Now I can't stop.
Friday, December 29, 2006
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
If you said "Valentine's Day" you made the right call!
DECEMBER 26TH and I am inundated with VALENTINE'S DAY CARDS?!?!?!?!? Why not a big display filled with seed packets for Arbor Day? Is it too early to Put out the Halloween costumes?
And why does Valentine's Day need a 2 month lead in? Is it just to torture the husbands/boyfriends of the world? We have finally gotten past the "subtle" hints for a Christmas gift that comes in a small box labeled Kays or Zales or Jared or some other damn place, and now we have to see and hear MORE ads for "show her you love her. Say it with diamonds". Sure, and next year I'll say it with bankruptcy (where is a high hat sound effect when you need it?). I am lucky that Wifey is not jewelry obsessed (although she DID make 3 separate "suggestions" for next year's Christmas gift. And also took each opportunity to remind me that she has a birthday and we have an anniversary before Christmas rolls around again. If anyone who reads this goes to one of those fancy Catholic churches I see on the television and in movies PLEASE light one of those cool altar candles for me. I have always wanted someone to do that for me and I don't think it has ever been done. And while I appreciate the sentiment, the one you have in the hallway next to the bathroom just doesn't have the same effect, even if it DOES make the entire house smell like sugar cookies or fresh linen or whatever fricking candle-of-the-month Yankee Candle is hawking this month).
In case you are wondering, Wifey is doing pretty well/good (I like to use improper grammar sometimes, but not all the time. This way I get to do both in one sentence) with her recovery. This surgery was a little more intense that the last one, and she will actually have to go for physical therapy this time. But she keeps promising me increased flexibility, and for that I will get her whatever damn resistance equipment she needs.
Also, last night we had a bit of a conversation.
Wifey has complained on more than one occasion about my inability to fall asleep when we go to bed. I will usually start to ramble on about any number of topics. And because my body is tired but my brain has too much information collected throughout the day to process, I will get kind of goofy at bedtime. Anyone who knows me knows that goofy is not much of a stretch for me anyway, but I do feel bad about subjecting Wifey to this. At least I did until last night. Last night I came home exhausted. I have not slept well for the better part of a month, and going back to the 2-a-day grind after 4 straight days of one or no jobs wore me out. So I laid down and got bundled up in my blankets and quickly began nodding off. Well Wifey came downstairs and got herself all ready for bed and decided that she wanted to talk. And talk.
I was silently praying that the drugs they gave her for the pain would kick in and she would go into WifeyComaVille (soon to be a theme restaurant by Jimmy Buffet), but no such luck. I began to think that she hadn't taken any lately. And THAT is when she decided to drop the bombshell on me
--Sidebar to the sidebar--
Wifey's Mama gave each of us a movie and a book for Christmas. She gave me the Special Edition of Monty Python and the Holy Grail, which I never bought because I have the original on video but have wanted to buy since it came out. So that was in fact an awesome gift. The book she gave me (and Wifey got her own copy of the same book) was "The Purpose Driven Life". I am looking forward to reading this book. But I was not expecting the personal inscription in the book (and the matching one in Wifey's book) that referred to the journey from birth through life through MORE BIRTH. If I didn't know better I would think she was pining for grandkids (it has always seemed weird to me that the parents of a female would want their daughter to get pregnant, even after she is married. That means that someone had to, well, you know. And at this point in my life I cannot fathom a parent, ESPECIALLY a father, being okay with someone touching his daughter even after she is made an honest woman. I do not see my ambiguity on this fading if Wifey and I have a daughter. God I hope we have all boys. I don't think I will survive the ulcers that having a daughter would give me). So it seems that the pressure cooker is finally on us. My parents have 2 grandkids already (courtesy of my sister and brother-in-law) so there is a release valve there. Mama-in-law has no such outlet for her desires. Well...
--back to original sidebar--
Wifey started talking about being ready to try and have a kid starting sometime next year.
I have wanted kids for a while (with Wifey I started thinking about it on or about our 3rd date, as I was trying to figure out a way to get her in the sack. Back then she was much better at holding her liquor, so that wasn't a viable option. I wound up having to use charm. I didn't know I had it. There is a good chance I don't. But whatever the hell it was, she bought it. YAY me!). When we first got serious enough to discuss marriage, she said that she wanted to wait 5 years. I said I didn't want to wait that long. She said she would consider 2 or 3, but she wanted us to have some time first. I agreed with her that it was a good idea, and I am glad she said it because we haven't exactly had a whole bunch of time with each other as it is. If we had some tiny poop machine in the house it might have become impossible to see each other at all. The news that she is thinking about getting ourselves ready to have kids as soon as next year (health and financial planning will be necessary) is something I have been waiting to hear her say.
But not on a Wednesday at 1:45 in the morning when I have an alarm clock that will be going off in less than 4 hours.
And here is the thing. I don't know if she did take any of her "happy fun pills" last night, and if she did I don't know what time she took them. I know that she was a little (okay, more than a little) legally stoned at my sister's house Christmas Day, and she mentioned my sister-in-law's munchkin as one of the impeti (what is the plural for impetus? Impetusses? Impetae?) for the decision. My fear is that hillbilly heroin and watching a tot wander about got her primordial maternal instincts all worked up into a frothy lather, but in a week she will be back on the propho-train, which means I am still playing for USC (please tell me you get that).
We didn't talk much about it after she dropped her "KNOCK ME UP" sign on my head and then rolled over to go to sleep. I left this morning before she was awake enough to realize that I had to go to work. I am waiting to see what conversations we have tonight. Rest assured I will let you know the good parts.
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
I have been having trouble posting videos since I switched my blog over to the beta thing they want us all to be on so bad. And to make matters worse, the version of this that I posted a few weeks ago is no longer available on YouTube. So now I have been trying to re-post for a while. Hopefully this works and it will be on. Of course if you are reading this than it worked. If you are not reading this than it didn't, but that makes my disclaimer worthless.
I need more coffee.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
(Does anyone else think that Barbara Walters is watching Rosie as she picks her cause of the week and realizes that she has become the captain of the Titanic and Rosie is the iceberg?)
Rosie has decided to go after the moral qualifications of Donald Trump after he decided to not fire her as Ms. USA (I no longer have the mental acuity to figure out how the hell he got control of Ms. USA or how the hell he still makes himself relevant to anything. Trump has whored himself out so much that he has actually become chaste again. How this is possible is beyond me, but I think it is true. Any day now he is going to start selling Trump brand Air, or some line of crap like that, and my head will explode from the sheer force of gazing at his hubris). Read the article HERE and then come back.
Okay, so Rosie talks trash about Trump. Trump comes back trashing her and saying that she isn't as popular a tv show personality as she claimed to be (and in a STUNNING display of self control Trump goes more than 30 seconds talking about television without pimping the new season of the Apprentice! Or more likely the article edited that part out). But the best part is the end...
"She's out of her mind. I will probably sue Rosie for a number of reasons. I'm worth a lot of money. She doesn't tell the facts," he added.
Did you see it? "I'm worth a lot of money". When I read that, all I could see in my head was Francis in "Pee Wee's Big Adventure". In fact, I am waiting for these two titans of piety to break into a "I know you are but what am I?" argument any minute now. And when it does happen, let us all hope that Matt Lauer is nearby with a camera and a microphone. Why Matt Lauer? I have no earthly idea, it just sounded right in my head. I think that Matt Lauer will bring balance to the cosmos somehow. I just don't know how as of yet. But as soon as I do I will let him know, because we all know that the cosmos could use a little more balance. And Jenga (see the next post for an explanation).
BTW - a big pet peeve of mine is that one person who signs up to bring plates (and sometimes will say that they are bringing napkins too). That is just a bullshit pot luck category. And here's the thing, you know you will see them again in about 6 months. At some point the office will do some kind of summer shindig, and you know this jackass will sign up to bring condiments. OOOOOOOHHHHHH! "You're going to bring mustard AND mayonnaise? Are you sure your budget can handle relish? Oh, this? This is my German potato salad. The recipe has been in my family for generations, brought from Europe when my grandparents immigrated here from Poland in 1925. But enough about that, is that HUNT'S ketchup? Wow, you shouldn't have!"
But anyway, I have chosen to exercise the right NOT to walk as far as office meals are concerned. And if I needed any extra motivation for my not joining the festivities, I have been given it in spades. SWAN (She Without A Nickname) decided to bring in her portable karaoke machine. Why would ANYONE feel the need to own one of these things? Do they really host parties and break the thing out and next thing you know it is the happening place to be? I always picture it like those old Jenga commercials. There is a party in this nice, swanky condo and 4 of the beautiful people that occupy this world are playing with little pieces of balsa wood that have been stacked in some random pattern. Well soon enough all the doctors and lawyers and impossibly successful people attending this soiree have stopped what they are doing and EVERYONE is watching the Jenga game. It is THAT fascinating. And everyone is "ooohing" and aahing" at every move, and perfect teeth are exposed with every genuine laugh that can only emanate from the soul of a truly content person as they vicariously enjoy the game of Jenga. And then, the look of surprise, nay, the look of HORROR when one of the players (I think it is the attractive blond lady) pulls the piece that makes the Jenga fall down. Followed by UPROARIOUS laughter and a few playful punches on the shoulder (and I am pretty sure I saw a high five somewhere in the background) as EVERYONE cheers and claps at the end of the most funnest game EVER!!! The only redeeming thing about Jenga is that as long as you have more than 2 players you have more than 1 winner. There is always one loser, but everyone else wins. And that can do nothing but improve your feeling of self worth, unless you REALLY suck at Jenga.
But I digress. Back to the personal karaoke machine. I just picture SWAN standing in her living room, disheveled in her work clothes that she never took off, a few candles lit as she sings "All By Myself" and fights off the tears. Why is it that I almost find the thought of that funny? I just cannot stomach the thought of JJ (who is here on a THURSDAY! 2 days in a row of this claptrap AND a holiday party marred with controversy, which I will get to in a minute) and some random guy from IT singing "Paradise by the Dashboard Light". Mother Hen breaking into her rendition of "Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend"...you get the idea.
BREAKING CONTROVERSY NEWS!!!!!!!!!!
Somebody brought bagels from Panera (another bastard who stole my idea!), and JJ decided that they should be taken out of the container that they were brought in (that cardboard carrying case thing). And she took them out and put them on a tray. And she used her bare hands. Now we get to the two sides to this. One, I don't want JJ (or anyone else who hasn't just washed their hands) touching food that I am going to eat. But on the other hand, the way the Hens have gone off the deep end about this (pulling each other into remote corners of the office to share this information and cluck disapprovingly at her) seems a bit extreme for an old lady that pulled a few bagels out of a box. It is not like we work in the OR and she just stepped out of surgery here. A little reason is all I ask for (and will never get as long as I am here).
Okay, I gotta run. Brunch starts in less than half an hour, and I have to post something else before I get the hell out of here.
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
I would give this to a bunch of you, but Wifey would make it so that I would never be able to give it again, so I will save it for her. But wrapping it will be fun. Not as much fun as her unwrapping it, but fun nonetheless.
Just follow these three simple steps:
1. Cut a hole in a box.
2. Put your junk in that box.
3. Make her open the box.
Justin Timberlake is officially a funny mofo. He makes damn good pop music, and now he has moved up a couple of notches in my book.
If he was also a Scientologist, I would be totally screwed.
Monday, December 18, 2006
I just hope that if I am blessed with a new job, that it gives me as much ammunition and material as the ones I have now have given me.
Also, a quick, open apology to Post Script (an old college friend). I am very sorry that Wifey and I didn't make it out to the Gathering of the P's (long story). We were just both too exhausted, and even when we talked about going and decided that we would go and make an appearance, we wound up vegging out and just staring blankly at whatever we were doing and never made it to the "put on clothes you can wear out in public" part of going out. And to the Honorary P, happy belated birthday. I hope your "29+2" birthday was everything you hoped it would be and more. I will endeavor to make it to "29+3". I promise.
I am going to go and have some Metamucil and lie down until Matlock comes on.
Oh my sciatica.
Friday, December 15, 2006
The big thing I have had to come to grips with is that my career is not where I thought it would be. I am not living as an actor, getting paid to entertain people. I also didn't plan on meeting Wifey and making the name more than just prophecy. I didn't plan on buying a house in the city and planning on raising a family (eventually, when I can get Wifey drunk enough to let me finish what we started without a thin layer of lubricated recycled tire in the way).
And this led me to the question that I had to answer: If I never accomplish what I had set out to do, if I am destined to live a life of anonymous servitude to unseen corporations, would I be happy? Is it enough?
What surprised me is how quickly I answered the question. I didn't have to think about it at all. The answer is yes. I may not have "made it" like I thought I was going to, but I made it like I found out I wanted to. Do I want to work 2 jobs, 65+ hours a week? Do I want to wear a polyester guards uniform and be laughed at by a bunch of Calvert Hall punkasses who are just waiting to turn 16 so Mommy and Daddy can buy them a new Hybrid or Jeep or whatever the cool car of the month is? No. Do I want to toil away in obscurity just for the "bitchin" pension plan and the corporate matched 401K (depending on the job)? Not really. But if I never move past this staion in my life, will I be able to look at myself in the mirror and be satisfied in who I am? Yup. Because I know that I am going to be a good father, and I will find a way to provide for my family, and anything else is gravy.
But that doesn't mean I will be satisfied performing at Spots when I am 55, doing "To Kill A Mockingbird" or "Fiddler On The Roof" AGAIN. I want to at least be doing the same old community theatre claptrap at Everyman. Is that too much to ask?
Now Wifey needs the truck, and I was told by the wound center that I should be done by 11am no problem. I still have to go back up to them and get new boots. I finally get tired of waiting after I hear them tell some guy that just signed in that the wait shouldn't be more than about 15-20 minutes. I chuckle because I have already been waiting for 52 minutes (yup I was counting). I see them call back the third person that arrived after me. I ask them when I am going to be brought back. They ask me when I signed in. I tell her it has been almost an hour. She says "nuh-uh" (thank God she used layman's terms. If she had denied me in dr. speak I would probably still be there scratching my head in confusion). I show her where my name is on the now discarded list that had been all scratched off except for my name (it is folded back to expose the next page that is about 15 names deep with 13 of them scratched off, which means that the patient has been seated in the back). She asks for my insurance card. SHE COULDN'T HAVE DONE THAT A DAMN HOUR AGO?!?!? But at last I am brought back to the men's changing room and given the "Holy crap he's friggin' HUGE" robe to put on (they had to go to another room to get it. I am pretty sure that it is usually reserved for women who have entered their fourth trimester. And yes I know I said "fourth" and "trimester". THAT is the joke dammit!
And now we get to the violation. I was told to strip down to my underbritches (I was allowed to keep my shirt on under my robe. Yay for humility!), an I was taken to an examination room. There I met Jan (pronounced "Youn", like "young without the final "G" sound), the East German woman who obviously moved to the states once the Wall fell and all the torture jobs got outsourced to the Phillipines. She has me lay on the examination table, and pulls out a sheet to lay across my upper legs. I am thinking that we are in for a relatively simple procedure, so I put my head back. And then...
I know that women subject themselves to all sorts of degrading exams when they see their GYN. I don't know the precise nature of these exams, but I have heard enough talk to know that stirrups are not fun and that there is apparently some tool that looks like a duck's bill made of metal that remains at a constant temperature of 24 degrees Kelvin.In the grand scheme of things, a man's visit to the proctologist consists of a minute or two of "So Doc, do you like to go BOWL-OWL-OH-MY-GOS-HOLY-SHIT! and then you take an extra minute to sit down in the car. I would not begin to compare my experience to the pain and discomfort that a woman has to experience. But that being said...
MOTHER FUCKER! I try not to drop the big enchilada of curse words, but that is the only way I can vocalize what happened next. Jan takes the sheet and goes to tuck it into the gown, and also into the leg of my boxers. And THERE WAS CONTACT! It isn't like she went to give me a happy ending, but still, an "excuse me" would have been nice. If you are going to cut me off on the freeway. you could at least wave. And if you are going to make uninvited contact with General Jiggly, say something. "Sorry", "Whoops!", "Impressive"...ANYTHING! And then she squirts about 2 quarts of what felt like cold 10W30 on my inner thigh and followed that by taking some kind of scanning instrument and jabbing it into the crease between my thigh and my island of fun and prizes. No warning. And when I inevitably tense up she tells me to stop resisting. "Stop resisting"? What the hell is this, Gitmo? She picks about 4 spots on the thigh and just grinds the thing into my flesh. And all I could think was that if this is how all ultrasounds are done, no wonder babies come out crying. Oh my Damn!
This continues on the other thigh. By this point I have become used to the torture and can at least mentally prepare myself for the impending emasculation. And before you ask, yes there was cockular contact with the other leg too. Not to mention nutular contact too.
What does all of this mean? It means that I have officially been re-entered into the world of "Bad Touch". I will probably feel dirty of a few days. And there is a good chance that when I am finished here I am going to drink a bottle of wine. Maybe two.
Honestly, I can really see the humor in this. By the time she started on my second leg, I was in full Ferris Bueller mode, constantly "looking at the camera" to make sure that the audience knew that I knew just how absurd this all was.
Monday, December 04, 2006
Shut! Up! How the hell was what Kelly Ripa said the slightest bit homophobic?!? (Confused? See HERE)
It is actions and statements like that that cause actual cases of hatred and bigotry to be belittled or ignored. "I don't know where that hand has been"? How did you get that it was homophobic, especially since Clay Aiken has never claimed to be homosexual? Who are you to publicly out him? Who made you the arbiter of decency and the watchdog for the homosexual community? Who made you anything more than a loudmouth, annoying shrill lump of flesh who can't act (check THIS, THIS, and THIS if you need proof of her complete lack of ability)? For all of us, please, shut the hell up!
I would say she needs a man, but something tells me that it wouldn't do her much good. Wouldn't do much for the guy either.
To the punks who keep stealing condoms from Target:
I appreciate the desire to have safe sex. I practice it myself sometimes (and sometimes I even have a partner to practice it WITH me). But I do not condome your safe sex at the expense of my 401K, dammit!
To everyone who commented on my attire at work on Thursday:
Yes, I am a large man wearing the jersey of a large man. I get it. Let it go. If I really was Tony Siragusa, do you really think I would be working there? Seriously, get a grip.
To the Boob Thief:
Those. Are. Mine. If you are that desperate for a pillow, I will start a collection to get you one. But Wifey's God-given love pillows are not for you to drool on. I swear to all that I hold holy, if I EVER catch the scent of Similac on them, I am going to be VERY angry with you.
Stop encouraging him.
To that bitch who works with Wifey:
HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!!! Suck it bitch!
To the Ronnettes:
I am not feeling the love like I used to. You need to rectify that, and soon.
$80 for the Sopranos Season Six Part I? Who the hell are you kidding? I have two words for you all. Price. Point. Stop being so greedy. I already paid you once for the honor of watching the show, don't bend me over the cash register for the honor of being able to watch it again. Bada Bing, Bada Bite me.
Stop complaining so much. If you keep this up, you'll start to sound like Rosie O'Donnell.
I go to my cubicle there in the basement, and what do I see? Well, everythng seems nominal, but then I look down. And guess what I DON'T see...
Yup, my chair is gone. I don't know where it is. I try to take a chair from an empty cubicle (a co-worker who has moved to a better job, now there is no one working there, and I am told that the chair has to stay in the empty cubicle. I am offered another chair by the person that said I couldn't have the empty cubicle one, but the thing is obviously on it's last legs (or wheels as the case may be), and I have the distinct feeling that I would go through that chair like a hot knife through melted butter. So I wind up grabbing a non-wheeled chair that has been used for holding random boxes while it sits in the corner, all lonely and neglected. So now I have a new friend, and I am going to requisition a new chair. I am going to ask for a real nice leather one and see how high end I can go before they put the kibosh on me.
Welcome back, huh?
Also, on a side note, one of my bosses asked me what my shirt size is. It seems that in the course of 3 years (I just started my 3rd year there at the end of November) the "Christmas Gift" for all the employees of the hospital has gone from a $25 gift card to a local grocery chain to some kind of gift basket, to a polo shirt. Yes, BSR will be "S" no more. I might still be "F"'ed, but I will no longer be "S". If only they had thought of this in time for my wedding...
B (soon to be less the "less") S R
Monday, November 27, 2006
It probably started with my mother (not TOO Freudian I hope). My mother is one of those hardcore Christmas freaks, and it shows in her tastes in music. My mother would (and still will) listen to Christmas music at any time. There is nothing like being 12 and walking into your house after a long day of being 12 in late June, with kickball, bike riding, creek-exploring and the like, and hearing Nat King Cole singing about turkey and mistletoe. But by the time you reach 14 and up, and (by law I believe) have to become at least somewhat surly and withdrawn, it gets to be a bit much. And from early October on (pretty much what she would do is pull the "spooky sounds" tape out of the tape player and throw in the soundtrack to White Christmas). By mid November I was tired of it. By mid December I would start going nuts. And by December 26th, if I heard one more damn version of Frosty the Snowman, I was ready to kill. Of course, she kept playing the crap until the tree came down sometime around the spring thaw (artificial trees never seem as urgent in regards to removing them).
So that leads me to now, when I really just can't stand the stuff in anything but small doses. I learned to avoid any station advertising itself as "the Lite FM" from Thanksgiving until New Years, and once I moved out of the parent's place, it became easy to keep away from. I did my fair share of mall work, but you can block that out with enough effort, and when you are helping customers you really don't hear it anyway.
So what is happening here in Moleville? Well, one of the Hens has Christmas music playing, and it is as loud as it can be. And to make matters worse, Mother Hen told her to turn it up, and it doesn't matter what anyone else thinks. Luckily, before I had to speak up and make a few enemies (what with the string of profanities I was about to unleash), Wonder Woman piped up and called Mother Hen selfish, but did it in that way that only Hens can, so as to not cause hurt feelings. So I was saved from THAT potential trip to the unemployment line. At least for now.
I need to wrap this up, but I promise this week you will have a tale of "Tuxedo Freaks Out and The Fart That Cleared The Room". And yes, it all started around 5am, because crazy shit just can't happen to me during regular business hours.
Richards noted that the racial epithet he used is frequent in the entertainment industry, and acknowledged that it could have consequences.
"I fear that young whites will think it's cool to go around and use that word because they see very cool people in the show business using that word so freely," he said. "Perhaps that's what came through in that ... the vernacular is so accessible."
THAT might just be the scariest thought of them all. That somewhere in the world, there are some young whites that think that Michael Richards is a very cool person in the show business. If there are people THAT naive and moronic, this world is indeed doomed.
BTW - quick thought to chew on...Why is this outburst not getting the same kind of pariah status for Richards that the comment on Jews got Mel Gibson? Is Richards' slur less hurtful? Was Richards not drunk, so it must have been manufactured to shock and awe, not come from that "vino veritae" that Gibson was nailed with? I never did anything on the whole Mel Gibson thing. I still need to touch in on that.
But it will have to wait for another time. I need to go do what the very cool people in the show business are doing. I can't wait to start my new "Botox and Anorexia" diet.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Friday, October 27, 2006
Got back from the Wound Center yesterday. I have been put in UNNA boots (see definitions HERE and HERE ). Basically my legs look like a WWI soldier's legs. I know, SEX-AY!
The doctor I saw yesterday looked like a heavier version of Phillip Seymour Hoffman. I am not sure how I feel about that. I think he is a great actor, but I don't know if I want Capote touching me. He might have to be on my list of people not allowed to touch me. I might have to make that list. It worked for my big brother.
Anyway, I am now walking around looking like the Mummy, at least from the knees down. From the knees up, I still look like me. I don't know which is the better angle. I go back next week to get them cut off, and possibly have fresh ones put on. The big problem is that while I have them on, I cannot shower. I can only sponge bathe. Now I can get clean enough doing that, but it isn't the same. Unless I can convince Wifey to pick up a nurse's outfit and sponge bathe me, it isn't the most enticing proposition.
BTW - I know that the Ronnettes got me a gift, and for that I am very thankful. I don't know what it is yet, but I know it exists and I am touched by it. Not touched by them (not yet, heh heh heh), but by the gesture. I am hoping that the gift entails something Nurse-y. A man can dream.
So really not much else to say, but I wanted to fill you all in on the fun and frivolity that is my life and legs. As always, any questions/comments/concerns can be forwarded to the usual channels. Happy weekend everybody, and if you know Wifey, go see her new play. It opens tonight.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
I am a little freaked out by the whole ordeal, but since we are attacking the problem the best way that we can, all I can do is have faith. Wifey has been incredible in making things as easy for me as possible, and Larry the Upstairs Neighbor has been kind enough to loan me many comic books and DVD box sets. I watched the entire first season of Roseanne in 2 days. How friggin awesome is that?
One of the things I have had to do has been to keep the leg elevated above my heart as much as possible. And since I am not exactly the most flexible person around (and I am the only person in the room right now if that gives you any idea as to my inability to get past 1st position), this has called for a lot of lying around with my leg on pillows. I know, tough life. But this leads to the major problem with immobility...bus butt.
I am not sure if we have ever covered bus butt before, but just in case we haven't here is what it is. When you were a kid, did you ever go on a long field trip? Did you ride on a school bus to take that trip? Do you remember when, probably about 2/3 of the way to your destination, that your butt would start hurting from those "padded" seats? THAT, my friends, is bus butt. And I have been getting it in spades. Bus butt, like paper cuts are one of the great equalizers.
People always respond differently to injury/trauma. I don't think anyone can do what they do in TV and in the movies when they get shot. Hell, if I get GRAZED by a bullet I am going to drop like a stone and beg for mercy. I have no problem being someone's bitch if it results in my not being shot. Same goes for stabbing. I am sure that there are some people who would have a more positive response than me. To them I say "Go ahead Mr. Hero! I'll be the one here stopping my own bleeding while you get shot at!" But no matter how bad ass you are, paper cuts will stop you in your tracks. Tony Soprano would be bitched by a paper cut. So would you. Don't even try to deny it. You would be a paper cut's bitch. It's okay, really it is. It is nothing to be ashamed of.
Stubbed toes also fit in this category. They hurt like a mofo and they always look so damn gory. NOTHING stopped a kickball game like the kid wearing sandals who got a stubbed toe and had to go home. And I don't care WHAT they say, Bactine and mecurechrome (sp on that last one. I wrote it phonetically. If you are old enough you remember that shit) stung like a sumbitch.
So anyway, sitting up has been a problem the last 2 weeks. Which makes sitting at a keyboard rambling on about random crap in a vain attempt to entertain/impress Wifey's co-workers and assorted friends low on the to do list. But I promise that I will perservere and continue to ramble on about how horrible my work is, just to make you feel better. THAT is a BSR guarantee.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Today I received an instant message from Wifey asking me to come get her this afternoon because she was feeling unwell and didn't trust taking the pain meds at work, as they make her not as able to stop herself from saying the things on her mind (as I found out when the baggie of meat leaked). When you work with a few people you are not overly fond of (no worries Ronnettes, all of you are safe from the fearsome WifeyRage
BTW - quick sidebar. I met the father of the Boob Thief. Nice guy. When Wifey introduced him to me as "the father of your arch enemy", he was taken aback just a bit. Once he understood that my only problem with his spawn is that he gets to spend more quality time with my wife's perfect breasts (and yes they are perfect. Just ask her), he immediately commiserated, saying he has the same problem with his wife and BT. He is a good guy. I hope he eventually evens out the time share problem.
So I went and picked her up, and once we went to the bank near her, she decided to nap in the car for the drive back up I-95. She did wake up long enough to ask me to stop at McDonalds and get her 2 Fillet O'Fish sandwiches. We stopped at McD's and got her the requested munchies. She sat up and consumed one vociferously. As she finished the first sandwich, I realized I might need an old priest and a young priest. As she tried to compose herself, I tried to navigate the car while pea soup shot out of her ears and she tested the molecular cohesion of a paper McDonalds bag (I was impressed that she took the time to pull the other sandwich out of the bag before her impression of that scene from Airplane!. Personally, if I bought two of the same thing and ate one and immediately blew chunks, I would probably not be overly concerned about saving the other one for later. Wifey is frugal if nothing else). I got her home, brought out some paper towels and a plastic bag, then went back for the Listerine.
Long story short, she was still feeling a little queasy, but was resting comfortably on the couch at last check. She was already scheduled off for Friday, so she is taking off tomorrow and just resting through the weekend. It seems that her ears (which had been backed up again) had been draining for the better part of 24 hours, and when greasy fish hit that, what happened to her is probably what you are feeling right now.
Now, on to the gay soap. Before her Linda Blair impression, while waiting for her to finish off her work so she could leave for the day, I used the men's room at her place of employment. The soap on the sink was "Lavender Chamomile". THAT is a gay soap (not that there is anything wrong with that). I just expect (especially in a public and/or office environment) for the soap to be neutral. To use a light purple soap and to smell what I can only describe as "UBER-GIRLIE" wafting from my own hands was not what I was expecting.
Wifey's job has gay soap.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Just felt the need to share this one with you. And (even though you haven't read the next post yet, trust me when I say that this will make sense soon enough) I just went to the men's room to take a leak and it happened again. Should I be concerned? Or should it just be you concerned for Wifey?
For the last few months, I cannot take a piss without farting. It is the strangest thing. I don't feel like I have a big gas build-up, but sure as shooting as soon as I step up to the urinal and release the hounds, next thing you know there is a foghorn behind me.
I know of a couple of gentlemen who are about my age. Do any of you have this problem? Remember, sharing is caring.
Monday, October 02, 2006
There, I feel better. Now for those of you who were aware (don't recall if I mentioned it and I am-as always- too damn lazy to check for myself), Wifey had surgery this past Friday. Relatively minor, cleaning out the knee, residuals from the accident and the wear and tear associated with it. She came home that afternoon and is currently (as of the time that I am typing this) sitting at her desk at work. If she has taken any of her pills, there is a good chance that she is staring at the screen watching the pretty colors and listening to the music that only she can hear, because she is imagining it. Yesterday she was seeing "auras". Apparently mine is blue. Who knew? Rhyme incidental, no need to channel Andre the Giant right now.
Friday into Saturday was the best. When we got her home, Larry and I almost immediately got her to play a round of pinball. This was especially fun since the original drugs hadn't worn off yet. Now I am not discounting the effect of prescription drugs, but nothing tops hospital grade pain killers. In retrospect my biggest failing as a husband and as an entertainer was not getting Larry to tape the pinball game, or at least Wifey PLAYING pinball. Maybe next surgery (yup, there will be more down the road. It's gonna be a FUN year.
Also (in case I didn't mention it before), Wifey and I made it to 1 year exactly 2 weeks ago today. So start sending us paper. Which brings me to this point, who decided on the wedding gift flowchart? Who decided that one year = paper. Are we talking NYTimes or reams of 20lb stock? To make sure you know what the hell I am talking about, go here and you will see the list. Personally I cannot wait for my 6th Anniversary. Traditional+Modern = Iron+Wood Objects = NEW GOLF CLUBS FOR BSR!!!!!! Hell yeah, 5 years and counting until I get myself titanium-ed! I am also a big fan of 32, 41 and 42. Especially how well 41 and 42 work together.
Let's see, what else is there. Oh yes, a happy belated birthday to Fineous Reese, who turned 36 yesterday (right Reese?). If anyone in the Baltimore area is going to be in town this Saturday, come check out the CenterStage Festival from 10-3. Your's truly's comedy troupe will be there and will be one of the "plus theatrical events by Baltimore's home-grown theater artists". Can you feel the excitement? And also, our next show is October 28th, DON'T MISS IT!!!!!
I will whore myself out more later. I promise.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
So that tells me that either
1) Metlife is really a popular insurance (those Snoopy commercials must REALLY pay off) and they need to hire some more people, or...
2) MetLife sucks.
I'm going with option 2.
Also, since I started entering this, someone answered the phone. I was expecting someone with a Hindi accent, since a lot of call centers are now in Pakistan and India, and I expected MelLife to be no different. Well imagine my surprise when "Jim" answered, because he sounds, for lack of a better description, like a Swede with a hairlip. Not the easiest guy to communicate with.
God but I need a drink.
I was sitting in my cubicle (kind of like right now) surfing the internet instead of working (kind of like right now), when I heard some of the Hens along with a couple of surface dwellers (anyone NOT in the basement) talking about (among other things) the television show Nip/Tuck. They riffed off of that into another show (I believe it was Charmed) that had the same actor on both. One of the surface dwellers was commenting on how handsome one particular actor was.
Let me say right now that I don't have any kind of problem with that. It could be an issue, or maybe a double standard in another office, to talk about the attractiveness of someone (methinks that in this case, due to overcompensation to show sensitivity and avoid harassment suits, men commenting on the "hotness" of women is less accepted than women doing the same about men, at least in mixed company in the office. If any of you can say otherwise, please feel free to do so). Down here, as long as it is kept clean (no mention of "gazongas" or "sweater puppies" or the like), men can say that they think a woman is attractive and vice versa. But this wasn't the problem.
Here is where it went bad for me. The surface dweller than said that she was told by her mother not to date outside her race, but that she could imagine closing her eyes and pretending he was black (like her). And I couldn't help but think that if I had said the same thing there would be a firestorm of shit and meetings and sensitivity training up to and including termination.
Am I overreacting, or no? I wish I was, but I cannot help but think that if a white male says he was taught by his parents not to date outside his race he is going to be invited to appear on Jerry Springer, but a black woman saying it means that it is okay, and in fact, all the Hens stood there laughing at it.
I will add that I know the surface dweller who said it. I have talked to her and hung out with her here at the hospital on multiple occasions. We have eaten together, along with others who joined us for meals at the cafeteria. I have no problem with her and have never sensed any hint of prejudice from her. But now I am not so sure I want to hang out with her anymore. Because now I have that image in the back of my head and it will be tough to get it out.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Thursday, September 14, 2006
To the Ronettes - keep reading girls. You hold a special place in my heart, and the more you gush about me around Wifey, the more she has to think that someone else in this world might actually WANT me, so it tempers her otherwise usually justified anger.
To Wifey - 4 days until 1 year. You know, it seems like just yesterday you were yelling at me for something I forgot to do in planning for the wedding. Someday soon, it will be something I forgot to do for the kids. Sunrise, sunset...
To Fineous Reese - brother man, keep with the posting. You are finding gold in them thar hills.
To Psycho/Just Me - as you noted, we too are approaching a full year together. However, you don't put out, so Wifey is still the star of my world. Besides, I could never go by just an initial.
To anyone else who reads this site enough to have any idea what the hell I am talking about - how the hell are YE?
Okay, now to the issues at hand. First and foremost, yes it is true. On September 18th, Wifey and I will be celebrating our 1st Anniversary. 365 1/4 days of not living in sin. I would like to find out what the over/under was in the "How long until she kills him or leaves him" pool. I want to know if I still haev a chance of winning. And just in case Wifey is wondering, even though I didn't know the spread, I still took the over. THAT should definitely show my level of dedication to this relationship.
Last month, my good friend Starcrossed Scottish Lass (if you knew her history you would understand. For now, she will be known as Starcrossed) called me with free tickets to go see Jimmy Buffett at the Datsun Pavillion (as always, they don't pay, they don't get play. But if you know which car company changed their name from Datsun to their current moniker, you know where I mean. If not, look here). She had tickets for Wifey AND me, and all she asked is that I drive. Well I told her no problem. However, a problem did arise. The concert was during that stretch here in the middle of the Eastern Seaboard when the temperature was hovering in the mid 90's with nasty humidity. Getting to Datsun requires one to merge into a line with 20,000 other cars and wait an incredibly long time to get through a light at a major intersection, where the cars are bumper to bumper for miles on end. During this forced "Bridge over the River Kwai" style march, my car began to overheat. So during this stretch, I had to turn the heat on full blast in order to keep my engine from exploding. Well, apparently it did some damage to my radiator, which has gotten worse over the last month and a half, to the tune of a new radiator and new hoses and new coolant and the whole 9 yards. Total cost with labor (cough cough RIPOFF!!!!!) was $1099.00. Cheeseburger in Paradise my ASS! Son of a son of a BITCH! Mother mother FUCKER! (if you haven't seen Club Dread, do so before flaming me for those nasty words).
I bet shit like that doesn't happen to someone going to a Michael Buble concert. I bet there aren't even Michael Buble concerts. I need to get some lunch. My mind is going off the tracks a bit.
Now to poking the squeegee. While at job deux last Saturday, I ran into an old professor of mine. He was one of those professors who really helped me out in class and in life, and we have kept in semi-sporadic touch for the last (oh GOD I'm old) just shy of 10 years. For the last couple of years he has had me come into his comedy class and help thestudents, and it is something I have thoroughly enjoyed. So when I saw him walking about the Cd aisle, I went up to say hi. As we were talking, I went to point at something behind me. As I did, I flet my finger hit something, so I immediately turned to see what I might have done. I saw a man with a big squeegee in his cart, and I had accidentally poked it with my finger. I apologized, but the man was completely unconcerned about the non incident and kept moving. That is when I turned to the prof and told him "I just poked a man in the squeegee". It wasn't until I said it out loud that I realized the absolute bizareness of the statement. And now my overriding goal is how to work "I just poked a man in the Squeegee" into everyday conversation.
finally, Wifey is going in for some knee surgery on the 29th (2 weeks from tomorrow), so make sure you keep her spirits up hen you see her. I'll keep raising things at home.
Friday, September 08, 2006
As I was driving on Belair Road, I stopped at a light and an MTA bus pulled up next to me. I looked over at it and saw the billboard on the side. It was a Hooters billboard (yes I have been known to frequent Hooters, but I swear I only eat there for the articles). The billboard in question was positioned in such a place that as I looked over, I saw 3 ample sets of torso with no faces to distract me with any other place to focus. No distracting eyes or smiles to look at. Just 6 lovely breasts covered in a thin sheet of white cloth with an owl on there somewhere. This was all well and good, and definitely it was a pleasant momentary distraction from the inanity that is morning traffic, stuck in the midst of a group of people who, like you, have no desire to get where they are going. But this is what got me. On each wonderful mammary was a hand print, as if someone had just finished changing their oil by hand and walked up to the bus, putting an open hand print right smack dab in the center of the pleasure zone.
Part of me thought that the bus was pulled over somewhere by the police, and 3 criminals caught red (and dirty) handed were forced to exit the bus, and then forced to put their hands in preparation for a search by said police. Maybe their hands went there accidentally, maybe they realized it was the closest they would get to touching ANY female breasts, either 2 or 3 dimensional, and they decided to cop one last feel before they became the object of someone else's dirty hand explorations.
Have a happy weekend everyone. I am going to find time to nap, even if I have to stay up all night to do it. That'll teach me!
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Just now I heard "Fly to the Angels" by Slaughter.
Yup. Slaughter. Muzak.
I am going to go cry now.
Before I begin, a quick note on Wifey. She is on some serious meds designed to help her get over once and for all her problems with ear infections, which she has been susceptible to ever since she had a BAD bout of bronchitis a while ago. She is getting better, and that is good. The medicines have some interesting side effects. That is neither good nor bad, it just is. A couple of nights ago Wifey karate chopped me in the sternum around 4:15 am or so. That was bad. Last night she decided to dream that she was a rabbit running from something, as my right knee found out when she began kicking. That was also bad. As her ears unclog, her nose runs a lot. This causes her to have to blow her nose. At 3 am. Loudly. I know that any suffering that I am currently experiencing is nothing compared to what she is going through getting better. That didn't make my knee feel better this morning, but I am aware of the reality of the situation. The long and short of it is I will not be getting any real sleep for probably another 2 weeks or so, and I might be more than a little bruised/fractured/hospitalized/dead by then. So if you can pray for me I would appreciate it. And if you could make sure I have enough coffee to get me through my secondary medication induced insomnia I would appreciate that too.
It was a long weekend, in more ways than one. We have already discussed the spousal abuse, now let us look at the activities.
I had to work Saturday night. In case you didn't know/forgot/don't live around here, it rained Saturday. A lot. This led to a strange occurrence. There are two things that bring people out to the stores, weather and sales. Be it the "OH GOD IT IS GOING TO POSSIBLY MAYBE FLURRY IN A WEEK AND A HALF" milk/bread/toilet paper throngs or the "if it is listed in a circular than it HAS to be a bargain" (BTW - a lot of things listed in circulars are not on sale. If you see "As Advertised" next to an item, it is probably the same price it was the week before, and will be the week after. A lot of "no rain check" items are this way. They don't want you to know that you aren't getting a deal. It is more like an induced inventory liquidation or a "I bet they will want to but fans now that summer is here. Put them in the ad" thing. If it says "Price Cut", or something similar, it is on sale), these two things will bring out the people in droves. So if you combine the "Labor Day Weekend SAVE-TACULAR" people with the rain driving people out to the stores like it drives the earthworms out of the ground, it was hectic.
Sunday was actually pretty relaxing, as I was off of both jobs and had a cookout to go to. So that was a more than decent day. But Monday...
I also had to work Monday night. Since it was time and a half, I was cool with it, even though I dreaded going in. I was pleasantly surprised at the lack of shoppers. It was definintely busy, but it seemed that most people had gotten their shopping done Friday-Sunday, and were content to actually relax on this particular federally mandated holiday. My bosses at Target were both working an early shift, so they both left a little after 4. All seemed okay, until about 5:30. THAT is when IT happened.
The first bus pulled up. Followed by a second one. Then a third. Full of college kids living on campus or near campus from Loyola College. And they swarmed in as the busses left. Within minutes the cart well was decimated and we knew it was only a matter of time until they descended on the cash registers. I immediately went on high alert, expecting the worst. Luckily Loyola College is filled with rich kids whose parents can afford a school like Loyola, so theivery was at a minimum. A couple of DVD's and CD's, but compared to the heaving throng of people, it wasn't that bad.
As they were slowly moving through the registers and trickling out, I went outside to do a little crowd control. They were starting to block up the entrance and exit, and other guests could not get in or out. I saw the busses coming back and breathed a sigh of relief. But I shouldn't have, because as the busses got closer I realized that they were still full of people. For a brief moment I thought it was people they picked up from other local stores, but then I remembered that Loyola kids won't shop at WalMart (because they don't have to), and there was no way THAT many students needed bath gels from Bed Bath and Beyond. And the busses were getting closer...
Three more busfuls of students got off the busses. About 1 and 1/2 worth of students got on the busses. The busses left. And yes, they had another trip to make, another full load of humanity. At one point, I am pretty sure that the Towson Target could have shot right past Annapolis into third place as Maryland's most populated city. And I am fairly confident that it could have challenged Frederick for #2 overall. And afterwards, around 9 o'clock, when they were finally gone, it was eerily quiet in the store.
I did a round to inspect the carnage, fully expecting to have to call FEMA and ask for federal relief. All in all it wasn't too bad. The "grocery area" was all but a ghost town. Chips and pretzels, cereal, soda, candy...all gone. A lot of smaller furniture was sold. Table lamps, bookshelves and the like. If you need sheets or towels, don't come to my store until Wednesday, because otherwise you ain't gonna have a whole lot of choices. And don't even THINK about anything for the bathroom...
...Really anything hygiene. And of course, condoms. There were about 6 boxes of condoms left. I like to think that the majority of them were bought by wishful thinking freshman, who were buying 24 packs like they were going to actually need them. And they will sit in the corner of their dorm room, and on Friday they will look wistfully at them before they go meet their friends at the Quad for a night of walking about the mall looking at the girls they want to use them on.
However, come what may (pun intended), I do take a certain sense of comfort knowing that my tax dollars will not be spent on Baby Greyhounds, at least not until the Spring semester.
Saturday, September 02, 2006
I CANNOT BELIEVE THIS EXISTS.
This man was a civil rights activist in the 1970's. And this aired on WDCA, a local Washington DC UHF station.
This is utterly unbelievable. I'll put it this way...imagine it is 1977 and Garrett Morris was the one speaking. It would be about 12:30 Saturday night/Sunday morning. You can totally see it, can't you?
Without a doubt.
This cannot be disputed. I defy you to find a better one. Yes, I said "defy". I say that because I know it is impossible. I have just watched this 7 straight times and I STILL ma in awe of its horribleness. How did MTV choose the Buggles over this, themes of the songs be damned! At the VERY least this should have been the 2nd video shown, and the 1st put into heavy rotation. Hell, it should STILL be in heavy rotation! I gotta go. It's time to watch it again.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
When man (and in this case I am being penis-centric, not universal) is born, he wears diapers. After diapers come Underoos (SPIDER-MAN!!!!!!!!!!). Next come briefs.
The briefs stage can last for a long time. Some men never fully grow out of them. Some even go so far as to move to bikini briefs and banana hammocks. And that is just wrong, unless you have the physique of an underwear model and are packing more than a derringer in your holster. Thankfully I never fell completely under the spell of briefs, as I found the greatest hybrid creation ever...
THE BOXER BRIEF
Yes, the comfort of a boxer, the support of a brief. At this point, I thought I had completed my underwear journey. But that was not to be.
Wifey has been after me for some amount of time to update my underwear. I will admit that some of my undershirts have some holes in them, but the BBs were running fine TYVM. However, as I walked the hallowed halls of Target day after day (after day after day...) I kept seeing the big BTS underwear display (don't try to comprehend it. Don't. Just agree that it exists and move on from there), and I kept seeing boxers in my size (not as common as I would hope). Last week they went on sale, so I broke down and bought a pack (and immediately went to the office to try them on, praying there would be no major call for security while I stood in the middle of the camera room putting underwear on, on top of underwear, while my pants hung over the back of a chair). I found them to be very comfortable, and it was not as hard to get used to the
There is one major adjustment, however, that I am still trying to adapt to. I don't plan on switching back, but at the same time I am not ready to bleach the living hell out of the old boys and turn them into rags just yet. What is that adjustment you ask? It is this: the boxers have a button in the front to hold the flap closed. After 30+ years (remember, there was no issue involved with diapers) of moving the fold over flaps to their respective sides in order to free the beast to do it's duty, it is difficult (I wanted to say it was hard, but that would make most of you laugh like Beavis and Butthead, and I am trying to make a point here) to remember that I need to undo a button first. My body is trained to recognize the zipper going down as "5 seconds from launch", and now I am delaying it to 8 seconds, but at the 4 second mark. If that sounds complicated/convoluted, it is. But 30+ years of training are hard to just ignore. Especially since the button sits up higher than the flaps were on the old reliables. So my hands automatically go to where there is solid material. Long story short, I have not pissed myself, but I am not saying it is impossible, especially if I get drunk anytime soon (and yes, we are going to a Labor Day party. I might pack spares).
And in case you are wondering why I don't just leave it unbuttoned, I have thought about that. But there are two issues...
1) it doesn't feel wholesome/American. It sounds like something the terrorists would do.
2) if the thought of it distracts me, imagine what the ACTION would do.
And now you know...THE ETERNAL STRUGGLE
But that feeling passed quickly.
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Yes, a sign from the heavens came down and rained upon me during the nascent beginnings of my morning commute today. Literally. A bird shit on my sleeve. Right on the edge of it, just barely missing my arm. And as I reached for the last napkin in the car to wipe it off as best as I could (Wifey burned through the rest blowing her nose. She has been stuffed up since what seems like when Bush had a positive approval rating, but she went to the doctor yesterday and hopefully things will be getting better), I couldn't help but think that God (or if He was too busy, one of his gophers. I like to think that God delegates minor tasks to his boys, and saves his concentration for big things that require attention, like helping keep the peace during the cease fire and stuff) was telling me that maybe the best place for me today would be home. Or at least I should stay indoors. If it had actually gotten on my skin, I would be home right now, getting out of the shower and making a fresh pot of coffee and calling my boss (and also the OM for the office I am assigned to) and telling them that I simply cannot come in, no reason, using one of my personal "Use'em or Lose'em" days and I will speak to them in the morning.
But I am here, and the trauma that I have gone through (not to mention it is a "JJ" Day, another reason I thought long and hard about not being in THIS particular zip code) has caused me to feel like posting any random thing that makes me giggle or otherwise distracts me. Like the Saget video you just watched (you didn't watch it yet? SHAME ON YOU! Watch it now and then come back) and so on. The Joey Lawrence thing is just a continuation from yesterday, but I am glad I got it to work. In the grand scheme of things, the Mario Lopez and Jerry Springer pics are superfluous now. But Jerry does look good all tarted up. He should think of keeping the puffy shirt look.
When you watch this, you will learn a few things. One: Joel Lawrence is either from or is a huge fan of the professional sports teams of Philadelphia. 2: Joel Lawrence is the greatest football player who ever lived. He actually threw a touchdown to himself, and later got an interception while playing defense. It's like he's Chuck Bednarik, only prettier. 3: He likes chicks on roller skates. 4: Sleeveless, unbuttoned flannel shirts are teh awesome. 5: the set designer for the Fresh Prince of Bel Air is a close personal friend of his.
I want to learn how to do that shoulder walk/elephant strut thing he does. Apparently it can score you major chicks, especially ones who like to play ring around the rosie and wear flannel either as a shirt or as a backwards apron/ass cape.
apparently there IS something his love can't fix. Male pattern baldness.
Bob the Builder-can he fix it?
Bob the Builder-YES HE CAN!
This is what happens to your brain when you have yourng nieces/nephews. I can only imagine that it will be 10 times worse when Wifey and I have kids of our own. I am sure that there will be Wiggles and Raffi CD's where my Who and Styx Greatest Hits collections are in my truck. And then you will weep for me without even knowing why.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Jerry "Lesbian Nazi Hookers on the next" Springer
Mario "How did Zach get NYPD Blue & I get this, no I'm not gay dammit" Lopez
...and best of all...
Joey "I had hair when I was on Blossom" Lawrence
Yes, you heard it here 1st. Joey Lawrence shaves his head. Since no white guy since Telly Savales has looked good shaved bald (and he had that swarthy Mediterranean look), and to the best of my knowledge he hasn't had any disease requiring chemo treatments, he must therefore be going bald and decided to shave his head to show his hairline who's in charge. Great thinking Joey! When is that 2nd pop album coming out? I am already in line to pick it up. Really.
So Wifey reminded me last night that I never told you about my possessed fan. I will be correcting that now. But before I do that, I need to once again say hello to all the Ronnettes (that is the official name I have given all of Wifey's friends/co-workers who read this thing. I figure Phil Spector is a little too busy to give me shit about the name choice right now). Yesterday was the birthday gathering for one of Wifey's co-workers (I need to think of a good nickname for her in case she becomes a more regular conversation point on here. For now, I will call her Killian because she has red hair like Killina's Irish Red, but she was made in the middle of Americana, like Killian's Irish Red. She's from Illinois, Killians is from Golden, Colorado. Yup, it is basically Coors Light with some food dye. And if you are going to drink that watered down piss, why pay extra? Just buy Keystone Light *the exact same thing* and save a couple of bucks a case). Yes, Killian's birthday is actually today, but the celebration began last night. In a Thai/sushi resteraunt in Towson MD. And with the exception of the Encyclopedia Britannica guy (who is a childhood friend of Killian, and it turns out is a pretty cool guy) and the Human Jawbone (claiming neutrality so as to not offend. Not everyone likes everyone, he wasn't my cup of sake), Larry the Upstairs Neighbor was the only other guy besides me, and he was a last minute addition. Why is that important? And why am I qualifying the number of men that were there? I'll answer the 2nd question first. The other two guys came in late, and for the most part I was not able to talk to them, or I wasn't bowled over by the conversation. Now the 1st question. Why is that important? Because the estrogen was flowing like soy sauce last night and I was being carried away on a river of "tee-hee"'s and "ghetto tyrants" (do NOT ask) and heaving breasts that I was not supposed to be looking at (and I wasn't. Much. But yeah, I was a little). So of course Larry was at the polar opposite end of the table from me, and since he is not a loud talker and I have a degree of hearing loss and it can be loud with 10 or so women cackling and cavorting, talking to him was impossible. Luckily we have, over the years, become very adept at reading each other's faces. And because of that I can say that 3 of the people at that table should be blushing right now.
The evening was fun. I had some reservations about going because I have been pretty busy the last two weeks and really feel the need to recharge my batteries. But I wanted to spend time with Wifey, and I really like Killian, and I like Pad Thai and sushi, so I figured "what the hell"
A quick sidebar (it is time for BSR to become BWR. The "W" stands for "Whiney"). I thoroughly enjoy making people laugh. It is one of the reasons I put all the crap on here that I do. But the downside to being the funny guy is that you are always expected to be the funny guy when you go out, especially when it is with a group of people you don't see all that often. I wasn't sure if I was going to have the energy to satisfy them. But once the evening got rolling the juices started flowing and I had a great time. According to Wifey, the reviews from last night are in, and they are positively GLOWING. "Funny". "Handsome". "Silly". Sounds like I could have scored last night. So a shout out to all the heaving breasts from last night. Once Wifey cuts me off, I'll be calling you.
Now on to the fan. I sleep with a fan on year round. I like the air on my face, and I like the "white noise". It helps me zone out and sleep. Well last week the fan kept turning in my sleep. I would lay down with it blowing on my face, and when I would wake up, it would have pivoted and would be blowing cooling air in the general vicinity of my special area between my thighs and stomach. Which, when cooled too much, become much less than the sum of their parts. And even though I am married and supposedly don't have to worry about it, that is not a scenario that any man would encourage. Part of me thought I might be turning it in my sleep, which doesn't make a lick of sense, since I really wasn't feeling like I was overly hot there (read this at your own risk) since I sleep either in my undies or in the nude (no mind bleach for you, you were warned). So one morning when I got out of bed, since Wifey was already upstairs (she hates the fan being on when I am not there to block it) I moved the fan back to the original position before I went to the bathroom to prepare for the day. When I came back it was facing the far corner of the bed. So either my fan is trying to escape (I don't think that I have mistreated it) or it (or the house) is possessed. I am leaning towards the fan being possessed. Possibly by the spirit of Johnny 5, I don't know.
It feels like this post is ending up rather abruptly, so let me end it with this blast from my past...
I am pleased to announce that the general knowledge of the public at large appears to be on the rise. Although, this conclusion has not been arrived at through a true scientific test, certain scientific SOPs (Standard Operating Procedures) have been employed. In theorizing that public knowledge has indeed increased, I have used my workplace environment as my sample segment of the population. This environment provides a test group of 207 people, which (given a 5% margin for error) gives a reasonable estimate of the population as a whole. Understanding this, I am pleased to report that the overwhelming majority of the 207 subjects in the test group appear to have a great deal of general knowledge. Evidence of this can be seen through the constant employment (almost overuse) of the qualitative statement, "I know that's right!". Most subjects appear to have a great deal of this general knowledge, affirming that they know what is correct at least five times within any given hour of the eight hour workday (on the average). The subjects also display great joy in sharing their knowledge as the phrase, "I know that's right!" is often followed by loud and raucous laughter. However, this investigation has also yielded a possible observation of concern. The subjects only exhibited knowledge of what was correct. Not once during the course of this investigation did any of the 207 subjects pronounce, "I know that's wrong!". Why exactly this distinct lack of confirming falsehoods occurs (or rather, does not) still remains a mystery. One possible theory for further investigation is that perhaps in having more knowledge, the population at large has also begun speaking more truthfully, thus making it so that there is no need for confirming knowledge of a false statement. Further research is necessary. Until these tests are performed, however, please rest peacefully, secure in the knowledge that people at least have acquired enough knowledge to "know that's right!"
Sorry if that is a re-post. I don't think it is, but just in case. Talk to you later!