last time and this time I mean it.
The best friend variety is a bit harder to come by. When I say best friend, I mean the kind of friend you can call because you need some help chopping up a body and getting rid of the various pieces of meat—no questions asked. At this point in my life, I’ve had friends come and go for all the little reasons people slip in out of our lives—distance, time, you get married and stop calling, but I’ve managed to keep a few true friends close.
Today my minions (you did know you’re all my minions . . . right? Sorry this is how you had to find out) I’d like to acknowledge one such friend on today, his birthday—a man I call Flo.
“A man named, Flo? That’s kind of weird!” You might be saying. Normally I retort by snarling something snide—but I’m way too drunk, so this time I’m just hurling an empty whiskey bottle at your back-talking face.
His real name is Erik, and the story of why he is nicknamed Flo isn’t that cool—basically it’s an evolved and shorted version of a name someone else was signing on a crude drawing someone drew in middle school art class.
And that’s the shitty thing about nicknames—you’re not allowed to pick your own.
We called him Flo all through high school, and the nickname had almost gone away much to his delight when he joined me at college. While showing him around and introducing him to the professors, I called him “Flo.”
One of the professors instantly liked it, and eventually the entire department, students and facality took to calling him Flo like crack in a ghetto.
In celebration of his birthday, I’d like to recount just a few of our adventures that won’t result in him getting a divorce.
PRANK CALLS
Generally speaking, prank calls are just funny.
Once, we called a local restaurant at 11pm and explained to the manager our friend who was due at the air port in an hour had snuck out on us. He loved their restaurant, and we suspected he was there. We told him our friend went by “Stinky.” We didn’t know what he was wearing or who he was with but we desperately needed to know if he was there.
After he went table to table asking “Is your name Stinky?” he told us no one was there going by that name.
We asked if there was one last thing he could do for us?
“What’s that?”
“Could I roger you in the bum?”
I don’t know why we thought that phrase was so funny—but we did, and that’s usually how ended the call. I’m chuckling now in fact.
In high school, I hated some kids. And through this hatred Flo and I bonded. Many a weekend were spent at his place passing time harassing them. And nothing passes the time like pushing *67 and prank calling your sworn enemies.
The guy we hated the most was in drama and his shit just did NOT stink. His mom was a doctor and he was that rich kid who had it all and really, he deserved to flaunt that fact. He’d say things like, “Well maybe your parents should have been doctors!”
His name was Jeremy and he had bit that gay twang in his voice. We’d call him and say “Who is this?”
“He’d say, “Jeremy, duh. You called me.”
I’d try and put the same twang in my voice and say, “You can’t be Jeremy! I’m Jeremy! Do you suck dick? No, I suck dick—so I’m Jeremy.”
Our crowning achievement in messing with that dude was calling all the video stores to cancel his accounts (with the same gayish voice the whole time).
DRUNK
He turned 25 (I think) in Phoenix whilst on a college related trip. Across from our Hotel was a styling little bar called The Metro.
The drink he was digging on the most at the time is known as an “Audios Mother Fucker,” one of those girly blue drinks with tons of alcohol that tastes no stronger than juice.
We walked around the Metro chugging those girly drinks like it were ladies night and we were ladies. When that drunken hunger took us, we got some directions to a Denny’s supposedly in walking distance.
Three blocks later with nothing but darkened streets surrounding us, we decided the Grand Slam Breakfast probably wasn’t worth getting stabbed over—so we headed back.
Just in time to discover a van full of ten or so of our fellow students driving off to get a midnight meal—so we jumped in. Now keep in mind we were the only ones drunk and the only ones not Mormon.
Our conversation at the shared dinner table went about like this:
“Did you see that chicks tits at the bar?”
“They were fucking huge!”
“Fuck! I fuckin’ know! Man, titty fucking is cool.”
“Hahaha—even Jesus would have jizzed his holy seed all over those!”
We’re lucky we didn’t end up walking back to hotel.
FLOGGING MOLLY
Flo’s favorite band is Flogging Molly. We go to Vegas to see them play now and then. One such trip we met the drummer, George, wandering around the casino. Flo introduced himself and told him how he had flown out to Dublin, Ohio last summer to see them play.
During the concert the lead singer Dave King paused between songs and said, “Where are those two bastards who flew in from Ohio!”
Of course, the whole crowd was going crazy so he couldn’t see us jumping up and down, waving our arms and George must have been drunk or stoned as he confused the details—but it’s a moot point. We got a song dedicated to us by one of the best current day punk bands in the fuckin’ world! And that will for ever kick ass.
So today’s the day! Happy birthday Flo. I’m privileged to count you as one my best friends. And thanks for helping me get rid of that body. That was the last time and this time I mean it.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
PolygaPISSED!
My corner of the country is close to the heart of what we fondly call “Plyg Country.” The Fundamentalist Ladder Day Saints, or less specifically polygamists, are mere miles from my own fine city. What this means for me and the community is we get to deal with them regularly. They shop here. They work here. They look for new wives here.
You’re thinking, “O’ Bastard— you are funny!”
Shut up, baby—I know.
Seriously though, they are always looking for women. Not so with the men. They have plenty of men you see—so much so that it’s not uncommon to drop off boys where ever with nothing but the clothes on their back.
So, young teen girls who have no sexual knowledge are the hot commodity. Apparently, having as many wives as you can isn’t being greedy—it’s the Plan—as in The Lord’s. So what if you’re 16 and he’s 50? Once you’re married, you are his and you are the lowest rung on a totem pole.
Given the catty nature women can get around each other, I can only imagine the kind of hell it would be to be the new pretty wife, when the head witch, er wife, is getting less desirable with each passing day—with no make up or push up bras to help things along.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for personal choice and I loathe censorship or any sort of institution promoting the idea that there is but a single way to live your life, but this isn’t adult women choosing their husbands. This is 16 year old girls and younger who have grown up on an isolated compound that promotes sexual ignorance—marrying men someone else picked out for them.
Thus the fevered call from the Texas compound that sparked the removal 400 childeren from the compound. “But Bastard, you’re in Utah and that’s in Texas,” you may want to point out. It’s the same sect—when the State gets involved and begins investigating cases, they move the people (usually women crying out for help) to the next state and avoid the heat.
Here’s are some local factoids about polygamists you all might not know.
1. Screw You and you Taxes. If you are brave enough to drive through their town (make sure you have a full tank and you bring your own snacks—they will NOT provide any service to you) you’ll notice a bare wall on all of their houses. They do this because you don’t have to pay taxes on unfinished houses.
2. Slave labor. The boys they decide to keep around are often found jobs in construction. Their paychecks all go in their father’s pocket. As construction goes down, the number of abandoned boys goes up—what would a young man do with a young woman anyways? More for grandpa, sonny! Good luck out there! Try not to get stabbed!
3. Dead babies. Given the statistical probability of having a child with a birth defect, coupled with the inevitability of a level of inbreeding due to a limited gene pool, there should be some “special” kids running around. There are none. None surviving I mean.
(Also along the lines of the gene pool thing—you can spot a polygamist by their facial features alone. They have a look about them.)
4. Unfriendly. If you see a polygamist in town, say at the grocery store, you can smile, wave, say hi all you want—they will not respond. We are NOT part of their cult you see. Clearly, I’m the enemy. What bugs me the most though is you’ll see them everywhere shopping.
Once, my kid said hi to one of their kids. He made the mistake of giving a little wave, earning him a quick smack to the back of his head--which in turn made my child feel responsible and guilty. The poor kid was instantly sad and resumed his staring contest with the ground. I resent having to spend half an hour explaining away what just happened.
5. No Threesomes/Lesbian Action. Seriously, why have multiple women in one relationship if they can’t get down too? Two tongues are better than one! It just seems like a missed opportunity. Maybe on his birthday he lines all his wives up in a row and he moves down the line, penetrating them, once for each year--and she better like it, because this is also all she'll be getting for her birthday!
I have to assume there’s some level donut bumping going on behind the scenes when Mr. Viagra is too tired from making his sons work all day and trading daughters with his neighbors.
You’re thinking, “O’ Bastard— you are funny!”
Shut up, baby—I know.
Seriously though, they are always looking for women. Not so with the men. They have plenty of men you see—so much so that it’s not uncommon to drop off boys where ever with nothing but the clothes on their back.
So, young teen girls who have no sexual knowledge are the hot commodity. Apparently, having as many wives as you can isn’t being greedy—it’s the Plan—as in The Lord’s. So what if you’re 16 and he’s 50? Once you’re married, you are his and you are the lowest rung on a totem pole.
Given the catty nature women can get around each other, I can only imagine the kind of hell it would be to be the new pretty wife, when the head witch, er wife, is getting less desirable with each passing day—with no make up or push up bras to help things along.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for personal choice and I loathe censorship or any sort of institution promoting the idea that there is but a single way to live your life, but this isn’t adult women choosing their husbands. This is 16 year old girls and younger who have grown up on an isolated compound that promotes sexual ignorance—marrying men someone else picked out for them.
Thus the fevered call from the Texas compound that sparked the removal 400 childeren from the compound. “But Bastard, you’re in Utah and that’s in Texas,” you may want to point out. It’s the same sect—when the State gets involved and begins investigating cases, they move the people (usually women crying out for help) to the next state and avoid the heat.
Here’s are some local factoids about polygamists you all might not know.
1. Screw You and you Taxes. If you are brave enough to drive through their town (make sure you have a full tank and you bring your own snacks—they will NOT provide any service to you) you’ll notice a bare wall on all of their houses. They do this because you don’t have to pay taxes on unfinished houses.
2. Slave labor. The boys they decide to keep around are often found jobs in construction. Their paychecks all go in their father’s pocket. As construction goes down, the number of abandoned boys goes up—what would a young man do with a young woman anyways? More for grandpa, sonny! Good luck out there! Try not to get stabbed!
3. Dead babies. Given the statistical probability of having a child with a birth defect, coupled with the inevitability of a level of inbreeding due to a limited gene pool, there should be some “special” kids running around. There are none. None surviving I mean.
(Also along the lines of the gene pool thing—you can spot a polygamist by their facial features alone. They have a look about them.)
4. Unfriendly. If you see a polygamist in town, say at the grocery store, you can smile, wave, say hi all you want—they will not respond. We are NOT part of their cult you see. Clearly, I’m the enemy. What bugs me the most though is you’ll see them everywhere shopping.
Once, my kid said hi to one of their kids. He made the mistake of giving a little wave, earning him a quick smack to the back of his head--which in turn made my child feel responsible and guilty. The poor kid was instantly sad and resumed his staring contest with the ground. I resent having to spend half an hour explaining away what just happened.
5. No Threesomes/Lesbian Action. Seriously, why have multiple women in one relationship if they can’t get down too? Two tongues are better than one! It just seems like a missed opportunity. Maybe on his birthday he lines all his wives up in a row and he moves down the line, penetrating them, once for each year--and she better like it, because this is also all she'll be getting for her birthday!
I have to assume there’s some level donut bumping going on behind the scenes when Mr. Viagra is too tired from making his sons work all day and trading daughters with his neighbors.
Monday, April 7, 2008
This One's For the Lord
The few friends I have usually call and announce they are minutes away. This isn’t because my hatred for the “pop in” visit is fierce enough to be common knowledge, it’s because they know there’s a chance I’ve managed to get Mrs. Bastard all drunk and uninhibited. So when the doorbell rang this Saturday afternoon, I was instantly suspicious.
A man with shaved head and one pale useless eye cocked to the outer corner while the other was a cool shade of blue, looked steadily back at me as I opened the door. He was dressed for church in a long sleeved collared shirt and a simple tie. He held a bible and some magazines.
Behind him my small dog Ellie, a Pomeranian/terrier mix, what I call a mutt, ran excitedly behind a woman holding a baby on one hip and while her other hand rested on a small boy. Ellie held a rare quality for a small dog that made her a tolerable pet—she wasn’t barky.
"We're sharing a bible verse today." He told me. I kept eye contact, thinking, "Oh good. Just what I wanted to do. Shoo a man, his family and the Lord off my doorstep."
My dog hops up on her hind legs when she's excited, and few things excite the lil bitch like people, so she was all but bouncing in front of the lady holding her baby. By her was an empty stroller and I wondered how many hours she had committed to do knock on doors and smile pretty, silently and obediently supporting her master—I mean husband.
"Have you ever thought about the power one man giving his life . . ." he kept talking, but my three year old son ran past me and to the outside foyer where the man’s family had spread out. My own stopped right in front of the man’s son, looking eye to eye, they were the same height exactly. He was in a little button up church outfit. My son was in a plain blue t-shirt and denim shorts--much more Saturday in my mind.
They exchanged greetings.
"Hi!"
"Hi."
"Wanna play m'toys?" My son asked.
His son looked shyly at the ground and nodded yes. My son ran back inside making the "follow me" gesture over his shoulder. His son tried to run past his talking father but was thwarted as his dad blocked the advance by palming his son's skull like a hat and gently pulling him away from my house. He did this without missing a beat as he read from his bible.
I was instantly resentful of this one eyed man going door to door looking for fresh recruits. Before our very eyes our sons had demonstrated how simple getting along could be. But here he was, in my face and at the threshold of my home insisting we talk about religion.
Religion being one of those topics most of us have emotions around. You can't really have a discussion about those kinds of topics, there are just too many nerves you end up raking over.
I live in Southern Utah--I admitted that up front so don't get all weird about it now. Mormons are goddamn everywhere, and I am very used to having neighbors call "The Church" and sending missionaries come knock on my door, you know, just incase I somehow got lost in the shuffle. I'm pretty good at sending 'em packing in a timely fashion.
If these well dressed cats were slinging the LDS version of The Lord this was a new tactic. I have to admit, I didn't quite know how to form the words explaining they had to get going, no offense or anything.
As I silently savored my adrenaline over the anticipation of the conversation I already resented having to have, my son sensed the tension. I looked back at my little guy as the bald man droned on in a voice dull and devoid of emotion. He was wondering if the other kid was going to come in.
I shook my head and he scampered off. I decided passive resistance was my best option. A man in front of his family has a lot on the line—god alone what might provoke a, “You do NOT talk like THAT in front of my FAMILY” kind of response.
Any conversation was a bad idea, especially since I was feeling less than receptive over the entire situation. I let him talk, his bible held open with his finger pointing at the scripture he was reading.
I kept looking at his wife, thinking her plain brown skirt was the kind my own wife would like. She wouldn't look at me. She would look my way putting me in the field of her peripheral vision, but never a direct look.
He finished reading and explained he was sure I'd heard of the magazines he was holding. I didn't look away from his one staring eye. "Nope."
"Would you like these copies? They're free--"
"That's alright."
"Well, they would appeal to any Christian minded person. There's a lot of good stuff." He held them up near his face, insisting I see them.
I said nothing and noticed it was an incredibly nice day. People are generally uncomfortable with silence. I weather it by spacing off.
"Ok." He broke the stare, and stepped back. Like a school of fish changing direction, he and his mute family turned and retreated away from my house. "Have a nice day."
As I wondered over what it must be like to go trick or treating for followers of the Lord, I almost said something back. Something vaguely encouraging like “Good luck out there,” or “May the Dark Unlord Guide thy Shadow,” but instead I shut the door. And locked it.
A man with shaved head and one pale useless eye cocked to the outer corner while the other was a cool shade of blue, looked steadily back at me as I opened the door. He was dressed for church in a long sleeved collared shirt and a simple tie. He held a bible and some magazines.
Behind him my small dog Ellie, a Pomeranian/terrier mix, what I call a mutt, ran excitedly behind a woman holding a baby on one hip and while her other hand rested on a small boy. Ellie held a rare quality for a small dog that made her a tolerable pet—she wasn’t barky.
"We're sharing a bible verse today." He told me. I kept eye contact, thinking, "Oh good. Just what I wanted to do. Shoo a man, his family and the Lord off my doorstep."
My dog hops up on her hind legs when she's excited, and few things excite the lil bitch like people, so she was all but bouncing in front of the lady holding her baby. By her was an empty stroller and I wondered how many hours she had committed to do knock on doors and smile pretty, silently and obediently supporting her master—I mean husband.
"Have you ever thought about the power one man giving his life . . ." he kept talking, but my three year old son ran past me and to the outside foyer where the man’s family had spread out. My own stopped right in front of the man’s son, looking eye to eye, they were the same height exactly. He was in a little button up church outfit. My son was in a plain blue t-shirt and denim shorts--much more Saturday in my mind.
They exchanged greetings.
"Hi!"
"Hi."
"Wanna play m'toys?" My son asked.
His son looked shyly at the ground and nodded yes. My son ran back inside making the "follow me" gesture over his shoulder. His son tried to run past his talking father but was thwarted as his dad blocked the advance by palming his son's skull like a hat and gently pulling him away from my house. He did this without missing a beat as he read from his bible.
I was instantly resentful of this one eyed man going door to door looking for fresh recruits. Before our very eyes our sons had demonstrated how simple getting along could be. But here he was, in my face and at the threshold of my home insisting we talk about religion.
Religion being one of those topics most of us have emotions around. You can't really have a discussion about those kinds of topics, there are just too many nerves you end up raking over.
I live in Southern Utah--I admitted that up front so don't get all weird about it now. Mormons are goddamn everywhere, and I am very used to having neighbors call "The Church" and sending missionaries come knock on my door, you know, just incase I somehow got lost in the shuffle. I'm pretty good at sending 'em packing in a timely fashion.
If these well dressed cats were slinging the LDS version of The Lord this was a new tactic. I have to admit, I didn't quite know how to form the words explaining they had to get going, no offense or anything.
As I silently savored my adrenaline over the anticipation of the conversation I already resented having to have, my son sensed the tension. I looked back at my little guy as the bald man droned on in a voice dull and devoid of emotion. He was wondering if the other kid was going to come in.
I shook my head and he scampered off. I decided passive resistance was my best option. A man in front of his family has a lot on the line—god alone what might provoke a, “You do NOT talk like THAT in front of my FAMILY” kind of response.
Any conversation was a bad idea, especially since I was feeling less than receptive over the entire situation. I let him talk, his bible held open with his finger pointing at the scripture he was reading.
I kept looking at his wife, thinking her plain brown skirt was the kind my own wife would like. She wouldn't look at me. She would look my way putting me in the field of her peripheral vision, but never a direct look.
He finished reading and explained he was sure I'd heard of the magazines he was holding. I didn't look away from his one staring eye. "Nope."
"Would you like these copies? They're free--"
"That's alright."
"Well, they would appeal to any Christian minded person. There's a lot of good stuff." He held them up near his face, insisting I see them.
I said nothing and noticed it was an incredibly nice day. People are generally uncomfortable with silence. I weather it by spacing off.
"Ok." He broke the stare, and stepped back. Like a school of fish changing direction, he and his mute family turned and retreated away from my house. "Have a nice day."
As I wondered over what it must be like to go trick or treating for followers of the Lord, I almost said something back. Something vaguely encouraging like “Good luck out there,” or “May the Dark Unlord Guide thy Shadow,” but instead I shut the door. And locked it.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Dude in a Truck
I live in an expanding area known collectively as Southern Utah, which is basically a couple of cities in the south west corner of the state. My own town is a smallish city surrounded by little cities. All you need to do is cross the street and tada! You’re in a new city, you know, technically.
The redneck community here is huge; mostly because they’re protected by the predominant religious group (and vice versa). I think they’re called Mormons or something.
One of the consequences of this fine social arrangement--big trucks everywhere. I don’t mean fun, sporty off-road trucks, I mean in order to get a truck bigger than the ones you see all around town, you would have take a class and get your drivers license updated. These trucks guzzle the diesel fuel and have hoods that are eye level and wheels small children can hide behind without ducking.
“What’s the big deal, Bastard? Nothing wrong with a truck, right?”
To which I respond, “SHUT UP! QUIT QUESTIONING ME AT EVERY TURN!”
But, after the rage fades back from my red filled vision, I’d help you back up, lend you a handkerchief for your freshly bloodied nose and point out it’s one thing to have a lifestyle that demands you have a vehicle of that sort—boats to get to the lake, ATV’s to transport, large quantities of uncut coke to smuggle, etc—but it’s another thing entirely to have a truck just for truck’s sake.
Most of these guys, though, they don’t have that kind of lifestyle. These guys don’t even understand why everyone is forever asking for them to help people move—you’d probably scratch the paint!
We call them “Dudes in a truck,” (to be said like you were Samuel L. Jackson talking about Snakes on a muffuggin’ Plane) and we make fun of their penis size--clearly they're huge. They really are everywhere.
You can hear these diesel fueled beasts humming at every red light. One such evening found me first in line at a red light, and to my right at the line with me was a Dude in a Truck.
I was driving my Caddy—the ’88 Eldorado kind, and I was toying with the idea of provoking the Dude. All it would take to utilize the eight cylinders under my hood was a heavy foot on accelerate once the light turned. Dudes in Trucks can not tolerate lesser vehicles taking on airs or acting better in any way shape or form.
I decided there was no point to it. I take limited enjoyment in provoking the reaction I postulated would occur, but Dudes in a Truck aren’t that hard to predict, so really, it’s not that challenging kind of fun, so I dismissed the idea.
Until I looked in my rear view and saw the telltale silloette of hood lights atop of a cop car two cars behind me.
The light turned and I hit the gas. I got up to the legal speed limit—35mph, before I was even across the intersection. The Dude took notice and responded in kind. After I got up to speed though, I eased off the accelerator and the Dude and his Truck flew by me, his roaring diesel engine all but shouting “OUT OF THE WAY, ME AND MY HUGE COCK HAVE THREE PARKING SPOTS TO GO PARK IN!”
Seconds later the cop bolted past me, lights flashing.
I laughed the whole way home. It took a few minutes to compose myself and explain my split side to Mrs. Bastard. Granted, the cop who pulled The Dude in a Truck over was probably his second cousin or a church mate of some kind. But even if he didn’t get a ticket—it feels like a victory, and that’s how I score it.
The redneck community here is huge; mostly because they’re protected by the predominant religious group (and vice versa). I think they’re called Mormons or something.
One of the consequences of this fine social arrangement--big trucks everywhere. I don’t mean fun, sporty off-road trucks, I mean in order to get a truck bigger than the ones you see all around town, you would have take a class and get your drivers license updated. These trucks guzzle the diesel fuel and have hoods that are eye level and wheels small children can hide behind without ducking.
“What’s the big deal, Bastard? Nothing wrong with a truck, right?”
To which I respond, “SHUT UP! QUIT QUESTIONING ME AT EVERY TURN!”
But, after the rage fades back from my red filled vision, I’d help you back up, lend you a handkerchief for your freshly bloodied nose and point out it’s one thing to have a lifestyle that demands you have a vehicle of that sort—boats to get to the lake, ATV’s to transport, large quantities of uncut coke to smuggle, etc—but it’s another thing entirely to have a truck just for truck’s sake.
Most of these guys, though, they don’t have that kind of lifestyle. These guys don’t even understand why everyone is forever asking for them to help people move—you’d probably scratch the paint!
We call them “Dudes in a truck,” (to be said like you were Samuel L. Jackson talking about Snakes on a muffuggin’ Plane) and we make fun of their penis size--clearly they're huge. They really are everywhere.
You can hear these diesel fueled beasts humming at every red light. One such evening found me first in line at a red light, and to my right at the line with me was a Dude in a Truck.
I was driving my Caddy—the ’88 Eldorado kind, and I was toying with the idea of provoking the Dude. All it would take to utilize the eight cylinders under my hood was a heavy foot on accelerate once the light turned. Dudes in Trucks can not tolerate lesser vehicles taking on airs or acting better in any way shape or form.
I decided there was no point to it. I take limited enjoyment in provoking the reaction I postulated would occur, but Dudes in a Truck aren’t that hard to predict, so really, it’s not that challenging kind of fun, so I dismissed the idea.
Until I looked in my rear view and saw the telltale silloette of hood lights atop of a cop car two cars behind me.
The light turned and I hit the gas. I got up to the legal speed limit—35mph, before I was even across the intersection. The Dude took notice and responded in kind. After I got up to speed though, I eased off the accelerator and the Dude and his Truck flew by me, his roaring diesel engine all but shouting “OUT OF THE WAY, ME AND MY HUGE COCK HAVE THREE PARKING SPOTS TO GO PARK IN!”
Seconds later the cop bolted past me, lights flashing.
I laughed the whole way home. It took a few minutes to compose myself and explain my split side to Mrs. Bastard. Granted, the cop who pulled The Dude in a Truck over was probably his second cousin or a church mate of some kind. But even if he didn’t get a ticket—it feels like a victory, and that’s how I score it.
Monday, March 31, 2008
MLB Opening Day…Kinda
I know what you’re thinking. “Ah Jesus, I hate baseball!” Shut up! You think I haven’t noticed the large population that doesn’t like baseball? My poor wife has been forced to put up a pretty convincing façade for the last couple of seasons, which basically involved me sneaking up on her and putting her in an arm lock until she could tell me who was pitching today’s game. We’re both hoping I find a local baseball friend.
There are different levels of not liking baseball, most of which involve some level of blaming a “slowness” of the game. What irritates me to no end is in the same breath I’ll get told the intricacies’ of baseball are too boring to hold enough appeal to maintain any level of interest—but hey did you see the big golf tournament this weekend? Or the NASCAR race?
There’s the situational dislike where one can enjoy the sport if one is part of the crowd at the live event, but it is boring. But you have to be dead in that certain spot inside to be the guy who doesn’t like going out to a live sporting event and watching the teams compete.
Some people can enjoy the sport on TV, but only in the presence of a crowd—typically you need at leas three real fan’s to bolster this person’s willingness to get into the televised game. And booze—never underestimate the fist pumping effect of booze.
And of course, there are those who claim to understand baseball they just don’t get it. Which, I’m afraid is a whole other rant—because this is more or less a way of them saying “Ok, I’m smart enough I could understand baseball, I’m just not interested enough to learn the rules.”
So yes, there are boring qualities to baseball—but all sports have that. Football has rapid fire commercial after commercial, basketball takes three quarters to set up, and hockey isn’t 100% brawling on ice skates.
One thing that has me scratching my head this year is the whole “Opening Day” thing. On the one hand, the Boston Red Sox and the Oakland Athletics played two of their regular season games, but on the other hand it was untelevised and in Japan. I’m getting worried as what seems to be underlying greed is dictating the flow of baseball.
Last night, the Braves played Nationals in D.C.’s brand new baseball stadium, which means every time something happened, I got to hear to the phrase, “And that was the first _____ ever here in D.C.” First hit, first strike out, first walk…the list goes on and on. It was the only game on, which is typical for baseball’s opening day.
Soiling the event for me though was president Bush. Not only did he throw out the first pitch to the a mixed roar or chears and definite boos, but he sat up in the booth for a few innings, mentioning how he was the president of the Texas Rangers at some point in his past. The less the Bush family’s involvement with baseball can be pointed out for me the better. Now I have to hate the Ranger’s on principle.
It was a good game though, the Nats won in the 10th inning on a solo homerun from their third basemen, Zimmerman—for first time ever in the new ballpark! Really, the Nationals are a shitty team, so them winning in extra innings is usually reason enough to get a little crazy.
Today, all the other teams are playing their first games. My Dbacks are playing the Cincinnati Reds for their first game of the year. I’ll be at work, listening to the game via internet radio and a paid subscription. I’d pay more to watch the games, but for some reason I am blacked out. I’ll be at the office while the game is on though; which means I get to subject myself to the reaction of people as they find out not only do I like baseball; I listen to games on the radio.
So, to all the fans and non fans alike, celebrating the love or turning the cold shoulder of indifference—one thing is for sure, after today, it’s about 160 games to go! And since half the teams are on the road, there are still fan’s waiting for the home opener!
Maybe that’s what I like about baseball. It never ends.
There are different levels of not liking baseball, most of which involve some level of blaming a “slowness” of the game. What irritates me to no end is in the same breath I’ll get told the intricacies’ of baseball are too boring to hold enough appeal to maintain any level of interest—but hey did you see the big golf tournament this weekend? Or the NASCAR race?
There’s the situational dislike where one can enjoy the sport if one is part of the crowd at the live event, but it is boring. But you have to be dead in that certain spot inside to be the guy who doesn’t like going out to a live sporting event and watching the teams compete.
Some people can enjoy the sport on TV, but only in the presence of a crowd—typically you need at leas three real fan’s to bolster this person’s willingness to get into the televised game. And booze—never underestimate the fist pumping effect of booze.
And of course, there are those who claim to understand baseball they just don’t get it. Which, I’m afraid is a whole other rant—because this is more or less a way of them saying “Ok, I’m smart enough I could understand baseball, I’m just not interested enough to learn the rules.”
So yes, there are boring qualities to baseball—but all sports have that. Football has rapid fire commercial after commercial, basketball takes three quarters to set up, and hockey isn’t 100% brawling on ice skates.
One thing that has me scratching my head this year is the whole “Opening Day” thing. On the one hand, the Boston Red Sox and the Oakland Athletics played two of their regular season games, but on the other hand it was untelevised and in Japan. I’m getting worried as what seems to be underlying greed is dictating the flow of baseball.
Last night, the Braves played Nationals in D.C.’s brand new baseball stadium, which means every time something happened, I got to hear to the phrase, “And that was the first _____ ever here in D.C.” First hit, first strike out, first walk…the list goes on and on. It was the only game on, which is typical for baseball’s opening day.
Soiling the event for me though was president Bush. Not only did he throw out the first pitch to the a mixed roar or chears and definite boos, but he sat up in the booth for a few innings, mentioning how he was the president of the Texas Rangers at some point in his past. The less the Bush family’s involvement with baseball can be pointed out for me the better. Now I have to hate the Ranger’s on principle.
It was a good game though, the Nats won in the 10th inning on a solo homerun from their third basemen, Zimmerman—for first time ever in the new ballpark! Really, the Nationals are a shitty team, so them winning in extra innings is usually reason enough to get a little crazy.
Today, all the other teams are playing their first games. My Dbacks are playing the Cincinnati Reds for their first game of the year. I’ll be at work, listening to the game via internet radio and a paid subscription. I’d pay more to watch the games, but for some reason I am blacked out. I’ll be at the office while the game is on though; which means I get to subject myself to the reaction of people as they find out not only do I like baseball; I listen to games on the radio.
So, to all the fans and non fans alike, celebrating the love or turning the cold shoulder of indifference—one thing is for sure, after today, it’s about 160 games to go! And since half the teams are on the road, there are still fan’s waiting for the home opener!
Maybe that’s what I like about baseball. It never ends.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
I Still Hate Gau
The first time I played Final Fantasy 6 was on my 16th birthday. It was on the Super Nintendo, and it was called Final Fantasy 3. The names were all CAPS, and all the attacks had different names.
I beat the game a few times and it quickly became my favorite in a series I would eventually fall out of love with. It’s me Final Fantasy, not you. Ok, that’s a lie. I just don’t need all the flashy graphics—I need a more compelling story.
Being an admitted sucker, I bought the game again as part of a collection for the Playstation. It said Final Fantasy VI on the title screen. Now included were cinematics at the beginning and end of the game, a bestiary of all the monsters and as a bonus, annoying load times whenever you left orentered a town, or on the rare occation wanted to view your party screen.
I bought it a third time. Now, it’s Final Fantasy VI Advance. Gone are the load times and CGI cinematic, but still remaining is the bestiary. The names of the characters aren’t all in caps anymore, and some of the names are spelled a little different (Saban is now Sabin).
That’s not why I bought the game though. I grew up with video games. My first system was an Atari. I can’t help but be old school—so old school I don’t even spell old school “old skool. I’m part of the collective nostalgia of gamers is selling so well.
I can’t lie; I love my Game Boy Advance. I used to take paperbacks with me everywhere I went, just in case I had to entertain myself (it’s that or converse with people!). GBA’s are even smaller than your average paperback—it’s a bit bigger than a pad of post it’s. There’s something sexy about always having a SNES in my pocket.
My nostalgia has gotten the better of me, because I had a thorough blast with this game. I handed Kefka his obnoxious head back to him to and avenged the world, which opened up two new bonus levels, including an increadibly hard Dragon’s Den. How hard? Basicly, maxing out your level isn’t a strategy as much as a requirement. Be prepared for insanely hard random monsters topped off with a fight with a very powerful Dragon preventing you from going to the next floor.
I’m hoping for some strong poo sessions to probel me through this dungeon. So far though, I’ve been regular old me, which is enough to wander around and take out a few bad guys. But, the save anywhere feature limits me to use this as any sort of excuse.
Personally, I think the only way they could have improved on this game is by giving you the option of killing Gau. It’s ironic that Gau’s only form of attack is Rage, as this is all having him in the party seems to cause me.
For the non-gaming readers; Gau is the Wheely of Transformers, the Orioles of Baseball, the Heat of Basketball, the Utah of the United States…you should get it by now.
I beat the game a few times and it quickly became my favorite in a series I would eventually fall out of love with. It’s me Final Fantasy, not you. Ok, that’s a lie. I just don’t need all the flashy graphics—I need a more compelling story.
Being an admitted sucker, I bought the game again as part of a collection for the Playstation. It said Final Fantasy VI on the title screen. Now included were cinematics at the beginning and end of the game, a bestiary of all the monsters and as a bonus, annoying load times whenever you left orentered a town, or on the rare occation wanted to view your party screen.
I bought it a third time. Now, it’s Final Fantasy VI Advance. Gone are the load times and CGI cinematic, but still remaining is the bestiary. The names of the characters aren’t all in caps anymore, and some of the names are spelled a little different (Saban is now Sabin).
That’s not why I bought the game though. I grew up with video games. My first system was an Atari. I can’t help but be old school—so old school I don’t even spell old school “old skool. I’m part of the collective nostalgia of gamers is selling so well.
I can’t lie; I love my Game Boy Advance. I used to take paperbacks with me everywhere I went, just in case I had to entertain myself (it’s that or converse with people!). GBA’s are even smaller than your average paperback—it’s a bit bigger than a pad of post it’s. There’s something sexy about always having a SNES in my pocket.
My nostalgia has gotten the better of me, because I had a thorough blast with this game. I handed Kefka his obnoxious head back to him to and avenged the world, which opened up two new bonus levels, including an increadibly hard Dragon’s Den. How hard? Basicly, maxing out your level isn’t a strategy as much as a requirement. Be prepared for insanely hard random monsters topped off with a fight with a very powerful Dragon preventing you from going to the next floor.
I’m hoping for some strong poo sessions to probel me through this dungeon. So far though, I’ve been regular old me, which is enough to wander around and take out a few bad guys. But, the save anywhere feature limits me to use this as any sort of excuse.
Personally, I think the only way they could have improved on this game is by giving you the option of killing Gau. It’s ironic that Gau’s only form of attack is Rage, as this is all having him in the party seems to cause me.
For the non-gaming readers; Gau is the Wheely of Transformers, the Orioles of Baseball, the Heat of Basketball, the Utah of the United States…you should get it by now.
Monday, March 24, 2008
Part II: The Fall of Meathead
I’m all for breaking the rules. But I’m also very much for not getting caught. In fact the latter dictates my willingness to commit the former. Meathead has a different set of rules.
While he served an off shift coworker and her giggling friends, Meathead thought he would up his awesome points with the ladies by “forgetting” to ring up their drinks and sneaking in a free appetizer. I think it made him feel good to flex his bicep with the motion of setting it down and slyly whispering, “It’s on the house.” I bet he’s got a great wink because he’s just so smooth.
Somehow in the course of restaurant history manager’s have picked up on this little exchange. I’ve worked in kitchens where employees did not eat free—unless you were in good with the cooks. That was on shift though. Not out on the serving floor.
Another manager than my own Mrs. Bastard was on shift. Somehow, he was able to walk past the table of giggling girls and notice they were drinking sodas and sharing an appetizer. Somehow he was able to check out their check after they left. Somehow he was able to decipher not all items were on the check.
Sitting down in the small manager’s office, the confronted Meathead plays it smooth. “No way they got drinks. There’s just no way. I might have forgotten to ring in the appetizer.”
To which the manager replied, “Sure, ok. We’re letting you go.”
Meathead is smooth though. He knows his rights. No way you can get fired for giving shit away. That’s barely, technically, a definition for stealing.
“I’ll sue. I’m suing you.”
Here’s the best part. If Meathead had simply served the food and rang everything in and then applied the employee discount, the end total of the check would have been less than the check he brought them. Granted, that’s less impressive maybe to the girls he was winking at. But he ended up costing the giggling girls more and got fired for his trouble.
Rest in peace, oh mighty Meathead.
While he served an off shift coworker and her giggling friends, Meathead thought he would up his awesome points with the ladies by “forgetting” to ring up their drinks and sneaking in a free appetizer. I think it made him feel good to flex his bicep with the motion of setting it down and slyly whispering, “It’s on the house.” I bet he’s got a great wink because he’s just so smooth.
Somehow in the course of restaurant history manager’s have picked up on this little exchange. I’ve worked in kitchens where employees did not eat free—unless you were in good with the cooks. That was on shift though. Not out on the serving floor.
Another manager than my own Mrs. Bastard was on shift. Somehow, he was able to walk past the table of giggling girls and notice they were drinking sodas and sharing an appetizer. Somehow he was able to check out their check after they left. Somehow he was able to decipher not all items were on the check.
Sitting down in the small manager’s office, the confronted Meathead plays it smooth. “No way they got drinks. There’s just no way. I might have forgotten to ring in the appetizer.”
To which the manager replied, “Sure, ok. We’re letting you go.”
Meathead is smooth though. He knows his rights. No way you can get fired for giving shit away. That’s barely, technically, a definition for stealing.
“I’ll sue. I’m suing you.”
Here’s the best part. If Meathead had simply served the food and rang everything in and then applied the employee discount, the end total of the check would have been less than the check he brought them. Granted, that’s less impressive maybe to the girls he was winking at. But he ended up costing the giggling girls more and got fired for his trouble.
Rest in peace, oh mighty Meathead.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Part I: The Rise of Meathead
Mrs. Bastard manages at a chain restaurant—money and insurance, hell yeah. A fringe benefit is that when I stumble in and demand free food I get it without having to pull out a gun. Any unfortunate being with me—typically a coworker I’ve blackmailed, gets a descent discount on their meal.
One such occasion found me, a co-worker and two of his buddies in a booth enjoying the lazy kind of lunch in which you’re in no hurry to get back to the office. The two buddies had just opened up their own carpentry business—literally, they had got the keys to their shop that day.
I was feeling generous (and probably a little drunk) so I decided to pick up the check to celebrate the new business. It came to a little over $14. I shoved a twenty dollar bill at our server when he brought the check—enter Meathead.
He was a manly man with a barbed wire band tattoo on his bicep which was hard to miss with his sleeve rolled up. He had a weight lifter’s arms-out posture and a bleached teeth smile. His hair was a moussed up spike job on hair too long to be spiked, so the tips wilted and bounced as he moved. It was too dark to tell if his tan was a fake-bake job or the result of sitting in an UV illuminated coffin.
My coworker threw in the tip and I added the change from the bill to it to make it bigger; just for fun. We left our $15 on the table and were on our way.
I’m at work for about an hour when my wife calls. “Hi Honey! Did you leave a tip earlier?”
“Um, yeah, a pretty big one. Fifteen bucks.”
“Ok,” she laughed a little knowing laugh.“All I needed to know,” and she got off the phone (after some phone sex).
Meathead forgot he already took the money for our check—and our large tip confused him to no end. He thought we left him change for a tip. My wife calmly explained the mistake. Meathead refused to believe he had somehow misinterpreted reality—why did this keep happening to him?
Even at the end of the day when people who had served me before assured him there was no way I would have stiffed him, he still believed.
Even after he counted up his tip money and being pleasantly surprised when the amount was larger than expected, as he hadn’t had too many tables this day, he believed. In the face of all the contradictory facts he held firm (see what Christianity is doing to dumb people!).
Why?
Why does the bird take to the air! Why does the cat chase bits of yarn! Why are boobs so fucking cool!
Such is meathead!
One such occasion found me, a co-worker and two of his buddies in a booth enjoying the lazy kind of lunch in which you’re in no hurry to get back to the office. The two buddies had just opened up their own carpentry business—literally, they had got the keys to their shop that day.
I was feeling generous (and probably a little drunk) so I decided to pick up the check to celebrate the new business. It came to a little over $14. I shoved a twenty dollar bill at our server when he brought the check—enter Meathead.
He was a manly man with a barbed wire band tattoo on his bicep which was hard to miss with his sleeve rolled up. He had a weight lifter’s arms-out posture and a bleached teeth smile. His hair was a moussed up spike job on hair too long to be spiked, so the tips wilted and bounced as he moved. It was too dark to tell if his tan was a fake-bake job or the result of sitting in an UV illuminated coffin.
My coworker threw in the tip and I added the change from the bill to it to make it bigger; just for fun. We left our $15 on the table and were on our way.
I’m at work for about an hour when my wife calls. “Hi Honey! Did you leave a tip earlier?”
“Um, yeah, a pretty big one. Fifteen bucks.”
“Ok,” she laughed a little knowing laugh.“All I needed to know,” and she got off the phone (after some phone sex).
Meathead forgot he already took the money for our check—and our large tip confused him to no end. He thought we left him change for a tip. My wife calmly explained the mistake. Meathead refused to believe he had somehow misinterpreted reality—why did this keep happening to him?
Even at the end of the day when people who had served me before assured him there was no way I would have stiffed him, he still believed.
Even after he counted up his tip money and being pleasantly surprised when the amount was larger than expected, as he hadn’t had too many tables this day, he believed. In the face of all the contradictory facts he held firm (see what Christianity is doing to dumb people!).
Why?
Why does the bird take to the air! Why does the cat chase bits of yarn! Why are boobs so fucking cool!
Such is meathead!
Monday, March 17, 2008
Kiss me, I'm drunk!
As a man of Irish decent, I'd be embaressed if I didn't wish you all a happy St. Patty's day in this super awesome BONUS POST! Me, I've been drinking since I woke up. I don't even like drinking that much, but hey, I gotta honor my heritage, even here at work. But I'm legally protected since I'm Irish (I assume).
Drinking all day--I'll drink to that!
Drinking all day--I'll drink to that!
Is There Anything More Patriotic Than Being a Criminal?
My route to work skirts a rocky foothill. The road isn’t right along the base, but up and around the middle. To left is some hill covered in black lava rock, to the right is a down slope and a few connecting roads. Driving to work, I passed one of the hills and saw a cop, perched and hidden by the angle of the slope. It gave him bull’s eye aim with his trusty radar gun.
Not a big deal to me—I like to speed, but only when it’s appropriate. Say on a five hour trip where some choice speeding can shave off half an hour of drive time. The day in question though; I was driving to work. Needless to say, I was in no hurry.
The word “police” means to protect the peace, which got me wondering what the fuck a speeding ticket has to do with keeping society’s peace. Which got me thinking further; what does most of the shit you can get a ticket for have to do with the protection of peace?
I like to check my local booking’s page. Sometimes I’m looking for people I know, sometimes I just want to see who’s having a worse day than myself. Listed with the images are the arrestable indiscretions are the charges and fines. Sometimes it’s hundreds, sometimes it’s in the ten’s of thousands.
I had speeding ticket I let lapse. It was $87, but after I didn’t pay it within the allotted time; a warrant was issued. If I had gotten pulled over for whatever reason, I would have gone to jail, at which point many more fees would have been tacked on. Lucky for me, I paid the ticket before I encountered a cop.
No other institution can legally kidnap you until you pay the pre-determined ransom.
Let me just say—I don’t like cops but I don’t hate them either. I don’t think anyone should be hated for their job—not cops, hookers, even politicians. I am suspicious of the underlying desire to want to become a cop though. Not all cops, but the cops who are so straight laced they tend to hate any deviance of the law enough that they want to directly go out and cuff them. Developmentaly, black and white thinking is found in eight year olds, and is followed by the ability to have absract thought.
Considering all the fines levied against citizens, I can’t help but see the underlying function of cops not as protectors but as glorified hall monitors who’s main purpose is to generate income by catching rule breakers who are breaking some pretty arbitrary laws.
It’s a $45 ticket if you choose not to wear a seatbelt. Is it dumb not to buckle up? Only if you consider the laws of physics and energy distribution when high speeds suddenly become no speed. Is it because the state has a genuine concern for it’s citizens? I’d say that’s hard to argue in Utah, where you can ride your motorcycle without a helmet.
Also; cop’s in this state get an amount added to their pension per seatbelt ticket—I think it’s $12, I’m not sure though. There are probably other pension stuffing tickets, but the seatbelt fine is the only one I know of.
The last ticket I got, the cop told me to slow it down, to which I replied, “Then what would you do all day?”
“Have a nice day,” was all he said.
Really though, if everyone stopped breaking our laws and no one got arrested—it would be horrible for the state and it’s budget. States would go bankrupt within a month. Criminals are paying into a large chunk of state income. Criminals are patriots and they have the reciepts to prove it.
Honestly, I think if crime just stopped we would see our laws tighten up. More of our daily lives would be monitored and fined. I suspect we’re only a few years off from thought-crimes.
Most times, I’m an admitted pessimist. But I think the difference between pessimism and optimism is how often one likes to be right.
So be a patriot! Commit a crime (and get caught).
Not a big deal to me—I like to speed, but only when it’s appropriate. Say on a five hour trip where some choice speeding can shave off half an hour of drive time. The day in question though; I was driving to work. Needless to say, I was in no hurry.
The word “police” means to protect the peace, which got me wondering what the fuck a speeding ticket has to do with keeping society’s peace. Which got me thinking further; what does most of the shit you can get a ticket for have to do with the protection of peace?
I like to check my local booking’s page. Sometimes I’m looking for people I know, sometimes I just want to see who’s having a worse day than myself. Listed with the images are the arrestable indiscretions are the charges and fines. Sometimes it’s hundreds, sometimes it’s in the ten’s of thousands.
I had speeding ticket I let lapse. It was $87, but after I didn’t pay it within the allotted time; a warrant was issued. If I had gotten pulled over for whatever reason, I would have gone to jail, at which point many more fees would have been tacked on. Lucky for me, I paid the ticket before I encountered a cop.
No other institution can legally kidnap you until you pay the pre-determined ransom.
Let me just say—I don’t like cops but I don’t hate them either. I don’t think anyone should be hated for their job—not cops, hookers, even politicians. I am suspicious of the underlying desire to want to become a cop though. Not all cops, but the cops who are so straight laced they tend to hate any deviance of the law enough that they want to directly go out and cuff them. Developmentaly, black and white thinking is found in eight year olds, and is followed by the ability to have absract thought.
Considering all the fines levied against citizens, I can’t help but see the underlying function of cops not as protectors but as glorified hall monitors who’s main purpose is to generate income by catching rule breakers who are breaking some pretty arbitrary laws.
It’s a $45 ticket if you choose not to wear a seatbelt. Is it dumb not to buckle up? Only if you consider the laws of physics and energy distribution when high speeds suddenly become no speed. Is it because the state has a genuine concern for it’s citizens? I’d say that’s hard to argue in Utah, where you can ride your motorcycle without a helmet.
Also; cop’s in this state get an amount added to their pension per seatbelt ticket—I think it’s $12, I’m not sure though. There are probably other pension stuffing tickets, but the seatbelt fine is the only one I know of.
The last ticket I got, the cop told me to slow it down, to which I replied, “Then what would you do all day?”
“Have a nice day,” was all he said.
Really though, if everyone stopped breaking our laws and no one got arrested—it would be horrible for the state and it’s budget. States would go bankrupt within a month. Criminals are paying into a large chunk of state income. Criminals are patriots and they have the reciepts to prove it.
Honestly, I think if crime just stopped we would see our laws tighten up. More of our daily lives would be monitored and fined. I suspect we’re only a few years off from thought-crimes.
Most times, I’m an admitted pessimist. But I think the difference between pessimism and optimism is how often one likes to be right.
So be a patriot! Commit a crime (and get caught).
Thursday, March 13, 2008
God of What?
WAR mother fucker. As in the video game. No, I’m not turning this into a video game blog; but I am talking about games today. Piss me off though and I’ll go fan boy so fast on you jerks. . . .
Monday, March 10, 2008
Why I Beat My Wife When My Steak Isn't Medium Rare
I had ordered paper trays at work, four levels of planes for me to fan out my papers upon. They arrived with the office’s mass order, and as the secretary sifted through the box, she came upon the paper trays.
“Those are mine,” I told her.
She looked from me, to the paper trays and back to me. She was unsure about handing it to me. “I can’t tell if you’re serious,” she confessed.
Bingo-bango! I get this comment a lot (about being serious, not the bingo-bango thing). Making people laugh is easy for me; it provides the illusion that I get along with people. But my constant joking has that lingering effect. Really though, I’m avoiding having direct focus on myself. So believe it or not the topic this close me aren’t going to be terribly frequent—so savor this rare flavor.
I have to admit the paper tray scenario threw me off. “Haha—psych! No way those are mine, idiot!” I mean, I fuck with people, but not randomly enough to provoke the kind of paranoia that one should doubt I would have use of a common office item.
I get the “are you serious” look in bunches from the unfortunates new to the experience of having a certified Bastard in their life. This effect bleeds through to different aspects of my life, and now that I’m indulging in the self gratification of a blog, the question is being shot my way again.
Currently, the biggest concern is people are worried Mrs. Bastard has sobered up and is leaving me. Let me assure everyone, she’s addicted to at least three substances only I can provide—so she may stray but she aint going far.
Honestly though; she’s been my girl for 11+ years now. We’ve actually grown into one of those annoying happy couples who genuinely like each other. My poor wife is pretty much one my best friends—which makes a kind of sense, as it’s a short list that includes some of let’s say are “unique” individuals.
It was not instantly that way—we worked through a couple rough years to get here, which as near as I can tell is an unavoidable step. The great thing is we got married young. I was 18 and she was 16. Our births are separated by a year and a half. Oh, and she was pregnant with our love child.
So, there wasn’t anyone at our wedding with either of the following thoughts firing:
“These kids really have a chance!”
-or-
“This is a great idea.”
Regardless, my wife and I have watched with much glee as other lesser, higher ranked relationships festered and broke apart, withered and wilted in the dark misery that only two adults forcing a bad situation can produce.
Those couples who are staying together “for the kids,” are our favorites because there’s no way kids notice there parents are the most miserable when together, and really, an unhappy marriage a great reason to drink. I also admit there’s something about hearing how another baby is going fix everything--it just turns us on.
Here’s a few reasons why I think we made it whilst other couples—especially the very young couples, didn’t.
We grew together. My girl isn’t one to jump in and participate in all of my interests—but she loves hearing about them, or at least can fake it well enough that her questions sound more genuine that obligatory. So even as I went from ignoring sports to being a hardcore baseball fan (of the non-fantasy league type), she’s been there. She accepted that she had to love the Dbacks and just went with it.
We both like sex. No two people I’ve met have the exact same sex drive, libido and kinky side. I think all of us have those aspects included in our sexual selves—and many more not mentioned, but me and Mrs. Bastard’s are pretty damn close, and if nothing else we’re definitely on the same page.
There are some mismatches though. I don’t like make up sex as soon as her, for example. The fight might be over but I need longer than average to cool down. She likes to be reassured all well; and for some reason doing it after a fight does that for her. Me, I’m more of a, “I unpacked my suitcase—quit kissing my neck!”
The big three. They say the most common reason for divorce fall into three major categories (and a zillion sub categories). They are—money, sex and religion. We agree and have similar beliefs about all three. In fact, we generally agree—what’s for dinner, should we beat the kids, what time should the Valentine’s hooker show up, that kind of crap.
There are more reasons; but really, how much of this can you people want to hear about. So just remember; jokes aside, Mrs. Bastard and I shouldn’t be anything to be concerned with. Go with it. Laugh. It’s ok. I’m really actually kinda nice to her.
“Those are mine,” I told her.
She looked from me, to the paper trays and back to me. She was unsure about handing it to me. “I can’t tell if you’re serious,” she confessed.
Bingo-bango! I get this comment a lot (about being serious, not the bingo-bango thing). Making people laugh is easy for me; it provides the illusion that I get along with people. But my constant joking has that lingering effect. Really though, I’m avoiding having direct focus on myself. So believe it or not the topic this close me aren’t going to be terribly frequent—so savor this rare flavor.
I have to admit the paper tray scenario threw me off. “Haha—psych! No way those are mine, idiot!” I mean, I fuck with people, but not randomly enough to provoke the kind of paranoia that one should doubt I would have use of a common office item.
I get the “are you serious” look in bunches from the unfortunates new to the experience of having a certified Bastard in their life. This effect bleeds through to different aspects of my life, and now that I’m indulging in the self gratification of a blog, the question is being shot my way again.
Currently, the biggest concern is people are worried Mrs. Bastard has sobered up and is leaving me. Let me assure everyone, she’s addicted to at least three substances only I can provide—so she may stray but she aint going far.
Honestly though; she’s been my girl for 11+ years now. We’ve actually grown into one of those annoying happy couples who genuinely like each other. My poor wife is pretty much one my best friends—which makes a kind of sense, as it’s a short list that includes some of let’s say are “unique” individuals.
It was not instantly that way—we worked through a couple rough years to get here, which as near as I can tell is an unavoidable step. The great thing is we got married young. I was 18 and she was 16. Our births are separated by a year and a half. Oh, and she was pregnant with our love child.
So, there wasn’t anyone at our wedding with either of the following thoughts firing:
“These kids really have a chance!”
-or-
“This is a great idea.”
Regardless, my wife and I have watched with much glee as other lesser, higher ranked relationships festered and broke apart, withered and wilted in the dark misery that only two adults forcing a bad situation can produce.
Those couples who are staying together “for the kids,” are our favorites because there’s no way kids notice there parents are the most miserable when together, and really, an unhappy marriage a great reason to drink. I also admit there’s something about hearing how another baby is going fix everything--it just turns us on.
Here’s a few reasons why I think we made it whilst other couples—especially the very young couples, didn’t.
We grew together. My girl isn’t one to jump in and participate in all of my interests—but she loves hearing about them, or at least can fake it well enough that her questions sound more genuine that obligatory. So even as I went from ignoring sports to being a hardcore baseball fan (of the non-fantasy league type), she’s been there. She accepted that she had to love the Dbacks and just went with it.
We both like sex. No two people I’ve met have the exact same sex drive, libido and kinky side. I think all of us have those aspects included in our sexual selves—and many more not mentioned, but me and Mrs. Bastard’s are pretty damn close, and if nothing else we’re definitely on the same page.
There are some mismatches though. I don’t like make up sex as soon as her, for example. The fight might be over but I need longer than average to cool down. She likes to be reassured all well; and for some reason doing it after a fight does that for her. Me, I’m more of a, “I unpacked my suitcase—quit kissing my neck!”
The big three. They say the most common reason for divorce fall into three major categories (and a zillion sub categories). They are—money, sex and religion. We agree and have similar beliefs about all three. In fact, we generally agree—what’s for dinner, should we beat the kids, what time should the Valentine’s hooker show up, that kind of crap.
There are more reasons; but really, how much of this can you people want to hear about. So just remember; jokes aside, Mrs. Bastard and I shouldn’t be anything to be concerned with. Go with it. Laugh. It’s ok. I’m really actually kinda nice to her.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Hitlerarios!
Once upon a time, there were no teenagers. And I don’t mean that in some weird literal interpretation of the bible sort of way. Before school was federally instituted and all those uncool child labor laws firmed up, there was no phase that allowed one to be no longer a child but not quite an adult.
Now that we have this transitional phase in the lifespan, it’s expanding. We call it “adolescence” and current studies are suggesting it’s not uncommon for it’s characteristics (I almost said qualities!) to persist into the early twenties.
My point isn’t about some of you needing to grow the fuck up—it’s about the undeniable social influence on pretty much all of our basic conditions and institutions. Homosexuality used to be listed among the diagnosable disorders in the DSMV. Not really because psychologist are evil (you can’t have a therapist without the-rapist!) but because there was a social demand for a reason for gay people to be documentably different.
Bare that in mind for what I’m about to propose, which is essentially creating our own mental disorder; the logic is a tad circular—but fun, so keep reading!
I have a friend who enjoys arguing. Not because he has firm beliefs in anything, but because he really likes to argue. In fact, I would dare say his arguing for argument’s sake is a dominant guiding force in his life. I suspect he served his 6+ years in the military (freaking stop loss! ) just so he could add the phrase, “Oh yeah? Well I was in the military, buddy!” to his arguments, as needed.
I’ve been this guy’s friend since about 8th grade, so I can share in the amusement, but I have noticed one of his tactics basically involves saying whatever he needs to frustrate and anger his opponent, be it man, woman, child, and wait then for them to say something stupid or illogical for him to rip into.
I’ve named this the “That sounds like something Hitler would have agreed with,” method of arguing, or the TSLSHWHAW Method. You can also use “…Hitler would say” if you’re not feeling chatty.
That’s what got my evil brain thinking—what if we ALL start making the comment, “That sounds like something Hitler would agree with” to people? I’m convinced we could start a whole new phobia!
Given the increasing level of paranoia and anxiety disorders, people are just waiting to be told what they’re scared of! Fuck terrorism, global warming and poverty fueled crime, that shit is trendy! How about the possibility you’re a Hitler!
Maybe the first time one get’s told their statement smacks of something Hitler would concur with, they can brush it off, but how about the second time? And a third? We all know people who can’t help but take passing comments to heart—and I’m just not talking about girlfriends and other estrogen rich species, so just imagine the impact seemingly random people casually comparing them to what many consider to be the anti-christ could be! It’s not just hilarious—it’s hitlerarious.
Soon enough, people with fists full of wadded up tissues will be shamefully whispering to their councilors, “I’m worried I’m a Hitler…” By 2012 I really think we could have a solid pressence and listed in the DSMV. I just want all future theses and drug treatments to remember—this is the BASTARD’S disorder, and should be named and cited accordingly.
So say it! “That sounds like something Hitler would agree with!” And often.
Now that we have this transitional phase in the lifespan, it’s expanding. We call it “adolescence” and current studies are suggesting it’s not uncommon for it’s characteristics (I almost said qualities!) to persist into the early twenties.
My point isn’t about some of you needing to grow the fuck up—it’s about the undeniable social influence on pretty much all of our basic conditions and institutions. Homosexuality used to be listed among the diagnosable disorders in the DSMV. Not really because psychologist are evil (you can’t have a therapist without the-rapist!) but because there was a social demand for a reason for gay people to be documentably different.
Bare that in mind for what I’m about to propose, which is essentially creating our own mental disorder; the logic is a tad circular—but fun, so keep reading!
I have a friend who enjoys arguing. Not because he has firm beliefs in anything, but because he really likes to argue. In fact, I would dare say his arguing for argument’s sake is a dominant guiding force in his life. I suspect he served his 6+ years in the military (freaking stop loss! ) just so he could add the phrase, “Oh yeah? Well I was in the military, buddy!” to his arguments, as needed.
I’ve been this guy’s friend since about 8th grade, so I can share in the amusement, but I have noticed one of his tactics basically involves saying whatever he needs to frustrate and anger his opponent, be it man, woman, child, and wait then for them to say something stupid or illogical for him to rip into.
I’ve named this the “That sounds like something Hitler would have agreed with,” method of arguing, or the TSLSHWHAW Method. You can also use “…Hitler would say” if you’re not feeling chatty.
That’s what got my evil brain thinking—what if we ALL start making the comment, “That sounds like something Hitler would agree with” to people? I’m convinced we could start a whole new phobia!
Given the increasing level of paranoia and anxiety disorders, people are just waiting to be told what they’re scared of! Fuck terrorism, global warming and poverty fueled crime, that shit is trendy! How about the possibility you’re a Hitler!
Maybe the first time one get’s told their statement smacks of something Hitler would concur with, they can brush it off, but how about the second time? And a third? We all know people who can’t help but take passing comments to heart—and I’m just not talking about girlfriends and other estrogen rich species, so just imagine the impact seemingly random people casually comparing them to what many consider to be the anti-christ could be! It’s not just hilarious—it’s hitlerarious.
Soon enough, people with fists full of wadded up tissues will be shamefully whispering to their councilors, “I’m worried I’m a Hitler…” By 2012 I really think we could have a solid pressence and listed in the DSMV. I just want all future theses and drug treatments to remember—this is the BASTARD’S disorder, and should be named and cited accordingly.
So say it! “That sounds like something Hitler would agree with!” And often.
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