The Bastard's Mouth

Bastardly Comparison

2011-12-06T23:12:00.000-08:00

Cutting off your hair is a lot like dumping a girl none of your friends really liked. Instead of hearing about never liking that bitch anyway I am hearing I look better with short hair. Sometimes with a "wow" beforehand.

But whatever. It's just hair and I was sick of mine. I'm not sure how long it was but it was enough to donate to locks of love. Knowing me, at some point, it will be grown out again. Or not. Maybe I'll finish going bald and it will be a moot point.

Sometimes life will answer your questions for you.

Love and marriage

2011-09-09T14:09:00.000-07:00

Mrs Bastard: I'm sorry you have to put up with all my shit.
The Bastard Himself: Me too, it sucks.

When did this start?!

2011-04-09T11:35:00.001-07:00

I'm as shocked as anyone.

I mean, my god, when did Manny Ramirez turn into a douche bag?!

Oh wait, his whole career! I don't really care about steroids. The official hammer dropping came at a most convenient time--after rampant performance enhancing usage drew everyone's attention to a fastly failing national past time. A lot of people in baseball did The Steroids but not a lot of players put up the kind of numbers the stars get scrutinized for putting up. Not that I feel bad for them either.

I guess I'm kind of old school, I like it when someone gets hit by a pitch and the next inning so does the other team. I like it when players who treat the game with class. Getting traded to the Dodgers because of mouthing off about your team after refusing to play because of made up soreness is crappy.

I hear he was a funny dude to have around though. So, I'm not saying I wouldn't have a drink with Manny Ramirez, I'm sure I would (have your people call mine, Moro!). I'm sure he's a fucking hoot to have at the summer bbq and he if he's not good at video games now, I suspect in the coming months Mr. Ramirez is going to get quite good at Call of Duty.

No.

2011-04-03T09:19:00.001-07:00

YOU have mood swings!!!

Say it isn't so!

2011-03-31T08:52:00.000-07:00

Oh no!

No, no, no!

First a tsunami and now THIS. What a world we live in.

What are we really asking here?

2011-03-29T10:52:00.000-07:00

I think when people want to chime in on a question like, "Should Two and a Half Men' Dump Charlie Sheen at the Emmys" what we are really asking is it okay to be a douche bag to a douche bag?

I ask that as someone who doesn't watch either the sitcom or the award show, but since I will hear about both until I find a cave to live in, I feel like it's okay to chime in.

There were two circular holes in the roof, which is consistent with a missile strike

2011-03-20T17:02:00.000-07:00

From this point forward, whenever I see a hole--particularly of the circular sort, I am going to assume missiles were involved.

Read it here.

Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter New Jersey

2011-01-18T07:49:00.000-08:00

I got a ticket for running a stop sign the other day. Never mind I can't afford a ticket right now, someone has to be out there with a rule book and enforcing petty laws--that was a two a two second stop, sir. It should be three. No, I don't have a stopwatch to show you.

But, the king can do no wrong. At least no one stole my gun for three years or threw me in a New Jersey jail. You gotta live for the little things.

War is Hell. Drug Wars? Welcome to Mexico!

2011-01-08T09:47:00.000-08:00

You just don't get to read quotes like this often enough:

"It was the largest single group of decapitation victims in recent years."

I wonder if there is some sort of contest going on between the various sects of the cartel and if there might be a friendly bet of some kind involved. Someone is buying someone a pizza dinner is all I'm saying.

And if you read the article HERE, you'll see that 14 of the 15 bodies were decapitated, which makes me wonder about the dude who got to keep his head. Was he nicer when it was going down? Did he notice and compliment someone's new snakeskin boots just in time?

"Tiger Kills Busdriver"

2011-01-06T09:14:00.000-08:00

That's the headline that got me to click the link to THIS story.

I'm disappointed. I expected to see a picture of Tiger Woods and a bloody golf club.

2010-12-23T23:15:00.001-08:00

Could be time. Been feeling that strange and familiar age for instant gratification.

Mmm.

Yes, darlings. I think so.

Thems The Breaks

2010-12-22T20:02:00.000-08:00

Legal employment is a bitch, that's all I feel like saying for the moment.

Special, Special day

2010-10-15T09:11:00.001-07:00

Here is a little bit of dialogue from yesterday, the Bastard's little girl's birthday.

"Dad, it's my birthday."
"I told you not to call me that."
"Did you you remember a present this year?"
"My present to you is not murdering your crazy mother."
"What?"
"I said intact families are rare for a reason. Go play."

Just So All You Jerks Know

2008-10-14T22:45:00.001-07:00

Yes, I love to read.

No, I won't read fucking Twilight.

Ode to the Weird

2008-07-17T14:05:00.000-07:00

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.

A Question of Truth

2008-07-02T11:16:00.000-07:00

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.

Army of Bastards

2008-07-01T16:26:00.000-07:00

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 Think You Mean FUNday!

2008-06-23T12:30:00.000-07:00

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.

Strangeness Afoot (50th Post!)

2008-06-19T09:18:00.001-07:00

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.

Slick Bastards

2008-06-16T10:44:00.000-07:00

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?

Dear Prince: STFU. Signed Radiohead

2008-06-11T23:35:00.000-07:00

So, The artist known again as Prince covered the classic Radiohead hit "Creep" at a recent concert. Hip cell phone owners caught the shitty performance and uploaded it to YouTube. That's not why this video is so funny to me though.

I guess Prince got all shitty when he found out about the video being so readily available online with no money being paid to his lordship. Any artist who claims ownership of the footage can have the material stopped from broadcasting--MLB is like lightning (try and find footage of Chris Young getting his nose broke) and Prince did so. The video was blocked.

Radiohead front man Thom Yorke heard about it and contacted YouTube, saying, "Hey, that's our fucking song he's singing. Unblock it."

Hat's off, Radiohead.

Smart Bastards: Not Your Friend

2008-06-09T06:41:00.000-07:00

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.

Excuse Me, I Was Promised A Hand basket

2008-06-05T11:33:00.000-07:00

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!

Serious Discussion, Please

2008-06-02T07:30:00.000-07:00

Fuzzy Wuzzy was a bear.
Fuzzy Wuzzy had no hair.
Fuzzy Wuzzy wasn't fuzzy,
Was he?

Discuss.

Oh The Newly Wed

2008-05-29T08:32:00.000-07:00

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.

Have a GREAT Weekend

2008-05-23T09:17:00.000-07:00

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.

The Uninteresting Tale of an Unexpected Sabbatical

2008-05-16T09:42:00.000-07:00

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.

Sick Bastard

2008-05-06T08:01:00.000-07:00

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!)

I’m Father of the Year! (But only by comparison)

2008-05-01T13:29:00.000-07:00

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?

Dentaly Challenged

2008-04-29T15:34:00.000-07:00

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!"

I Know, I Know--LOOK I SAID I FUCKING KNOW!

2008-04-28T13:26:00.001-07:00

I'm getting to it!

Christ!

Dear Consumers: You're Still Dumb and We McLove It!

2008-04-24T09:44:00.000-07:00

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.

Spreading the eWealth!

2008-04-21T13:16:00.000-07:00

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.

Interview with the Bastard: A Musician with a Keyboard

2008-04-17T07:27:00.000-07:00

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.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY FLO

2008-04-14T08:49:00.000-07:00

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.

PolygaPISSED!

2008-04-10T11:41:00.000-07:00

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.

This One's For the Lord

2008-04-07T10:31:00.000-07:00

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.

Dude in a Truck

2008-04-03T07:48:00.000-07:00

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.

MLB Opening Day…Kinda

2008-03-31T11:23:00.000-07:00

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.

I Still Hate Gau

2008-03-27T10:53:00.000-07:00

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.

Part II: The Fall of Meathead

2008-03-24T09:17:00.001-07:00

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.

Part I: The Rise of Meathead

2008-03-20T07:25:00.000-07:00

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!

Kiss me, I'm drunk!

2008-03-17T10:00:00.000-07:00

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!

Is There Anything More Patriotic Than Being a Criminal?

2008-03-17T08:48:00.000-07:00

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).

God of What?

2008-03-13T09:18:00.000-07:00

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. . . .

My freshly acquired copy of God of War: Chains of Olympus (never mind how) has been all I’ve been playing on my PSP, or Portable Playstation for you less in The Know—Sony’s version of the Gameboy for those of in complete boycott of The Know. We also call it a potty-station.

I grew up along side video games, starting with an Atari, eventually a NES and so on up the ladder. They were like siblings except they weren’t annoying and demanded nothing in return for the countless hours of joy they imparted. So, nothing like sibling. I guess they were more like the booty call you can make day or night, sober or drunk.

Would I have loved them less with more attentive, involved parents than the alcoholics that raised me? Who cares! Video games rock. If anything, I’m thankful for what I’ll just call an alternative childhood that let me spend as many hours as I wanted playing video games.

My interest waned when I started college. There were games out that I knew I should be drooling over—but I just wasn’t. I never stopped playing, but I wasn’t buying more than three of four games year.My interest has been slowly regaining steam, and I’m getting excited about playing fun games again. If I could stop time for a month I think I could get through much of the days playing catch up with games (I’d split my time with reading).

Back to God of War—if you like this franchise and you don’t have a PSP—sucks to be you! This game fucking rocks. I haven’t beaten it yet, but I will. Which is actually saying a lot as I tend to beat games eventually. Meaning, in the course of two years I’ll stop playing, switch games, and eventually come back and show the final boss I rule.

Something about the God of War games suck you in. When I finally got a copy of God of War (the first one) I remember being impressed with the intuitive control style—it was easy to pick up and it wasn’t long before I was doing all the attacks without really thinking them. The great boss fights, the blood and gore were a bonus, as were the naked chicks—Mrs. Bastard hadn’t seen video game tits before, so she was doubly happy.

That’s another thing about the series; people are entertained by simply watching you play—my wife bought the sequel for me for just this reason. Though, most my friends, including my wife, are the kind of gamer who will admit what you are playing looks fun but will refuse to even try it.

The story is a good one, and for a video game it’s a really good one. It helps propel you along through the game, so you’re killing endless bad guys with the quickness for a reason, not just to see tits.

One good quality all but losing interests in video games is I was able to step back and gain a sense of patience. Games that cost $40 today drop to $20 in a year. There are enough good games I’ve missed that I have a cushion, a bit of padding for both my tolerance for bad games (as they get weeded out by suckers) and my bank account.

Why I Beat My Wife When My Steak Isn't Medium Rare

2008-03-10T11:03:00.000-07:00

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.

Hitlerarios!

2008-03-06T10:25:00.000-08:00

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.

Oh, So Now I'm the Jerk!

2008-03-03T08:39:00.000-08:00

I don’t know how long one has to be in a relationship before one becomes aware of the deal; or if living together for some length of time is a prerequisite, but there’s a long standing exchange between couples that you may or may not be aware of; a little trade off known as the blowjob for a backrub.

Not always in that order. In fact, I’d say usually not.

I fought this exchange for a long time in my own lengthy relationship, and have only recently accepted the terms as viable. I argued that no, it should be more of an ‘eye for an eye’ arrangement. I rub you back, you rub mine.

Now, not toot my own horn, but I give great back. Years of social neglect and video games have gifted me with stronger than average finger and hand strength. I’m pretty sure I could squeeze through your windpipe with my left hand. Oil, lotion or dry, my fingers weave the muscles of the back until they're as loose and rubbery as your girls fried chicken.

And, to further NOT toot my own horn, I can do a tongue push-up. If I leave you with shaking legs and you’re breathing like you just almost drowned and there are still bits of my hair from the back of my head clutched in your fists, and I have to bring you a drink because I’m scared you’ll injure yourself if you attempt an upright posture—really, I don't think you're thinking "Holy god as soon as I can walk I'm gonna rub the FUCK out of his back!"

It doesn’t matter; as I said I’ve surrendered to the exchange. And since there’s no real nice way to suggest your girl give a blowjob without her looking at you like you just asked if she were tighter than her sister, it does helps to be able to be all Ricco Suave and ask in a whisper thick with manly bass; “Ya want a nice looong back rub, baby?”

I can see why the exchange occurs, even if it takes time, and why the two events are sort of comparable if you look at the underlying involvement of other things that go on; relaxation, unwinding, accepting pleasure without worrying about anytihng but feeling good, but the comparison isn’t literal.

For instance, Mrs. Bastard gets all sorts of pissed when I loudly spit on her back and rub like crazy. And there is no appreciation when I slap my face all over her back and tell her, "I love your fucking back, baby!"

And, you know, sometimes my hands hurt—my family had a long, proud tradition of both arthritis and bursitis before things like keyboards came along to help things along.

If I neglect my girls back too long, she can go get a professional massage—or maybe that’s just what she’s in the mood for, professional treatment. But the gods protect me if I start checking out prices for the Ladies of Craigslist—suddenly I’m the jerk. Seems like if it’s a fair exhange of services I shouldn’t have to explain my internet history—to you or to my lawyer!

I guess double standards, like equality, are a bitch.

Wouldn't You Like to be My Neighbor--IN HELL

2008-02-28T11:19:00.000-08:00

Tuesday, Mrs. Bastard asked me if I was ok. It happens from time to time, but usually because I’m being overly quiet and withdrawn, or I’m stomping around with a scowl under my beard. But I hadn’t done anything really to warrant the question.

“I read your blog, I worry when you don’t sleep.”

Bah! Sorry people. She’s been reading my blog. My “Mrs. Bastard: All Anal American Girl” article is going to have to wait for a few more weeks.

In the meantime though, did you know Mr. Rogers died on Wednesday? I guess if he wanted the news splashed everywhere, the bastard shouldn’t have died of cancer when there was all those drugs and hookers to be found.

You pick the cooler headline:

“Mr. Rogers Dies of Stomach Cancer” or “Mr. Rogers Found Dead Under Pile of Hookers and Blow.”

But, you know, whatever.

I did notice that my msn messenger is suspiciously free of news stories about him dying. I guess a man who lives his life helping others and then dying of a common disease at an old age isn’t what we want to focus on. Or yes, maybe many of us just assumed he was already dead.

However, no one in my office is running up and down the halls spreading the morbid word. Now that he’s gone, though, I suspect in the coming months all his dark secrets will be brought to light. Finally people can sell his secrets! Let the contest begin! Let’s predict the future. I’m calling a few bastard children and maybe a sex tape involving Britney Spears.

I for one won’t be happy until his entire career is called into question for something petty and laughable. Like, I bet he liked having sex! Or maybe he smoked! Or drank alcohol on occasion! C’mon people, help me out. I can’t enforce a hypocritical higher standard all by my lonesome.

Sleepers

2008-02-25T11:13:00.000-08:00

We call you people who have no problem sleeping through the night, who can fall asleep again if you wake up midway to morning, who can seemingly nap on command, Sleepers. We have insomnia. We don’t always sleep.

I’ve had it since I was a young boy. I recall waking up in the dark and climbing down the bunk bed ladder to fetch books and toys to play with in the dark. If I flipped the light on, one of the parentals was bound to come in and yell at me to go back to bed, as if it were an option.

Laying down, I’d play and play until there was enough light to justify getting ready for kindergarten.

I’m 29-years old. Now I have options. I wake up and I’ll go sit in front of the computer and write something. I leave the T.V. on so I can roll over and watch whatever I wake up to—usually I’m half way through an adult swim anime. I keep a gameboy advance under my pillow. Sometimes I can play a game that is repiticious enough that playing it is just hypnotic enough I’ll nod off. That, or it’s something else that will entertain me for the hour I’m up before I can go back to sleep.

Lately, no matter the day of the week, I wake up at 6:30 am. My eyes slide open and any final tendrils of any dreams are gone from me. I’m just awake. There’s no groggy transitional period in which I require time for the caffeine to take to my blood, or that I grumpily insist I’m still in the process of waking up.

I’m just awake.

If the T.V. is still on, I’ll watch cartoons. I say “if” because Mrs. Bastard is annoyed by what I admit is a bad habit, enough so she’ll hop up and turn off the T.V.. But, she’s a Sleeper, so at no point should you stop feeling bad for me and start feeling bad for her. Beyond the general fact she’s married to me I mean..

If it’s an annoying cartoon—like any monster collecting show that ends in “—emon,” then I’ll get out of bed to silence the beast and start goofing off.

This entire weekend I had insomnia. For me, it included not being able to fall asleep, falling asleep and then waking up for an hour or two come 2 a.m., and the delicious frosting on the insomnia cake—waking up before 7am after everything else.

Sleep deprivation is it’s own kind of drug. If you’ve ever gone without sleep, reality is interpreted quite differently. Your mind state is altered.

Today, I’m just awake.

Meat is Murder: By Meat I Mean Beef and By Murder I Mean Eat It, You Might Die. And Yes, I am Trying to Win the Blogspot Award for Longest Title Ever

2008-02-21T10:06:00.000-08:00

Honestly I don’t see what all the fuss is about. So some footage of a diseased cows being physically dragged into the processing plant because they lack the physical ability to do so on their own have surfaced. And sure, the diseases are born due to persistant, horrible conditions. And maybe bovine immunity as a whole has been weakened by constant hormonal injections. And ok, yes, a majority of the meat was is sold to school disticts.

But really, what’s the big deal? Is this anything new? Egg farms burn the beaks off of chickens when they’re chicks. Before you get all uppity—it’s that or have them peck their faces off their neighbors after they go crazy from living in a space the size of a shoe box. The wounds would fester and eventually kill the chicken. What, you want diseased eggs to go with your diseased steak?

But what do you expect me to do, pay more than a buck for a dozen eggs? Fuck off, communist. If I’m to consume at a riduculous rate, I'm going need everything to be as cheap as possible.

I could go on and on, but I’m not really trying to shake my finger at anyone. A wise man once told me to get anyone to change you have to get them to ask themselves new questions.

When I pay attention to the news and current day society I see that a great concern seems to be that things are as cheap as possible. Really, I think we all just want the things we want. We seem to have a common sense of entitlement —myself included. But who couldn’t go on and on justifying their list of free downloads, home cache of office supplies or free roses from the neighbors front bush. Demanding everything to be cheap may be one of the underlying reasons why things are. One of many reasons though.

I guess it’s like Calvin said to Hobbs; “Saying I have to work for it is like saying I don’t deserve it.”

Pretty Pee Princess!

2008-02-18T12:44:00.000-08:00

I consider myself a feminist in that I think a person should get the same amount of pay, respect, whatever, whether they are a man or a woman—which is why I think only women should qualify for the next draft. And I don’t like double standards, so I try to use terms like “slutty” and “cock sucking whore” in a general sense.

I work at a small company that has two bathrooms for either sex to use at anytime. Both the restrooms are identical, and they’re only about 20 feet apart. Let’s call bathroom 1 the main bathroom—most of the people B-line it for that restroom when they can. The majority of the employees that use it are female (as far as I can tell), thus there is a sign on the door politely demanding the toilet seat be lowered.

So for many of my co-workers, bathroom 2 only gets action when bathroom 1 is occupied. However, one of the girls refuses to ever use Bathroom 2, she says only the boys use it, and therefore, it’s dirtier.

Being a feminist, I resent this statement as I don’t feel it’s fact based. Especially since I’ve lifted the toilet seat only to be greeted by beads of urine dripping down the underside of the seat. Maybe you girls don’t realize you’re spraying so intensely, but I assure you it’s disgusting.

Maybe you’re thinking I’m confused—the piss could have gotten there via a male peeing on the toilet rim and then lowering the seat. I wondered the same, but the seat has those stoppers so there’s some clearance between the two surfaces. And, sometimes the urine has a distinctive “blood” color to it. It’s slime trail is much harder to ignore.

On the rare occasion I shit at work—I have to check under the seat, sometimes wipe the wet trails off, wash my hands and meditate on something to distract my thoughts away from I’ve just had to do. And never mind the fact nothing I flush clogs the toilet up, tampon flushers.

God help one of the men who dares leave that seat up though. There’s a girl (separate from the first girl I mentioned, but not cool enough I’m assigning her a fake name) who will walk up and down the halls, checking each room demanding, “WHO LEFT THE SEAT UP! Was it YOU?”

Equality—it’s a bitch.

Fuckin' Romantic!

2008-02-14T07:30:00.001-08:00

I was admiring the diamond bracelet silently, holding it up to the light and trying my best to be unimpressed. Jeeves the jeweler tried to keep his poise. “I assure you sir, those diamonds are of the highest quality.”

“Mmm,” I said, nice and bland, not giving anything away.

“Half a village was killed in the mines those diamonds came from.”

“Hmm,” I replied, “How many orphans did this particular bracelet make?”

“Oh,” he said, pulling out some cards. As he leafed through them, I laid it on thick.

“I’m not sure how my wife will know I love her if there were no orphans made harvesting those gems.”

“No, no, sir—I’m sure there were orphans! Ah, here we are,” he replied, brandishing the card with the proper stats. “Twelve orphans were made and TWO of those orphans died securing those bracelet’s gems.”

“Jeeves you son of a bitch, you just sold a diamond bracelet! Looks like I’ll be putting it in her ass tonight!”

Once upon a time, Valentine’s Day was a holiday for lovers. Both parties exchanged love notes (not just the men, ladies). The powers of Western laziness and advertising firmly warped this into the canned messages that is the greeting card we all know and love today.

Sadly, Valentine’s, like so many of our holidays, has degraded to one big fat reason to spend money on shit you really don’t need. Flowers that die and cards written by someone else to throw away. I hear guys bitching about having to buy presents, and if they don’t—they’re in Shitville, which rests in the fine country of NotGettingLaidia.

Worse than that is the anxiety I hear from the poor bastard who failed to please last year, so this year his gift has got be so good it obliterates all the memories of last year. Pressure’s on, douche! Welcome to the wide world of conditional love.

I’m not sure how it all goes down in the gay community—or if they’re even allowed to celebrate Valentine’s Day when a Republican is in the Whitehouse.

I do think it is good for some couples. I’ve been a cook before and Valentine’s is a big night for restaurants (and hookers), and I can remember looking out across the sitting floor and spotting those couples who go out three times a year—Valentine’s, their wedding anniversary and her birthday (which makes you ladies born on Valentine’s quite a commodity—but look out if you man wants to wed you on Feb 14th too, that’s just greedy).

I don’t have that kind of relationship with my wife. Every year to show her she’s special I make her something cute to exemplify my fierce love. This year, I’ve hand crafted her a three foot tall teddy bear, all made from my shaved back.* It only took half the supply though, so if any of you lesser men need a lender—hit me up.

Let’s break down the average V-day scenario: you go out on a dinner date, buy her a present(candies, flowers, certified orphan maker jewelry, etc), and get laid. What a great deviation from typical courtship! Why not get all crazy and go see a movie too?

And the phrase “be my valentine” suggests it’s an option. Pure bullshit! If you’re in a relationship it’s not like you can tell your significant other they didn’t make the cut this year—but her sister did. Better luck next year little miss sensitive gag reflex. It should be, “You’re my Valentine—deal with it.”

*Nah, we just get a hooker.

Bastards Like Violence

2008-02-11T12:54:00.001-08:00

I’ve been considering the contradictory natures of sports in that many of them are violent, which holds an undeniable appeal—I could generalize even further about the general appeal of violence, but let’s keep the focus.

I’m not saying the entire reason people love football, hockey, UFC or any sport that includes a lot of contact is for the violence alone. There’s always strategy, teamwork and tactics that go hand in hand.

So yeah, we might like seeing guys get buried under linebackers, but they’re encased in armor that’s been designed with that very purpose in mind. And when an arm gets broke or the body gets a sudden injury—well that’s just part of game. The player in question can go cry into his big fat pile of money.

However, I don’t think anyone really loves seeing life altering injuries (paralysis, etc) or death. No one really hopes for that kind of violence (out side of air shows and NASCAR).

Last night, the worse injury in hockey that can happen, happened. You can read all the gory details on your own right here, but here’s the main point I need you to know:

“The Panthers' Olli Jokinen collided with the Sabres' Clarke MacArthur in the corner. As Jokinen fell, his right leg went airborne. Zednik was skating toward the play, and Jokinen's skate sliced into the right side of Zednik's neck.” --John Vogl, News Sports Reporter, (full article already linked)

He had his throat sliced open by a falling team mates razor sharp skate. How this man didn’t die is beyond me. It sounds like you can thank the fairly immediate response by the trainer followed by the attention of the two doctors that got the blood to stop before they loaded him on the ambulance and took him in for surgery.

By now, if you haven’t seen the footage of Mr. Zednik getting his throat opened you’ve either chosen not to or you need to get better at searching YouTube. Either way, do you think more people would have sought the footage out if Mr. Zednik had died, or less?

Super Tuesday (for My Penis)

2008-02-07T09:04:00.000-08:00

My current political party is apathy. I’m not saying I don’t pay attention, but I am saying the only reason I do know my factoids is because it would take more effort to remain oblivious. I listen to the sound bites on the radio, read an occasional paragraph below the headline and I try to stay up late enough for The Daily Show. So, I know all the candidates names, if for nothing else it allows me to maintain brief water cooler conversation. And may the gods help you if you can’t maintain water cooler conversation. You’re fucked.

Politics seem to come up again and again. Someone wants to talk about it. Feigning ignorance is just as bad. The “You Really Should Care About Politics” speech, and any other speach they get to deliver from ahigh on their horse, is just as annoying.

Here’s how to handle the unwanted politichat like a Bastard.

“Obama’s looking good.”

“He better look out for Hilary!”

That’s about what I try and keep the exchange to. Brief and unspecific, maybe followed by a sip of water so you can turn away and B-line it for your desk. Also, you could insert the republican names if you wanted too, they get mentioned just as often are talked about just as briefly. Sometimes, though, it’s a bit more sticky.

“Well, McCain is looking good. They say he’s the only one who can beat Hilary.”

“Well, he was a POW his perspective on war could help us out.”

See that? You just take the lead and respond with something that is easy for them to take as agreement. If they have a backwards way of making their point, they might go the other way on you.

“I hope Hilary goes all the way—I love her enforced health care plan, it really makes the medical lobbyist funding her campaign excited.”

Now you have to be careful. This may be the kind of person who fakes with a soft, casual response to gull you into an equally squishy response—but only because they want to come at your from the other side and beat you down with a few choice facts.

You can either disengage by quickly surrendering verbally.

“Yeah, that’s a good point. I’m totally voting for Hilary.”

You could fake an ailment:

“Ugh, I gotta go take care of this painful and contagious diarrhea.”

I don’t actually know if there’s a kind of diarrhea that is contagious. But you plant the seed of infection and you can buy yourself some buffering time from your coworker who likes NPR.

Lastly, you communicate your unwillingness to talk about what for the most part seems to be emotionally fueled issues lightly tempered with cherry picked facts that sometimes relate directly to issues—by establishing eye contact and farting.

Which explains my steady work diet of chili covered broccoli and roasted garlic. I’m not sure if garlic is one of those “gassy” foods, but it really helps with that hint of tire-on-fire.

Politics, as I understand them, is about selecting officials to govern us, the people, in a just and reasonable manner. Which is no where close to what politics are actually about.

Most people don’t actually think past their political figure head. Either they treat their choice like religion—whatever ma and pa roll with, or you go the other way and pick that other party so you can show them how independent you are.

And after that, it’s like watching a two team sport—but with much higher budgets.

I think having two parties actually works against us. I feel like you should sit down, see what you think is important and then see who best represents those beliefs. Make them fight to be your candidate! Competition is generally regarded as being good for any market.

Right now, it’s the opposite. All day long we’re told what the hot button issues are, and it’s more or less a given you’ll be voting for your potential party candidate. I am so sick of pro life/choice, I’m this close to aborting myself.

At the end of the day, it seems like both parties are both puppets on either hand of big business and money. Maybe the candidates want to make changes, but the ever present pressure of outside funding is always looming large. Sadly, that's but one of the many problems surrounding politics.

Bastard Vs Bastard

2008-02-04T13:26:00.000-08:00

My blog is fairly new, and I would like to thank those of you who are both reading my posts and even showing your friends. To those of you just doing one or the other—watch your back. Honestly though, I appreciate it. I’ve started publishing more—something I am committing to stay on top of. From here on out, I’ll be doing my damnedest to publish Mondays and Thursdays.

I consider myself a homebody with aspirations of becoming a shut-in. That said, I actually left my house this weekend. Typically, I’m distrustful of any group or organization willing to include me as a member. But even I have a small clique of friends. Granted, they should know better after all these years—but that’s why I’m pro-blackmail.

In my own life, I’m not really a violent guy. It’s typically avoidable. But, I do find the skill and technique involved in mixed martial arts fighting compelling. I’m fairly new to the Ultimate Fighter Championship, but my friends, if you enjoy boxing type sports (boxing being what everyone USED to watch before they see UFC), it’s hard not to love seeing two men step into the octagon.

One of those few friends was celebrating his birthday by watching UFC 81 at yet another friend’s house. (I’d really hate to give anyone the impression I have a large quantity of friends—I don’t. They’re all quality though.) Since one is paying to see the fights live; there are a lot of matches on the card. After the main event, you get to see the smaller, non-title match matches.

The great thing about UFC fights is you just never know who will win. Some matches look like a David and Goliath type match up, only David’s not allowed his sling and stone.

I watched guys lay on the ground as elbows and fists rained down on their heads, only to twist suddenly as their opponent shifted their stance and before you know it, they’re both on the ground and the big guy with the elbow storm is tapping like crazy to get the guy he just bloodied to stop applying the pressure to their knee.

Twice I saw the bigger guy lose because the smarter fighter was able to get a submission hold on their opponent. The only thing to rival to the fights are the after-fight interviews—

“You just spent the last fifteen minutes getting punched in the head. Could you say something profound for us about the fight?”

I say we have them them huff some glue real fast and then see if you can get some coherent thoughts from them. And then maybe fight some ninja's, for ninja-fighting-sake.

In the Name of the King

2008-01-31T11:58:00.000-08:00

The other day, I went to grab a burger for lunch. A simple task for me, a simple man, right? Not quite.

I placed my order, probably the most generic and common order ever, and then was floored.

“We’re sorry, sir. We no longer serve the Whopper.”

The words turned my blood to ice. It’s like I was being told my kids were dead, my car had been stolen or that porn was no longer allowed on the internet.

“Excuse me?” I asked, my voice shaking.

“Burger King no longer carries the Whopper.”

The sounds of the world were buried under the dull roar filling my ears. A red film settled over my vision and when it cleared, I was alone in parking lot, covered in blood, fry sauce and brain—human brain, not the cow brain found in delicious fry sauce.

The cops understood, though. It happens quite often, apparently. They hosed me off and sent me on home wrapped up in one of those fuzzy grey blankets you normally have to survive a fire or a car crash to get.

Nothing makes me miss the days of not having cable hooked up to the T.V. more than commercials. As advertising slowly absorbs popular culture, commercials start to look like movies from the past.

Enter the Jackass style Burger King Commercials. What? You want a Whopper? Oh snap! You just got punk’d with a Big Mac, bitch! How entertaining! What effective advertising. I’m definitely going to willingly go to the website to see more commercials.

After I go buy a Triple Whopper, I mean.

Don’t get me wrong—I’m all for filming unaware people freaking out, especially if there’s profit to be made on top of my amusement (or they’re having sex). But watching people come unhinged and barely restraining themselves from starting a fist fight because they don’t get what they want for lunch isn’t as entertaining for me as it is disturbing.

Maybe it’s a little funny, but now remember one little fact: these people are roaming around, free to travel, loose in society. Maybe they’re in front of you in line at the gas station and about to find out their brand of smokes aren’t available. Maybe they’re behind you at the movies and you’re talking too loud. Maybe you just cut them off in traffic.

Me, I live in fear. I always have a Whopper in my pocket, you know, just in case someone I encounter by chance is out of their meds.

Lucky Bastards

2008-01-28T09:08:00.000-08:00

This is the true story of a lucky bastard.

I can’t imagine the kind of fight that has to ensue that you would wake up at the ungodly hour of 5 a.m. to drive three hours to purchase a $150 pair of jeans. I’ve been trying to find a mental touch stone from my own life to picture how the conversation begins, escalates and then ends knowing your life would be better if she had those jeans.

And, the pair of jeans is so specific—it’s not just a name brand or the desire to own a status symbol to help you feel better than people; it has to be THAT pair of jeans from THAT store in Atlantic City. To the credit of the evil being and what seems could be the very definition of a Money Eating Bitch Girlfriend, he had been told to fetch the jeans before—AND FORGOTEN.

Now, I’ve had some hellatious fights in my time, but none of them started because I was holding out on the truer signs of love—a willingness to submit to unreasonable demands (aka the conditions of love). Too much porn? Sure, that’ll start a fight. Didn’t notice your girl shaved her head? Yeah, you’re in trouble. Forgot to blow $150 on a single pair a jeans? Brother, there’s a special level of hell reserved for people like you.

Before the sun was up, it was probably on the sneak—to his remaining friends I mean, that Sammy Zabib drove with a photocopy of the jeans so he wouldn’t purchase the wrong pair—which at this point would be reasonable ground for Money Eating Bitch Girlfriend to murder him.

His eagerness to please worked against him though. He arrived before the shop was even open. With nothing else to do but wait, Sammy started hitting the slots to pass the time. Until the machine he was playing on stopped working. When he fetched security to help him with his problem, they were quick to figure out the problem.

The machine wouldn’t work because Sammy Zabib had hit the jackpot. Maybe not in the girlfriend department—but certainly in the free money department. Nearly $800,000 had been won by our whipped friend (nevermind he thought it was a broken slot machine).

Is this a testament to the power of bitch girlfriends snapping their gum, bouncing their heads side to side while shoving the talk-to-the-hand hand in one’s face, or does it exemplify man’s willingness to do what ever it takes to get her to shut up?

Who knows. Either way, I’m betting Mr. Zahib’s girlfriend is undoubtedly a bitch; and him having a sudden $800,000 isn’t going to improve her demands of him. She definitely deserves some gold dipped chocolates, $1000 skirts and a spa treatment with imported mud. Hopefully though, he’s not so whipped he’ll be able demand at least a threesome.

Link and Wink

2008-01-24T10:38:00.001-08:00

Ok, there’s a new msn virus spreading faster than the clap after the Navy leaves port. You may have gotten this insidious virus and not even known it. You’ll get a message from someone who has you on their list. It’s a link and a wink that looks about like this

http://www.tabya.info/list ;):

The actual website link might be different; I’ve seen a few versions of Link and Wink.

If you follow the link you’ll be told to log into your msn account at this page so you can see everyone who has deleted you off their list or has blocked you. After that, well you fell for it.

It’s sneaky for sure; my friends send messageless links to me all the time. My bastard’s cap is tipped.

After words, you’ll be logged out of your msn messenger because you signed in somewhere else. Don’t worry, that’s just the virus link and wink going out to everyone on your list.

So, how do you stop that? Just change your password. Simple right?

Apparently not! It took me a few minutes of clicking around to finally figure it out. And I know some of you don’t have the patience, so here it is (because it’s just as bastardly to ruin their fun):

The Bastard’s MSN Password Changing Walkthrough:

From your MSN IM, go to TOOLS and then to OPTIONS. The option menu has many sections, the top one, PERSONAL is where you need to be.

From there, find and click the EDIT PROFILE button, which will bring up your profile in internet explorer. In the upper left hand corner is the Windows Logo in a circle with the accompanying words “Windows Live”. Click that and select “account” from the drop down menu.

This time it’s safe to log in, so go ahead and put your password in. From here you’ll see all of your account stats.

You’ll see a section called “Password reset information” in bold, under which is the Change Password link you’ll need to change your password—which robs Link and Wink’s ability to log you in and send itself out to your collected bunch of cyber sluts* and tarnish your good name.

*Everyone is a cyber slut.

Heath Ledger is a Cunt (but not a Bastard)

2008-01-23T09:29:00.000-08:00

I had to leave work early when I looked down at my msn messenger’s where the news teasers try to provoke you to click the conveniently placed link and read the news, “Heath Ledger, Dead.”

I even forgot to clock out. This morning my boss was pissed until I explained myself. I didn’t get in any trouble. In fact, we had a good, manly kind of cry together.

I went home and watched Brokeback Mountain and just fucking cried the entire movie.

Here’s three bastardly things about celebrities dying.

1. Goodbye Work Day! The second the morbid news hits my office, everyone turns on the gossip mode. Granted, I spread the word, but only to girls and gay dudes and anyone who’s first response is likely to be to the tune of, “But he was hot! Like hot-hot! I masturbate to him all the time!” Well d'uh! Who doesn't masturbate to Heath Ledger all the time? Guess what--you still can!

Everyone spends the rest of the day goofing off to the theme of whoever just bit it. It usually follows a pattern of stopping people wherever you encounter them, making sure they’ve both heard the news and can reference the proper image of the departed via a movie you’ve both seen. Next, talk about how he finished filming The Dark Knight and then quietly admit you’ve seen Brokeback Mountain*.

2. Drugs. I resent that rich people not only get the high quality drugs, but they get high quality drugs in such quantity they are able to kill themselves with them. Way to rub it in, jerks. Why not just shoot yourself with a diamond and ruby encrusted gold bullet?

My understanding of drugs is that they are fun. I also understand that there are drugs one can consume that would take near impossible amounts to ingest before you die. What ever happened to potheads?

3. It’s a Persona. I knew nothing about Mr. Ledger until yesterday. None of those little tidbits of gossip had reached my bastard's ears. Who knows what anyone famous is really like in real life. We are presented with an image of famous people that is conducive to all things that go into the tidal waves of money that follow the famous elite.

I never hear about an actor’s job being intriguing—look at all the methods they employ to get their characters across (at varying levels, you have to admit). It boils down to attraction level. Nevermind what is attractive shifts with sands.

I can honestly say it is sad to me that Mr. Ledger’s daughter has to grow up with that hole in her life. I hope she, and all kids who've lost a parent or two, has some very positive role models around her (and her piles of money—her mom’s an actress too. If you don't want to feel bad focus on the piles of money).

*I haven’t! Neither I nor my wife** like romance movies.

**Ladies, this will increase your awesome factor nicely, depending on the heterosexuality level of your man.

When Bastards Watch Your Kids so You Can Go Out on Your Birthday:

2008-01-10T11:19:00.000-08:00

“Applebee’s, this is Cass,” she sounded calm. I listened for the mad roar of a packed restaurant in the full swing of a rush—it wasn’t crazy. My plan could procede.

“Cass, my brother in law and his wife are eating there right now. It’s his birthday, but he’s one of those guys who won’t tell his server and get his free cake. If I describe him to you, could you find his server and let ‘em know it’s his birthday?”

I know it’s annoying and not many of us enjoy the parade of servers clapping their hands and signing their company’s approved birthday song. But goddamnit, birthdays stop being cool the second you have the ability to buy your own stuff, I had to do something to liven up the event.

Cass laughed, and asked me to describe them.

“They’re a bigger couple. He’s wearing a black, long sleeved shirt with white stripes going down the sleeves,” I say, checking the notes I secretly took when they dropped their kid off. “She’s in a grey top, dark pants. It’s just the two of them.”

A few seconds of silence passed as she scanned her restaurant. “Got ‘em. I’m looking right them.” she says. I knew when I called there was a chance that “Going to dinner” meant “Going back home for no-baby-in-house sex," and they might not be there getting dinner. I didn’t really care, I would have watched their brat either way. But I was glad they were there. This was much funnier.

“Cass, you are awesome to the awesometh power.” She agreed with me and got off the phone. I flipped my phone shut and smiled my satisfied bastard's smile.

Fucking Irony

2007-12-26T07:26:00.000-08:00

I hate holidays in general, or at least what they've become. The history of the holiday is usually pretty interesting. I'm so old school (Old skool) the original practices usually sound more interesting than the collective assault from advertisers competing for my dollar.

I hate Jesusmas, but I love my kids, so I'm more or less stuck celebrating it. And, watching open their crap is a warm fuzzy (warm fuzzies are allowed if you of the hairy bastard breed--and trust me, I'm allowed MANY warm fuzzies).

However, I have to say it's pretty ironic that Mrs. Bastard has the first name of Noel. French, for xmas. The one person I'm living life with has a namesake of one of the most symbolic events of monetary based evil.

Fucking irony.

Disgusting

2007-11-13T16:46:00.000-08:00

I work for an internet company. The thing about internet companies is they tend to dabble in a bit of this and a bit of that. Where I work, employee A has no idea what employee B is doing atthe other end of the office.

Me, I'm right in the middle, so I have a general sense about most our products. One of our bits of this (but not of that) is we were hired by a non-profit organization to increase the amount of blood it collected. Our program was very simple and basic; you donate enough blood and you get to pick an item off a website we're hosting. A prize for giving away your blood rather than sell it to make up companies.

Some people though, they don't care for an item and chose a "Nah, it's cool" option rather than get a gift. Which is such a waste for some many reasons. We didn't like the idea of unspent prizes though. We had to think of something useful to do with the people uniterested in prizes (that's right, fuck off altruism.)

I had the idea of putting a donation alternative for another charity that does a lot for children (many of whom I selfishly hope are lil bastardlings). It's a little institute called St. Judes. I got everything ready to go and was enjoying the warm glow I get now and then when I deviate from my bastardliness. But, what did the non-profit blood organization say?

No.

"If they're going to donate to anyone it should be to us."

Sorry kids! Try and get better so you can donate blood when (and if!) you get healthy--but until then you can fuck right off. Oh, and try to ignore the fact we sell your blood for a mininum of $80 a pint and that we recently increased the amount of blood gathered by almost double (thanks to an internet company incentive).

Greedy vampires. Might as well sell your blood folks. At least they're not hiding behind a comfortable facade of charity, you know, when it's convenient.

Dear Consumer: You are Dumb. Signed, Advertisers.

2007-07-10T11:16:00.000-07:00

I absolutely love it when companies slightly alter a product and then market it with the "new and improved" tagline.

The latest new and improved product: Gotarts!

Finally! Those huge, hand sized toaster snacks are FINALLY unchained by their less than aerodynamic form. Now, in this glorious age of technology you can finally take the pop tarts with you!

"Impossible! Shut up, asshole!" you might be saying. "I've tried to leave the house with plain pop tarts and the results were SO disastrous I moved a few towns over and changed my name."

Friends, it's true. Embarrassing pop tart related moments are on a definite decline with advent of a slimmer, smaller, more expensive breakfast treat (a treat for everyone but teeth!). Sure, you may still have to drive your non-flying cars on the ground and teleporting is years off--but in the mean time, you can enjoy a poptart as you go.

Eat at Piggy's

2007-07-06T11:42:00.002-07:00

One of the great things about Utah is you can treat your employees like crap. Especially if they are food servers! Then, you get to pay them half minimum wage. That said, I'd like to tip my Bastard's Hat to Iggy's of St George, Ut.

Not only do they take advantage of Utah's wonderful "fuck off" to anyone who makes tips, but they pull their servers off tables and make them do an hour or two of cleaning for that $2.15 an hour.

Genius!

My hat is tipping even further down for the week of July 1st to July 7th! Iggy's got caught serving booze to a couple of 19 year old girls as part of a police sting (sting and entrapment are different things...I wonder what all the speed dealers are doing while the cops are setting these wonderful operations up?) And, rather than pay a $2,000 fine, Iggy's decided to let their customers and the servers who rely on tips for a living know just how they care about them all; they opted to NOT pay their fine and simply not serve booze for a week.

Apparently, this is bad business for a Sportsbar! Many tables walk out the second they find out they aren't eating at a Sport's Bar this week; just a Sport's nothing. It's just like eating at Chili's or Applebee's when they have the game on (except, you can get a beer).

And what does Iggy's say to keep their servers happy? That this is slowest week of the year. Now, the Iggy's in question hasn't even been open for a year, so I assume they were allowing for the numbers from their stores in the urban cities in Northern Utah to predict the Southern Utah business.

Sheer fucking genius!

Personally I'm very curious and excited what business will go in the vacated Iggy's building. Hopefully, I'll find out very, very soon.