March 2017 Archives

public stoning

If I have pneumonia, I get no concerned emails from you people. If Fredo throws his back out and I'm up all night attending to him, everyone asks for updates. About him. Just him.

He seems to be fine. He's on a cocktail of drugs right now, which results in the dog of my dreams. For his part, he seems pretty happy with the drugs, too.

i picked the wrong time to give up booze

As I previously wrote, I've run my bar down to the dregs like tequila and schnapps. This effectively means I'm a teetotaler, 'cause I'm sure not drinking tequila and schnapps. I was fine with this. Was.

Sunday afternoon, I noticed my dog Fredo coming down the stairs gingerly. He slumped in his bed, no longer shadowing me. By Sunday night, he was whimpering in pain, unable to stand. Left to our own devices, neither one of us would sleep a wink Sunday night. His wailing was unearthly. I gave him a pain pill. He drifted off, still crying.

Knowing I wasn't getting any sleep until the vet opened her doors, I stared at the Kahlua. "How much of that crap would it take for me to not hear Fredo anymore?" I wondered. "How many dog pain pills?"

bloody hell

I went to a cigar bar Sunday morning and found it crowded with regulars. One person brought bagels, another appetizers, and another Bloody Mary fixings. I wasn't in the mood to drink liquid heartburn, so someone naturally handed me a Bloody Mary stuffed full of jalapeno pulp, horseradish, hot sauce, and probably a pinch of napalm. I politely drank about an inch of it and then went to the men's room. I dumped it into the toilet.

It was when I flushed that I first saw the anchovies, olives, limes, and celery sticks. I flushed twice more, making sure that my stupidity wouldn't be immediately apparent for a change. When I exited the bathroom, I looked for and found the security cameras that will doom me. I sure hope they're on a 4-hour loop.


Andy and I went to a sports bar to watch a game. The only available table was a six-top, so I decided to invite strangers to join us. Among them was a young couple. The girl reminded me in no small way of Dorkass' sister when she was younger, only adorable, non-irritating, and solvent.

She was chatty and charming, and we talked for hours. "Sigh," I thought. "I wish she were 10 years older." Curiously, I never wish I were 10 years younger. That would just be 10 additional years of my career, and no woman would be worth that. When the game ended, she insisted on taking a picture together. "Man," I thought. "You're totally misreading this. You're a decomposing troll. There's no way that was a signal."

As Andy drove me home, we discussed how much we liked the people we'd met. "And that girl!" Andy said. "She was so much more into you than she was the guy she came with!"

This is why I don't have male friends.

swimming like it's 1998

I filled my pool this week. This morning as I swam toward Fredo, who was frantically pacing the deck, I was surprised how alien swimming felt to me. I strained to remember the last time I swam. It was in Lake Sammamish in 1998. And even then, I swam only to the end of a ski rope.

This isn't to say that I haven't been immersed hundreds of times since then, which leads me to this observation:

hot tubs > pools

exhibit w

My dog Fredo previously demonstrated an ability to be confused by a leaf on a concrete slab, hiking his leg on it and consequently saturating his own paws. I frankly thought that would stand for some time as the depths of his stupidity. Either that or the time I pantomimed opening my car's tailgate and he impaled his face. But we have arguably plumbed new depths.

When an inch of snow melted, I discovered he'd been crapping all over the deck. Because snow, like a leaf, equals grass.

Fredo is why craigslist won't let you sell dogs.

almost perfect

As I pulled up to a gas pump yesterday, a man came out of the gas station, screaming at me and waving his arms with an urgency appropriate only if the pump were wired to explode. I lowered my window.

"MOTHERFUCKER YOU ARE NOT GETTING THIS FUCKIN' PUMP! I BEEN WAITING IN LINE. YOU SEE MY CAR RIGHT THERE!" he screamed hysterically, pointing to a parked car 40 feet away.

There was a time in my life when I would not have laughed at him and driven to the gas station a block away. That time is past, and that's what I did. After making a joke, of course.

"And I was waiting in line since last Wednesday. My car was right over there," I said, chuckling and pointing to no space in particular.

He went quarter-crackhead, flying into an incoherent rage about my considerable history of victimizing him. He punctuated his list of grievances by punching the rear window of my car. (Half-crackhead would have been punching me. Full-crackhead would have been tearing off his own arm and clubbing the wrong windshield with it.)

"Good luck with life, " I said, rolling up my window and leaving to a torrent of threats and profanity. That's when I saw the two cops in their cruiser, pulling into the parking lot. This was so very close to being a better post.

permanent damage

14 years in Metamuville taught me this much: if there's a rumor of inclement weather, use all the utilities you can while you can. Cook. Do laundry. Do the dishes. Bathe. Download movies off Amazon Prime.

It's all going to go away soon. And for a long time.

I have no reason to think that's the case here, but the Post-Metamuville Stress Disorder is real.

the state of argumentation in 2017

Person A: "2+2=4"

Person B: "Wrong. It's 5."

A: "How do you figure?"

B: "Any retard knows this. Well, apparently not any retard. Haha."

A: "That's not an argument. Just use a calculator. You'll see that the sum is 4."

B: "I don't have time to jump through hoops for your retarded ad hominem argument, retard. Educate yourself. Later."

A: "Seriously, just take two seconds and you'll see it's 4."

B: "Have you ever made a math mistake in your entire life?"

A: "Uh. Yes?"

B: "Well then your opinion is invalid. Sorry you're all butthurt, but I'm not taking your word for any math."

A: "But it's not an op—"

B: "You make me laugh. You know who else thought 2+2=4? Hitler. Look it up."

it's a very very very [redacted] house

I'm presently throwing a last few grand at this house to mitigate the exceedingly obvious. I figure potential buyers might be put off by lightbulbs dangling from the ceiling. Buyers might not enjoy walking on bare plywood as much as I have for the last nine months. I'm finishing things as inexpensively as possible.

First up was replacing the hideous the bathroom floor tile, which the previous owner destroyed while not successfully installing hardwoods in the adjoining closet. This has led to four "Uh, you need to see this" consultations with the installer, which is a record low for this house. The bathroom has ugly blue tile on the walls, an ugly blue sink, and an ugly blue toilet that matches the ugly blue shower. I'm replacing none of that, but the fixtures had to be removed for the floor tiling.

"Uh, you need to see this," said the floor installer.

I hope the buyer likes that ugly blue sink, 'cause he's married to it.


i'm not exactly running for jesus, here

I hadn't seen my friend Dave in weeks, but yesterday he plopped on the barstool next to me, looking dazed.

"My nephew's gone."

For the great offense of being the little brother of a gang-banger, the young man had been gunned down. He was not himself a criminal or partisan. He was shot purely out of pettiness. My friend was numb.

"When's the funeral?" I asked.

"Right now." I stared at Dave. "I was asked not to go," he said sadly. As a minor celebrity, Dave is, the family thinks, too obvious a target. I quietly filed that tidbit away for the next time I'm feeling sorry for myself.

I listened to my friend. That's all one can do, I suppose. He was raw, stupid from shock, talking in circles. I tried to be supportive.

"Hey," said the guy who'd just told me he's a likely gang target. "Wanna hang out tonight?"

"Fuck that noise!" I replied supportively.

the why chromosome

Last night, I spontaneously socialized with two guys. In my world, this is news. I typically barely have one male friend, let alone two, let alone two in the same room. It's no secret that I better relate to the opposite gender. This has far more to do with men than it does with women.

But there I was, enjoying bro talk with bros. I actually enjoyed myself. The conversation had nuance and substance. And yes, that surprised me. Perhaps I'm growing. Perhaps I'm branching out. Perhaps—

"Hey John, we're heading to Cheerleaders Strip Club. Wanna come with?"

Ah, there it is.

moron taxonomy
stupid church signs
super bowl xl officiating
percy chronicles

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