San Francisco Giants' left fielder Barry Bonds, center, participated in a spoof of "American Idol" by dressing in drag and portraying Paula Abdul.
He is flanked by pitcher Jeff Fassero (left), as Simon Cowell, and second baseman Ray Durham (right), as judge Randy Jackson. Bonds was participating in a rookie hazing event prior to a spring training workout.
Sweet Jesus, Barry makes for one ugly chick. Are you sure that he's supposed to be imitating Paula Abdul and not Starr Jones? God, I would prefer to gaze non-stop at the photo of the 62-year old mother than look at Bonds in drag. For that matter, I'd rather stare non-stop at the sun.
If a 20-year veteran like Bonds was forced to dress in drag, lord only knows what the rookies had to do. I'm guessing it was some horrible thing involving farm animals, pudding and a Paris Hilton masks.
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Happy Carnival
Carnival dancers in Rio De Janiero were touched by the homage to women as female beauty and brains were extolled on Monday night as Brazil's Carnival dancers shimmied, stomped and sang in sensual celebration.
A naked pregnant woman danced on a float to a song about feminine beauty and brains, rubbing her belly provocatively as some 4,000 troupe members sang "Indian, white or black, it's all seduction."
But the sensuous display had a serious side: "Women have knocked down barriers and built equality," the dancers sang. One float from the Porto da Pedra troupe featured graphic scenes of childbirth. Another shone with four enormous gold busts of female gods, while the sides of a third were plastered with photos of Brazilian mothers and social leaders.
I, too, extol the virtues of these fine (and I do mean fine) women who want to flaunt their mental and physical assets. And if doing so requires the use of skimpy outfits like the one above, then I say more power to them! Do not let society tell you that you need to overdress in a particular way.
A naked pregnant woman danced on a float to a song about feminine beauty and brains, rubbing her belly provocatively as some 4,000 troupe members sang "Indian, white or black, it's all seduction."
But the sensuous display had a serious side: "Women have knocked down barriers and built equality," the dancers sang. One float from the Porto da Pedra troupe featured graphic scenes of childbirth. Another shone with four enormous gold busts of female gods, while the sides of a third were plastered with photos of Brazilian mothers and social leaders.
I, too, extol the virtues of these fine (and I do mean fine) women who want to flaunt their mental and physical assets. And if doing so requires the use of skimpy outfits like the one above, then I say more power to them! Do not let society tell you that you need to overdress in a particular way.
Friday, February 24, 2006
Goodbye Sweet Liberties
On a decidedly more serious (and ominous) note, South Dakota lawmakers approved a ban on nearly all abortions Friday. And Republican Gov. Mike Rounds indicated that he was inclined to sign the bill, which would make it a crime for doctors to perform an abortion unless it was necessary to save the woman's life -- there would be no exceptions in cases of rape or incest.
Many people feel that this is a deliberate assault on Roe v. Wade at a time when some activists see the U.S. Supreme Court as more willing than ever to overturn that decision.
"I think the stars are aligned," said House Speaker Matthew Michels-R (whose awful picture is to the left). "Simply put, now is the time."
Well fan-fucking-tastic.
What a lovely step backwards this is.
I am so glad that the Democrats had the fortitude and backbone to do what they thought was right by ....uhhh, allowing these Roberts and Alito to simply waltz in by votes of 78-22 and 58-42. Nice work rolling over, Democrats.
You knew this day would come, but I don't think anyone ever thought that the Right Wing would push the envelope within 3 months of Alito's confirmation. God, those fuckers work fast, don't they?
What other civil rights shall we roll back next? Should we just repeal the 19th Amendment and end women's suffrage? Perhaps we should just dust off the old Jim Crow laws.
I am sick.
Many people feel that this is a deliberate assault on Roe v. Wade at a time when some activists see the U.S. Supreme Court as more willing than ever to overturn that decision.
"I think the stars are aligned," said House Speaker Matthew Michels-R (whose awful picture is to the left). "Simply put, now is the time."
Well fan-fucking-tastic.
What a lovely step backwards this is.
I am so glad that the Democrats had the fortitude and backbone to do what they thought was right by ....uhhh, allowing these Roberts and Alito to simply waltz in by votes of 78-22 and 58-42. Nice work rolling over, Democrats.
You knew this day would come, but I don't think anyone ever thought that the Right Wing would push the envelope within 3 months of Alito's confirmation. God, those fuckers work fast, don't they?
What other civil rights shall we roll back next? Should we just repeal the 19th Amendment and end women's suffrage? Perhaps we should just dust off the old Jim Crow laws.
I am sick.
GGILF Follow-Up
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Thank You U.K.!
From the country that brought us Monty Python, "The Office," and Karl Pilkington, now we have "Tourette's Camp." As you might have guessed, Tourette's Camp is a reality TV show that follows a group of kids with Tourette's Syndrome during a summer camp in the UK.
Brilliant.
~~~~~~~~~~
Among the many unfortunate things about Tourette syndrome is that people find it amusing. As if it wasn't enough to have violent tics and a habit of blurting out extremely inappropriate and offensive utterances, you've got people laughing at you as well. There's no denying the comedy in the affliction, though. Even the title of this programme, Teenage Tourette's Camp (ITV1), is enough to produce a little giggle. You can picture it: a bunch of kids at what looks like a normal American summer camp with outdoor activities - boating, hiking, stuff like that. Except they're all twitching, and shrugging, and shouting out "Fuck off!" and "Fatty!" at each other.
And that's exactly what it is like. It's very sad, you feel extremely sorry for these kids. And yet it is funny. They find it funny themselves. When Kyle involuntarily shouts out "Jen gives head!" over and over again, the whole class falls about (except for Jen, who gets a bit upset). And when the five English Touretters at the centre of the film go on a day trip to Chicago, lovely, gentle Sam starts shouting out "Twin towers!", to the enormous amusement of his mates, though less so to the Americans out shopping.
There was much to be moved by in this film, though I would have liked a little more on the syndrome itself. Why is it always bad stuff that comes blurting out? Are we all very bad people - offensive, racist, cruel, sex-obsessed - but most of us have the necessary in-built filters to hide it?
~~~~~~~~~~~
If anyone from the UK is reading this, you must let me know how to obtain a copy of this show. As if I don't get enough of people yelling out "fuck off" at my job already. Oh well.
Thanks to JP for sending me this little nugget.
Brilliant.
~~~~~~~~~~
Among the many unfortunate things about Tourette syndrome is that people find it amusing. As if it wasn't enough to have violent tics and a habit of blurting out extremely inappropriate and offensive utterances, you've got people laughing at you as well. There's no denying the comedy in the affliction, though. Even the title of this programme, Teenage Tourette's Camp (ITV1), is enough to produce a little giggle. You can picture it: a bunch of kids at what looks like a normal American summer camp with outdoor activities - boating, hiking, stuff like that. Except they're all twitching, and shrugging, and shouting out "Fuck off!" and "Fatty!" at each other.
And that's exactly what it is like. It's very sad, you feel extremely sorry for these kids. And yet it is funny. They find it funny themselves. When Kyle involuntarily shouts out "Jen gives head!" over and over again, the whole class falls about (except for Jen, who gets a bit upset). And when the five English Touretters at the centre of the film go on a day trip to Chicago, lovely, gentle Sam starts shouting out "Twin towers!", to the enormous amusement of his mates, though less so to the Americans out shopping.
There was much to be moved by in this film, though I would have liked a little more on the syndrome itself. Why is it always bad stuff that comes blurting out? Are we all very bad people - offensive, racist, cruel, sex-obsessed - but most of us have the necessary in-built filters to hide it?
~~~~~~~~~~~
If anyone from the UK is reading this, you must let me know how to obtain a copy of this show. As if I don't get enough of people yelling out "fuck off" at my job already. Oh well.
Thanks to JP for sending me this little nugget.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Fashion Alert!
Believe it or not, I'm not posting this photo to make fun of Britney's shape. (That being said, perhaps someone could hold up a ruler, you know, just so one could get a sense of perspective here.)
Rather, I want to draw attention to the cutoff jeans she's wearing in lieu of a bathing suit.
Cutoff jeans.
I remember when cutoffs were so cool ... it was around 1977 and "Smokey & The Bandit" was cool, too, but it's not like we're bringing that back. (Wait, I better not speak too soon...)
Seriously, cutoff jeans. What the fuck? Can you not afford to buy a decent bathing suit? For the love of god, has your wigger husband spent all of your money already? God, something tells me that she's going to end up like that 62-year old California woman that's pumping out kids endlessly well past her normal ovulatory expiration date.
Rather, I want to draw attention to the cutoff jeans she's wearing in lieu of a bathing suit.
Cutoff jeans.
I remember when cutoffs were so cool ... it was around 1977 and "Smokey & The Bandit" was cool, too, but it's not like we're bringing that back. (Wait, I better not speak too soon...)
Seriously, cutoff jeans. What the fuck? Can you not afford to buy a decent bathing suit? For the love of god, has your wigger husband spent all of your money already? God, something tells me that she's going to end up like that 62-year old California woman that's pumping out kids endlessly well past her normal ovulatory expiration date.
News of the Ick
A 62-year-old California woman gave birth last week to a healthy 6-pound, 9-ounce baby boy, becoming one of the oldest women in the world to successfully bear a child. Janise Wulf gave birth to her 12th child. She is also a grandmother of 20 (!) and a great-grandmother of 3 (!!). Wulf was impregnated both times -- here comes the big surprise -- through in vitro fertilization.
Jesus Christ, where to begin? First, I swear to god that I thought the photo was from the local wax museum. She looks like some sort of awful cross between Harriet Miers and Darth Sidious. She is definitely not a GGILF.
More importantly, why is this woman getting pregnant? Hasn’t she had enough kids already? Fortunately, she’ll soon be able to use whatever diapers that the kid doesn’t use himself.
Lastly, it goes without saying that she god knocked up via artificial measures. Lord knows her husband would probably rather put his wiener in a wood-chipper than her vagina. At this point in time, I’m willing to wager that her cha-cha bears a striking resemblance to a wizard’s sleeve after pushing out all those kids.
Jesus Christ, where to begin? First, I swear to god that I thought the photo was from the local wax museum. She looks like some sort of awful cross between Harriet Miers and Darth Sidious. She is definitely not a GGILF.
More importantly, why is this woman getting pregnant? Hasn’t she had enough kids already? Fortunately, she’ll soon be able to use whatever diapers that the kid doesn’t use himself.
Lastly, it goes without saying that she god knocked up via artificial measures. Lord knows her husband would probably rather put his wiener in a wood-chipper than her vagina. At this point in time, I’m willing to wager that her cha-cha bears a striking resemblance to a wizard’s sleeve after pushing out all those kids.
Friday, February 17, 2006
Thursday, February 16, 2006
*** Important Public Service Announcement ***
This list of acceptable corporate bathroom behavior is taken verbatim from an article from the Inside St. Louis website. It addresses some of the frightening -- and very real - bathroom faux pas that are committed within the corporate environment. In fact, I noticed a few of these violations when I was in St. Louis this week, so I'm glad that a journalist in the Show Me state is trying to set the record straight.
1.- Observe the Stall Buffer Rule
Without a doubt, THE most popular follow-up Corporate Crapper rule I received through email submissions. Quite frankly, I’m sorry I missed this one the first time around. Let’s deal with it.
Remember, anonymity is the essential intangible in the corporate bathroom experience. As far as I’m concerned, once my pants are opened and my genitalia is exposed to open airways, I don’t have an identity, and neither do you. To support this directive, if at all possible, don’t sit or stand next to someone that’s in mid-excrement cycle.
Granted, the physical nature of the bathroom setup may complicate this entire rule. However, if there’s more than two stalls in your corporate bathroom, try to ensure that there’s a one stall buffer between you and your bathroom mate, if at all possible. If I’m in Stall 3, there’s no reason for you to sit in Stall 2, when Stall 1 is open as well. This buffer zone provides a sense of isolation that is most crucial in dire emergencies.
Some purists even go so far as to enforce a strict Only-1-Dumper-per-Bathroom limit. This can easily be accomplished by going into the bathroom and surveying the competition. If there is a fellow-dumper, simply use the urinal, leave, and try back again in 5 minutes.
2.- Don’t invite company
'Pick an end stall and you drastically reduce the percentage of homoerotic corporate bathroom blunders.'
In conjunction with Rule #1, if we’re in the bathroom together, I don’t want you near me. Sorry, let’s do our thing, and converge later. To support this effort, you can take a proactive effort upon entering an empty bathroom.
Three stalls….don’t pick the middle one.
By picking the middle stall, you’re inviting company around you and any associated awkward-man-moment – conversations at the urinal, the discreet wean-peak, eye contact, etc. Pick an end stall and you drastically reduce the percentage of homoerotic corporate bathroom blunders. Same goes for the stalls. Take a proactive approach to bathroom seclusion.
3.- Dental Hygiene in the Bathroom…um, no
Ok, here’s the deal. I may be getting picky here, but I have a real problem with the people that conduct their daily hygienic routines in the corporate bathrooms. Brushing teeth and using mouthwash are two offenses that I see on a daily basis. I understand, and encourage, efforts of cleanliness, but the office laboratory isn’t a public powder room. Grab a piece of Trident if it's after lunch. If it's in the morning, spend an extra 90 seconds brushing your teeth at home.
Let’s also not overlook the mere physicalities of brushing your teeth in the corporate bathroom. You should not be inserting things into your mouth in the same room where hundreds of random rearends are flowing on a daily basis. Steadfast rule: keep your mouth closed. Ass particles will get in. That’s like eating your lunch in the bathroom. Let’s think here, people.
4.- Here’s an idea: Flush
Much like the “Always Wash Your Hands” rule from the first installment of Corporate Crapper Rules, if it wasn’t abused it wouldn’t need to be said. I know things slip your mind while at work…forgetting a meeting, wrong conference room, etc. But for all things decent, please remember to flush the freaking toilet when you’ve reached completion. Stall or urinal. It doesn’t matter. Number of flushes per capita is directly related to the overall aroma of the corporate bathroom. Streaming piles of stagnant crap isn’t my idea of an inviting odor.
5.- Transporting Reading Material: Be Discreet
I like to occupy myself with good reading material during my daily (semi-daily after Mexican) routine. Who doesn’t? But, I think some ground-rules need to be established for the public transportation of toilet entertainment.
If your reading material cannot be concealed in your pocket or coat, leave them at your desk. Come on man. It’s 1:30 in the afternoon and you’re carrying a newspaper that’s still in the yellow rain-resistant wrapper. Everyone in the office knows where you’re going, and you’re a little too proud. I don’t need to know that my boss is on his way to take the Browns to the Super Bowl.
Without being too stereotypical here, ‘public display of toilet reading material guy’ is usually also ‘asshole that isn’t afraid to showcase the decibel level of his gastrointestinal powers’ guy.
6.- Cellphones at the urinal
Yea, I know we covered this in the first Corporate Crapper Guide, but we haven’t made any progress in the last few months. In the first Guide, I discussed the usage of cellphones in the bathroom stalls. While this is most disturbing, at least you’re in masked quarters. Now, I’d like to address the pompous retard that talks on the phone while at the urinal.
You sir, should be beaten for all to see. You are a careless and irresponsible piece of human trash. I loathe you.
This rule is often abused in settings outside of the corporate workspace – ballgames, late nights at bars, etc. – but are not exclusive to extracurricular events. I’ve seen it too many times at the office to ignore. If ever the grade school “push your buddy from behind while he’s peeing so he gets it all over himself” was appropriate, now would be the time. Take advantage.
7.- Zipping-up is not a Public Episode
Stall doors. Urinal guards. These are defined, and to be used as, shields from the general public. Seems to me that all events from the creation to the finality of the bathroom cycle should be accomplished behind these cozy safeguards.
With that being said, what gives you the idea to finish a jam session without fully tucking in or zipping up? I don’t get it. If you were to walk to the printer with your dong flapping in the wind, you would be immediately escorted out of the building. That’s a little creepy. And gay.
8.- Urinal Gum Spitters: Karma is a Bitch
‘Cellphone at urinal’ guy, I hate you. ‘Spit gum in urinal’ guy, I wish harm upon you and your family.
What is going on here? This is unacceptable, and should, without question, be a fireable offense at the office. Inexcusable.
There’s a large piece of plastic blocking the hole. Clearly this item has no chance of exiting its surroundings. The only solution is someone reaching their hand into a large basin of piss and removing your carelessness.
Have some compassion, my friend.
That’s like slashing someone else’s tires for no reason…your immature actions are only going to cause someone else heavy distress. Asshole. You’ll get yours.
9.- Always Dispose of Crapping Evidence
I crap. You crap. We crap. Big deal, everyone secretly ‘knows’ about it. But, let’s not make it public. Some instances – a la Rule #5 – can be voluntarily avoided. However, some exploitations are being performed involuntarily, and must be addressed.
If you’re at work right now, chances are, you’re wearing business-casual attire (i.e. sports coat, sweater, dress shirt, etc.). More than likely, this business attire consists of long sleeves. If you’re anything like me, you like to roll up the sleeve on the arm of your wiping-hand.
Upon completion, make sure to roll down your wiping-associated sleeve before exiting the bathroom. The one-sleeve-up look tells all office mates, “I got in deep, and I got in hard”. This is one step away from walking around with toilet paper stuck to your heel. And no ones wants to be that guy.
10.- Respect Other Crapping Territories
I include this one last because it is often the most abused rule in the corporate scene. However, by respecting the aforementioned advice, there is no reason why this very rule cannot be followed as well.
A popular pooping practice at most corporate environments is to venture off the beaten path of your dumping grounds and into the realms of another crapping territory. Another floor, another building…basically away from all things familiar. While this creates a cozy atmosphere for any long-winded steamer, you’re promoting violation of the previous rules stated in this guide. You're more likely to be careless on foreign terrain. Littering, clogging, boogers on the wall, misuse of the courtesy flush….and that’s not good for the overall corporate crapping experience. Play the hand you’re dealt with, follow the rules, and hang on for the ride.
Moreover, in small corporate environments, there’s nothing worse than confronting occupied stalls in a dire time of need. Having alien poopers on your floor only provokes this occurrence.
1.- Observe the Stall Buffer Rule
Without a doubt, THE most popular follow-up Corporate Crapper rule I received through email submissions. Quite frankly, I’m sorry I missed this one the first time around. Let’s deal with it.
Remember, anonymity is the essential intangible in the corporate bathroom experience. As far as I’m concerned, once my pants are opened and my genitalia is exposed to open airways, I don’t have an identity, and neither do you. To support this directive, if at all possible, don’t sit or stand next to someone that’s in mid-excrement cycle.
Granted, the physical nature of the bathroom setup may complicate this entire rule. However, if there’s more than two stalls in your corporate bathroom, try to ensure that there’s a one stall buffer between you and your bathroom mate, if at all possible. If I’m in Stall 3, there’s no reason for you to sit in Stall 2, when Stall 1 is open as well. This buffer zone provides a sense of isolation that is most crucial in dire emergencies.
Some purists even go so far as to enforce a strict Only-1-Dumper-per-Bathroom limit. This can easily be accomplished by going into the bathroom and surveying the competition. If there is a fellow-dumper, simply use the urinal, leave, and try back again in 5 minutes.
2.- Don’t invite company
'Pick an end stall and you drastically reduce the percentage of homoerotic corporate bathroom blunders.'
In conjunction with Rule #1, if we’re in the bathroom together, I don’t want you near me. Sorry, let’s do our thing, and converge later. To support this effort, you can take a proactive effort upon entering an empty bathroom.
Three stalls….don’t pick the middle one.
By picking the middle stall, you’re inviting company around you and any associated awkward-man-moment – conversations at the urinal, the discreet wean-peak, eye contact, etc. Pick an end stall and you drastically reduce the percentage of homoerotic corporate bathroom blunders. Same goes for the stalls. Take a proactive approach to bathroom seclusion.
3.- Dental Hygiene in the Bathroom…um, no
Ok, here’s the deal. I may be getting picky here, but I have a real problem with the people that conduct their daily hygienic routines in the corporate bathrooms. Brushing teeth and using mouthwash are two offenses that I see on a daily basis. I understand, and encourage, efforts of cleanliness, but the office laboratory isn’t a public powder room. Grab a piece of Trident if it's after lunch. If it's in the morning, spend an extra 90 seconds brushing your teeth at home.
Let’s also not overlook the mere physicalities of brushing your teeth in the corporate bathroom. You should not be inserting things into your mouth in the same room where hundreds of random rearends are flowing on a daily basis. Steadfast rule: keep your mouth closed. Ass particles will get in. That’s like eating your lunch in the bathroom. Let’s think here, people.
4.- Here’s an idea: Flush
Much like the “Always Wash Your Hands” rule from the first installment of Corporate Crapper Rules, if it wasn’t abused it wouldn’t need to be said. I know things slip your mind while at work…forgetting a meeting, wrong conference room, etc. But for all things decent, please remember to flush the freaking toilet when you’ve reached completion. Stall or urinal. It doesn’t matter. Number of flushes per capita is directly related to the overall aroma of the corporate bathroom. Streaming piles of stagnant crap isn’t my idea of an inviting odor.
5.- Transporting Reading Material: Be Discreet
I like to occupy myself with good reading material during my daily (semi-daily after Mexican) routine. Who doesn’t? But, I think some ground-rules need to be established for the public transportation of toilet entertainment.
If your reading material cannot be concealed in your pocket or coat, leave them at your desk. Come on man. It’s 1:30 in the afternoon and you’re carrying a newspaper that’s still in the yellow rain-resistant wrapper. Everyone in the office knows where you’re going, and you’re a little too proud. I don’t need to know that my boss is on his way to take the Browns to the Super Bowl.
Without being too stereotypical here, ‘public display of toilet reading material guy’ is usually also ‘asshole that isn’t afraid to showcase the decibel level of his gastrointestinal powers’ guy.
6.- Cellphones at the urinal
Yea, I know we covered this in the first Corporate Crapper Guide, but we haven’t made any progress in the last few months. In the first Guide, I discussed the usage of cellphones in the bathroom stalls. While this is most disturbing, at least you’re in masked quarters. Now, I’d like to address the pompous retard that talks on the phone while at the urinal.
You sir, should be beaten for all to see. You are a careless and irresponsible piece of human trash. I loathe you.
This rule is often abused in settings outside of the corporate workspace – ballgames, late nights at bars, etc. – but are not exclusive to extracurricular events. I’ve seen it too many times at the office to ignore. If ever the grade school “push your buddy from behind while he’s peeing so he gets it all over himself” was appropriate, now would be the time. Take advantage.
7.- Zipping-up is not a Public Episode
Stall doors. Urinal guards. These are defined, and to be used as, shields from the general public. Seems to me that all events from the creation to the finality of the bathroom cycle should be accomplished behind these cozy safeguards.
With that being said, what gives you the idea to finish a jam session without fully tucking in or zipping up? I don’t get it. If you were to walk to the printer with your dong flapping in the wind, you would be immediately escorted out of the building. That’s a little creepy. And gay.
8.- Urinal Gum Spitters: Karma is a Bitch
‘Cellphone at urinal’ guy, I hate you. ‘Spit gum in urinal’ guy, I wish harm upon you and your family.
What is going on here? This is unacceptable, and should, without question, be a fireable offense at the office. Inexcusable.
There’s a large piece of plastic blocking the hole. Clearly this item has no chance of exiting its surroundings. The only solution is someone reaching their hand into a large basin of piss and removing your carelessness.
Have some compassion, my friend.
That’s like slashing someone else’s tires for no reason…your immature actions are only going to cause someone else heavy distress. Asshole. You’ll get yours.
9.- Always Dispose of Crapping Evidence
I crap. You crap. We crap. Big deal, everyone secretly ‘knows’ about it. But, let’s not make it public. Some instances – a la Rule #5 – can be voluntarily avoided. However, some exploitations are being performed involuntarily, and must be addressed.
If you’re at work right now, chances are, you’re wearing business-casual attire (i.e. sports coat, sweater, dress shirt, etc.). More than likely, this business attire consists of long sleeves. If you’re anything like me, you like to roll up the sleeve on the arm of your wiping-hand.
Upon completion, make sure to roll down your wiping-associated sleeve before exiting the bathroom. The one-sleeve-up look tells all office mates, “I got in deep, and I got in hard”. This is one step away from walking around with toilet paper stuck to your heel. And no ones wants to be that guy.
10.- Respect Other Crapping Territories
I include this one last because it is often the most abused rule in the corporate scene. However, by respecting the aforementioned advice, there is no reason why this very rule cannot be followed as well.
A popular pooping practice at most corporate environments is to venture off the beaten path of your dumping grounds and into the realms of another crapping territory. Another floor, another building…basically away from all things familiar. While this creates a cozy atmosphere for any long-winded steamer, you’re promoting violation of the previous rules stated in this guide. You're more likely to be careless on foreign terrain. Littering, clogging, boogers on the wall, misuse of the courtesy flush….and that’s not good for the overall corporate crapping experience. Play the hand you’re dealt with, follow the rules, and hang on for the ride.
Moreover, in small corporate environments, there’s nothing worse than confronting occupied stalls in a dire time of need. Having alien poopers on your floor only provokes this occurrence.
We're Not In Kansas Anymore
The Kansas legislature recently passed legislation that increased the minimum age for Kansas residents to get married. The ol' stick-in-the-mud legislators decided that the current minimum age for marriage (with parental consent) of 12 was too low, and instead are bumping that number all the way up to 16.
There was one brave protector of freedom that voted against the law, saying she didn't want to limit Kansans facing the most important decision of their young lives. I guess no one pointed out to her that the 12 year olds are usually not the most discerning, let alone any nutbag parents that would even entertain the thought of letting someone marry their child at age 12.
But more importantly, has anyone considered the impact that this legislation will have on the Sheen Kidz's "Lil' Wedding Dress" clothing line? What's he going to do with all those XS garters? Sad...
There was one brave protector of freedom that voted against the law, saying she didn't want to limit Kansans facing the most important decision of their young lives. I guess no one pointed out to her that the 12 year olds are usually not the most discerning, let alone any nutbag parents that would even entertain the thought of letting someone marry their child at age 12.
But more importantly, has anyone considered the impact that this legislation will have on the Sheen Kidz's "Lil' Wedding Dress" clothing line? What's he going to do with all those XS garters? Sad...
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
Won't You Help Charlie?
Charlie Sheen has announced a new clothing line for kids called, appropriately enough, the Sheen Kidz collection. The girls only line clothing line will hit trendy L.A. boutiques next month, and will be priced between $20 to $80. You know it will be hip, because he spells kids with a "z."
Did I miss something, but when did Charlie Sheen become an expert on kids' clothing? It's bad enough when your dad has a prostitute addiction, but you don't really have any control over that. But why would you voluntarily drop hard earned money to have Charlie Sheen's name on your daughter's ass? Honestly, I would rather burn my money than contribute it to this dipshit's hooker slush fund.
Did I miss something, but when did Charlie Sheen become an expert on kids' clothing? It's bad enough when your dad has a prostitute addiction, but you don't really have any control over that. But why would you voluntarily drop hard earned money to have Charlie Sheen's name on your daughter's ass? Honestly, I would rather burn my money than contribute it to this dipshit's hooker slush fund.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
More Dick
Monday, February 13, 2006
Turbulescent Times
It’s 1,723 miles to St. Louis …. I have a round trip ticket ….half a pack of gum … it’s cold … and I don’t have a jacket.
Yes, as I ticked through my mental checklist of items, I noted that a coat might have some utility. St. Louis had slow flurries this past weekend and the temperatures are expected to climb into the thirties. I even removed it from the closet. You know where this is going. Somehow I remembered to bring that all-important turkey jerky, but somehow neglected to bring a suitable winter coat. Yes, I am a dizzy blond.
I quickly analyze my options. Having experienced my fair share of travel snafus, I’ve developed the keen ability to evaluate my given situation and figure out a reasoned solution. Please note that I’ve not yet developed the ability to avoid said travel snafus in the first place, but still.
Let’s see, what my options are:
(a) Go home and get my jacket. Miss my plane. Get fired. That won’t work.
(b) Purchase a coat at the airport. Given this the airport is in Oakland and not San Francisco, the duty free shops will certainly be of lesser quality. And by lesser quality, I really mean “non-existent.” Somehow I just don’t think that a “Welcome to Oakland!” hooded sweatshirt will make the best impression during my meetings tomorrow.
(c) Say “fuck it” and freeze my ass off. Hope my sweater is magically able to deter wind and snow.
Given that I’m going to be there all of 36 hours, I opt for C and keep my fingers crossed. But seriously, how bad can it be? I’ve lived in DC and Colorado, so I can handle cold weather, can’t I? I’ve only lived back in the Bay Area for a year, so I should have retained at least some of my ability to cope with cold weather. Besides, I get to avoid lugging around that big, bulky leather jacket of mine. So maybe this will turn out okay.
Anyone that’s read this blog has to believe that I suffer from some sort “Munchausen’s Travel Syndrome,” but I have to believe it’s all coincidence. In fact, I’m not the only one that experiences bad travel karma. To wit:
* When walking in the short term parking lot on the way to the airport, I noticed a car that had carefully locked its doors, put on its steering wheel lock and rolled up all of the windows. All of the windows, that is, except for the passenger window. I have no idea what will happen to this car, but given that this is Oakland and we’re expected to have rain here soon, I can safely predict that your call will not be in the same condition as you left it.
* There’s a young guy wearing a fur coat that carried on a huge Valentine’s Day balloon. The balloon is heart shaped and at least 3 feet wide/tall, and literally fills up two passenger seats. Thankfully, I am not sitting next to Silky the romantic pimp.
* While we were departing the plane, I noticed that someone actually smuggled their rat-sized dog on board and hid it in her bag. We are the Paris Hilton generation. Holy shit, is that permissible? Perhaps it is, who knows. I can honestly say though that I would have entirely flipped out if Ms. Bojangles (or whatever the fuck it was named) made a tinkle during the flight..
All in all, not too bad a flying day. I realize that I’ve certainly jinxed my return flight with that little acknowledgement, but I like to live dangerously.
Yes, as I ticked through my mental checklist of items, I noted that a coat might have some utility. St. Louis had slow flurries this past weekend and the temperatures are expected to climb into the thirties. I even removed it from the closet. You know where this is going. Somehow I remembered to bring that all-important turkey jerky, but somehow neglected to bring a suitable winter coat. Yes, I am a dizzy blond.
I quickly analyze my options. Having experienced my fair share of travel snafus, I’ve developed the keen ability to evaluate my given situation and figure out a reasoned solution. Please note that I’ve not yet developed the ability to avoid said travel snafus in the first place, but still.
Let’s see, what my options are:
(a) Go home and get my jacket. Miss my plane. Get fired. That won’t work.
(b) Purchase a coat at the airport. Given this the airport is in Oakland and not San Francisco, the duty free shops will certainly be of lesser quality. And by lesser quality, I really mean “non-existent.” Somehow I just don’t think that a “Welcome to Oakland!” hooded sweatshirt will make the best impression during my meetings tomorrow.
(c) Say “fuck it” and freeze my ass off. Hope my sweater is magically able to deter wind and snow.
Given that I’m going to be there all of 36 hours, I opt for C and keep my fingers crossed. But seriously, how bad can it be? I’ve lived in DC and Colorado, so I can handle cold weather, can’t I? I’ve only lived back in the Bay Area for a year, so I should have retained at least some of my ability to cope with cold weather. Besides, I get to avoid lugging around that big, bulky leather jacket of mine. So maybe this will turn out okay.
Anyone that’s read this blog has to believe that I suffer from some sort “Munchausen’s Travel Syndrome,” but I have to believe it’s all coincidence. In fact, I’m not the only one that experiences bad travel karma. To wit:
* When walking in the short term parking lot on the way to the airport, I noticed a car that had carefully locked its doors, put on its steering wheel lock and rolled up all of the windows. All of the windows, that is, except for the passenger window. I have no idea what will happen to this car, but given that this is Oakland and we’re expected to have rain here soon, I can safely predict that your call will not be in the same condition as you left it.
* There’s a young guy wearing a fur coat that carried on a huge Valentine’s Day balloon. The balloon is heart shaped and at least 3 feet wide/tall, and literally fills up two passenger seats. Thankfully, I am not sitting next to Silky the romantic pimp.
* While we were departing the plane, I noticed that someone actually smuggled their rat-sized dog on board and hid it in her bag. We are the Paris Hilton generation. Holy shit, is that permissible? Perhaps it is, who knows. I can honestly say though that I would have entirely flipped out if Ms. Bojangles (or whatever the fuck it was named) made a tinkle during the flight..
All in all, not too bad a flying day. I realize that I’ve certainly jinxed my return flight with that little acknowledgement, but I like to live dangerously.
Sunday, February 12, 2006
Rant-astic Saturday
Given my impending travel plans, I thought it best to try to work out prior to going to St. Louis where the hotel’s “gym” consists of an antiquated treadmill and a pair of 20 lb dumbbells. So I headed to my old gym in downtown Oakland on Saturday. After about 30 minutes, I was quickly reminded about how odd that place is. I previously noted the workout fashion statements at the 24 Hour Fitness in Oakland , but apparently my initial advice was too narrow.
So here’s a few additional pieces of unsolicited advice to my fellow gym members:
* To the people who are on the cell phone while in the gym. I understand if you have an urgent call that you have to take. But I don’t understand the folks that will stop working out for 10 minutes (and thereby tie up equipment) while they take that all-important call. Rather, you should be more thoughtful like the multitaskers that will continue to work out while talking on the phone. Exhibit A - the dude was shuffling on the treadmill today (god only knows how you can hear anything). Exhibit B - the woman on the leg extension machine who talked while doing her set of 50. Well done, all!
* To the woman that sat in a meditative state on the calf raise machine for five minutes straight without exercising or even moving. Please note that you are not sitting in your office cube. If the machine is that goddamned intimidating, perhaps you should just skip it. Sitting there in a coma-like trance and mentally imagining yourself lifting weights is not the same as actually doing it, I hate to break it to you. Ditto to the guy napping on the bench press. Caffeinate up, people!
* To the heavy-perspirers that leave puddles of sweat on the equipment. Hey SpongeBob, would it kill you to towel off the machine when you’re done with it? There was one dude today that left a deposit of sweat that you could have squeegeed off. Awesome.
* To the guy who keeps lifting up his shirt to look at his abs. Hey pay, can you do that in the locker room? Or could you only do it once? But I guess it’s not as bad as the guy who’s stretching on the floor in front of the mirrors without a shirt on. Jesus, what the fuck is wrong with you? Did you forget that you’re not at home? At least have the decency to put on a homemade muscle tank top (which at least covers the love handles) like the dude sleeping on the bench press.
It's not me, it's you.
BTW, head shots are in, in case anyone wants one. Yes, Derek, I have yours all ready to go.
So here’s a few additional pieces of unsolicited advice to my fellow gym members:
* To the people who are on the cell phone while in the gym. I understand if you have an urgent call that you have to take. But I don’t understand the folks that will stop working out for 10 minutes (and thereby tie up equipment) while they take that all-important call. Rather, you should be more thoughtful like the multitaskers that will continue to work out while talking on the phone. Exhibit A - the dude was shuffling on the treadmill today (god only knows how you can hear anything). Exhibit B - the woman on the leg extension machine who talked while doing her set of 50. Well done, all!
* To the woman that sat in a meditative state on the calf raise machine for five minutes straight without exercising or even moving. Please note that you are not sitting in your office cube. If the machine is that goddamned intimidating, perhaps you should just skip it. Sitting there in a coma-like trance and mentally imagining yourself lifting weights is not the same as actually doing it, I hate to break it to you. Ditto to the guy napping on the bench press. Caffeinate up, people!
* To the heavy-perspirers that leave puddles of sweat on the equipment. Hey SpongeBob, would it kill you to towel off the machine when you’re done with it? There was one dude today that left a deposit of sweat that you could have squeegeed off. Awesome.
* To the guy who keeps lifting up his shirt to look at his abs. Hey pay, can you do that in the locker room? Or could you only do it once? But I guess it’s not as bad as the guy who’s stretching on the floor in front of the mirrors without a shirt on. Jesus, what the fuck is wrong with you? Did you forget that you’re not at home? At least have the decency to put on a homemade muscle tank top (which at least covers the love handles) like the dude sleeping on the bench press.
It's not me, it's you.
BTW, head shots are in, in case anyone wants one. Yes, Derek, I have yours all ready to go.
Friday, February 10, 2006
Good News/Bad News
For those that take a perverse pleasure in reading about my flying fiascos, you will be glad to know that I am scheduled to go (yet again) to St. Louis for work next week.
Let's do a little comparison of the two areas.
* Weather ~ SF-Bay Area - 71 degrees. Shit Louis - 38 degrees with snow flurries forecasted this weekend.
* California ~ Blue State. Missouri - Red State.
That seals it for me right there. I clearly must have done something terrible in a past life to deserve this fate. Oh well, I just hope that stray dogs won't delay my plane landing so I can get this trip over with.
Let's do a little comparison of the two areas.
* Weather ~ SF-Bay Area - 71 degrees. Shit Louis - 38 degrees with snow flurries forecasted this weekend.
* California ~ Blue State. Missouri - Red State.
That seals it for me right there. I clearly must have done something terrible in a past life to deserve this fate. Oh well, I just hope that stray dogs won't delay my plane landing so I can get this trip over with.
Friday, Thank God
Thursday, February 09, 2006
David James Gets Unstitched
This being the 5th day anniversary of my latest rugby injury, it was time for me to get the stitches removed from my head. The problem is that I don't have a primary care doctor. I'm one of those that actually have medical insurance but rarely use it since I rarely need medical attention. That is, until today.
Since I didn't want to tempt fate and wait 5 hours in the same ER that put the stitches in, I needed to find another trained professional to remove them. Given my demanding standards, I decided to select a doctor using a weighted formula of key requirements - distance and an opening on Thursday morning.
As luck would have it, I found a doctor that satisfied the proximity (2 miles) and availability (10:00 opening) criteria. Before finalizing the appointment, the receptionist sensing I wasn't their type of patient announced "you know, this is a family practice."
What the fuck does this mean? Is it a husband and wife team of doctors, with their kids as the medical assistants? Or is "family practice" code for vagina doctor? God, I'm stupid. But at this point in time, I don't really care if I end up butt naked in stirrups just so long as the doctor removes these goddamned stitches from my face.
As soon as I get there, I start to feel out of place. The entire waiting room is full women and the office is decorated in some sort of country cottage motif. Let’s check out the magazine selection -- “Glamour” … “Good Housekeeping” … “O.” Fuck, where’s the 2-year old “Sports Illustrated” issue that every reception room has? Shit, I’d even settle for “Golf Digest,” and I hate golf.
My fears appear to be confirmed when I start filling out the paperwork for new patients. On the medical history questionnaire, the 4th and 5th questions are “Date of your last PAP smear” and “Date of your last mammogram,” respectively. Goddammit, I am going to end up in those stirrups.
Oh well, I’m here and I’m desperate, so I decide to just suck it up. After completing the paperwork, “Sabrigua” (who will end up taking my vitals) feels she knows me well enough to say, “wow you don’t look like you’re doing well.” I mutter, “I’m okay” but I’m really thinking “No shit, Sherlock. It takes a really keen eye to notice the ten stitches in my dome. Oh and what’s up with your goofy name? Did you make that up yourself?”
After exchanging pleasantries and taking vitals, I finally met with the doctor, who seemed nice and normal enough, although she never heard of rugby. She didn’t even make me disrobe, even though I offered. Oh well, I guess chicks don’t dig scars after all. Ten minutes later, my stitches were gone and I was left to admire the latest pinkish scar on my face which the doctor noted, “kind of matches the other one you have.”
Thanks doc. Can’t wait to see you the next time I split my skull open so I can bite my tongue again next time someone says something brilliant like “wow, that must have hurt!”
BTW, I will have pictures available soon for those that are interested in my Frankenstein-esque appearance. I plan on getting wallets made and will send them out soon!
Since I didn't want to tempt fate and wait 5 hours in the same ER that put the stitches in, I needed to find another trained professional to remove them. Given my demanding standards, I decided to select a doctor using a weighted formula of key requirements - distance and an opening on Thursday morning.
As luck would have it, I found a doctor that satisfied the proximity (2 miles) and availability (10:00 opening) criteria. Before finalizing the appointment, the receptionist sensing I wasn't their type of patient announced "you know, this is a family practice."
What the fuck does this mean? Is it a husband and wife team of doctors, with their kids as the medical assistants? Or is "family practice" code for vagina doctor? God, I'm stupid. But at this point in time, I don't really care if I end up butt naked in stirrups just so long as the doctor removes these goddamned stitches from my face.
As soon as I get there, I start to feel out of place. The entire waiting room is full women and the office is decorated in some sort of country cottage motif. Let’s check out the magazine selection -- “Glamour” … “Good Housekeeping” … “O.” Fuck, where’s the 2-year old “Sports Illustrated” issue that every reception room has? Shit, I’d even settle for “Golf Digest,” and I hate golf.
My fears appear to be confirmed when I start filling out the paperwork for new patients. On the medical history questionnaire, the 4th and 5th questions are “Date of your last PAP smear” and “Date of your last mammogram,” respectively. Goddammit, I am going to end up in those stirrups.
Oh well, I’m here and I’m desperate, so I decide to just suck it up. After completing the paperwork, “Sabrigua” (who will end up taking my vitals) feels she knows me well enough to say, “wow you don’t look like you’re doing well.” I mutter, “I’m okay” but I’m really thinking “No shit, Sherlock. It takes a really keen eye to notice the ten stitches in my dome. Oh and what’s up with your goofy name? Did you make that up yourself?”
After exchanging pleasantries and taking vitals, I finally met with the doctor, who seemed nice and normal enough, although she never heard of rugby. She didn’t even make me disrobe, even though I offered. Oh well, I guess chicks don’t dig scars after all. Ten minutes later, my stitches were gone and I was left to admire the latest pinkish scar on my face which the doctor noted, “kind of matches the other one you have.”
Thanks doc. Can’t wait to see you the next time I split my skull open so I can bite my tongue again next time someone says something brilliant like “wow, that must have hurt!”
BTW, I will have pictures available soon for those that are interested in my Frankenstein-esque appearance. I plan on getting wallets made and will send them out soon!
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
Happy pre-Valentine's Day
Okay, most of us would agree that Valentine’s Day is the lamest of all of the artificial holidays. But a lot of people out there still feel some angst because they are alone or unhappy on this Hallmark Profit Day. Well let me tell you, ladies, it could be far worse.
An Iowa man recently ran afoul of the law last week and was charged with first-degree kidnapping and domestic assault on his own wife. You can almost picture this lovely chap being arrested on “Cops” wearing a wife-beater shirt and sporting a mullet.
Oh, it gets even better/worse. Prosecutors also allege that he devised a marriage contract -- which he entitled the "Contract of Wifely Expectations” -- which established what his wife had to do and when she had to do it. In the contract, his wife had certain “wifely duties” (“You will be naked within 20 minutes of the kids being in bed”) and hygiene obligations ("You will shave every third day”). Like any well drafted agreement, the contract also gave his wife chances to earn credits (i.e., "good behavior days") by complying with certain demands, including points she could earn by performing certain sex acts. Not surprisingly, his wife claims she never signed the contract.
I wonder if this hopeless romantic had the foresight to include a “conjugal visits” clause. Ahhh, true love….
N.B. Happy Valentine’s Day, Jessica. Sorry I couldn’t be with you, but I had to go to St. Louis for work. Plus, that Cash Warren dude still seems to be in the picture. Oh, and we’ve never met. I almost forgot about that last one. Don’t worry, we’ll work through these issues.
An Iowa man recently ran afoul of the law last week and was charged with first-degree kidnapping and domestic assault on his own wife. You can almost picture this lovely chap being arrested on “Cops” wearing a wife-beater shirt and sporting a mullet.
Oh, it gets even better/worse. Prosecutors also allege that he devised a marriage contract -- which he entitled the "Contract of Wifely Expectations” -- which established what his wife had to do and when she had to do it. In the contract, his wife had certain “wifely duties” (“You will be naked within 20 minutes of the kids being in bed”) and hygiene obligations ("You will shave every third day”). Like any well drafted agreement, the contract also gave his wife chances to earn credits (i.e., "good behavior days") by complying with certain demands, including points she could earn by performing certain sex acts. Not surprisingly, his wife claims she never signed the contract.
I wonder if this hopeless romantic had the foresight to include a “conjugal visits” clause. Ahhh, true love….
N.B. Happy Valentine’s Day, Jessica. Sorry I couldn’t be with you, but I had to go to St. Louis for work. Plus, that Cash Warren dude still seems to be in the picture. Oh, and we’ve never met. I almost forgot about that last one. Don’t worry, we’ll work through these issues.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
MJ Sings Late Pope's Prayers
It was reported that pop star Michael Jackson may actually
sing some of the prayers written by the late Pope John Paul.
Father Giuseppe Moscati of the Edizioni Musicali Terzo Millennio, which specializes in church music and organizes musical events at the Vatican, said his company had the rights to 24 of Pope John Paul's prayers and wanted to put together a group of international artists to set them to music.
As luck would have it, I happen to have a one of the Pope’s poems that will be put into song:
“There once was a priest from Nantucket,
Whose dick was so long he could suck it
He said with a grin
As he wiped off his chin,
’If my ear was a choir boy, I would fuck it!’”
There was also preview list of some the Pontiff’s other poem titles, such as “Father Fudge,” “Gin and Jesus Juice,” and "Bishop Michael’s Lap." Should be great listening. Hopefully R. Kelly and Pete Townshend will participate on the venture as well.
sing some of the prayers written by the late Pope John Paul.
Father Giuseppe Moscati of the Edizioni Musicali Terzo Millennio, which specializes in church music and organizes musical events at the Vatican, said his company had the rights to 24 of Pope John Paul's prayers and wanted to put together a group of international artists to set them to music.
As luck would have it, I happen to have a one of the Pope’s poems that will be put into song:
“There once was a priest from Nantucket,
Whose dick was so long he could suck it
He said with a grin
As he wiped off his chin,
’If my ear was a choir boy, I would fuck it!’”
There was also preview list of some the Pontiff’s other poem titles, such as “Father Fudge,” “Gin and Jesus Juice,” and "Bishop Michael’s Lap." Should be great listening. Hopefully R. Kelly and Pete Townshend will participate on the venture as well.
Bloody Saturday
It being rugby season now, it was only a matter of time before I suffered my latest serious rugby injury. Sure, I had the bruised kidney the other week that left me relatively immobile, but that was boring. Chicks don’t dig kidney bruises. But, they tell me, chicks dig scars. Which is great news since I am now the proud owner of a lovely cut above my right eye which took 10 stitches to close. Yes, boys and girls, David James has suffered yet another gash to his dome. So much for my sunglasses modeling career. Ahhh, my old Denver rugby team would be proud, as we won every game that I bled in (although my local team lost this weekend).
Unfortunately for you masochists (and you know who you are), I don’t have any photos of the injury. Sorry about that. I do have some pics of the 34 stitch job I got last year, but they’re a wee bit graphic to post. Not to worry, though, this one is not as bad as the old Harry Potter-esque one.
Thanks again for the concerns of my teammates and friends. I'll be fine. See you at practice tonight.
Unfortunately for you masochists (and you know who you are), I don’t have any photos of the injury. Sorry about that. I do have some pics of the 34 stitch job I got last year, but they’re a wee bit graphic to post. Not to worry, though, this one is not as bad as the old Harry Potter-esque one.
Thanks again for the concerns of my teammates and friends. I'll be fine. See you at practice tonight.
Sweet Home Alabama
An Alabama convenience store owner has encouraged his customers to read the Bible by offering them a free soft drink or cup of coffee if they can recite the Bible passage he's selected. He's been doing this for the last six years, and gives away an average of 2 and 12 drinks per day.
Outstanding. I know when Jesus said that the “blessed be the meek for they shall inherit the earth,” someone must have stopped transcribing because I’m confident his next line was surely “blessed be those that can mindlessly recite Bible versus, for they shall receive free beverages.”
Now while I would be far more inclined to recite my top 10 list of biblically-based porn movie titles, I also know that I would stoop pretty low for free caffeine. I probably could mutter "Jesus wept" or some other brief verse if it meant I could get a gingerbread latte out of it.
This all reminds me of my single visit to Alabama years ago. As I was driving through what appeared to be the movie set for "Deliverance," I was amazed -- in addition to the amount of road kill -- at the number of roadside stands selling crap. Roadside stands selling fireworks, food products, Southern souvenirs, you name it, were every mile or so.
Hard as it is to imagine, I actually resisted the urge to purchase the “critter jerky” from the guy sitting in his fold out aluminum chair. But as I was speeding to return to civilization, I saw something being offered for sale that to this day remains etched in my memory over a decade later.
In an effort to capitalize on Southerner’s love of region and the good ol’ days, some savvy entrepreneur was selling a Confederate flag with Jesus’ picture in the middle of it. Holy shit!
The flag, which was huge, accurately captured what I think Jesus stood for -- slavery and forced segregation -- and not “the Lord Jesus Christ and his twelve disciples.”
It was outstanding. I still deeply regret not purchasing that flag. But maybe, just maybe, that dude giving away drinks for Bible versus has one I can purchase from him.
Outstanding. I know when Jesus said that the “blessed be the meek for they shall inherit the earth,” someone must have stopped transcribing because I’m confident his next line was surely “blessed be those that can mindlessly recite Bible versus, for they shall receive free beverages.”
Now while I would be far more inclined to recite my top 10 list of biblically-based porn movie titles, I also know that I would stoop pretty low for free caffeine. I probably could mutter "Jesus wept" or some other brief verse if it meant I could get a gingerbread latte out of it.
This all reminds me of my single visit to Alabama years ago. As I was driving through what appeared to be the movie set for "Deliverance," I was amazed -- in addition to the amount of road kill -- at the number of roadside stands selling crap. Roadside stands selling fireworks, food products, Southern souvenirs, you name it, were every mile or so.
Hard as it is to imagine, I actually resisted the urge to purchase the “critter jerky” from the guy sitting in his fold out aluminum chair. But as I was speeding to return to civilization, I saw something being offered for sale that to this day remains etched in my memory over a decade later.
In an effort to capitalize on Southerner’s love of region and the good ol’ days, some savvy entrepreneur was selling a Confederate flag with Jesus’ picture in the middle of it. Holy shit!
The flag, which was huge, accurately captured what I think Jesus stood for -- slavery and forced segregation -- and not “the Lord Jesus Christ and his twelve disciples.”
It was outstanding. I still deeply regret not purchasing that flag. But maybe, just maybe, that dude giving away drinks for Bible versus has one I can purchase from him.
Monday, February 06, 2006
BlackBerry Fiasco Update
As of today, I still do not have a working phone/email/solitaire playing handheld device. My phone went dead last week for what I thought was due to the national BlackBerry black out. After some troubleshooting and inquiry, it merely had to do with the fact that my phone sucks and refuses to work. There’s nothing wrong with the service. So I need another phone. And it just so happens that the warranty expired about 2 weeks ago. Fuck. Fortunately, I came across a nice chap at the Cingular help desk who mentioned something about a “mystery 13th month” of warranty (whatever that means), and that a new phone would be sent out today. Fantastic.
So with that $200 that I avoided spending on a new phone, I’ll instead spend on something far more useful, like some "petsteps". To answer your question, no, I don’t own a pet ... so I really don’t need these steps. I just saw this stupid device advertised which just screamed "too much disposable income" and felt compelled to mention it here. And by mention, I mean “mock.”
Finally, there’s some important news I want to share with you all. Yes, you guessed it -- I’m headed back to St. Louis again! And you know that that means. My travel woes are your amusement! Who knows what fun and merriment awaits me next week?
Tomorrow -- update on my latest fun rugby injury ...
So with that $200 that I avoided spending on a new phone, I’ll instead spend on something far more useful, like some "petsteps". To answer your question, no, I don’t own a pet ... so I really don’t need these steps. I just saw this stupid device advertised which just screamed "too much disposable income" and felt compelled to mention it here. And by mention, I mean “mock.”
Finally, there’s some important news I want to share with you all. Yes, you guessed it -- I’m headed back to St. Louis again! And you know that that means. My travel woes are your amusement! Who knows what fun and merriment awaits me next week?
Tomorrow -- update on my latest fun rugby injury ...
Become a Republican!
If only I had discovered this handy little site during my formative political years, I could have avoided the recent string of Democrat heartbreaks. Sigh.
BTW ... a more complete post, including details of this weekend's most recent rugby injury, BlackBerry grumblings, and other yawn-inspiring stuff, will come later today... stay tuned.
BTW ... a more complete post, including details of this weekend's most recent rugby injury, BlackBerry grumblings, and other yawn-inspiring stuff, will come later today... stay tuned.
Thursday, February 02, 2006
Watch The Mouse Ears, Pal!
In response to Hong Kong Disneyland selling out for 8 straight days,
angry parents tossed their kids over sold-out Disney Park fences. The uproar outside Disney's theme park when hundreds of disgruntled visitors, many having made the trip from mainland China, were furious that their lunar New Year vacation to Hong Kong was ruined.
Lines too long at Disneyland? Can't make it in to the Tokyo version of "It's A Small Life?" Fuck it, simply toss your progeny over the fence so that at least the kids can enjoy the park. Outstanding. Why didn't I think of that? Shit, I could have saved $100 and several hours of my life the last time I was there.
Oh well, live and learn.
angry parents tossed their kids over sold-out Disney Park fences. The uproar outside Disney's theme park when hundreds of disgruntled visitors, many having made the trip from mainland China, were furious that their lunar New Year vacation to Hong Kong was ruined.
Lines too long at Disneyland? Can't make it in to the Tokyo version of "It's A Small Life?" Fuck it, simply toss your progeny over the fence so that at least the kids can enjoy the park. Outstanding. Why didn't I think of that? Shit, I could have saved $100 and several hours of my life the last time I was there.
Oh well, live and learn.
Goodbye, BlackBerry
With the recent news that U.S. Supreme Court refused to hear RIM's recent appeal regarding U.S. patent issues affecting its BlackBerry service, I couldn't help but freak out when my BlackBerry went on the fritz today ("fritz" being a technical term). So it's off to try to straighten out my CrackBerry service with Cingular. Hopefully I won't be stuck with a $300 handheld device that's only good for playing Texas Hold 'Em Poker and Solitaire.
Birthday Recap
[ Note: Yes, I know that this is not a birthday photo, but I don't have those yet and I couldn't upload this other one I wanted to add. So here's another recent one of Brian taken at another happy time. It is what it is. ]
For Brian’s birthday, it was decided that we would have his favorite pizza for dinner, which coincidentally enough, is the same as mine. Funny how that works out. Now this being a family event, I couldn’t bring a date. Sorry Jessica.
It’s a decent sized group (10 people altogether) and, as luck would have it, I get stuck at one end of the table which is unfortunate because: (a) I keep getting brushed harder than a head of nappy hair, and (b) I’m stuck sitting next to the 6-year old that chants “Pizza! Pizza!” nonstop for 15 minutes -- even after the pizza arrives -- as well as the other kid who asks inane questions which indicate he’s never been to a birthday party before”:
Child 1 - “Can I blow out the candles?”
Actual Response: “Hey, it’s Brian’s birthday, why don’t we let him do it?”
Restrained Response: “Are you nuts? How about you instead sit down and wait for the cake?”
Later on came the following exchange, which again evidenced an appalling lack of birthday etiquette:
Child 1 - “Can I open some of Brian’s presents?”
Actual Response (pausing): “No, they’re Brian’s presents. If you want to choose which present he opens, that’s fine.”
Restrained Response: “Are you shitting me? Hell no you can’t open his presents. Jesus Christ.”
And so it went. All in all, it was a good time, especially when the entire restaurant sang happy birthday to Brian, who was just beaming the entire time. He had a great time, which is most important (even if I couldn’t bring Jessica).
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
Telecommuting Wednesday
Working from home always gives the appearance that it's going to be a lazy day, although I tend to work more than when I go into the office. It could be the absence of chatty co-workers (although the SF office is pretty barren these days). Or it could be the regular distraction of the vending machine. Or it could be the daily 2-hour naps. Who knows.
Unfortunately, I am working on dial-up (don't ask) which means: (a) far less Internet surfing, and (b) even more work productivity. My employer really should encourage me to work from home each day.
It also means that I can leave at a decent hour to go to my son's birthday party today. Happy 6th birthday, Brian! I love you, buddy.
Unfortunately, I am working on dial-up (don't ask) which means: (a) far less Internet surfing, and (b) even more work productivity. My employer really should encourage me to work from home each day.
It also means that I can leave at a decent hour to go to my son's birthday party today. Happy 6th birthday, Brian! I love you, buddy.
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