Last night while at Target, someone got on the walkie to ask for help in locating a product for a guest. It was obvious that the team member had no idea what the product was. As she was asking about it, you could hear the confusion in her voice, and her hesitation to speak the name of the product for fear of saying it wrong, and the underlying suspicion that the guest was just messing with her was palpable.She finally got the name of the product out. It was at that point that at least 2 people spoke as if this was in fact a made up thing because they had also never heard of it. And what was this product that was causing all of this consternation?
Silly Putty.
I am going to go and have some Metamucil and lie down until Matlock comes on.
Oh my sciatica.
Monday, December 18, 2006
Friday, December 15, 2006
Welcome...to the SAPPY
Okay, I am on the downward hill to 34. After that, it is 35 and then straight on to 40. In all seriousness, I am okay with that. I have never minded getting older. I always figured that it beat the alternative. But like any person, I have had to come to grips with the fact that I am not 25 any more and I cannot do what I used to. I cannot go out to the bar on Tuesday night, drink until close, get to bed at 3, wake up at 7 and get to work and actually perform my assigned tasks. Hell, I can barely stay up until 12 anymore without losing some serious functionability(and I don't care if that is a made up word. It works perfectly for what I need it for).
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?
BSR
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?
BSR
Violated
Okay, I had another dr. appointment today at the wound center for that ongoing leg thing. Last week my dr. said to me that he wanted ultrasounds done on both my legs to check for any possible problems caused by the built up fluids flowing back up my legs. Okay, no problem. It is precautionary, and I am all about being precautious. So I go in this morning, they cut the boots off (which they have to do weekly) and send me down to have the tests done. THIS is where the fun begins. The lady at the front desk of the wound center office gives me directions. I follow them and end up at the desk that she described to me. But they have no record of me having an appointment. I tell her that they scheduled it last week from the wound center. She searches and nothing. She asks around the office if there was an add-on. Nothing. So she tells me to have a seat and they will figure this out. Eventually it is discovered that I was sent to the wrong place. The lady who sent me here comes down to lead me to the correct place. I get there at 10:09am. I know this because my appointment was for 10am and I asked the front desk what time it was so I could sign in. I sign in and have a seat, and wait.
And wait.
And WAIT.
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.
9 Times...
And wait.
And WAIT.
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.
9 Times...
Monday, December 04, 2006
An Open Letter
To Rosie O'Donnell - or, the dyke who cried "HATE":
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.
To Wifey:
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.
I'm waiting...
To HBO:
$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.
To me:
Stop complaining so much. If you keep this up, you'll start to sound like Rosie O'Donnell.
BSR
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.
To Wifey:
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.
I'm waiting...
To HBO:
$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.
To me:
Stop complaining so much. If you keep this up, you'll start to sound like Rosie O'Donnell.
BSR
I can take a hint
So I have been working from home a lot lately, what with the leg issues and all. Some days I go in for a half day, some days I stay home the entire day. I left early on Thursday and stayed home on Friday. I didn't know of any problems, and both my bosses are aware of the issues and it was their idea to let me work from home anyway. Apparently I was wrong.
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...
my chair.
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
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...
my chair.
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 HAS BEGUN!!!!!!
I like the holidays (and by "holidays" I mean the Thanksgiving/Christmas corridor. I am not a big fan of working retail during said corridor, but the season itself usually brings out the best in people...eventually). I really do. But, like anything, there are things that annoy me (you had to see this coming). And more than almost anything else I am annoyed by the cavalcade of Christmas music that I am subjected to every damn year.
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.
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.
All the cool kids are doing it...
Like most people, I was pretty disgusted at the Michael Richards tirade last week. Just in case you HAVEN'T seen it or heard about it (and if so, where the hell have you been?), go HERE and check it out. We will all wait for you? We promise. Without delving too deeply into the uses of the word "nigger" (yup, I am going to type out the whole thing. To me, saying "The N Word" is stupid. There are too many "N" words. Besides, it sounds like a program you might find on Showtime), and why it is in fact okay for use sometimes and by some people (I don't quite grok that. It makes the word the "Y" of the English language. "Sometimes Y, and sometimes nigger". Of course, this being Monday a lot of things are harder to understand). But my friends I am here for a much more specific reason, and that is he comments he made while making another public apology. This was number 3 of about 500 that he will do. And this one was on Jesse Jackson's radio program. While he was making his appearance, he said this...
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.
BSR
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.
BSR
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
WTF?
I know you are wondering what the hell the blurb under the next post means. Or if you weren't, you probably are now. Well, I just wrote a nice long post about something, and because my computer and/or blogger is teh stoopid, it went away before posting. I do not have the energy to re-type it. Maybe tomorrow or Thursday. Until then, enjoy the movie clip below.
Friday, October 27, 2006
Dr. Seymour Hoffman and UNNA Thurman
Okay folks, here we go.
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.
BSR
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.
BSR
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Long time no type
Hey all. I just realized that it has been almost 3 weeks since I have posted anything. Well, it has been a long 3 weeks. Wifey's surgery caused much consternation around the house. And just when she was finally getting back to being her, I get hit with some random medical problem. The doc cannot figure out exactly what it is, all we know is that I can barely walk from the pain in the left shin/calf. I have been on industrial strength antibiotics for the last 5 days, and the improvements have been marginal at best, so on Thursday I am going to the hospital (the Wound Center to be exact). The thing is, I have no idea what the hell they are going to do to me. For all I know, it could be leeches mudpacks. Hell, at this point I would consider trying that.
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.
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
Gay Soap and the Exorcism of Wifey
It has been a trying week here in the land of BSR. As you all know Wifey went under the knife last week. She is recovering as well as can be expected, having good days and bad days. She is holding up like a real trooper, and except for a baggie of ground beef where yellow and blue make red puddles in the fridge, I have done an okay job at making things easier for her.
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. Others, not so much), it is best to have as many filters as possible. I had planned to go to the bank at lunch, and my particular institution has no branches anywhere within 15 miles of convenient, so I just figured to make a bit of a side trip.
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.
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
Whoops!
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?
Something I noticed
I am 33. In less than a week, I will be halfway to 34. I am more than okay with that. I like getting older. It means I am not dead. I am well aware of the things that happen when you get older. I know my eyesight will get worse, as will my hearing, and my metabolism will slow down (because it is such a blast furnace NOW). I know all of these things. But there is something I was not aware of, and apparently it is one of those aging things that starts right around the age of 33. I don't know if it is permanent or just something temporary, like primary teeth.
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.
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
Monday Ramblings
Okay everybody, let's get this out of the way. From now on, we will be referring to Monday as FUNDAY. Yes, Monday Night Football has already pointed out how close the two are, but they point out that Monday is Funday with an "M-O". Well I look at it like this, Monday is Funday with an "F-U". And THAT is how I feel about Monday, F-U!
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.
BSR
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.
BSR
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