Yesterday I was on my way to NGT to do some inventory crap, etc.. It was about 10am on a regular old Sunday morning. I was wearing shorts and a t-shirt with my AC on, kind of finding it hard to believe that 3 days prior I was throwing snowballs in my back yard, but I guess that's about typical for South Loozianne. Anyways, I was behind a jeep on Highland Road, just coming onto campus near the south gates. It had a spare tire mounted on the back of the vehicle, with a tire cover that read "Life Is Good". That got me to thinking.
What if you were a state trooper out responding to a horrible accident, and you came across this jeep stuck in the woods, smashed into a tree with everyone inside of it all mangled and deceased? I could see the trooper looking at the tire cover, seeing the irony.
Life is Good.
Life WAS Good.
What if someone inside of it is all handicapped after the wreck. Then I suppose he'd need one that read "Life USED TO BE good, back when I could walk."
So just think about putting bumper stickers or other presumptuous tags on your car before you do it. You never know when you'll need to amend it, you know?
Monday, December 15, 2008
Friday, December 12, 2008
Love-Opedia!
Wikipedia is an obsession on so many levels. Two things I was wondering about today was:
1. The Death Of Karen Carpenter.
2. Why Peter Cetera loathes Chicago so much.
I didn't find out enough information on either of these subjects. But I did find some interesting nuggets. Peter Cetera is an asshole (which I always kind of suspected), and Karen and Richard Carpenter bought 2 apartment buildings in California and named each after some of their songs. "Only Just Begun" is one and "Close To You" is the other. The weird thing is that the names of the buildings are written on them, and you can still see them with Google Streetview.
Wikipedia searches of the day---> "Karen Carpenter" and "Chicago (Band)". Look them up right now. You'll be glad you did.
1. The Death Of Karen Carpenter.
2. Why Peter Cetera loathes Chicago so much.
I didn't find out enough information on either of these subjects. But I did find some interesting nuggets. Peter Cetera is an asshole (which I always kind of suspected), and Karen and Richard Carpenter bought 2 apartment buildings in California and named each after some of their songs. "Only Just Begun" is one and "Close To You" is the other. The weird thing is that the names of the buildings are written on them, and you can still see them with Google Streetview.
Wikipedia searches of the day---> "Karen Carpenter" and "Chicago (Band)". Look them up right now. You'll be glad you did.
Friday, December 5, 2008
Dr. Hale vs. Horseman
My first semester in college at the most esteemed Southeastern Louisiana University, I took a class entitled Criminal Justice 101. It was taught by Dr. Bob Hale, quite an interesting fellow, whom was constantly reminiscing of the fights he would get into with his neighbor in his hometown of Louisville, KY. He never disclosed to us what the guy's first name was. Only that his last name was "Horseman" (pronounced hoarsemin) and how he absolutely wanted to kill this man. He spoke in class one day (of well over 100 people) about how he wanted to beat him to death with a shovel. I'll never forget that. A shovel beating topic in Criminal Justice class, spoken softly and eloquently in a Kentucky southern drawl. On one of the tests Dr. Hale gave, one of the questions was how the best way to kill this man was. Multiple choice...and one of the choices was to bury him up to his head and run over him with a lawnmower.
I never missed this class. It was like a wildcard. You never knew what to expect. One day we might be discussing the importance of Robert Merton or Caesar Lambrusco, the next we'd be talking about how one day Dr. Hale almost picked up an Easton baseball bat and went next door to bludgeon Horseman to death. You know, in hindsight, we probably should have notified the administration but who would want to mess this up? One of the coolest things about him was that he never gave final or midterm exams. He'd say "You know, they tell us here that we HAVE to give a midterm and final. But nobody says anything about you having to TAKE it. So next Friday at 7:30, I'll be here with your exam. But taking it is completely up to you. No extra points will come your way from it, because I'm not going to grade it and it will be thrown away as soon as class is over." I really should have gone to the final just to see what it was about but the thrill of youth and the opportunity to get shitfaced the previous night was likely far too overwhelming.
I took him for 101 and CJ 102 and he was my advisor for my first year in school. Back then, you had to get your schedule request approved before you could schedule. He had an office on the third floor of this building and I went up to talk to him to get approval. His office was probably about 4' X 4' with just a desk, a Pink Floyd poster, and not much else. When I went to speak with him, he had the lights off and just had a little desk lamp illuminating the tiny little room. I introduced myself to him, and told him how much I enjoyed his 101 class. He said "Everybody likes that class."
A few semesters later, people were talking about how fucked up he was getting so I scheduled a 300 level class (only about 20 people, far smaller than the intro level stuff) he taught. The class was entitled "Deviance" so I was thinking this could be one of the most fucked up things I'd ever get to see. I was right. Dr. Hale would teach this like he hated it. He'd just go through the outline and ask people questions, then he'd sit in the desk chair and not say much. We were like "What the fuck is going on with this guy" but sort of accepted that this is what happened as you advanced in the CJ curriculum. One day we went to class and he never showed up. All hour. No Dr. Hale. The next class, we walked in and there was a different guy in there. We all sat down and he explained that Dr. Hale had tried to kill himself and that he'd be gone for a few weeks. I was like "holy fucking shit!" If I remember correctly, class was canceled for about a week and then we came in expecting to see Dr. Hale, but there was this guy who wore a suit and a black wool trenchcoat, all asshole like. He was like "Sit down, everyone. It's time for class." The guy was a retired NOPD detective, which some of the nuts who were in this class thought was the greatest thing ever. I was like "So when is Dr. Hale coming back?" but Dr. Hale wasn't coming back.
I transferred to LSU after my sophomore year. Shortly after the semester began, I'd gotten word that Dr. Hale had killed himself although everyone I'd talked to pretty much expected that from attempt number 1. I called either Mac or Dustin (whom were both still going to school there but i can't remember which) and pleaded with them to bring me a copy of the Lions Roar to see the expose. I felt a little robbed that the world I lived in now lacked Dr. Bob Hale. Ok, that sounds all like he was my mentor or something but he really wasn't. It was just a weird feeling. You don't expect your teachers to commit suicide. That's what students with emo hangups do (cue the bathtub scene in The Rules of Attraction). I remember reading he had an infant son named David when I read the article. That kid has to be about 10 now, and he's probably headed for an insane future. I was sitting at me, Mac, and Dustin's apartment reading it, and if my life was like a tv show, this would be the end of an epidode. I looked up at Dustin and said "Wow. So the guy finally did it. I wonder... I wonder if he got Horseman first."
Dustin laughs.
Roll Credits.
I never missed this class. It was like a wildcard. You never knew what to expect. One day we might be discussing the importance of Robert Merton or Caesar Lambrusco, the next we'd be talking about how one day Dr. Hale almost picked up an Easton baseball bat and went next door to bludgeon Horseman to death. You know, in hindsight, we probably should have notified the administration but who would want to mess this up? One of the coolest things about him was that he never gave final or midterm exams. He'd say "You know, they tell us here that we HAVE to give a midterm and final. But nobody says anything about you having to TAKE it. So next Friday at 7:30, I'll be here with your exam. But taking it is completely up to you. No extra points will come your way from it, because I'm not going to grade it and it will be thrown away as soon as class is over." I really should have gone to the final just to see what it was about but the thrill of youth and the opportunity to get shitfaced the previous night was likely far too overwhelming.
I took him for 101 and CJ 102 and he was my advisor for my first year in school. Back then, you had to get your schedule request approved before you could schedule. He had an office on the third floor of this building and I went up to talk to him to get approval. His office was probably about 4' X 4' with just a desk, a Pink Floyd poster, and not much else. When I went to speak with him, he had the lights off and just had a little desk lamp illuminating the tiny little room. I introduced myself to him, and told him how much I enjoyed his 101 class. He said "Everybody likes that class."
A few semesters later, people were talking about how fucked up he was getting so I scheduled a 300 level class (only about 20 people, far smaller than the intro level stuff) he taught. The class was entitled "Deviance" so I was thinking this could be one of the most fucked up things I'd ever get to see. I was right. Dr. Hale would teach this like he hated it. He'd just go through the outline and ask people questions, then he'd sit in the desk chair and not say much. We were like "What the fuck is going on with this guy" but sort of accepted that this is what happened as you advanced in the CJ curriculum. One day we went to class and he never showed up. All hour. No Dr. Hale. The next class, we walked in and there was a different guy in there. We all sat down and he explained that Dr. Hale had tried to kill himself and that he'd be gone for a few weeks. I was like "holy fucking shit!" If I remember correctly, class was canceled for about a week and then we came in expecting to see Dr. Hale, but there was this guy who wore a suit and a black wool trenchcoat, all asshole like. He was like "Sit down, everyone. It's time for class." The guy was a retired NOPD detective, which some of the nuts who were in this class thought was the greatest thing ever. I was like "So when is Dr. Hale coming back?" but Dr. Hale wasn't coming back.
I transferred to LSU after my sophomore year. Shortly after the semester began, I'd gotten word that Dr. Hale had killed himself although everyone I'd talked to pretty much expected that from attempt number 1. I called either Mac or Dustin (whom were both still going to school there but i can't remember which) and pleaded with them to bring me a copy of the Lions Roar to see the expose. I felt a little robbed that the world I lived in now lacked Dr. Bob Hale. Ok, that sounds all like he was my mentor or something but he really wasn't. It was just a weird feeling. You don't expect your teachers to commit suicide. That's what students with emo hangups do (cue the bathtub scene in The Rules of Attraction). I remember reading he had an infant son named David when I read the article. That kid has to be about 10 now, and he's probably headed for an insane future. I was sitting at me, Mac, and Dustin's apartment reading it, and if my life was like a tv show, this would be the end of an epidode. I looked up at Dustin and said "Wow. So the guy finally did it. I wonder... I wonder if he got Horseman first."
Dustin laughs.
Roll Credits.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
3-2-1 Contact
I wonder what happened to the cat who was in the 3-2-1 Contact intro... He seemed nice. I hope he had a nice life.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B7S537b7saE
He's at the 0:48 second mark.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B7S537b7saE
He's at the 0:48 second mark.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Oh when the clock strikes...
This probably plays 24-7 in Hell:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LaDgTkqF7rY
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LaDgTkqF7rY
Friday, October 17, 2008
Double swipes, garbage trucks, police cars, and hardhats.
Do you ever notice that in convenience stores, the little credit card machine at the counter says "Please swipe card"? It should also say "Then stare at clerk helplessly, and wait for them to say 'Swipe it again. It didn't go through.'"
*****************************
The other morning I was laying in bed. It was like 5am, and the garbage man was out picking up the trash with those new crazy one-man operation robot trucks and it was just making these horrendous sounds. I realized that since I KNEW it was the garbage man, there was no reason to be alarmed. But what if you didn't know if was the garbage man? It would probably be pretty terrifying. Old people everywhere are probably saying "Jesus, Maude. The robots are finally here to kill us..." on a regular basis.
************************
When you're on the interstate, why do scores of cars slam on their breaks when they see a cop on the side of the road, writing someone a ticket? Seems like this is the perfect time to speed (or really break any vehicular law) since the guy is already busy with someone. I mean, really... do you think the cop is going to be like "License and registration, ma'am. Do you know how fast you were.... WOAH! NEVERMIND!"
::police man runs back to police car::
"I'm going after that guy! Besides, he looked kind of mexican..."
****************************************
As a former construction worker/current estimator/manager/myspace blog writer, I'd often run into situations where the safety guy on whatever job you're on forces you to wear a hardhat. I'm no fan, as they look kind of like you're one of those waterhead people. Plus they're unnatural, bulky, and stupid looking. I've seen some fashioned like cowboy hats, which are pretty cool. The first time I saw one, I thought about getting into the customized hardhat business. I'd probably make some look like derbys, or peter pan hats, or pirate regalia, or women's sunhats... though none of those would probably go over well. But if you're driving by a construction site in a few years and everyone on the job are wearing beret or viking helmet hardhats, please give me a call. Clearly I'm owed some compensation on some level.
Anyway, something that irks me is when I'm at LSU or near somewhere doing site (earth) work, or see someone doing maintenance and they're wearing a hardhat. I'm not talking about a construction site, where people could be dropping rivets or bolts on your head from the floor above you. I'm talking about a situation where there is clearly no reason for you to be wearing a hardhat. Perhaps you are afraid the building that you're next to, that you're repainting the doorhandle of, is going to spontaneously collapse? If that's the case, brother, we're all in trouble. Do you think that a meteorite is going to crash into your head? Are people beaning you in the skull with rocks a real problem for you?
Many many many years ago, I was working on a job at Southern University. A brand-new four story building, where yes, hardhats can probably provide some purpose. However, we'd left the job for lunch and this guy Dumas had apparantly forgot to take his off. While we were in line waiting to get our extra value meals, Sean (one of our coworkers) looked at him and said "Dumas, do you doubt the structural stability of this Burger King"? I looked at him and said "Yeah, I think we're safe here. You can probably take a few minutes off from safety land." Dumas took the hardhat off, we all had a chuckle, and enjoyed a moment of having our heads clearly available to whatever troubles may befall us.
But note to self while looking back on it: Create Safety Land. It will be a hit.
*****************************
The other morning I was laying in bed. It was like 5am, and the garbage man was out picking up the trash with those new crazy one-man operation robot trucks and it was just making these horrendous sounds. I realized that since I KNEW it was the garbage man, there was no reason to be alarmed. But what if you didn't know if was the garbage man? It would probably be pretty terrifying. Old people everywhere are probably saying "Jesus, Maude. The robots are finally here to kill us..." on a regular basis.
************************
When you're on the interstate, why do scores of cars slam on their breaks when they see a cop on the side of the road, writing someone a ticket? Seems like this is the perfect time to speed (or really break any vehicular law) since the guy is already busy with someone. I mean, really... do you think the cop is going to be like "License and registration, ma'am. Do you know how fast you were.... WOAH! NEVERMIND!"
::police man runs back to police car::
"I'm going after that guy! Besides, he looked kind of mexican..."
****************************************
As a former construction worker/current estimator/manager/myspace blog writer, I'd often run into situations where the safety guy on whatever job you're on forces you to wear a hardhat. I'm no fan, as they look kind of like you're one of those waterhead people. Plus they're unnatural, bulky, and stupid looking. I've seen some fashioned like cowboy hats, which are pretty cool. The first time I saw one, I thought about getting into the customized hardhat business. I'd probably make some look like derbys, or peter pan hats, or pirate regalia, or women's sunhats... though none of those would probably go over well. But if you're driving by a construction site in a few years and everyone on the job are wearing beret or viking helmet hardhats, please give me a call. Clearly I'm owed some compensation on some level.
Anyway, something that irks me is when I'm at LSU or near somewhere doing site (earth) work, or see someone doing maintenance and they're wearing a hardhat. I'm not talking about a construction site, where people could be dropping rivets or bolts on your head from the floor above you. I'm talking about a situation where there is clearly no reason for you to be wearing a hardhat. Perhaps you are afraid the building that you're next to, that you're repainting the doorhandle of, is going to spontaneously collapse? If that's the case, brother, we're all in trouble. Do you think that a meteorite is going to crash into your head? Are people beaning you in the skull with rocks a real problem for you?
Many many many years ago, I was working on a job at Southern University. A brand-new four story building, where yes, hardhats can probably provide some purpose. However, we'd left the job for lunch and this guy Dumas had apparantly forgot to take his off. While we were in line waiting to get our extra value meals, Sean (one of our coworkers) looked at him and said "Dumas, do you doubt the structural stability of this Burger King"? I looked at him and said "Yeah, I think we're safe here. You can probably take a few minutes off from safety land." Dumas took the hardhat off, we all had a chuckle, and enjoyed a moment of having our heads clearly available to whatever troubles may befall us.
But note to self while looking back on it: Create Safety Land. It will be a hit.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Sha-Theed
So this gray striped kitty showed up at my house the other day. I like to think Hurricane Gustav picked him up from someones back yard and lightly placed him at my doorstep, but who knows. Either way, I wanted to name him "Shithead" after Navin Johnson's dog in The Jerk. But Aimee wanted to name him "Gus" after the hurricane that more or less dropped him off to us. I'm just going to rally behind "Shithead" and see what happens. Aimee brought up a good point though.
"So, you're going to bring him to the vet and tell them his name is 'Shithead'?
"No, I will tell them it's pronounced 'shah-thead', like an african name for 'royal proud feline'"...
So anyways, next time you're at my house, give Shithead a little pat on the head for me.
"So, you're going to bring him to the vet and tell them his name is 'Shithead'?
"No, I will tell them it's pronounced 'shah-thead', like an african name for 'royal proud feline'"...
So anyways, next time you're at my house, give Shithead a little pat on the head for me.
Monday, September 8, 2008
Postcard from HELL!
Last week was hell. Spent Mon-Wed without power and finally escaped this weekend to Beau Rivage. There, spent too much money and got back to town to find that hell was still residing right here in Baton Rouge. Spent last night in parents house in St. Amant. Have been living out of a suitcase for days.
Got home this morning to find lights finally back on at house. Then found power back at work.
Life slowly returning to normal.
I'll write you with updates.
Love,
e-sam
Got home this morning to find lights finally back on at house. Then found power back at work.
Life slowly returning to normal.
I'll write you with updates.
Love,
e-sam
Monday, August 18, 2008
Mixed WHAT?!
In my opinion, Mixed Nuts should be renamed "Cashews, Almonds, Pecans... and a lot of other nuts you probably don't like". I noticed most of them actually advertise that their blend is less than 50% peanuts, which is kind of an anamoly to me since I think most people are totally down with the peanuts. It's those annoying big ass funky nuts and the little round ones that throw me. That's some bullshit right there. What the hell are these things and where do you find them? And if less than 50% of these are peanuts, I assume they still are trying to tell you that, yes, there's more peanuts than anything else in there, but fuck it because they're still mixed up with some other things you might be ok with. I mean, why aren't they called "Peanuts... and stuff"? I'm going to be honest with you, I think they throw in the cashews to confuse you. Just to kind of create a diversion so that every now and again, you'll grab something else in there. And in my family household, whenever someone opens a can of them, you can bet they're making a bee line for the cashews. It never fails that by the time I get to them, they've been raided, leaving behind all the nuts you ONLY SEE LEFT BEHIND in a can of mixed nuts. Look Mr. Planter man, dancing around with your monicle and top hat and cane... don't pawn your crap nuts off on me. I know what's really going on, you son of a bitch you.
Friday, August 15, 2008
Law and Order
How come anyone who is questioned by detectives on Law and Order seems to have no problem continuing on with their activities while being interviewed by the fucking police?! I'm sorry, but it seems to me that would be a little nervewracking, but apparantly the man working in the office who is being questioned about a double rape or murder or whatever; he can't seem to tear himself away from the copy machine to talk to a couple of cops. I'll remember that if I ever get in trouble for something.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
End Analog Transmission
Have you been seeing the commercials with the old lady sitting there, telling you how by law, all TV broadcasts will be exclusively in digital by February 17, 2009? If your TV is hooked up to cable, then "it will work just fine. But if you get TV through an antenna on an analog set, it won't work after February 2009." There's something seriously fucked up to me about all of that.
So my entire life, TV has been broadcast through the airwaves. Even though I've probably had cable since I was 5, maybe it was still comforting to me that there was radiowaves flying around my head shooting along a TV signal. When I was a kid, the only rooms in my house with cable were my mom and dad's and the den. I had a little black and white tv with these rad antennas on top that I would have to vigorously shake into position to catch the Arsenio Hall show or Married... With Children.
Perhaps those radio waves are the only thing keeping us from leaping into a homacidal state. Perhaps they're the only thing keeping us out of the sanitarium. Either way, technology advances and leaves everything else behind. I don't think I have any analog options in my current house, come to think of it. But I'm going to do my best to find one. And On 2/17/09 (which is a tuesday, by the way) I'm going to be sitting in front of a tv waiting for it to fall silent and see the picture snap into white noise for the last time.
So my entire life, TV has been broadcast through the airwaves. Even though I've probably had cable since I was 5, maybe it was still comforting to me that there was radiowaves flying around my head shooting along a TV signal. When I was a kid, the only rooms in my house with cable were my mom and dad's and the den. I had a little black and white tv with these rad antennas on top that I would have to vigorously shake into position to catch the Arsenio Hall show or Married... With Children.
Perhaps those radio waves are the only thing keeping us from leaping into a homacidal state. Perhaps they're the only thing keeping us out of the sanitarium. Either way, technology advances and leaves everything else behind. I don't think I have any analog options in my current house, come to think of it. But I'm going to do my best to find one. And On 2/17/09 (which is a tuesday, by the way) I'm going to be sitting in front of a tv waiting for it to fall silent and see the picture snap into white noise for the last time.
Monday, June 23, 2008
My Weekend Days
I need to create something. I'm beginning to get starved for a creative output experience. How about that? Does that make sense? I don't know if that means I wanna create art or if that means I want to create destruction. I want to be impulsive. Reckless. And lose myself in your kiss. Which reminds me...
The other day, Aimee was in the back bedroom doing something and I was sitting at the computer in the living room, and we were getting ready to leave. We were going to Subway, where I would soon eat very slowly because I was nursing a hangover. But before that, I was in the living room, waiting to leave. I went to Youtube and played the following music videos, in high volume and in the following order:
Wilson Phillips' "Impulsive"
Mariah Carey's "Vision Of Love"
Celine Dion's "I'm Your Lady"
Aimee walked into the room, and I told her I wanted to have a swimming party where we had a very large stereo system only playing this type of music all day. She said she thought people would leave, but I told her I thought they would stay even longer. I get a little nostalgic for pop adult contemporary from 1990 - 1992. Had we had more time before my nauseating sit through Subway, where Aimee later said I was talking too loud (My ears were still ringing from the night before), I would have also played the following:
Cece Peniston's "Finally"
Jane Child's "Don't Wanna Fall In Love"
Roxette's "The Look"
Alanna Myles' "Black Velvet"
I couldn't finish all the soup I'd bought, so I threw everything away and brought the captain's wafers crackers with me and ate them in the car when we walked out.
I can't remember where we went after that, because I'm retarded. But Sunday, we went to the mall for the sole purpose of buying icees. Then we walked around the outside of the mall. I got the biggest Coke flavored icee they had. Both icees cost $6, to which Aimee said was pretty expensive for icees. Then we went to Target. Several times, I stood on the back of the buggy and made Aimee pull me. This ocurred near women's clothing, alongside the makeup isles, and eventually into frozen foods. A few people stared, but honestly not very long. Aimee shops very slowly, so I left her and the buggy and retrieved the following items:
wheat bread
hydrogen peroxide
contact lens solution
one onion
one bellpepper
a vegetable tray
deli-sliced turkey
pre-sliced apple slices
What a great Sunday.
The other day, Aimee was in the back bedroom doing something and I was sitting at the computer in the living room, and we were getting ready to leave. We were going to Subway, where I would soon eat very slowly because I was nursing a hangover. But before that, I was in the living room, waiting to leave. I went to Youtube and played the following music videos, in high volume and in the following order:
Wilson Phillips' "Impulsive"
Mariah Carey's "Vision Of Love"
Celine Dion's "I'm Your Lady"
Aimee walked into the room, and I told her I wanted to have a swimming party where we had a very large stereo system only playing this type of music all day. She said she thought people would leave, but I told her I thought they would stay even longer. I get a little nostalgic for pop adult contemporary from 1990 - 1992. Had we had more time before my nauseating sit through Subway, where Aimee later said I was talking too loud (My ears were still ringing from the night before), I would have also played the following:
Cece Peniston's "Finally"
Jane Child's "Don't Wanna Fall In Love"
Roxette's "The Look"
Alanna Myles' "Black Velvet"
I couldn't finish all the soup I'd bought, so I threw everything away and brought the captain's wafers crackers with me and ate them in the car when we walked out.
I can't remember where we went after that, because I'm retarded. But Sunday, we went to the mall for the sole purpose of buying icees. Then we walked around the outside of the mall. I got the biggest Coke flavored icee they had. Both icees cost $6, to which Aimee said was pretty expensive for icees. Then we went to Target. Several times, I stood on the back of the buggy and made Aimee pull me. This ocurred near women's clothing, alongside the makeup isles, and eventually into frozen foods. A few people stared, but honestly not very long. Aimee shops very slowly, so I left her and the buggy and retrieved the following items:
wheat bread
hydrogen peroxide
contact lens solution
one onion
one bellpepper
a vegetable tray
deli-sliced turkey
pre-sliced apple slices
What a great Sunday.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Subur-Rude
A few hours ago, I was driving and was slowing down for a redlight when a Suburu Outback pulled up next to me. An older lady was driving. She looked over at me and sneered. What's up with that?
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Life Goes On, and I Didn't Mean To Tear Up Your Painting.
Last night I was sitting up at the bar, doing some thinking. Nobody I really knew was there yet so I was just balancing the checkbook. Eventually, I started thinking about that retard from Life Goes On, the TV series about a family living and dealing with Downs Syndrome, starring Chris Burke as the central figure. The show was on from 1989 til 1993, and I remember being engrossed in it. I don't really know why. I also don't know how I somehow obtained a copy of Chris Burke's autobiography A Special Kind Of Hero but I did. If anyone wants to thumb through it, there's a copy at my parents house in my old bookcase. So anyways, when I got home I ran to the pc to check out Wikipedia, and I was happy to note that Chris Burke is living a normal life in New York. He fronts a folk band, which I have immediately started trying to book at NGT, and looks to be leading a pretty good life. Anyway, I guess I just wanted to share that with you...just in case you wanted to know.
************************************************************
Last night I had a dream, where my whole family was in this mountain town. It was sort of like Las Vegas, so with that in mind maybe northern Nevada. Either way, my dad was driving me and Aimee and my brother and his wife around in a minivan, and eventually we hit this patch of ice and began sliding. It was weird because we weren't really moving very fast and there was no decline in the road, but we were just slowly slipping off the road. Eventually the van hit a sign and we all got out and walked. I saw this house where this huge party was going on, so we all went there to check it out. So my dad and I were walking around being introduced by people we didn't know to other people we didn't know, and we were all just laughing and having this great time. Well, I guess I started getting a little rambunctious, because I started climbing up this wall when nobody was around, and my foot slipped and I tore this painting up. Like, my foot tore the bottom part of the frame off which I was using as my perch to ready for the next step. I don't remember what I was climbing it for, but either way I eventually climbed back down. Then I passed out in a chair.
When I woke up, it was the next morning and the group of people who were at the party (I guess all of my family had left me) were cleaning up. I walked into the kitchen, and they all acted like I was some sort of just vagrant, kind of ignoring me. I was like, whatever, and started walking around to find a way out. As I was leaving I kept picking up pairs of sunglasses sporadically placed throughout the house thinking they were mine. Eventually I found the right pair, and also picked up a few of these strange looking jewels next to them. I was on my way into the next room and a group of them were gathered all looking up at this wall. I thought they were about to bust me for grabbing the jewels so I put them in my pocket. As I neared the group, the father of the family, this middle aged guy (kind of like the dad on Life Goes On) was on a ladder trying to repair the painting I had destroyed the previous night. They all looked at me dissappointed, like I had really let them all down. Then I woke up.
***********************************************************
So I guess last night was pretty eventful. The kid that played Corky is doing alright and I had a nice dream. Bonus. By the way, a really fast sketch of that painting I broke looks like this:
I'm pretty sure it's the bottom part of a tree. It was huge though. And it was like this tri-fold kind of deal.
************************************************************
Last night I had a dream, where my whole family was in this mountain town. It was sort of like Las Vegas, so with that in mind maybe northern Nevada. Either way, my dad was driving me and Aimee and my brother and his wife around in a minivan, and eventually we hit this patch of ice and began sliding. It was weird because we weren't really moving very fast and there was no decline in the road, but we were just slowly slipping off the road. Eventually the van hit a sign and we all got out and walked. I saw this house where this huge party was going on, so we all went there to check it out. So my dad and I were walking around being introduced by people we didn't know to other people we didn't know, and we were all just laughing and having this great time. Well, I guess I started getting a little rambunctious, because I started climbing up this wall when nobody was around, and my foot slipped and I tore this painting up. Like, my foot tore the bottom part of the frame off which I was using as my perch to ready for the next step. I don't remember what I was climbing it for, but either way I eventually climbed back down. Then I passed out in a chair.
When I woke up, it was the next morning and the group of people who were at the party (I guess all of my family had left me) were cleaning up. I walked into the kitchen, and they all acted like I was some sort of just vagrant, kind of ignoring me. I was like, whatever, and started walking around to find a way out. As I was leaving I kept picking up pairs of sunglasses sporadically placed throughout the house thinking they were mine. Eventually I found the right pair, and also picked up a few of these strange looking jewels next to them. I was on my way into the next room and a group of them were gathered all looking up at this wall. I thought they were about to bust me for grabbing the jewels so I put them in my pocket. As I neared the group, the father of the family, this middle aged guy (kind of like the dad on Life Goes On) was on a ladder trying to repair the painting I had destroyed the previous night. They all looked at me dissappointed, like I had really let them all down. Then I woke up.
***********************************************************
So I guess last night was pretty eventful. The kid that played Corky is doing alright and I had a nice dream. Bonus. By the way, a really fast sketch of that painting I broke looks like this:
I'm pretty sure it's the bottom part of a tree. It was huge though. And it was like this tri-fold kind of deal.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
School Days, School Days, dear old golden rule.. um, uh oh...
In early 1997, I moved out of my parent's house and into an apartment with Mac and Brandon. Legally those were the only people on the lease, but Jon also took up residency in the washer/dryer connections room, and Bubba usually took up residency in the hall bathroom nearly every thursday, friday, and saturday night. Coincidentally, we all attended Southeasten Louisiana University that semester and would usually carpool on the rare occasion all 4 of us went to school. One morning, Mac and I were in the living room about to leave when it slowly became more and more apparent the others wouldn't be arising from their liquor induced comas from the night before. And lo, we set out on the 45 minute trek down Interstate 12.
About halfway there, we drove thru a Burger King or something and got some sort of vile and potent fast food breakfast. That combined with the coffee, nicotine, and beer from the night before eventually proved a little more than even the strongest of stomachs could handle. Naturally, we were blowing it up in the car nonstop. I remembered when Bubba would be in the car, he often would say "Oh my God, it smells like a baby just shit in here.." which would ilicit laughter all around. Either way, this time it was just me and Mac. And good thing too - because I was about to need a co-pilot.
Over and again, we were just ripping it up, left and right. Riding down the interstate doing about 70 miles per hour, I eventually took it a little too far. Tragedy befell me. A wave of dread and dispair washed over me as I immediatley leaned forward, trying to get away from the minor catastrophe I'd just created. "Oh fuck" I said to Mac. "What?" "Um, I think I just crapped in my pants a little". Although I didn't just think it. I KNEW it. That's one of those things you just know.
Of course he started laughing hysterically at my misfortune as I kind of pulled myself off the seat, trying not to sit down. I didn't know what to do. We were almost to school. I wasn't going to turn around and drive another 40 minutes back to Baton Rouge sitting in my own tiny amount of poowater. This was a serious problem that needed to be corrected as soon as humanly possible. I looked over at him and said "We're gonna need to swap seats." I didn't want to pull over and have a cop show up asking questions. "Sorry, Officer. I just crapped in my pants." I was desperate. This isn't a situation you want to be in for very long. I needed to rid myself of this problem. I needed to get out of the makeshift non-diaper I'd just turned my pants into. This situation had to be taken care of. Time for the acrobatic tactics. We were gonna have to do this on the fly.
I set the cruise control of my 1992 Dodge Ramcharger, currently doing about 73 mph. I looked at Mac and said "Take the wheel". He protested such an idiotic manuever for a little while, but desperate times called for desperate measures. Eventually he consented and grabbed the right side of the sterring wheel while I dragged myself over to the center console and into the backseat. He climbed over the console and into the driver's seat. My truck at the time had a large storage area behind the back bench seat, so I climed over the little couch and landed in the very back of the truck between the back seat and the hatchback door like I was a wounded soldier crawling back to a foxhole. Luckilly I remembered I'd left an old white t-shirt in the back. As Mac laughed from the front of the car, I pulled my jeans down and leaning forward onto my knees, wiped myself off. The windows were tinted somewhat, but I'm sure somebody behind the truck could see violent thrashing about.
I took my underwear off, balled up the shirt with the clean part outside, and just wrapped duct tape all around the soiled linens. After I was about as clean as I thought I'd possibly be, I put the rest of my clothes back on and climbed back into the front of the truck. By this point we were almost to the freshmen parking lot at SLU, so I figured I'd let Mac just take us the rest of the way in. I was too traumatized anyway.
On the way to my first class, we strolled through the Union breezeway and I discreetly tossed the poo-shirt duct tape ball in the first trashcan I saw. I freeballed it the rest of the schoolday. Mac seemed eager to tell everyone of the adventure we just went through, but I begged him not to. Of course, we were at a party that weekend and I was just blabbering it to everyone, but at the time it seemed like quite a sensitive subject. So the moral of the story is: Don't poo in your pants while driving unless you have a passenger willing to risk their own life and a big enough vehicle to throw yourself all over. And leave a t-shirt in the back somewhere. You never know when you might need it.
About halfway there, we drove thru a Burger King or something and got some sort of vile and potent fast food breakfast. That combined with the coffee, nicotine, and beer from the night before eventually proved a little more than even the strongest of stomachs could handle. Naturally, we were blowing it up in the car nonstop. I remembered when Bubba would be in the car, he often would say "Oh my God, it smells like a baby just shit in here.." which would ilicit laughter all around. Either way, this time it was just me and Mac. And good thing too - because I was about to need a co-pilot.
Over and again, we were just ripping it up, left and right. Riding down the interstate doing about 70 miles per hour, I eventually took it a little too far. Tragedy befell me. A wave of dread and dispair washed over me as I immediatley leaned forward, trying to get away from the minor catastrophe I'd just created. "Oh fuck" I said to Mac. "What?" "Um, I think I just crapped in my pants a little". Although I didn't just think it. I KNEW it. That's one of those things you just know.
Of course he started laughing hysterically at my misfortune as I kind of pulled myself off the seat, trying not to sit down. I didn't know what to do. We were almost to school. I wasn't going to turn around and drive another 40 minutes back to Baton Rouge sitting in my own tiny amount of poowater. This was a serious problem that needed to be corrected as soon as humanly possible. I looked over at him and said "We're gonna need to swap seats." I didn't want to pull over and have a cop show up asking questions. "Sorry, Officer. I just crapped in my pants." I was desperate. This isn't a situation you want to be in for very long. I needed to rid myself of this problem. I needed to get out of the makeshift non-diaper I'd just turned my pants into. This situation had to be taken care of. Time for the acrobatic tactics. We were gonna have to do this on the fly.
I set the cruise control of my 1992 Dodge Ramcharger, currently doing about 73 mph. I looked at Mac and said "Take the wheel". He protested such an idiotic manuever for a little while, but desperate times called for desperate measures. Eventually he consented and grabbed the right side of the sterring wheel while I dragged myself over to the center console and into the backseat. He climbed over the console and into the driver's seat. My truck at the time had a large storage area behind the back bench seat, so I climed over the little couch and landed in the very back of the truck between the back seat and the hatchback door like I was a wounded soldier crawling back to a foxhole. Luckilly I remembered I'd left an old white t-shirt in the back. As Mac laughed from the front of the car, I pulled my jeans down and leaning forward onto my knees, wiped myself off. The windows were tinted somewhat, but I'm sure somebody behind the truck could see violent thrashing about.
I took my underwear off, balled up the shirt with the clean part outside, and just wrapped duct tape all around the soiled linens. After I was about as clean as I thought I'd possibly be, I put the rest of my clothes back on and climbed back into the front of the truck. By this point we were almost to the freshmen parking lot at SLU, so I figured I'd let Mac just take us the rest of the way in. I was too traumatized anyway.
On the way to my first class, we strolled through the Union breezeway and I discreetly tossed the poo-shirt duct tape ball in the first trashcan I saw. I freeballed it the rest of the schoolday. Mac seemed eager to tell everyone of the adventure we just went through, but I begged him not to. Of course, we were at a party that weekend and I was just blabbering it to everyone, but at the time it seemed like quite a sensitive subject. So the moral of the story is: Don't poo in your pants while driving unless you have a passenger willing to risk their own life and a big enough vehicle to throw yourself all over. And leave a t-shirt in the back somewhere. You never know when you might need it.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
1998
About 10 years ago, I decided I was going to write a book all about myself and my theories on life. I recently found it and I have to say I was impressed with how long I stuck with it. It's 60 pages of size 12 font Times New Roman drivel, along with illustrations, comic strips, poems. I'm getting quite a kick out of it because for the most part, it's the most vile and stupidest shit I have ever seen in any type of print. But there were some interesting tidbits. It was called "Sam Terito's 1998", and I personally find it fascinating because of the way I thought back then. Fitting - its on I suppose its 10 year old birthday. Sadly I remember giving this missive to people to read who were in my apartment or somewhere nearby. They thought it was mildly entertaining, but looking back it was probably a guidebook for how angry and misguided of a person I was.
Some tidbits worth re-typing:
********************************
(from Chapter 10)
Sam is a very hairy man. When he gets his hair cut, the haircutters always laugh at the overgrowth of hair on the back of Sam's neck. Sam is VERY ANGRY about this behavior.
(from Chapter 12)
-When I was only 4 years old, I was small and hairless.
-Everyone who was mean to me in middle school will burn in hell.
-The waitress at a nearby breakfast place bit my head.
(from Chapter 13)
-The other day I was walking around school and I started to think. Wouldn't it be cool if simple things could make me happy? So I went into this building, walked to a coke machine, and purchased a soft drink. Then I walked around campus, lightly sipping it. I started looking at leaves and trees. I stopped. Looked at all that was around me... and smiled. I was so fucking happy because I had a cold soft drink and I didn't have to do anything.
(from Chapter 18)
A COMMERCIAL FOR EGGS
A man walks into a room where his family is consuming breakfast. He looks at a horse in the corner and vomits on it. The end.
A COMMERCIAL FOR SHAMPOO
Two people are walking down the street. An armed criminal walks into the street in front of them and mutters something in Japanese. Then a safe falls on an old woman off in the distance. The end.
A COMMERCIAL FOR COLA
An old man is vomiting on a trashcan in an unfurnished apartment. The end.
(from Chapter 19)
(May 15 1999 12:19pm)
These are good days. There will be other good days, but these are the best. At this point I have lived for 21 years, 1 month, 13 days, 23 hours, and 17 minutes. I have seen a lot but I will see more. Better days? Of course. Maybe. Perhaps. I hope so. Probably not. Who knows? That is the question. That is the quest. Maximize pleasure and minimize pain. That is the formula for better days.
(from Chapter 22)
you know the term "who gives a rat's ass"? well it doesn't really make any sense. how could you give a rat's ass? is there an understood 'to you' on the end of it? because i could understand giving a rat's ass to someone, but without that clarification there... i just don't know what to make of it. in ancient times, maybe a rat's ass was some type of gift, some type of commodity... hmmm.
**********************************
There's more, but I don't really feel like typing it out. Maybe every now and again, I'll throw out some of "Sam Terito's 1998" to you if you're bored and you want to see the ramblings of a 20-21 year old idiot.
Now I guess it's time to start "Sam Terito's 2008". Or have I already being doing that?
Some tidbits worth re-typing:
********************************
(from Chapter 10)
Sam is a very hairy man. When he gets his hair cut, the haircutters always laugh at the overgrowth of hair on the back of Sam's neck. Sam is VERY ANGRY about this behavior.
(from Chapter 12)
-When I was only 4 years old, I was small and hairless.
-Everyone who was mean to me in middle school will burn in hell.
-The waitress at a nearby breakfast place bit my head.
(from Chapter 13)
-The other day I was walking around school and I started to think. Wouldn't it be cool if simple things could make me happy? So I went into this building, walked to a coke machine, and purchased a soft drink. Then I walked around campus, lightly sipping it. I started looking at leaves and trees. I stopped. Looked at all that was around me... and smiled. I was so fucking happy because I had a cold soft drink and I didn't have to do anything.
(from Chapter 18)
A COMMERCIAL FOR EGGS
A man walks into a room where his family is consuming breakfast. He looks at a horse in the corner and vomits on it. The end.
A COMMERCIAL FOR SHAMPOO
Two people are walking down the street. An armed criminal walks into the street in front of them and mutters something in Japanese. Then a safe falls on an old woman off in the distance. The end.
A COMMERCIAL FOR COLA
An old man is vomiting on a trashcan in an unfurnished apartment. The end.
(from Chapter 19)
(May 15 1999 12:19pm)
These are good days. There will be other good days, but these are the best. At this point I have lived for 21 years, 1 month, 13 days, 23 hours, and 17 minutes. I have seen a lot but I will see more. Better days? Of course. Maybe. Perhaps. I hope so. Probably not. Who knows? That is the question. That is the quest. Maximize pleasure and minimize pain. That is the formula for better days.
(from Chapter 22)
you know the term "who gives a rat's ass"? well it doesn't really make any sense. how could you give a rat's ass? is there an understood 'to you' on the end of it? because i could understand giving a rat's ass to someone, but without that clarification there... i just don't know what to make of it. in ancient times, maybe a rat's ass was some type of gift, some type of commodity... hmmm.
**********************************
There's more, but I don't really feel like typing it out. Maybe every now and again, I'll throw out some of "Sam Terito's 1998" to you if you're bored and you want to see the ramblings of a 20-21 year old idiot.
Now I guess it's time to start "Sam Terito's 2008". Or have I already being doing that?
Monday, April 28, 2008
Come on, pick it up. Waiting and my popcorn adventures
You could do better. I'm just saying... You could do a lot better than that. I think you set the bar kind of low on this deal, if you get my drift. You need to pick it up a little here. Come on. Seriously. Just... come on.
*************************************************
How many of you out there saw the film "Waiting" starring Ryan Reynolds, Dane Cook, and the girl that looks like Ashlee Simpson. Oh, and the guy from the Apple commercials. And possibly Chris Klein and Mandy Moore, I can't quite remember. Did you see that? Well, if you did, how many people told you "Man, you really needed to work in the service industry to get it" after they saw it, before you did? Well, after I saw it, there was nothing in this film that you would have needed to work in a restaurant to get. I saw "Knocked Up" and "Juno", and I didn't tell people they needed to impregnate someone to get it. Because that wasn't true. So stop telling people that. In fact, if there was any part of Waiting you didn't get, you're probably retarded.
You know, when I saw "Glory" starring Matthew Broderick and Denzel Washington, I wasn't running up to people saying, "You know, you really have to be a black Civil War-era Union infantry endentured soldier to get it." The sheer number of people that told me you had to work in a restaurant to get "Waiting" was alarming to me. Was there something after the credits that said to go out and tell people this? Did I miss it?
Hey, you want to know what you should do? Go rent "My Life" starring Michael Keaton. You will cry like a bitch, but... well. Nevermind. You have to be dead to get it. Wait till after your dead to see that film. That way, you know... you'll get it. Just letting you know.
************************************************
Speaking of movies, I was at the theater the other day and I noticed something. I never eat all the popcorn I buy, and in fact I have never eaten all the popcorn I've bought ever. So I don't know if I'm a popcorn glutton here, but man. I get popcorn all over myself when I'm in a movie theater. I'm like taking these huge handfulls of popcorn and shoving it into my mouth. I look like a gerbil. I'm trying to form my mouth around the small globule of popcorn, and with every handful probably 40% ends up on the floor and my lap. Popcorn to me is a volumized type of consumable. It's like sushi. Every piece of a roll is usually larger than a regular bite of anything else for me. It's just akin to taking big bites of stuff. It's like taking whole dinner rolls and shoving them into your mouths at a family function. Imagine everyone doing that. It would look like a contest or something.
After the film is over, imagine the guy walking around picking up all the bags of popcorn. Most bags are probably about 1/2 full, shared between couples and families of small children. When he gets to wherever I was sitting, he's probably like "What a fucking pig. What was this guy? A hamster?" It's not funny, movie man. I have always had an affinity for large wheels I could run on in place, but can't find one big enough to fit me. Maybe I am part hamster. What are you going to do about it?
*************************************************
How many of you out there saw the film "Waiting" starring Ryan Reynolds, Dane Cook, and the girl that looks like Ashlee Simpson. Oh, and the guy from the Apple commercials. And possibly Chris Klein and Mandy Moore, I can't quite remember. Did you see that? Well, if you did, how many people told you "Man, you really needed to work in the service industry to get it" after they saw it, before you did? Well, after I saw it, there was nothing in this film that you would have needed to work in a restaurant to get. I saw "Knocked Up" and "Juno", and I didn't tell people they needed to impregnate someone to get it. Because that wasn't true. So stop telling people that. In fact, if there was any part of Waiting you didn't get, you're probably retarded.
You know, when I saw "Glory" starring Matthew Broderick and Denzel Washington, I wasn't running up to people saying, "You know, you really have to be a black Civil War-era Union infantry endentured soldier to get it." The sheer number of people that told me you had to work in a restaurant to get "Waiting" was alarming to me. Was there something after the credits that said to go out and tell people this? Did I miss it?
Hey, you want to know what you should do? Go rent "My Life" starring Michael Keaton. You will cry like a bitch, but... well. Nevermind. You have to be dead to get it. Wait till after your dead to see that film. That way, you know... you'll get it. Just letting you know.
************************************************
Speaking of movies, I was at the theater the other day and I noticed something. I never eat all the popcorn I buy, and in fact I have never eaten all the popcorn I've bought ever. So I don't know if I'm a popcorn glutton here, but man. I get popcorn all over myself when I'm in a movie theater. I'm like taking these huge handfulls of popcorn and shoving it into my mouth. I look like a gerbil. I'm trying to form my mouth around the small globule of popcorn, and with every handful probably 40% ends up on the floor and my lap. Popcorn to me is a volumized type of consumable. It's like sushi. Every piece of a roll is usually larger than a regular bite of anything else for me. It's just akin to taking big bites of stuff. It's like taking whole dinner rolls and shoving them into your mouths at a family function. Imagine everyone doing that. It would look like a contest or something.
After the film is over, imagine the guy walking around picking up all the bags of popcorn. Most bags are probably about 1/2 full, shared between couples and families of small children. When he gets to wherever I was sitting, he's probably like "What a fucking pig. What was this guy? A hamster?" It's not funny, movie man. I have always had an affinity for large wheels I could run on in place, but can't find one big enough to fit me. Maybe I am part hamster. What are you going to do about it?
Friday, April 25, 2008
Hey, come see me. Be my friend.
I don't know if anyone really ever reads the crap I put on this thing, but if you do and you want to literally do anything you want me to (like dance, sing, fall down), you can come see me and my super new sell-out feature SUPERVILLAIN perform at the North Gate Tavern on Saturday, April 26.
That was a VERY long sentence up there.
Anyways, no cover so come out and drink up your little hearts content.
Hope to see all you dudes and dudettes.
That was a VERY long sentence up there.
Anyways, no cover so come out and drink up your little hearts content.
Hope to see all you dudes and dudettes.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
You Can't Leave. You're breaking the LAW!!
One time, we went to this bar called Glen’s Bombay Club. It was in the Esplanade Shopping Ctr, where Hooters, Clicks, Melting Pot, and Sullivan’s is. Well, it was this total fucked up little joint where all the ragged bitches in thier 30’s-40’s would roll up, and the dudes were all either old or they shaved their arms and had tribal armband tattoos. I don’t know why we went there. I think it was because the line to get into Southdowns was too long. See, every now and then to keep yourself in check, you just have to suck it up and have a "Go Look At People With An IQ of 30 In Bars" night.
Well, we went in and drank a bunch and then got really scared by the fuckjobs hanging around in the joint, so it was time to roll out. I had to pee really bad, and I didn’t feel like going back in so I went by the side of the truck. All of a sudden, this snaggletoothed yokle walks around the vehicle. I kind of turned towards the truck so he couldn’t see me pissing all over the tires of someone’s tricked out Hyundai. He walked past, then walked back and said:
"Whudder you dooooowen?"
I looked around and kind of turned around and said "Nothing. You know. Just waiting for my friends, so we can get in the car and uh you know err (trailing off)." He says "Well, I saw whud you werr doin, you werr pissin’ all over the ground. Well guess whud? I’m a cop. And you’re in some big trouble." I was like "Oh come on, you’re not a cop." "Oh yessir I AM! And yer breaking the LAW!"
He stepped back and kind of motioned over to a group of people. I’d finished peeing long after his initial threat. "Hey!" he was screaming. "This guy over herrrre is BREAKING THE LAW!" I was like "Dude, come on. Knock it off. I wasn’t breaking the law." He said "No, you was breaking it. I seen you." As he’s doing this, I’m trying to open my truck door, but I couldn’t get it open. My pushbutton remote unlock had opened the other doors so everyone had began to pile in, but my door wouldn’t open. He saw me struggling with it and said "Oh, you caint leave! You’re breaking the law."
My door finally unlocked, and I was getting into the truck and he was still frustratingly yelling "YOU CAINNNNT LEAVE!" I then realized he was wearing blue jean cuttoffs and had earrings. The car he was next to had a 6" exhaust tip. I jumped in the truck and started it up. He runs up to the window, and makes one final attempt to tell me that I couldn’t leave and that I was apparantly in fact breaking the law. I mouthed to him "I’m leaving" and drove away hastilly.
So one of two things are certain. He actually wan’t a cop, or the Gonzales Police Dept uniform consists of cutoffs, a buzzcut, tennis shoes, bad teeth, and earings in both ears.
Well, we went in and drank a bunch and then got really scared by the fuckjobs hanging around in the joint, so it was time to roll out. I had to pee really bad, and I didn’t feel like going back in so I went by the side of the truck. All of a sudden, this snaggletoothed yokle walks around the vehicle. I kind of turned towards the truck so he couldn’t see me pissing all over the tires of someone’s tricked out Hyundai. He walked past, then walked back and said:
"Whudder you dooooowen?"
I looked around and kind of turned around and said "Nothing. You know. Just waiting for my friends, so we can get in the car and uh you know err (trailing off)." He says "Well, I saw whud you werr doin, you werr pissin’ all over the ground. Well guess whud? I’m a cop. And you’re in some big trouble." I was like "Oh come on, you’re not a cop." "Oh yessir I AM! And yer breaking the LAW!"
He stepped back and kind of motioned over to a group of people. I’d finished peeing long after his initial threat. "Hey!" he was screaming. "This guy over herrrre is BREAKING THE LAW!" I was like "Dude, come on. Knock it off. I wasn’t breaking the law." He said "No, you was breaking it. I seen you." As he’s doing this, I’m trying to open my truck door, but I couldn’t get it open. My pushbutton remote unlock had opened the other doors so everyone had began to pile in, but my door wouldn’t open. He saw me struggling with it and said "Oh, you caint leave! You’re breaking the law."
My door finally unlocked, and I was getting into the truck and he was still frustratingly yelling "YOU CAINNNNT LEAVE!" I then realized he was wearing blue jean cuttoffs and had earrings. The car he was next to had a 6" exhaust tip. I jumped in the truck and started it up. He runs up to the window, and makes one final attempt to tell me that I couldn’t leave and that I was apparantly in fact breaking the law. I mouthed to him "I’m leaving" and drove away hastilly.
So one of two things are certain. He actually wan’t a cop, or the Gonzales Police Dept uniform consists of cutoffs, a buzzcut, tennis shoes, bad teeth, and earings in both ears.
Monday, March 31, 2008
A Pirate Looks At 30.
At 1:19 pm today, my body will turn 30 years old. That’s 210 in dog years. This is an unbelieveable occurance to me. Who let this happen? Who is responsible for this? I want answers!
It really started this imposing feeling on me. Brett Farve just retired. An old, graying man, hobbled by injuries... at 38. Jesus Christ ascended into heaven at 33. Kurt Cobain blew his brains out at 27. But 30? What so great happens at 30? The other day, Adam said to me "Wow, 30. You know what that means? You can’t ever trust a fart again." So there it is. There’s the meaning of 30.
One night when I was 10 years old, I burst into tears and ran into the den from my bedroom into my mother’s arms. I’d made a realization. My great grandmother had passed away recently at 82 years old. For some strange reason, I’d equated years into decades, making Mawmaw Neal 8.2 years old, but luckily I was only 1.0. I asked my mom "Will I die?" and she said "Well, someday, we all die. But there’s a long time between now and then." That was in 1988, and the time between "now and then" gets shorter all the time. But as I walked back to my bedroom, I held my head high and I said "I’m never going to die." Do I have the same resolve at 30? I guess one can only hope so.
Is it time to wear more sweaters?
Is it time to buy a watch?
Is it time to get a cocker spaniel, and wear knee-high black socks?
Is it time to buy a feathered wig, and wear it on my head?
Is it time for my daily spongebath, is it time to be spoon-fed?
There it is. My 30-poem. I don’t understand what the feathered wig had to do with anything, but who knows? But you know what: I’ll close with this. I am truly blessed to have such a great girlfriend (sorry Aimee, but ’wife’ sounds too grown up today), such great friends, to have such wonderful family, to have such terrific people that surround me in this life. I love all of you dearly, and you make turning 30 a little easier.
Now if you’ll excuse me, where’s the alcohol? I still have a few hours left before 1:19.
It really started this imposing feeling on me. Brett Farve just retired. An old, graying man, hobbled by injuries... at 38. Jesus Christ ascended into heaven at 33. Kurt Cobain blew his brains out at 27. But 30? What so great happens at 30? The other day, Adam said to me "Wow, 30. You know what that means? You can’t ever trust a fart again." So there it is. There’s the meaning of 30.
One night when I was 10 years old, I burst into tears and ran into the den from my bedroom into my mother’s arms. I’d made a realization. My great grandmother had passed away recently at 82 years old. For some strange reason, I’d equated years into decades, making Mawmaw Neal 8.2 years old, but luckily I was only 1.0. I asked my mom "Will I die?" and she said "Well, someday, we all die. But there’s a long time between now and then." That was in 1988, and the time between "now and then" gets shorter all the time. But as I walked back to my bedroom, I held my head high and I said "I’m never going to die." Do I have the same resolve at 30? I guess one can only hope so.
Is it time to wear more sweaters?
Is it time to buy a watch?
Is it time to get a cocker spaniel, and wear knee-high black socks?
Is it time to buy a feathered wig, and wear it on my head?
Is it time for my daily spongebath, is it time to be spoon-fed?
There it is. My 30-poem. I don’t understand what the feathered wig had to do with anything, but who knows? But you know what: I’ll close with this. I am truly blessed to have such a great girlfriend (sorry Aimee, but ’wife’ sounds too grown up today), such great friends, to have such wonderful family, to have such terrific people that surround me in this life. I love all of you dearly, and you make turning 30 a little easier.
Now if you’ll excuse me, where’s the alcohol? I still have a few hours left before 1:19.
Monday, March 24, 2008
Things I Hope to Say Today
Hopefully, sometime today I’ll be able to use the following phrases:
"You know, this is kind of like how PeeWee accused everyone of stealing his bike. Everyone was a suspect, but when he pulled up the picture of the black dude from the magic shop, people probably thought he was a huge racist."
"Did you miss me? I did!"
"I just peed in your office. Sorry."
"Mommy? MOMMY!!!" (What I would say as I randomly page every person on my office phone.)
"Wow, I just crapped a dog. Just... wow."
"You’re about to get jelly rolled." (I’d say this when I dialed a wrong number, just before hanging up.)
"How now, brown cow? Come with me if you want to live."
"Is anyone going to drink this coffee? I just made it. Seriously, like-with-my-body-just made it.."
"What do you mean I can’t use crayons on my fax cover sheets? I just changed it to read ’fax cover shits’, that’s all. And I wanted to do it in violet to make it pretty."
"Yo check it. I wore a tie to work today. And nothing else. Am I fired?"
"That glue in the fridge is totally mine. Touch it and I’ll cut your motherfucking hands off."
"Janet, I wasn’t talking about you when I said ’Janet is gross.’ I was talking about all of us. All of us, except me. And kind of... except everyone else too. So not everyone not named Janet."
"Blazza-blazza-blar-blar!"
"I’m leaving work early because I need a haircut. Not a normal haircut.. An eyebrow hair cut. It’s complicated, and these things take time."
(Calling wrong numbers, someone answers, I say): "Hello? Are you there? Are you still there? If so, why?"
"Quick! Everyone! To my office for the lunch hour Tori Amos listening party!"
(If I was a hostess at Chili’s, I’d say): "Table for two? Smoking, non-smoking, or the near riot-like atmosphere dog fighting arena we keep in the Chili’s top secret area... in my pants?"
"Where is the forklift? Janet will probably need it to lift her fork today during lunch, heh heh.."
"You know, this is kind of like how PeeWee accused everyone of stealing his bike. Everyone was a suspect, but when he pulled up the picture of the black dude from the magic shop, people probably thought he was a huge racist."
"Did you miss me? I did!"
"I just peed in your office. Sorry."
"Mommy? MOMMY!!!" (What I would say as I randomly page every person on my office phone.)
"Wow, I just crapped a dog. Just... wow."
"You’re about to get jelly rolled." (I’d say this when I dialed a wrong number, just before hanging up.)
"How now, brown cow? Come with me if you want to live."
"Is anyone going to drink this coffee? I just made it. Seriously, like-with-my-body-just made it.."
"What do you mean I can’t use crayons on my fax cover sheets? I just changed it to read ’fax cover shits’, that’s all. And I wanted to do it in violet to make it pretty."
"Yo check it. I wore a tie to work today. And nothing else. Am I fired?"
"That glue in the fridge is totally mine. Touch it and I’ll cut your motherfucking hands off."
"Janet, I wasn’t talking about you when I said ’Janet is gross.’ I was talking about all of us. All of us, except me. And kind of... except everyone else too. So not everyone not named Janet."
"Blazza-blazza-blar-blar!"
"I’m leaving work early because I need a haircut. Not a normal haircut.. An eyebrow hair cut. It’s complicated, and these things take time."
(Calling wrong numbers, someone answers, I say): "Hello? Are you there? Are you still there? If so, why?"
"Quick! Everyone! To my office for the lunch hour Tori Amos listening party!"
(If I was a hostess at Chili’s, I’d say): "Table for two? Smoking, non-smoking, or the near riot-like atmosphere dog fighting arena we keep in the Chili’s top secret area... in my pants?"
"Where is the forklift? Janet will probably need it to lift her fork today during lunch, heh heh.."
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Chocolitter and Losing Man Points
Littering is wrong. You shouldn't litter. If you do, you could face a fine. But let me ask you this. What if you were littering with chocolate? Not wrappers or anything like that... but like real milk chocolate. Doesn't seem that bad then, does it?
You get pulled over. Here's the exchange.
"It's ok, officer. I just threw some chocolate out of my car window. That's all..."
"Oh, well alright then. I mean, it was just sugary chocolate. I'm sure the ants will take care of it."
Just make sure you're not lying about it. That officer might head back to find the snickers bar you discarded, only to discover he's trying to eat a cigarette butt or your old cell phone. Way to go, jerkface! You fucked it up for everybody.
**************************************************************
So check this out. I have AAA. Or Triple A. Or however you would type that in a blog. The card looks a little something like this:
my new embarassment card, from AAA!
The purpose for AAA is essentially to keep you protected if you're in west Texas, stranded on a desert highway, with 4 flat tires and an engine fire. Or perhaps in the ghetto and your tires have been shot out, or maybe you've punctured your gas tank while driving through unnavigatable ravines. Or maybe your tires have been burned off because you've driven through the 7th layer of hell, I don't know... Either way, it's really for extreme cases, if you get my drift. It only costs like $50 a year, and it's some piece of mind that you can purchase rather cheaply.
The other day I had a flat tire. Well, lets just say I knew I would have a flat tire. It wasn't flat just yet, but I could hear air escaping through the nail that was stuck in it. Therefore, it would be flat soon so all I could do was wait. I had driven somewhere to do something and ran into Justin. He's like "what are you doing later?" and I told him how I was waiting for my tire to go flat so I could change it. The conversation progressed, and eventually I admitted to him I was going to just call AAA to change it because I hadn't gotten my money's worth out of them this year. Which was true. Actually I haven't called them in like 2 years.
Justin went on to add that I'd be losing "man-points" if I couldn't change the tire myself. I told him it wasn't that I couldn't change it myself. Believe me... with the idiotic driving I've done in my youth, I've changed my fair share of tires. It was simply that I didn't want to change it myself. Plus, I've been paying these assholes for nothing for the last 2 years, and I wanted to get a little love back. The conversation lingered until I admitted I really didn't have any man-points to begin with. I got into my soon-to-be-flat-tired vehicle and rode off into the sunset.
On the way home, I called the 800 number to tell them I had a flat and I needed it changed. They went through the motions and told me someone would be there within the hour. I parked the truck in the driveway, and went inside to sit my happy ass on the couch and watch tv. About 45 minutes later, I heard a diesel engine pull into the driveway. I went out to present my card to the AAA man so I could get back to whatever non-manly activity I'd been immersed in. That's when about the worst thing that could possibly happen to me in this situation reared it's ugly head.
The Triple A man... or what the Triple A man was supposed to be... was a woman. A little black lady, probably about 45 years old or so, was standing at the rear of the truck. I didn't know what to do. I was ashamed. I was just going to turn and walk back in the house but I didn't want her to think I was a racist or something. I wanted to be like "Oh, I was just playing... That was my kids making a prank call to you guys..." or maybe tell her it was the wrong house, and that tire only looked flat because it was a special kind of look-flat tire they just started making.
I was now in negative man-point land, and this lady knew it. I muttered something about how my jack was broken to her, and she smugly smiled. "Dammit, it could be broken! You don't know!", I thought. Fuck... Come on, AAA. Why not send a girl scout to change the tire next time, to add more insult to injury? Maybe you could hire infants or amputees to change tires. I'm expecting some guy who really digs changing tires to show up. You guys send a woman?!
She opened the back ot the truck and pulled out this air hose. Then pulled out this wheeled jack, hooked the hose up to it, and hydrolically lifted the truck in 3 seconds. The compressor was loud enough to attract my neighbors to the windows, just to make sure everyone knew a female was changing a man's truck tire. I was covering my face like criminals do on TV when the police are escorting them from jail to a police car. I wished I had a halloween mask to hide my identity. Like a hockey mask or something, but that I guess that would be kind of bizarre.
The hose was eventually placed into an impact wrench, and the lady changed the tire like a pit crew in NASCAR. I was impressed with the speed. I thanked her for helping me, and told her I'd get that jack fixed. I then waited for her to call me a pussy boy and push me on the ground, but it didn't happen.
I'll of course be renewing my AAA man-points eraser program again in April. But next time I have a flat tire, I'll push the truck behind a building or into my backyard before I call anyone.
You get pulled over. Here's the exchange.
"It's ok, officer. I just threw some chocolate out of my car window. That's all..."
"Oh, well alright then. I mean, it was just sugary chocolate. I'm sure the ants will take care of it."
Just make sure you're not lying about it. That officer might head back to find the snickers bar you discarded, only to discover he's trying to eat a cigarette butt or your old cell phone. Way to go, jerkface! You fucked it up for everybody.
**************************************************************
So check this out. I have AAA. Or Triple A. Or however you would type that in a blog. The card looks a little something like this:
my new embarassment card, from AAA!
The purpose for AAA is essentially to keep you protected if you're in west Texas, stranded on a desert highway, with 4 flat tires and an engine fire. Or perhaps in the ghetto and your tires have been shot out, or maybe you've punctured your gas tank while driving through unnavigatable ravines. Or maybe your tires have been burned off because you've driven through the 7th layer of hell, I don't know... Either way, it's really for extreme cases, if you get my drift. It only costs like $50 a year, and it's some piece of mind that you can purchase rather cheaply.
The other day I had a flat tire. Well, lets just say I knew I would have a flat tire. It wasn't flat just yet, but I could hear air escaping through the nail that was stuck in it. Therefore, it would be flat soon so all I could do was wait. I had driven somewhere to do something and ran into Justin. He's like "what are you doing later?" and I told him how I was waiting for my tire to go flat so I could change it. The conversation progressed, and eventually I admitted to him I was going to just call AAA to change it because I hadn't gotten my money's worth out of them this year. Which was true. Actually I haven't called them in like 2 years.
Justin went on to add that I'd be losing "man-points" if I couldn't change the tire myself. I told him it wasn't that I couldn't change it myself. Believe me... with the idiotic driving I've done in my youth, I've changed my fair share of tires. It was simply that I didn't want to change it myself. Plus, I've been paying these assholes for nothing for the last 2 years, and I wanted to get a little love back. The conversation lingered until I admitted I really didn't have any man-points to begin with. I got into my soon-to-be-flat-tired vehicle and rode off into the sunset.
On the way home, I called the 800 number to tell them I had a flat and I needed it changed. They went through the motions and told me someone would be there within the hour. I parked the truck in the driveway, and went inside to sit my happy ass on the couch and watch tv. About 45 minutes later, I heard a diesel engine pull into the driveway. I went out to present my card to the AAA man so I could get back to whatever non-manly activity I'd been immersed in. That's when about the worst thing that could possibly happen to me in this situation reared it's ugly head.
The Triple A man... or what the Triple A man was supposed to be... was a woman. A little black lady, probably about 45 years old or so, was standing at the rear of the truck. I didn't know what to do. I was ashamed. I was just going to turn and walk back in the house but I didn't want her to think I was a racist or something. I wanted to be like "Oh, I was just playing... That was my kids making a prank call to you guys..." or maybe tell her it was the wrong house, and that tire only looked flat because it was a special kind of look-flat tire they just started making.
I was now in negative man-point land, and this lady knew it. I muttered something about how my jack was broken to her, and she smugly smiled. "Dammit, it could be broken! You don't know!", I thought. Fuck... Come on, AAA. Why not send a girl scout to change the tire next time, to add more insult to injury? Maybe you could hire infants or amputees to change tires. I'm expecting some guy who really digs changing tires to show up. You guys send a woman?!
She opened the back ot the truck and pulled out this air hose. Then pulled out this wheeled jack, hooked the hose up to it, and hydrolically lifted the truck in 3 seconds. The compressor was loud enough to attract my neighbors to the windows, just to make sure everyone knew a female was changing a man's truck tire. I was covering my face like criminals do on TV when the police are escorting them from jail to a police car. I wished I had a halloween mask to hide my identity. Like a hockey mask or something, but that I guess that would be kind of bizarre.
The hose was eventually placed into an impact wrench, and the lady changed the tire like a pit crew in NASCAR. I was impressed with the speed. I thanked her for helping me, and told her I'd get that jack fixed. I then waited for her to call me a pussy boy and push me on the ground, but it didn't happen.
I'll of course be renewing my AAA man-points eraser program again in April. But next time I have a flat tire, I'll push the truck behind a building or into my backyard before I call anyone.
Sunday, January 6, 2008
The Witch Doctor
Hey, sing this:
I told the witch doctor I was in love with you...
I told the witch doctor I was in love with you...
and then the witch doctor, he told me what to do.
he said:
"Oooh eeee, oooh ah ah. Bing bang, walla walla bing bang.
Oooh eeee, oooh ah ah...
Bing-bang! Wallawalla bing bang!"
verse 2:
I then asked the witch doctor, "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"
I then told the witch doctor "I think there's obviously a language barrier here I was not previouly aware of..."
I told the witch doctor I was in love with you...
I told the witch doctor I was in love with you...
and then the witch doctor, he told me what to do.
he said:
"Oooh eeee, oooh ah ah. Bing bang, walla walla bing bang.
Oooh eeee, oooh ah ah...
Bing-bang! Wallawalla bing bang!"
verse 2:
I then asked the witch doctor, "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"
I then told the witch doctor "I think there's obviously a language barrier here I was not previouly aware of..."
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