May 2014 Archives

humbled

Dirt and Kiki have a severely—indeed, excruciatingly—autistic daughter. It is no overstatement to call her feral. Think Helen Keller. She cannot converse, nor understand, nor conceive of danger. She does not acknowledge other people. At nine, she is not toilet trained and she often has hysterical meltdowns in public, causing well-meaning strangers to call the police on my friends on several occasions—out of fear that the child was being abused when, in fact, she was simply not being allowed to sprint into traffic.

We were discussing their lives, and Dirt talked about how much he hates his job. "But having the kid changed my perspective forever. She centered me," he said, puffing on a cigar thoughtfully. "I am humbled."

Wow, I thought. That's easily the most sensitive thing this guy has ever sa—

"I am totally humbled. I surrender. That kid fuckin' eviscerated my pride. It's shredded and mangled. I have no dignity left. None. She humiliates me on a daily basis. Going to work is my vacation."

It's healthy in its way.

hurricane friendship

My friends left this morning, a profoundly sad occasion for me. Kiki confirmed what I'd already suspected when she said she let Dirt drink too much last night because, well, "it's the last time." At this writing, they're emptying their storage locker into a truck they'll drive back east, to their new home. I take some solace that as Dirt loads mildewy furniture this morning, his forehead feels like it was jackhammered. You're welcome, traitor.

On the upside, I now begin the process of restoring order to my home, which looks like a tornado blew through a gypsy trailer park. I think I'll hire a forensics expert to explain the coconut on my ceiling.

Coffee drinkers, answer me this: what's wrong with reusing mugs? How can two coffee drinkers use 11 mugs in 3 days?

You all do this. Every last one of you. Don't lie to me.

easy little joy

As I do most mornings, this morning I awoke. I went downstairs, opened the door, and walked out on the deck. Still all normal.

Then Kiki and Dirt joined me, and I made champagne cocktails, and we sat in the sun and discussed the people we cannot stand. It was glorious. It felt like a vacation, and I was five feet from my desk. I could do this every morning.

Why don't I? Why don't we?

yeah...it's a feature!

Kiki and Dirt are staying with me this week, which means only one thing: I reek of his cigars I'm baking a lot. It's been a while, and I keep screwing up. My kitchen trash is packed with buried evidence.

Making a layer cake, I failed to notice that the oven rack was ajar. 30 minutes later, I pulled out two severely sloped cakes. Surveying my options, I decided to stack them as is, each mirroring the slope of the other.

"Wow! How did you ever get the center stripe of frosting to go diagonally?" Kiki cooed. "You're so talented!"

the original king kong

I hadn't seen the original King Kong since I was a kid sneaking downstairs to watch "Chiller Theatre" on TV. Mom had said that when she'd seen it in theatres as a little girl, she was so frightened that she soiled herself, an image I found far more terrifying than anything Hollywood could muster or has mustered since.

What I did not realize until yesterday was that I had seen a heavily sanitized Kong. The real Kong grabbed people and munched on them. He maliciously stomped on them. And...and...

In an amazing sequence for any era, especially 1933, Kong uses his index finger to tear away Fay Wray's dress bit by bit. When he's done, he sniffs his finger.

Blink, blink.

I couldn't even process what I had just seen. How had I not noticed this before? The answer, of course, is that someone had edited it out. I can't agree with the censorship, but I can agree with the taste.

surfaced!

Today, I witnessed a miracle: a non-Microsoft-employee who owns a Surface.

Granted, we call him "Pig Pen" because of his work is unremittingly incompetent slop, surrounded by asphyxiating clouds of filth and debris, but still. He doesn't work at Microsoft.

there are bad days and then there's this

Running late, I hopped into my car and sped away from Metamuville. I soon felt a mild pain in the middle of my back. Thinking there was a crescent wrench or something jabbing into me, I leaned forward and groped back there. Although it's been quite a while since my hand has seen the middle of my back, I was satisfied that there was no wrench. Then the pain became an annoying burning. Then a really intense burning.

"Crap. Did I get stung by someth—?"

My thought was interrupted by the singularly horrific sensation of Something crawling into my mouth. The little bugger had traversed my torso and found a nice, warm place to hide.

I spit him out with great urgency, and he landed on my steering wheel, still kicking. Swerving, I hit him with a magazine. His corpse then dropped. It dropped into the 2mm gap between my sandal and bare foot.

I would love to know what this looked like to an observer.

"No, officer, I'm not actively doing hits of meth while driving with my feet," I would say sweetly. "Why?"

homing pigeon

Casey Kasem has finally been found, and it turns out he's near my house.

That's right. A missing old fart with dementia homed right in on where I live. My only question: why didn't they look here first?

how uncommon can this hostility really be?

"You really need to work on your attitude," said my doctor. I had been bitching about how much I despise exercise, specifically my treadmill.

"Yeah, well, this is all the enthusiasm you're gonna get," I snapped. "The best part of my week is when I step off the goddamned thing. Because it's the longest possible time until I have to do the treadmill."

Hostile to exercise, she wrote in my file.

Yep.

If she thinks that's hostile, she should see my reaction when I'm on the treadmill and realize that the TV episode I'm watching went a minute longer than usual. I go from zero to rage in 2 seconds.

yep. these are my friends.

photo.PNG

thus endeth the debate

The percentage of gays in a country is a notoriously difficult statistic to determine. People aren't always forthcoming to survey-takers, and the very definition of "gay" is slippery. Are you a lesbian if you got drunk once and made out with your sorority sister? Some gay activists say yes, even if you self-identify as having found the experience singularly revolting.

Finally, I can put this issue to rest. The percentage of gays is exactly 8%.

sam.png

class 5 hurricane

An ESPN article about HGH testing in the NFL contained a miracle: two Class 5 morons on opposite sides of the same issue. And they're both in a jovial mood.

"It's there when [Goodell] wants to sign it," Winston said. "I kind of laugh because it keeps coming up. If he wants HGH testing as bad as he wants to retain his power, then we would have had HGH testing last year."

League spokesman Greg Aiello responded to Winston's remarks Thursday in an email to ESPN.

"It is kind of funny because since 2011 the union has come up with one excuse after another to avoid implementing an agreement to test for HGH," Aiello wrote.

They're right. It is amusing.

people i'd pay $45 to avoid speaking to

Yesterday, I opted to pay $45 to avoid talking to my mechanic's shuttle driver. This got me thinking. Who else would I pay $45 to avoid?

New Seahawks hat guy—Unless your name is Katrina, you haven't mentioned the Seahawks to me, nor have I once seen you in Seahawks regalia, once in 20 years. It is too late. I know I'm the only person you know who watched football six months ago, but seriously, fuck the fuck off.

"My dog is a rescue" guy—I'm all for adopting used dogs. What I'm against is the pretense that you parachuted into a burning, Gestapo-laden building to rescue yours. You went to the pound.

"We need to go all-in" guy—Kindly stop defiling the corpse of my once-favorite pasttime.

"I don't watch sports, except for soccer" guy—The biggest upside to the Seahawks' winning in February is that these guys have abated and put on Seahawks jerseys. But I know they'll be back. They loudly sniff at all sports, making a point to always end with except for soccer. "If you think about it," they will add if you let them, "My sensibilities are really more European than North American."

"I prefer dark chocolate" guy
—Stop lying. It tastes like chalky yak ass.

Gourmet pizza guy—On the west coast, it is far easier to find a pizza adorned with bean curds and sprouts than it is to find an authentic New York crust. This guy has ruined my life.

Overpass protestors—They dangle signs above freeway traffic. One day alone, instead of the bumper in front of me I watched wildly waving signs proclaiming their bearers to be in favor of troops, animals, and Jesus. The latter is admittedly efficient, as someday, these idiots are going to send someone right to him.

inanity mitigation fee

My car is in the shop today, and the dealer is about an hour from my house.

"Would you like a lift home, or would you like a rental for $45?" the man asked.

I have a second car at home, so this decision came down to one question: would I pay $45 not to have to talk to the shuttle driver for two hours?

Easiest sale ever.

that's ma girl

oooooooo, i HATES dat bird

For three weeks, a woodpecker has been slowly shredding my sanity. I work from home, so I spend 23 hours per day here. 22.9 of those are quality hours, too.

But oh, that .1 hour.

The machine-gun-fire pecking is both random and omnipresent. I can go days without hearing from him, yet he's never far from my thoughts. I work and sleep with one ear open, just waiting for the other beak to drop.

What? That's an expression!

He—I've decided this thing is a he, based upon a preponderance of the dickery—he has transformed me into Yosemite Sam. I sit on my deck with a BB gun in my hands, ever still, hoping he'll come back. This is a low percentage game I'm playing, I'll admit, but how else do you dispatch a woodpecker? They generally ignore reason.

contact
moron taxonomy
stupid church signs
super bowl xl officiating
percy chronicles

Monthly Archives

Pages