Every now and then, more often then a blue moon, less often then a somewhat cataclysmic ice age, I get this feeling inside. And no it’s not indigestion or gas, not even heart burn, although it might be heart related, I’m not really sure. Not heart related as in an artery clogging LDL plague like goo sort of way, but more of a spiritual soul driven, a dream is a wish your heart makes sort of way, without the singing rodents.
You may be reading this thinking; okay he must have just had one of those soul shaking episodes and now feels compelled to litter the information super highway with his somewhat self-absorbed pseudo-shrink-wrapped egotistical insights that should be overwhelmingly obvious to a hula hoop let alone a person of reasonable intelligence with a size 13 shoe. But hang in there I may come up with some pithy conclusion that will shock and amaze you and if not I’ll at least most assuredly take the scenic route to get to our final destination. And isn’t getting there more then half the fun? I thought so too.
I guess I should explain one of my many life credo’s, and that is ‘If you’re not growing your dying’. This doesn’t mean that you should gain a pound every week or you’ll die, that’s just crazy talk, everyone knows you need to gain 3.2 lbs a week in order to substance life. No, what it means is that while we are still upright and taking up precious resources here on this spherical moist rock we call Earth why not learn something. No one knows everything, and contrary to what some people think, they could use some improvements.
I basically think no one is done cooking, we’re all handyman specials, fixer-uppers if you will. So instead of believing that you are good enough at this moment, why not open yourself up to the possibility that there is more growing to be done. I realize you can’t always do this and life has plenty of distractions along the way, some of which are really cool distractions, (I too like the ladies). I also realize some of life’s distractions are a lot more serious, like money, properly raising children and those Sudoku number puzzle do-a-ma-hickies. But in-between life’s fun little hurdles I try to learn something that might improve my quality of life or at the very least fill my head with fun filled factoids that may prove invaluable if when trying to enter the Pearly Gates it turns out St. Peter has switched to more of a game show format. We’ll see.
Anyway, I have this feeling that I need to grow again, maybe it’s a feeling of restlessness, maybe it’s a feeling of being stagnant, maybe it really is gastrointestinal, whatever the cause, the feeling is there. One of the problems is that I don’t know what it is I’m looking to learn, I just feel like my soul isn’t satisfied with life and I need more.
It’s not that I have too much time on my hands either. I have no time on my hands, none, zilch, nada, empty bottle of time, booked up, rundown, dragged out, bell has rung, no time. And yet I still find a way to write this. I’ve got nothing. But it’s true, no time. You see time is a precious resource more rare then a singing aardvark wading in a pool of chocolate milk & foie gras; and that my friend is rare.
Maybe I need to travel, get away for a while, go on holiday. I love to go to places I’ve never been and see things I’ve never seen. Traveling is great, well except the traveling part, I hate the traveling part of traveling, that’s what sucks. Well that’s not even true, that wasn’t it at all, what I really hate is mass transit. That’s the part of traveling that really sucks the monkey’s big toe. All mass transit is a big monkey’s toe suck job. It’s true. Think about it. Lets not focus on cabs, busses, trains, boats or rickshaws lets go right to the big mac daddy of all mass transit, air flight.
Airport check-in sucks, baggage check sucks, boarding sucks, not being able to stretch out sucks, dealing with other cranky people sucks, delays suck, turbulence sucks, getting lied to by everyone who works for the airline industry sucks, baggage claim sucks, airport traffic sucks, that crappy recycled air sucks, being treated like veal sucks, strip searches and anal probing sucks. Oh don’t act like you’ve never been searched for narcotics before. I can smell it on you like cheap perfume, you are a mule. It’s a suck fest of epic proportion with or without the monkey toe. But we do all this to get to our final destination.
Hey I think this is all coming together.
Life’s a trip most of us are traveling on in coach without a Sudoku puzzle listening to the comb over in 15b complain about the price of foie gras. But here’s the thing, we can make the choice to move our seat, stop at the newsstand, order pizza instead of fatty liver or get off the plane at the next stop over and jump a flight to Hawaii first class. And first class has legroom baby, lots of legroom. And by the way, first class doesn’t cost any more then coach, you just have to know how to travel.
So now I just have to figure out what flight I want to get on and make sure no one packs my bags for me.
Simple huh?
Wednesday
I Have a Pudding Question.
Some people hate pudding skins, I love them.
I always thought they were pretty cool. Peel them off the top of the pudding and you have a rubbery flavor thingie that you can also use as an editable Frisbee. What more could any kid ask for? Of course I don’t care too much for the name given to it, skin. Skin should be reserved for … well … skin. Not food, people don’t want to eat skin, unless your plane crashes in the Andes, and even then it’s more of a survival thing then a gourmet preference.
People are funny, when it comes to food, especially in America. We really don’t want to know anything about our food, in fact we prefer to disassociate our food from the original source as much as possible. We’ve become a society of Nancy-pants culinary school girls.
We prefer food that has been sliced, diced, chopped, filleted, processed, dyed, flavored, homogenized and preserved. No fish heads, no pig snouts, no turkey necks. It’s getting to the point where we don’t even want to know it was once on a bone. It’s true, have you seen the boneless spareribs? Think about this one for a second. People want a rib but no bone. Am I the only one who sees the problem here?
Seriously. I think the words have taken on other meanings in out brains. Familiarity with food terms leads to Meatsticks who don’t know what meat is. It’s a complete loss of connection. As if food is made in a machine from partially hydrogenated artificially flavored preserved generic stuff. And that’s just nuts. Isn’t it?
I think calling it meat may have been the start of it all. Meat is nothing, it’s not chicken, it’s not pig, it’s not cow, it’s just meat. Meat should be called by its origins. Sure we can call it beef or pork, which is at least more accurate then just meat, but how about cow meat or pig meat. We don’t do that because people needed to distance the animal from the product. It’s all marketing, even if it’s a meat market.
Meat doesn’t run and you’ve never seen beef walk or pork stroll, it’s just pork; but pigs squeal and cows moo. We don’t want to think about that. You know who does think about it, hunters, people who eat deer and call it that. Sure a few restaurants will serve venison but hunters eat deer meat, they’re not afraid to get their hands dirty. Hunters embrace the food chain and eat meat off the bone.
It’s true. Hunters realize that we are animals, killers. Even if we aren’t the ones doing the killing, we must kill to survive, that’s how we were made. We don’t photosynthesize, so we must kill a living organism in order to live. There is no getting around it. And still if you come out and say I eat deer meat, people look at you like you farted in the fruit punch. How dare you, you murdered Bambi’s mom?
I’d like to take a moment to address the Bambi issue for a moment. The name Bambi is best associated with a male Disney cartoon deer and female strippers, HUH? How did this happen? Between Chip & Dale, and Bambi I just don’t get it. Why are Disney characters in the porn business? Who made this connection and why? It’s almost as unsettling as flower ovaries, but I’m not going down that road again today. Speaking of flower wasn’t that Bambi’s pet skunk? My brain hurts.
OK people, we’re walking, we’re walking.
So we can agree, that we Americans have some weird food issues. Most likely propagated by those slick bastards on the avenue called Madison who make lots-o-cash to convince us that a submarine, hoagie, wedge, grinder sandwich is a healthy lunch made from something called cold cuts. (For those keeping score, subs in my neck of the woods) The truth is, food isn’t pretty, but we sure as hell do are best to make it that way, even if it takes a truckload of dow chemicals to do so.
I understand the conflict. I really do, it’s about food appeal, like sex appeal only Victoria Secrets doesn’t have a catalog for bacon; cheesecake maybe, but not bacon. And if I haven’t gone off topic enough today, WHO on Earth dubbed hot women cheesecake? The analogy makes me want to swallow that nasty stuff that rises to the back of my throat after a shot of tequila. Which by the way is one nasty ass drink. But I digress.
What have we so far… (you may want to take a deep breath before reading this next sentence)
Victoria Secrets models don’t eat bacon cheesecake but maybe pudding skins and don’t fear crashing in the Andes because they are super angels, who although in the sex industry, would never go by the name Bambi but dig The Motor City Madman Ted Nugent because he knows his place in the food chain even if they support PETA which is an insane group with really good Madison Avenue marketing guys who learned a thing or two from Walter Disney who may or may not be a very well preserved frozen Meatstick with a pet skunk named flower who does shots of tequila to forget about the fruit ovary thing.
Oh and my pudding question. Does anyone have any extra pudding skins? I’m really in the mood.
(Well in this highly processed world in which we live in, how else would you have me ask?)
I always thought they were pretty cool. Peel them off the top of the pudding and you have a rubbery flavor thingie that you can also use as an editable Frisbee. What more could any kid ask for? Of course I don’t care too much for the name given to it, skin. Skin should be reserved for … well … skin. Not food, people don’t want to eat skin, unless your plane crashes in the Andes, and even then it’s more of a survival thing then a gourmet preference.
People are funny, when it comes to food, especially in America. We really don’t want to know anything about our food, in fact we prefer to disassociate our food from the original source as much as possible. We’ve become a society of Nancy-pants culinary school girls.
We prefer food that has been sliced, diced, chopped, filleted, processed, dyed, flavored, homogenized and preserved. No fish heads, no pig snouts, no turkey necks. It’s getting to the point where we don’t even want to know it was once on a bone. It’s true, have you seen the boneless spareribs? Think about this one for a second. People want a rib but no bone. Am I the only one who sees the problem here?
Seriously. I think the words have taken on other meanings in out brains. Familiarity with food terms leads to Meatsticks who don’t know what meat is. It’s a complete loss of connection. As if food is made in a machine from partially hydrogenated artificially flavored preserved generic stuff. And that’s just nuts. Isn’t it?
I think calling it meat may have been the start of it all. Meat is nothing, it’s not chicken, it’s not pig, it’s not cow, it’s just meat. Meat should be called by its origins. Sure we can call it beef or pork, which is at least more accurate then just meat, but how about cow meat or pig meat. We don’t do that because people needed to distance the animal from the product. It’s all marketing, even if it’s a meat market.
Meat doesn’t run and you’ve never seen beef walk or pork stroll, it’s just pork; but pigs squeal and cows moo. We don’t want to think about that. You know who does think about it, hunters, people who eat deer and call it that. Sure a few restaurants will serve venison but hunters eat deer meat, they’re not afraid to get their hands dirty. Hunters embrace the food chain and eat meat off the bone.
It’s true. Hunters realize that we are animals, killers. Even if we aren’t the ones doing the killing, we must kill to survive, that’s how we were made. We don’t photosynthesize, so we must kill a living organism in order to live. There is no getting around it. And still if you come out and say I eat deer meat, people look at you like you farted in the fruit punch. How dare you, you murdered Bambi’s mom?
I’d like to take a moment to address the Bambi issue for a moment. The name Bambi is best associated with a male Disney cartoon deer and female strippers, HUH? How did this happen? Between Chip & Dale, and Bambi I just don’t get it. Why are Disney characters in the porn business? Who made this connection and why? It’s almost as unsettling as flower ovaries, but I’m not going down that road again today. Speaking of flower wasn’t that Bambi’s pet skunk? My brain hurts.
OK people, we’re walking, we’re walking.
So we can agree, that we Americans have some weird food issues. Most likely propagated by those slick bastards on the avenue called Madison who make lots-o-cash to convince us that a submarine, hoagie, wedge, grinder sandwich is a healthy lunch made from something called cold cuts. (For those keeping score, subs in my neck of the woods) The truth is, food isn’t pretty, but we sure as hell do are best to make it that way, even if it takes a truckload of dow chemicals to do so.
I understand the conflict. I really do, it’s about food appeal, like sex appeal only Victoria Secrets doesn’t have a catalog for bacon; cheesecake maybe, but not bacon. And if I haven’t gone off topic enough today, WHO on Earth dubbed hot women cheesecake? The analogy makes me want to swallow that nasty stuff that rises to the back of my throat after a shot of tequila. Which by the way is one nasty ass drink. But I digress.
What have we so far… (you may want to take a deep breath before reading this next sentence)
Victoria Secrets models don’t eat bacon cheesecake but maybe pudding skins and don’t fear crashing in the Andes because they are super angels, who although in the sex industry, would never go by the name Bambi but dig The Motor City Madman Ted Nugent because he knows his place in the food chain even if they support PETA which is an insane group with really good Madison Avenue marketing guys who learned a thing or two from Walter Disney who may or may not be a very well preserved frozen Meatstick with a pet skunk named flower who does shots of tequila to forget about the fruit ovary thing.
Oh and my pudding question. Does anyone have any extra pudding skins? I’m really in the mood.
(Well in this highly processed world in which we live in, how else would you have me ask?)
Thursday
Melon Baller
Melon Baller.
Yup, melon baller.
Weird words, weird device, weird thing to do to food.
I mean, really, why do we need fruit balled to begin with? Or is melon a vegetable?
I just checked or at least I tried to check; I just found a very interesting definition of fruits and vegetables. Botanically speaking, fruits are the mature ovaries of a flower, while vegetable is a term used by grocers and are parts of the plant (presumably not the ovary). Are you confused yet? I think or at least I thought the difference was a legislative issue, government, taxes, imports, that sort of thing; not an ovary thing. But then again I had no idea flowers had ovaries, so maybe my two cents should be spent elsewhere. Honestly this whole thing is freaking me out.
Okay melon is a fruit because the seeds are inside the ovary. Are you with me? Did I mention I really hate the idea of eating ovaries? I curse this day and the words of which I laid my eyes upon. Well I would curse this day if I knew how to throw a curse on the day, but I don’t even know how to do a proper
Do you see where this is going?
Melon is an ovary and you can walk into any Williams-Sonoma and purchase a devise to ball it. Am I the only one who thinks this is kinky as well as borderline illegal? I mean what sort of nut job balls fruit? Don’t answer that!
Let’s move on.
Forget about ovaries, even though I can’t seem to; and forget about that twisted botanist who really needs to spend more time in the Red Light District of Amsterdam. And lets think about the need to take fruit and change it’s shape.
First question: Why?
Second question: Why?
I’m sure Martha Stewart is behind this in some way.
Yea, yea I know, you’re thinking, ‘people have been balling fruit long before Martha thought it was a good thing’. But I still think that meddlesome chippy is behind all this, she must be. Seriously, fruit in an orb like shape is not easy to eat. It can roll. Rolling fruit is not easy; non-rolling fruit - much easier. Yes I realize melons are already round, but that just makes it more ridiculous. Why turn a big sphere into a littler one? More balls to chase; it just doesn’t add up. Does anyone know how to get in touch with Martha? I have a bone to pick with her.
Balling melons – the nerve!
It’s a plot I tell you, it must be. Cooked up by Martha Stewart and some Madison Avenue, suit wearing, partially hydrogenated, marketing numb-nut, to get us to spend our non-fruit balling money on fruit balling devices. It’s sick! Could you imagine if they went to some tribal community in South America’s Amazon basin, like the Yanomama and tried to sell them a melon baller?
Yanomami Shamen: Nice to meet you Martha, but we don’t need to ball our flower ovaries before we eat them.
Martha: When you are entertaining, it would provide the perfect ambiance a fun and stylish …. Ummm excuse me, do you need a tissue?
Yanomami Shamen: No.
Martha: You sure? Here have a tissue, you have a little …
Yanomami Shamen: I don’t mean to be rude Ms. Stewart, but I don’t need a tissue and what sort of crack pot balls melons?
Martha: But there’s some green stuff hanging, right under your nose.
Yanomami Shamen: Good day Ms. Stewart.
See, it just wouldn’t work.
Of course you’d need a translator, but that’s exactly how it would go.
The Yanomama don’t ball fruit and neither should we.
Mellon Baller Indeed.
Monday
The Somewhat Dear John Letter
Funny thing happened last week. Not funny a ha ha ha, and not funny as in, the fish tastes funny sort of way, more of a Marvin Gaye ‘Ain’t That Peculiar’ sort of way. But nothing to do with love, less harmony, and without the power of Motown behind it.
I lost a friend. And not in a misplaced, where the hell did I leave them sort of way, and not in the pushing up daisy sort of way, but more of the, I can’t be your friend sort of way. Weird isn’t it? I agree.
That’s never happened to me before, and never in a Dear John sort of way, not that my name is John … maybe that’s why I’ve never gotten one? I wonder if all you poor bastards named John get sad letters on a regular basis? That would suck the proverbial toe jam. Today I’m happy to not be a John. Anyway, I’ve never received a letter before, ending a friendship, and as courteous as it sounds, it was more like a Burgess Meredith, Twilight Zone experience. But I guess stranger things have happened.
Oh, you want to know why, fair enough.
I have(correction) I had a friend, that is a girl, female of chick proportions who’s dating a guy, a male of Assholian proportions. Now to be fair, I really don’t know him all that well and have never seen his papers, but it’s a pretty safe assumption that he is indeed a card-carrying citizen of Assholia. We all know them when we see them, and you couldn’t miss this chump if you were 1 week from cataract surgery and 2 payments behind on your healthcare.
Enough about the origins, lets get to the meat of the story. I was dumped as a friend, as was every other male that may be friends with this chick, because we have… umm how do I put this without being too rude? …. Junk. Stuff, bits & pieces, hammer & nails, bait & tackle, rod & reel, frank & beans, cherries & stem, staff & subjects, pole & bag, meat & potatoes, in short (or long), genitalia.
That’s right, it would seem the very exclusive club that I am a member of (about half the population at last count) has been ousted, banished, removed, expelled, exiled (on & off main street), cast out, thrown out, stomped out, ejected, rejected, evicted, sacked, discarded, disposed of like a superfluous tail, deleted from the cell phone, names stripped from all literature, in short excommunicated. All for the reason that he, her beau, the Assholian Meatstick doesn’t want her talking to people of the opposite sex for fear that we all will have our way with her when he is looking the other way.
And it doesn’t matter if we, the banished ones, are single, attached, married, gay, friends, co-workers, church goers, waiters, or just happen to be crossing the street when she walks by. We are all secretly lusting for her and the very second that he bends over to tie his own shoe we will have already planted our seed and made her our vessel to sire our next of kin. That’s right the whole lot of us want nothing more then to rock her world at any given moment. To be honest I can’t help but wonder why he hasn’t already installed a chastity belt. Maybe too much chaffing, who’s to know?
At least that’s the way he sees us, (those that stand up in rest rooms). Truth be told, not every guy on Earth wants to sleep with her. She’s really cool and all, but every guy? Not even Angelina Jolie can boast such numbers, so without, in any way shape or form, insulting my now friend-once removed, ARE YOU KIDING ME?
By the way did I mention that he is pushing 50? I don’t think I added that tidbit. And although I’ve always believed years on this Earth does not automatically grant you maturity, growth or even a little bit of common sense, I have to scratch my head with this one. I understand the jealous thing, I understand insecurity, I can even be somewhat be on board with the idea that you love someone so much you can’t help but think everyone else would be crazy not to want them, but this brings sick to a whole new level.
Have I also mentioned that although she is a friend, it’s someone I see maybe once or twice a year, and talk to maybe once every other blue moon? We don’t live anywhere near each other for the drop by, and our lives travel in completely different directions, but she was someone that was worth talking to when we had the time. And even I got the ‘Letter’, could you imagine all the guys she sees on a daily basis? Thank God for broadband, that’s a lot of email.
So to sum this up, he laid down the law, there is to be no more contact with any guys on the Earth, and as crazy and impossible as that sounds, and is, she agreed. And although she knows this isn’t rational behavior she made the choice for love. I have another theory, which can be summed up in one word. Loneliness. But I could be wrong, I have been before, and who am I to pass judgment?
I wish people didn’t feel there was nothing else out there just because we can’t see beyond the horizon. I wish people could break their bad habits and routines long enough to realize they are prisoners of their own devices. I wish my friend all the happiness in the world, even though I know she isn’t going to find it where she is now.
I wish I had better answers.
Oh well, sing it Doris Day …. Que Sera Sera, what ever will be will be, the future’s not ours to see Que Sera Sera.
***********************************************************************************
** UPDATE
As fate would have it, last night I got an email from my friend once once-removed, meaning no longer removed, saying that things didn't work out and they broke up again. She felt like a shmuck for writing and sendind the 'Letter'. I of course made fun of her and said I was sorry things didn't work out and I knew I'd hear from her again, but even I thought it was going to be longer then a week.
She's going to be alright, even if she doesn't know it yet. Relationships are hard, but impossible ones are ...well... impossible
I lost a friend. And not in a misplaced, where the hell did I leave them sort of way, and not in the pushing up daisy sort of way, but more of the, I can’t be your friend sort of way. Weird isn’t it? I agree.
That’s never happened to me before, and never in a Dear John sort of way, not that my name is John … maybe that’s why I’ve never gotten one? I wonder if all you poor bastards named John get sad letters on a regular basis? That would suck the proverbial toe jam. Today I’m happy to not be a John. Anyway, I’ve never received a letter before, ending a friendship, and as courteous as it sounds, it was more like a Burgess Meredith, Twilight Zone experience. But I guess stranger things have happened.
Oh, you want to know why, fair enough.
I
Enough about the origins, lets get to the meat of the story. I was dumped as a friend, as was every other male that may be friends with this chick, because we have… umm how do I put this without being too rude? …. Junk. Stuff, bits & pieces, hammer & nails, bait & tackle, rod & reel, frank & beans, cherries & stem, staff & subjects, pole & bag, meat & potatoes, in short (or long), genitalia.
That’s right, it would seem the very exclusive club that I am a member of (about half the population at last count) has been ousted, banished, removed, expelled, exiled (on & off main street), cast out, thrown out, stomped out, ejected, rejected, evicted, sacked, discarded, disposed of like a superfluous tail, deleted from the cell phone, names stripped from all literature, in short excommunicated. All for the reason that he, her beau, the Assholian Meatstick doesn’t want her talking to people of the opposite sex for fear that we all will have our way with her when he is looking the other way.
And it doesn’t matter if we, the banished ones, are single, attached, married, gay, friends, co-workers, church goers, waiters, or just happen to be crossing the street when she walks by. We are all secretly lusting for her and the very second that he bends over to tie his own shoe we will have already planted our seed and made her our vessel to sire our next of kin. That’s right the whole lot of us want nothing more then to rock her world at any given moment. To be honest I can’t help but wonder why he hasn’t already installed a chastity belt. Maybe too much chaffing, who’s to know?
At least that’s the way he sees us, (those that stand up in rest rooms). Truth be told, not every guy on Earth wants to sleep with her. She’s really cool and all, but every guy? Not even Angelina Jolie can boast such numbers, so without, in any way shape or form, insulting my now friend-once removed, ARE YOU KIDING ME?
By the way did I mention that he is pushing 50? I don’t think I added that tidbit. And although I’ve always believed years on this Earth does not automatically grant you maturity, growth or even a little bit of common sense, I have to scratch my head with this one. I understand the jealous thing, I understand insecurity, I can even be somewhat be on board with the idea that you love someone so much you can’t help but think everyone else would be crazy not to want them, but this brings sick to a whole new level.
Have I also mentioned that although she is a friend, it’s someone I see maybe once or twice a year, and talk to maybe once every other blue moon? We don’t live anywhere near each other for the drop by, and our lives travel in completely different directions, but she was someone that was worth talking to when we had the time. And even I got the ‘Letter’, could you imagine all the guys she sees on a daily basis? Thank God for broadband, that’s a lot of email.
So to sum this up, he laid down the law, there is to be no more contact with any guys on the Earth, and as crazy and impossible as that sounds, and is, she agreed. And although she knows this isn’t rational behavior she made the choice for love. I have another theory, which can be summed up in one word. Loneliness. But I could be wrong, I have been before, and who am I to pass judgment?
I wish people didn’t feel there was nothing else out there just because we can’t see beyond the horizon. I wish people could break their bad habits and routines long enough to realize they are prisoners of their own devices. I wish my friend all the happiness in the world, even though I know she isn’t going to find it where she is now.
I wish I had better answers.
Oh well, sing it Doris Day …. Que Sera Sera, what ever will be will be, the future’s not ours to see Que Sera Sera.
***********************************************************************************
** UPDATE
As fate would have it, last night I got an email from my friend once once-removed, meaning no longer removed, saying that things didn't work out and they broke up again. She felt like a shmuck for writing and sendind the 'Letter'. I of course made fun of her and said I was sorry things didn't work out and I knew I'd hear from her again, but even I thought it was going to be longer then a week.
She's going to be alright, even if she doesn't know it yet. Relationships are hard, but impossible ones are ...well... impossible
Friday
Readers & Reunions
Had a weird thought.
I recently decided I’d try to write more and although only a small percentage of what I write ever sees the light of day it just dawned on me, like the repetitive use of luminous metaphors that someone actually might read them.
And I don’t mean someone per say, what I mean is, someone who knows me, more accurately someone who knew me. Someone from my past, I was just thinking it might be weird if someone from my past looked up my name and found this blog and started reading. And before you think I’m a total egotist, there is a reason for this thought.
It’s 2007.
And I’ve got mail.
I did, I got mail.
The kind of mail that makes you think, makes you reflect, makes you praise the heavens you’ve still got your hair. Yup, the high school class reunion letter. As the Beatles once said, ”It was 20 years ago today…”
That’s right 20 years and nothing about it feels like 20 years. Age wise I feel like it was a couple of years ago. Time wise it feels more like 145 years ago. But either way I got the letter so it must be 20 years. Okay, feeling old now.
I have to say I’m not a fan of class reunions, I didn’t go to the 10 year, and I’m very much leaning towards not going to this one. Although I am curious as hell about some people, mostly girls, not so much the guys. I have to think that’s normal though, then again maybe not.
There were a lot of cute girls in my class, at one time or another I probably had a thing for at least half of them. Some more then others, some were very short lived, others would come and go, and still some seemed to last forever. I like girls what can I say? I’m a guy. Some were based on looks, others personality I didn’t discriminate. Some I wish I had let known, others I’m probably happy they never knew. That’s the problem with high school, it’s not like a bar where no one will ever know. In high school you ask a girl out, yes or no, everyone finds out… it’s a rough world.
I guess it’s rough now too. I mean lets face it, people go to high school reunions and judge people, measure them up, see how they did in life, how they held up, did they gain weight, lose their hair, marry a super model, end up on the wall in the post office? So many choices and nowhere to hide.
To be honest, I don’t really care what people do for a living, I never understood summing a person up by the way they make money. Just doesn’t make sense to me, but we all do it. All this time on the 3rd stone and we still haven’t found a better way to ask what you’ve been doing for the last 20 years. People suck at ice breaking conversations. Guys fall back on sports, girls compliment each other on their shoes. And I don’t know crap about either.
Ummm, err, hey, how have you been? That’s nice. So what do you do for a living? Any kids? Did you marry a supermodel?
Pathetic isn’t it?
But really what do you say to someone who last time you saw them you were popping zits and drinking way too much Budweiser, yea I know I once said you smell like fumunda cheese but my brain wasn’t done cooking, please don’t hold it against me. Hey is your wife a supermodel?
Yea, brain still isn’t done, sad really.
But isn’t that the point of life, to grow, learn, walk the path, make mistakes, put your foot in your mouth, go to class reunions, stop using terms like fumunda. Honest I really have. Not that you can prove it by this. See growth! It’s a beautiful thing, it might not get me to the reunion but it might give me something to write about.
I recently decided I’d try to write more and although only a small percentage of what I write ever sees the light of day it just dawned on me, like the repetitive use of luminous metaphors that someone actually might read them.
And I don’t mean someone per say, what I mean is, someone who knows me, more accurately someone who knew me. Someone from my past, I was just thinking it might be weird if someone from my past looked up my name and found this blog and started reading. And before you think I’m a total egotist, there is a reason for this thought.
It’s 2007.
And I’ve got mail.
I did, I got mail.
The kind of mail that makes you think, makes you reflect, makes you praise the heavens you’ve still got your hair. Yup, the high school class reunion letter. As the Beatles once said, ”It was 20 years ago today…”
That’s right 20 years and nothing about it feels like 20 years. Age wise I feel like it was a couple of years ago. Time wise it feels more like 145 years ago. But either way I got the letter so it must be 20 years. Okay, feeling old now.
I have to say I’m not a fan of class reunions, I didn’t go to the 10 year, and I’m very much leaning towards not going to this one. Although I am curious as hell about some people, mostly girls, not so much the guys. I have to think that’s normal though, then again maybe not.
There were a lot of cute girls in my class, at one time or another I probably had a thing for at least half of them. Some more then others, some were very short lived, others would come and go, and still some seemed to last forever. I like girls what can I say? I’m a guy. Some were based on looks, others personality I didn’t discriminate. Some I wish I had let known, others I’m probably happy they never knew. That’s the problem with high school, it’s not like a bar where no one will ever know. In high school you ask a girl out, yes or no, everyone finds out… it’s a rough world.
I guess it’s rough now too. I mean lets face it, people go to high school reunions and judge people, measure them up, see how they did in life, how they held up, did they gain weight, lose their hair, marry a super model, end up on the wall in the post office? So many choices and nowhere to hide.
To be honest, I don’t really care what people do for a living, I never understood summing a person up by the way they make money. Just doesn’t make sense to me, but we all do it. All this time on the 3rd stone and we still haven’t found a better way to ask what you’ve been doing for the last 20 years. People suck at ice breaking conversations. Guys fall back on sports, girls compliment each other on their shoes. And I don’t know crap about either.
Ummm, err, hey, how have you been? That’s nice. So what do you do for a living? Any kids? Did you marry a supermodel?
Pathetic isn’t it?
But really what do you say to someone who last time you saw them you were popping zits and drinking way too much Budweiser, yea I know I once said you smell like fumunda cheese but my brain wasn’t done cooking, please don’t hold it against me. Hey is your wife a supermodel?
Yea, brain still isn’t done, sad really.
But isn’t that the point of life, to grow, learn, walk the path, make mistakes, put your foot in your mouth, go to class reunions, stop using terms like fumunda. Honest I really have. Not that you can prove it by this. See growth! It’s a beautiful thing, it might not get me to the reunion but it might give me something to write about.
Thursday
The Bald Eagle yells FREEDOM!
The Bald Eagle is coming off the endangered list, now if we could just set up a Federal Program to get them Rogaine.
According to the news today, there was about 417 breeding pairs of Bald Eagles in the US in 1967, now they say there is about 10,000 pairs… Sounds like the Eagles have been busy getting their funk on. Makes me happy to see the follicly challenged, winged symbols of freedom doing well.
Haliaeetus leucocephalus alascanus to some PhD’s who are picky about such things, but much like the Humerus bone, I don’t care for technical jargon, so I’ll stick to the layman’s terms; how else could I tickly your funny bone with the hair replacement jokes.
To the best of my recollection, the only time I remember seeing these majestic birds up close and in person was in the Philadelphia Zoo, his name is Ritz. Made me sad.
It really did, I laughed of course at the irony of it all, as I read the plaque that was in front of Ritz’s cage. It mentioned everything you would imagine about being the symbol of America, I read along as I looked up at Ritz in the cage in the birthplace of the Constitution and our Declaration of Freedom.
At least we weren’t in New Hampshire, or I suspect I would have seen Ritz with a pistol in his mouth. I’ve always admired New Hampshire and their convictions. For those of you who are not so familiar and haven’t seen one of their license plates in awhile, they have, by far, the coolest state motto in the lower 48 and the detached 2, (I’m not even going to address the inaccuracies with that one).
Live Free Or Die, (for those who aren’t up on New Hampshire or state mottos). Pretty cool huh? Of course with the new Bruce (moonlightning, mclaine, yippy ki ay, mother f’er) Willis movie coming out, New Hampshire might be a tad miffled, although I doubt the movie has anything to do with New Hampshire, the Revolutionary War, or even Eagles. But still General John Stark should be honored that his quote was bastardized to make a promised block buster movie for the summer of aught 7.
Which brings me to another subject I’ve been dying to address. I waited many years for the new millennium just so I could say it’s aught 6, or back in aught 2. I first heard the term when I was a kid watching The Music Man on TV. For those of you who have never seen it, it’s about a future Victor Victoria transvestite salesman who falls in love with Mrs. Partridge (before she met Rubin) who’s son, Opie Cunningham the self imposed mute child learns to play 76 trombones, and in doing so gets the confidence to talk to Fonzi who helps him ship the oatmeal dude into outer space. I know, it’s complicated, but a fun musical for the family, especially if you like misquoted phraseology.
Where was I?
Oh yea, aught 1 though aught 9, we only have 2 and half aughts left and no one is using it. It may be passé but I like it and I want to use it. Sure you’ll all look at me like I’m nuts, but I’ve sort of come to expect that, especially after writing things like that synopsis of The Music Man. Who am I kidding? No one is reading this and even if you are you can’t see me. Okay fine you can see me, but I can’t see you seeing me, not yet anyway but if you move a little to the right… Good, that’s better. Now fix your hair.
Again where was I?
The second half of “Live Free Or Die” is “Death Is Not The Worst Of Evils." Wearing a really bad toupee is.
That’s right, it’s better to be pushing up daisies then walking around with a rat cap on you head. Otherwise a Bald Eagle might swoop down and grab it while you’re on your way to the movies. After all there are over 20,000 of them flying about these days, and 1 in a cage, watching Braveheart, doing his best impression of Mel Gibson, yelling FREEDOM.
According to the news today, there was about 417 breeding pairs of Bald Eagles in the US in 1967, now they say there is about 10,000 pairs… Sounds like the Eagles have been busy getting their funk on. Makes me happy to see the follicly challenged, winged symbols of freedom doing well.
Haliaeetus leucocephalus alascanus to some PhD’s who are picky about such things, but much like the Humerus bone, I don’t care for technical jargon, so I’ll stick to the layman’s terms; how else could I tickly your funny bone with the hair replacement jokes.
To the best of my recollection, the only time I remember seeing these majestic birds up close and in person was in the Philadelphia Zoo, his name is Ritz. Made me sad.
It really did, I laughed of course at the irony of it all, as I read the plaque that was in front of Ritz’s cage. It mentioned everything you would imagine about being the symbol of America, I read along as I looked up at Ritz in the cage in the birthplace of the Constitution and our Declaration of Freedom.
At least we weren’t in New Hampshire, or I suspect I would have seen Ritz with a pistol in his mouth. I’ve always admired New Hampshire and their convictions. For those of you who are not so familiar and haven’t seen one of their license plates in awhile, they have, by far, the coolest state motto in the lower 48 and the detached 2, (I’m not even going to address the inaccuracies with that one).
Live Free Or Die, (for those who aren’t up on New Hampshire or state mottos). Pretty cool huh? Of course with the new Bruce (moonlightning, mclaine, yippy ki ay, mother f’er) Willis movie coming out, New Hampshire might be a tad miffled, although I doubt the movie has anything to do with New Hampshire, the Revolutionary War, or even Eagles. But still General John Stark should be honored that his quote was bastardized to make a promised block buster movie for the summer of aught 7.
Which brings me to another subject I’ve been dying to address. I waited many years for the new millennium just so I could say it’s aught 6, or back in aught 2. I first heard the term when I was a kid watching The Music Man on TV. For those of you who have never seen it, it’s about a future Victor Victoria transvestite salesman who falls in love with Mrs. Partridge (before she met Rubin) who’s son, Opie Cunningham the self imposed mute child learns to play 76 trombones, and in doing so gets the confidence to talk to Fonzi who helps him ship the oatmeal dude into outer space. I know, it’s complicated, but a fun musical for the family, especially if you like misquoted phraseology.
Where was I?
Oh yea, aught 1 though aught 9, we only have 2 and half aughts left and no one is using it. It may be passé but I like it and I want to use it. Sure you’ll all look at me like I’m nuts, but I’ve sort of come to expect that, especially after writing things like that synopsis of The Music Man. Who am I kidding? No one is reading this and even if you are you can’t see me. Okay fine you can see me, but I can’t see you seeing me, not yet anyway but if you move a little to the right… Good, that’s better. Now fix your hair.
Again where was I?
The second half of “Live Free Or Die” is “Death Is Not The Worst Of Evils." Wearing a really bad toupee is.
That’s right, it’s better to be pushing up daisies then walking around with a rat cap on you head. Otherwise a Bald Eagle might swoop down and grab it while you’re on your way to the movies. After all there are over 20,000 of them flying about these days, and 1 in a cage, watching Braveheart, doing his best impression of Mel Gibson, yelling FREEDOM.
Wednesday
The path of theFortune Cookie
Today’s fortune: Do not follow where the path may lead. Go where there is no path … and leave a trail.
Lucky Numbers 12,20,37,44,36,8
Learn Chinese- Painter Hua-jia
You really get a lot of bang for your buck with fortune cookies these days. I like it. More product pushing companies should follow suit. Unless of course the suit is being worn by a middle-management ass hat in which case thou shalt not follow. So sayith the shepherd, so sayith the flock.
America seems to honor those who blaze a new trail; if the trail leads to greener pastures, if the trail leads to Death Valley, that’s a horse of a different color that you can’t lead to water. I equate this with people who have a gambling problem, and gamblers who are successful. Turn on the TV and watch The World Series of Poker, those are guys who gamble for a living, they have no problem, now take the guy who’s betting himself into bankruptcy, he has a gambling problem. At least that’s what ‘They’ say. I say his only problem is that he doesn’t win; no one has a gambling problem when they win. He HAS a losing problem, that’s what he has. But I stray.
As a whole we’re a messed up bunch, we expect success, we also admire those who went against the odds and came up winners, but we sneer at those that want to try. We pummel dreams of others when they tell us of their goals, Dream Pummelers, the lot of us.
I disagree with this, but those wiser always defend themselves by saying, we just want the best for them, we don’t want to see them fail. I’ve learned a few things in my tenure on the big blue rock we call mother Earth, and one of them is, that line of crap never accomplished anything in life that is admired. No one admires the common, it’s the uncommon that gets recognized, paid, and glorified. Common is best associated with peasants and colds, neither of which seems the place to hold company.
So in an effort to stay out of a hovel with a stuffy nose, go out and eat a cookie or go for a walk in the woods and stomp on vegetation, that should make the world a better place. Just don’t tell anyone until you’re done, they’ll Dream Pummel you in less time then it takes to say moo goo gai pan.
I’d like to take a moment to thank my R&D team for the term ass hat. It’s a good one.
Okay moment over, carry on.
Lucky Numbers 12,20,37,44,36,8
Learn Chinese- Painter Hua-jia
You really get a lot of bang for your buck with fortune cookies these days. I like it. More product pushing companies should follow suit. Unless of course the suit is being worn by a middle-management ass hat in which case thou shalt not follow. So sayith the shepherd, so sayith the flock.
America seems to honor those who blaze a new trail; if the trail leads to greener pastures, if the trail leads to Death Valley, that’s a horse of a different color that you can’t lead to water. I equate this with people who have a gambling problem, and gamblers who are successful. Turn on the TV and watch The World Series of Poker, those are guys who gamble for a living, they have no problem, now take the guy who’s betting himself into bankruptcy, he has a gambling problem. At least that’s what ‘They’ say. I say his only problem is that he doesn’t win; no one has a gambling problem when they win. He HAS a losing problem, that’s what he has. But I stray.
As a whole we’re a messed up bunch, we expect success, we also admire those who went against the odds and came up winners, but we sneer at those that want to try. We pummel dreams of others when they tell us of their goals, Dream Pummelers, the lot of us.
I disagree with this, but those wiser always defend themselves by saying, we just want the best for them, we don’t want to see them fail. I’ve learned a few things in my tenure on the big blue rock we call mother Earth, and one of them is, that line of crap never accomplished anything in life that is admired. No one admires the common, it’s the uncommon that gets recognized, paid, and glorified. Common is best associated with peasants and colds, neither of which seems the place to hold company.
So in an effort to stay out of a hovel with a stuffy nose, go out and eat a cookie or go for a walk in the woods and stomp on vegetation, that should make the world a better place. Just don’t tell anyone until you’re done, they’ll Dream Pummel you in less time then it takes to say moo goo gai pan.
I’d like to take a moment to thank my R&D team for the term ass hat. It’s a good one.
Okay moment over, carry on.
Thursday
Thanks Bob Barker for a less sucky sick day
I’m not a big fan of daytime TV, in fact I sort of loath it. Soap Operas make me want to stick burning hot skewers into my frontal lobe and talk shows make me want to hang Oprah by her pinky toes over a high flame. I’m not a big game show watching kind of guy, but there was a time when I was a kid, when they would pass for mind numbing candy to pass the time, especially when I was home sick.
Remember those days, home from school, feeling pretty crappy, nothing to do but sleep and watch TV. Mom had a few stock meals depending on what ailed you; toast, Jello, toast, College Inn Chicken broth with tiny little pasta thingies, toast, ginger ale to wash down the toast, and if you were close to the end, a grilled cheese sandwich on toast. She always brought it to you with love and a smile and then cleaned up afterwards. It was the only time growing up we had personal maid service, didn’t have to do chores and we got to control the TV, except for the being sick part, it was a pretty cool day.
Controlling the TV wasn’t what it is today, we didn’t have remotes, you had to get up and actually change the channel, and there were no buttons, just one big dial that had a very hard click to it. Well actually 2 big dials but I still haven’t found anyone who ever watched UHF channels. And there weren’t many channels to watch; 2,4,5,7,9,11 & 13, that’s 3 networks, 3 locals and PBS that’s it. But on one of those channels every weekday for one hour was Bob Barker and The Price is Right.
Now I’m not going to defend this show (or maybe I will), it’s as stupid, tacky and obnoxious as it gets but somehow, someway it feels right. It has all the glitz and glamour that a 70’s show could muster up and to this day seems to have never lost that feel, and damn it, there’s something about that, that I love, I can’t help it I just do.
The premise is easy enough, guess the price of an item, any item, but have really sexy women wearing bikinis to display the merchandise. Boats, RVs, dinning room sets, luggage, Turtle Wax, it didn’t matter just as long Barker’s Beauties were there with a smile and a short skirt, what’s not to love? I had such a thing for Holly Hallstrom, still makes my blood pump just thinking about her.
…
Sorry, my mind just wondered off for a minute. Now where was I?
I honestly don’t remember.
Damn she still has that effect on me.
Anyway, my point is or was something about Bob.
Oh right, Bob is like that Uncle you have that you don’t always get to see and you probably take for granted but you feel a certain amount of comfort just knowing that he’s there when you need him. And that’s a nice thing to have. An Uncle Bob.
Now that I’m an adult not living with mom, I no longer get soup and crackers or ginger ale, or even toast. I don’t get waited on, no one is there to bring me an extra blanket when I’m cold, no one is there to kiss my forehead, but if I turn on the TV to channel 2, Bob is there with his games, girls and Turtle Wax and I still get that same old comfort feeling to wash over me. That is up until now.
Bob has decided to call it quits after 35 years on the Price is Right. Not a bad run if you ask me, he earned his retirement but still the selfish part of me wishes he’d keep on going forever. And what makes it really selfish is I never watch the show. I’m almost never home and when I am, I still don’t make the effort, except but for once in a blue moon, when I’m feeling like a truck hit me and there are 75,000 tissues scattered about my floor, 89 blankets on top of me, a cup of tea with honey almost gone and a remote control in my hand. Then I click to CBS and that feeling hits me, I’m 10 years old again and someone is there keeping me company. I figure at any given time there must be hundreds of thousands of sick people home watching Bob and smiling at the girls who always smile back, and that’s a lot of smiling, especially for sick people.
I’m going to miss Bob, I’m going to miss Barker’s Beauties, I’m going to miss the golf game, and the Alpine Guy who tumbles over the mountain when he goes to high, the Plinko game and the big wheel which I never got to spin. I’m going to miss him telling me to ”Help control the pet population, have your pets spayed or neutered” I’m going to miss it all, and I’m really going to miss that comfort feeling that came with it.
It seems the older you get the more things you have to give up and say good bye to, things that make the world a little more bearable, that make you feel like it’s your world, your home. You could call it growing up, I just think it sucks.
Thanks Bob for making sick days suck a little bit less. And as a tribute I think we should all go out and get someone we love spayed or neutered. Come On Down…
Remember those days, home from school, feeling pretty crappy, nothing to do but sleep and watch TV. Mom had a few stock meals depending on what ailed you; toast, Jello, toast, College Inn Chicken broth with tiny little pasta thingies, toast, ginger ale to wash down the toast, and if you were close to the end, a grilled cheese sandwich on toast. She always brought it to you with love and a smile and then cleaned up afterwards. It was the only time growing up we had personal maid service, didn’t have to do chores and we got to control the TV, except for the being sick part, it was a pretty cool day.
Controlling the TV wasn’t what it is today, we didn’t have remotes, you had to get up and actually change the channel, and there were no buttons, just one big dial that had a very hard click to it. Well actually 2 big dials but I still haven’t found anyone who ever watched UHF channels. And there weren’t many channels to watch; 2,4,5,7,9,11 & 13, that’s 3 networks, 3 locals and PBS that’s it. But on one of those channels every weekday for one hour was Bob Barker and The Price is Right.
Now I’m not going to defend this show (or maybe I will), it’s as stupid, tacky and obnoxious as it gets but somehow, someway it feels right. It has all the glitz and glamour that a 70’s show could muster up and to this day seems to have never lost that feel, and damn it, there’s something about that, that I love, I can’t help it I just do.
The premise is easy enough, guess the price of an item, any item, but have really sexy women wearing bikinis to display the merchandise. Boats, RVs, dinning room sets, luggage, Turtle Wax, it didn’t matter just as long Barker’s Beauties were there with a smile and a short skirt, what’s not to love? I had such a thing for Holly Hallstrom, still makes my blood pump just thinking about her.
…
Sorry, my mind just wondered off for a minute. Now where was I?
I honestly don’t remember.
Damn she still has that effect on me.
Anyway, my point is or was something about Bob.
Oh right, Bob is like that Uncle you have that you don’t always get to see and you probably take for granted but you feel a certain amount of comfort just knowing that he’s there when you need him. And that’s a nice thing to have. An Uncle Bob.
Now that I’m an adult not living with mom, I no longer get soup and crackers or ginger ale, or even toast. I don’t get waited on, no one is there to bring me an extra blanket when I’m cold, no one is there to kiss my forehead, but if I turn on the TV to channel 2, Bob is there with his games, girls and Turtle Wax and I still get that same old comfort feeling to wash over me. That is up until now.
Bob has decided to call it quits after 35 years on the Price is Right. Not a bad run if you ask me, he earned his retirement but still the selfish part of me wishes he’d keep on going forever. And what makes it really selfish is I never watch the show. I’m almost never home and when I am, I still don’t make the effort, except but for once in a blue moon, when I’m feeling like a truck hit me and there are 75,000 tissues scattered about my floor, 89 blankets on top of me, a cup of tea with honey almost gone and a remote control in my hand. Then I click to CBS and that feeling hits me, I’m 10 years old again and someone is there keeping me company. I figure at any given time there must be hundreds of thousands of sick people home watching Bob and smiling at the girls who always smile back, and that’s a lot of smiling, especially for sick people.
I’m going to miss Bob, I’m going to miss Barker’s Beauties, I’m going to miss the golf game, and the Alpine Guy who tumbles over the mountain when he goes to high, the Plinko game and the big wheel which I never got to spin. I’m going to miss him telling me to ”Help control the pet population, have your pets spayed or neutered” I’m going to miss it all, and I’m really going to miss that comfort feeling that came with it.
It seems the older you get the more things you have to give up and say good bye to, things that make the world a little more bearable, that make you feel like it’s your world, your home. You could call it growing up, I just think it sucks.
Thanks Bob for making sick days suck a little bit less. And as a tribute I think we should all go out and get someone we love spayed or neutered. Come On Down…
Wednesday
Mufasa and Google Images
(bigger picture of Mufasa in article, click to see)
I have a Stat Counter thingy at the bottom right hand side of this page, it’s that little blue box like thing under the I Power Blogger box like thingy. Go look if your curious, but don’t click on the games links, well not yet anyway, you can play those later, first you have to read this.
For those who don’t know what Stat Counter does. It records all the people that come to my site, like you. Then it gives me directions to your house and lists all the contents of your refrigerator so I can stop by and ask for a nice cold glass of iced tea and a bosc pear, if you say sorry I’m fresh out I’ll know you’re lying. Yes that’s the power of the internet, oh and stop buying the artificial butter, it’ll kill you, get the real stuff.
But more important then that, it tells me if you came to my site through a link; which up until now has been NEVER. Yes sad as that sounds, no one links to my wonderful tidbits known as Gray Matter Garbage. But don’t feel sorry for me, just tell your friends and enemies, and coworkers and dentists and the guy who fixes your pipes, your mom, the kid that bags your food, and your babysitters best friend who comes over when your not home and eats your butter pecan ice cream to check it out.
However I’m not writing this just to make you feel guilty for not spreading the word about my wonderful but quirky sense of being, nope I’m writing this because all of a sudden I’m getting lots and lots of hits and yes it’s because someone linked to me, more importantly it’s GOOGLE that linked to me.
Thank you, thank you, thank you, but before I take my bow I should probably explain a little more. Google really doesn’t love me all that much, and it’s not because they think (although they should) that the world should be reading my blog, it’s because Google sort of messed up, in a Mufasa sort of way.
Remember Simba, you know that cute little lion cub who’s dad was Darth Vader, and not so unlike Luke, managed to cause his fathers death. Well it seems Simba’s old man Mufasa is still very popular on the internet and for whatever reason Google linked my site with Mufasa’s picture, and that picture is ranked number 2 if you go to Google images and type in Mufasa. Pretty neat huh?
The only problem is (or was) is that when people came to my site there was no picture of Mufasa. People are coming to my site, not seeing their sometimes not so full of life paternal lion hero and leaving without taking a look around. Not good, it’s like false advertising, and worse it isn't helping my readership.
Something had to be done, and instead of contacting Google or disappointing millions of Mufasa fans I decide to do the 'right thing' and put up pictures of James Earl Mufasa Vader Jones so everyone could be happy, see how wonderful I can be. I'm like an internet saint that fulfills search desires.
And so, without being too much of a publicity who-a, I present to you Mufasa from Disney's 'The Lion King' ….
NOW GO READ THE REST OF MY BLOG!
... and tell your friends
... or I'll tell everyone what's in your fridge
Monday
Rabbit Season, A New Spin
I was just thinking about hunters and their code of ethics, you know the one about not wasting any part of the kill. As always, I can’t help but see it from the other side.
So here are 10 (short) versions of how that might just go down...
VERSION 1
Mr. Rabbit: Hello Mr. Hunter will you be killing me today?
Mr. Hunter: Why yes Mr. Bunny I will.
Mr. Rabbit: And if I may be so bold as to ask, what will you be doing with my remains?
Mr. Hunter: I was thinking of making Hasenpfeffer and maybe using your fur to make a purse for my love, I will chop off your feet and sell them as good luck pieces, and use your innards to feed my dog.
Mr. Rabbit: Oh wow you have many uses for me that is nice to know, it’s always good to be useful.
Mr. Hunter: Well I don’t like to waste, I know a guy who kills Bunnies and lets them rot, I think he shames the name of the hunter.
Mr. Rabbit: So just out of curiosity if I were to sneak into your house and kill your wife, make stew from her meat, a pocketbook from her breasts, sold her feet for dog food, and made a wig from her head you’d be ok with this?
BANG Dead Bunny
VERSION 2
Mr. Rabbit: Hello Mr. Hunter will you be killing me today?
Mr. Hunter: Why yes Mr. Bunny I will. But don’t you worry, I will make good use of your remains, I won’t waste a bit.
Mr. Rabbit: Well that’s good news I was starting to get pissed off for being murdered.
BANG Dead Bunny
VERSION 3
Mr. Rabbit: Hello Mr. Hunter will you be killing me today?
Mr. Hunter: Why yes and I will make good use of you right down to your feet.
Mr. Rabbit: My feet?
Mr. Hunter: Yes your feet, good luck they are.
Mr. Rabbit: Doesn’t seem to be.
Bang Dead Bunny
VERSION 4
Mr. Rabbit: Hello Mr. Hunter will you be killing me today?
Mr. Hunter: Yes, but don’t you fear Mr. Bunny, it’s a good day to die, and I won’t waste your death, my family will eat and rejoice in your life.
Mr. Rabbit: Well they already do.
Mr. Hunter: Huh?
Mr. Rabbit: You never asked me my first name.
Mr. Hunter: Ok then what is your first name Mr. Bunny?
Mr. Rabbit: Easter
Mr. Hunter: I’m an atheist.
Bang Dead Bunny
VERSION 5
Mr. Rabbit: Hello Mr. Hunter will you be killing me today?
Bang Dead Bunny
Mr. Hunter: Ask a stupid question …
VERSION 6
Mr. Rabbit: Hello Mr. Hunter will you be killing me today?
Mr. Hunter: How would you like the privilege of feeding my poor family?
Mr. Rabbit: Do they like carrot con carnie? I‘m a great cook
Mr. Hunter: Don’t make this harder then it has to be
Mr. Bunny: But I’m cute and fluffy
Mr. Hunter: Yes and you will make a great purse
Bang Dead Bunny
VERSION 7
Mr. Rabbit: Hello Mr. Hunter will you be killing me today?
Mr. Hunter: Hello Mr. Bunny how would you like to feed my family tonight?
Mr. Rabbit: Oh that would be great. I just found a recipe for broiled asshole, I’ll use your head.
Bang Dead Bunny
VERSION 8
Mr. Rabbit: Hello Mr. Hunter will you be killing me today?
Mr. Hunter: Yes and I vow not to waste any of your remains.
Mr. Rabbit: Do you think I really give a flying fuck asshole?
Bang Dead Bunny
VERSION 9
Mr. Rabbit: Hello Mr. Hunter will you be killing me today?
Mr. Hunter: Yup, sorry little fellow but I am strong and you are weak.
Mr. Rabbit: True enough, may I say my prayers before you send me to the great carrot patch in the sky?
Mr. Hunter: It’s the least I can do
Mr. Rabbit: I’ll say
Bang Dead Bunny
VERSION 10
Mr. Rabbit: Hello Mr. Hunter will you be killing me today?
Mr. Hunter: I am the human and you are the pray, it must be this way
Mr. Rabbit: So it seems, may I have a moment of prayer before you send that hunk of lead into my little head.
Mr. Hunter: Sympathy will get you nowhere but sure why not, I’ve got the time.
Mr. Rabbit pulls out a gun and shoots the Hunter dead, hops over his body with his bloody feet to warn against other hunters that the bunnies obtained guns from their grandfathers closets and aren’t afraid to use them.
Within hours the hunt begins for the killer rabbit for no such creature is fit to live on this Earth. After all who is he to kill, even if it’s in defense of his own life.
From last report Mr. Rabbit is standing trial for his life, but word on the street is that it will be a mistrial it seems one juror was seen with a cookbook labeled The Health Benefits of Rabbit Stew.
Thursday
Too old for raisins too young for prunes
Just sitting here eating some raisins and thinking … you know that’s going to be trouble.
I used to eat them all time as a kid, raisins that is; then I sort of grew out of them. Just like that or so it would seem, like most people I stopped eating them. What I mean is, kids tend to eat raisins more then adults, maybe it’s those little boxes they come in. You know those little one serving size boxes, Sun-Maid was way ahead of their time when it came to packaging. They had those snack packs a decade ahead of everyone else. We’re talking the 70’s and they had snack packs, maybe sooner I don’t know. I wasn't around before then, I was a kid in the 70’s and I had them, I don’t really care if you 50’s kids had them, you had Elvis, TV dinners & poodle skirts, isn’t the enough? Snack packs in the 70’s, pretty cool when you think about it.
Not as pretty as the Sun-Maid chick, mind you. Okay before you think how twisted it is to say a logo on a box of raisins is a hottie, take a look at her. Go ahead, I’ll make time.
Did you look?
Cute right?
Remind you of anyone?
Winona Ryder?
Yes the answer is yes. It does look like Winona, it looks just like Winona when she had long hair.
Remember, before she went bat shit and shoplifted without a disguise. (These rich Hollywood types, they never take the time to prepare, put a bandana over your face or at the very least a fake nose and mustache.) If only she had planned ahead of time, well that and kept that long beautiful hair of hers, she was a hottie. Did I mention that already? I have no idea what she looks like now but she was a hottie and the Sun-Maid babe is a hottie too, in a drawing, puritan, logo sort of way.
But I wasn’t thinking about Winona Ryder wearing a Richard Nixon mask eating raisins and stealing Edward ScissorHand’s suspenders, no that just sort of slipped out. I wasn’t even thinking about those tiny little boxes of raisins that poodle skirt wearing Elvis fans were once dreaming of, and I sure as shit wasn’t thinking about how people would react to someone who talked about the Sun Maid babe in a shagging sort of way. Nope, none of that, what I was thinking was that raisins are really creepy looking.
They are!
Yes they are. They are creepy.
Are to.
(Sound of stomping feet off) – that would be the raisin eating inner child
Really, you have to agree with me on this.
No really, you HAVE to agree or I send Tony No-Neck over and you don’t want that, he’s been grumpy lately.
Okay, don’t take my word for it, go have a look for yourself, I’ll wait…again.
F’ed up, wouldn’t you say? Creepy even.
One of those things you have to question.
Who was the first to say, “ I’ll eat um ”? Because it wouldn’t have been me, they’re creepy looking.
Hey look!
What are those brown, shriveled up nasty rabbit dropping looking things on the table where we left our grapes last month?
I have no idea but lets eat um.
WRONG!
Maybe it was some sort of winery bully that forced a poor little barrel maker’s son to eat them or be weggied and have his head dunked in a bucket of vinegar. Well that’s how I see it, if you have a better theory I’m all ears.
They just don’t look all that appetizing, maybe that’s why kids eat them. It’s true kids won’t eat broccoli but if they find something gross looking they’ll pop it in their mouths, no really it’s true, kids eat dirt why not raisins? I know they’re sweet, and somewhat tasty and probably help keep you regular but it’s not like they scream out eat me. Pizza has that effect, marsh mellows have that effect, raisins don’t. Yet millions of people enjoy raisins in food, on food and as food, I’m stymied.
But kids love them, and for some strange reason they don’t eat prunes, old people eat prunes.
I’ll eat either, but for the most part I don’t, one is for kids, the other for old people trying to keep regular. I’m as regular as I’m going to get. (Go ahead and insert joke here) People are nuts to associate food with ages, but we do it, even with nuts. Kids start off with peanuts, as you get older pistachios, then almonds, mature folks eat walnuts, and old people still eat prunes.
I know, I know, but that doesn’t change the facts, raisins are ugly dried up brown mushy things that kids eat.
Creepy little fruit.
Wednesday
50 bucks says it's another Birth Day Story
I haven’t been writing, and conversely I’m sure no one had been reading.
But I’m trying and I thought I should write today, tomorrow is a milestone, or so they say. No it’s not marking the day I got out of the loony bin, or swam/swum (I hate that) the English Channel it will be my birthday, the anniversary of the day I was born. I know… big deal, it’s not like we all don’t have them, we are all here so we all have birthdays, celebrated or not we have them.
But tomorrow it is my day, along with roughly 16,427104.72279 people [6 billion/365.25 (the .25 is accounting for those born on Feb 29th )]
This of course also assumes that the same amount of people are born on each day and why wouldn’t they be? And don’t bust my chops it’s a ballpark number, and the park seems to be very large, as is the number of candles on my cake. But as dad is always fond of saying, ”Beats the alternative”, and he’s right, it does.
I don’t have much to say about what I’ve accomplished with my time on the big blue marble, so I thought I’d tell the story of my arrival, which isn’t as normal as one would think.
As the story goes, or as told by my mom, it was sometime after 2:00 (I’d have to check the birth certificate to be exact), on a Sunday afternoon during a football game of which the doctor seemed to have an interest in. (Why can’t you end a sentence with a preposition?) My mom who had 2 kids previously both girls (yes I’m the youngest with two older sisters, and no they never dressed me up in dresses and put make up on me. I still have no idea why that is always the first question people ask when I tell them that, do other people really do this? I mean outside of Hollywood?). I mention my older sisters for one reason only, to show that mom had a bit of experience passing humans into this world, turns out this experience means nothing to a doctor; after all HE went to medical school, and what would my mom know of such things as birthing?
Turns out more then a doctor who likes his football games. (Are you picking up on something here?)
You see before they put moms on the table in which babies are passed, they used to keep the mom’s on a gurney. Now remember this was a few years back, long before the world went baby crazy. It was the late 60’s, the very late 60’s and no my mom wasn’t a hippy, I was not born at Woodstock. Remember I was the youngest of 3, not the oldest. My parents are not of that era, they were 30 by the time I came along, so basically they have no idea what ”Don’t eat the brown acid” even refers to. Instead I’ve seen pictures of my dad looking like a poor mans James Dean with his hair slicked back in some greasy nasty goop and my mom had poodle skirts, yup 50’s kids; but that’s another story.
Anyway, I was on a gurney inside my mom, and she was, as I have best interpreted this, Yelling.
She was explaining nicely to the nurses that I was coming, and the nurses, instructed by the doctor, assured my mom I wasn’t, and well if the doctor says I’m not coming he must be right; after all the game was on, did I mention the football game? As I understand it, it was a playoff game, and living in NJ which means everyone in the area follows NY teams and thanks to some information compiled by my R&D team it looks like it was the Jets, but who could know for sure. Whatever the situation, I’m thinking the doctor had a few bucks on the game, because that seemed to be more important then my arrival.
I know what you thinking, I thought it too, what could be more important?
I’d like to find the guy and ask him, maybe I should put my R&D team on that, okay it’s more of an R team then a D team, but there is comedy development going on.
Proof?
You want proof?
The newest product to come out of R&D was Munt. Yes Munt, neat word, rude word, but that word was created in a most elaborate team effort.
The conversation went something like this:
Me: “ He’s such a whiney bitch, you can’t trust him, he will stab anyone in the back to suit his needs, and acts like a little girl while doing it. He’s like a male C***!”
R&D Team: “He’s a Munt!”
Laughter ensues
Good resources are hard to find. You can’t easily replace comedy gold like this.
NOTE TO SELF: Give R&D Team a raise
So that’s my R&D team.
Back to my story.
We left off with mom on a gurney a pissy nurse, an absentee doctor (who may or may not have had a few bucks riding on a game he couldn’t seem to pull himself away from), and me who had just about had enough of being all pruned up inside my mom’s make shift Holiday Inn complete with room service.
Mom told the nurse I was coming out, the nurse chose not to believe her, then after what I can only assume was an exchange of pleasantries not fit for a truck driver, the nurse finally checked on the situation only to find out that my mom might have had some insight of which she spoke.
Yup I was coming through. (Now remember mom is still on the gurney and not in the catching bed)
And with all her wisdom and medical knowledge the nurse passed onto my mother this great bit of advice “Wait till the doctor gets here”
Now I can improvise a bit here and use some four-letter words that I know my mother has on occasion liked to utter, but I won’t. I’ll leave that up to you. What I will tell you is that I was born right there on that gurney without a doctor and by a mother who had not had any access to drugs. Remember this was 1968, I’m pretty sure no one ever heard the phrase Lamaze Class, so I’m (and again I’m filling in blanks here) thinking instead of Deep Breaths, Mom was cursing out the medical staff in several languages (some still not known today).
And so that was my entrance into this world.
And a wee bit of insight into me, if not at least the ages of my parents and I. Maybe next week I’ll tell you about my death, of which I narrowly escaped.
END
But I’m trying and I thought I should write today, tomorrow is a milestone, or so they say. No it’s not marking the day I got out of the loony bin, or swam/swum (I hate that) the English Channel it will be my birthday, the anniversary of the day I was born. I know… big deal, it’s not like we all don’t have them, we are all here so we all have birthdays, celebrated or not we have them.
But tomorrow it is my day, along with roughly 16,427104.72279 people [6 billion/365.25 (the .25 is accounting for those born on Feb 29th )]
This of course also assumes that the same amount of people are born on each day and why wouldn’t they be? And don’t bust my chops it’s a ballpark number, and the park seems to be very large, as is the number of candles on my cake. But as dad is always fond of saying, ”Beats the alternative”, and he’s right, it does.
I don’t have much to say about what I’ve accomplished with my time on the big blue marble, so I thought I’d tell the story of my arrival, which isn’t as normal as one would think.
As the story goes, or as told by my mom, it was sometime after 2:00 (I’d have to check the birth certificate to be exact), on a Sunday afternoon during a football game of which the doctor seemed to have an interest in. (Why can’t you end a sentence with a preposition?) My mom who had 2 kids previously both girls (yes I’m the youngest with two older sisters, and no they never dressed me up in dresses and put make up on me. I still have no idea why that is always the first question people ask when I tell them that, do other people really do this? I mean outside of Hollywood?). I mention my older sisters for one reason only, to show that mom had a bit of experience passing humans into this world, turns out this experience means nothing to a doctor; after all HE went to medical school, and what would my mom know of such things as birthing?
Turns out more then a doctor who likes his football games. (Are you picking up on something here?)
You see before they put moms on the table in which babies are passed, they used to keep the mom’s on a gurney. Now remember this was a few years back, long before the world went baby crazy. It was the late 60’s, the very late 60’s and no my mom wasn’t a hippy, I was not born at Woodstock. Remember I was the youngest of 3, not the oldest. My parents are not of that era, they were 30 by the time I came along, so basically they have no idea what ”Don’t eat the brown acid” even refers to. Instead I’ve seen pictures of my dad looking like a poor mans James Dean with his hair slicked back in some greasy nasty goop and my mom had poodle skirts, yup 50’s kids; but that’s another story.
Anyway, I was on a gurney inside my mom, and she was, as I have best interpreted this, Yelling.
She was explaining nicely to the nurses that I was coming, and the nurses, instructed by the doctor, assured my mom I wasn’t, and well if the doctor says I’m not coming he must be right; after all the game was on, did I mention the football game? As I understand it, it was a playoff game, and living in NJ which means everyone in the area follows NY teams and thanks to some information compiled by my R&D team it looks like it was the Jets, but who could know for sure. Whatever the situation, I’m thinking the doctor had a few bucks on the game, because that seemed to be more important then my arrival.
I know what you thinking, I thought it too, what could be more important?
I’d like to find the guy and ask him, maybe I should put my R&D team on that, okay it’s more of an R team then a D team, but there is comedy development going on.
Proof?
You want proof?
The newest product to come out of R&D was Munt. Yes Munt, neat word, rude word, but that word was created in a most elaborate team effort.
The conversation went something like this:
Me: “ He’s such a whiney bitch, you can’t trust him, he will stab anyone in the back to suit his needs, and acts like a little girl while doing it. He’s like a male C***!”
R&D Team: “He’s a Munt!”
Laughter ensues
Good resources are hard to find. You can’t easily replace comedy gold like this.
NOTE TO SELF: Give R&D Team a raise
So that’s my R&D team.
Back to my story.
We left off with mom on a gurney a pissy nurse, an absentee doctor (who may or may not have had a few bucks riding on a game he couldn’t seem to pull himself away from), and me who had just about had enough of being all pruned up inside my mom’s make shift Holiday Inn complete with room service.
Mom told the nurse I was coming out, the nurse chose not to believe her, then after what I can only assume was an exchange of pleasantries not fit for a truck driver, the nurse finally checked on the situation only to find out that my mom might have had some insight of which she spoke.
Yup I was coming through. (Now remember mom is still on the gurney and not in the catching bed)
And with all her wisdom and medical knowledge the nurse passed onto my mother this great bit of advice “Wait till the doctor gets here”
Now I can improvise a bit here and use some four-letter words that I know my mother has on occasion liked to utter, but I won’t. I’ll leave that up to you. What I will tell you is that I was born right there on that gurney without a doctor and by a mother who had not had any access to drugs. Remember this was 1968, I’m pretty sure no one ever heard the phrase Lamaze Class, so I’m (and again I’m filling in blanks here) thinking instead of Deep Breaths, Mom was cursing out the medical staff in several languages (some still not known today).
And so that was my entrance into this world.
And a wee bit of insight into me, if not at least the ages of my parents and I. Maybe next week I’ll tell you about my death, of which I narrowly escaped.
END
Thursday
Tired of the "Holidays", Merry Christmas
I’m tired.
Need sleep.
But there is no sleep for me today, I have to work and it’s 3 days before Christmas, for those of you who find it un-pc to refer to the date like that, it’s December 22
Yea I celebrate Christmas and I think Jesus was a groovy dude, not that I think anyone else should. I honestly don’t give a skunk’s pituitary gland what others chose to believe just so long as they don’t believe in killing, stealing, raping, pillaging, beating up iguanas or doing what is considered somewhat “negative acts” against others.
That’s what it is supposed to be about, acceptance. Not the removal of, but the acceptance.
I’m not big on the PC crusaders, never have been, in fact I believe they are ruining it for everyone, including themselves. The sterilization of cultures is not a good thing; too many amazing things are getting lost from all cultures. Don’t believe me? See how long it takes to find a descent bagel and not round bread being passed off as a bagel … Meatsticks!
I find it interesting that any specific group of people would have a problem with Merry Christmas, it’s not like it implies “and all of you who do not believe in Jesus can go stick your head in a bucket of monkey puss”.
I honestly don’t get it. Sure we can separate church and state, and take religion out of most things “common” but wishing someone a ‘Merry Christmas’ is not all that different then ‘Happy Birthday’, or ‘Happy New Year’ or ‘Happy Second Day After You Passed Your Kidney Stone Day’ for that matter. It’s just a well wishing for a day or time of year.
I understand wanting equal billing, that’s cool, I’m even a fan of making more holidays. Who doesn’t want more days off from work? Let’s celebrate more days of love and peace; I honestly think we (that is people everywhere; Meatsticks & Non-Meatsticks alike) need more of that. Honestly, society is sort of going to hell in a hand-basket (yea I have no idea what that means either but stick with me here). But why do away with things? Why not just add more to the mix? There is always something to be learned from cultures & religions not of our own.
Oh right, I forgot better to be closed-minded and be afraid to venture out beyond our comfort zone.
Would you like sugar with that sarcasm? (In case you missed it)
Where was I?
Oh yea, a few days left before Christmas and I still have lots to do and I’m tired.
Tired of shopping.
Tired of running around in the cold weather.
Tired of not knowing if someone is going to like the gift I bought.
Tired of dealing with people fighting over parking spaces and driving slow in the left hand lane.
Okay here is where you are expecting the speech about the true meaning of Christmas.
But I’m not going to do it.
Nope.
I won’t.
No rant about the birth of Christ and the celebration of a child who was to bring Peace on Earth & Goodwill towards men.
‘No’, you say?
‘Why not’, you say?
‘Isn’t that what comes after the bitching and moaning about Christmas Shopping?’, you say.
‘Well yes’, I say, ’normally, but not today’.
You all know that diatribe and you all know as well as I do that there isn’t any more peace, on the this rock we call Earth, then there was over 2000 years ago. But his words and lessons are good, unfortunately some Meatsticks got their mitts into the religion thing and bastardized what was supposed to be a groovy love fest for all men and women, and no not in the hippy Woodstock orgy way, you sick bastard!
I’m talking about doing onto others as you would have them do on to you … and eggnog of course.
I’m pretty sure Jesus would agree with the spiked eggnog. I mean come on, nothing wrong with a little holiday cheer. So we will do onto others and drink heavily spiked eggnog. Sounds like a plan.
That’s the spirit of Christmas, you need the spirit part.
No you don’t have to drink eggnog you can drink whatever you want, you don’t even have to drink, but with all this PC culture erasing (hmmm, wasn’t there a fellow who tried to do away with some cultures a few years back?) going on in the world, it doesn’t hurt to numb a bit of the ol’ Gray Matter.
This all sounds well and good but it doesn’t get the gifts bought and wrapped, and as much as I hate doing it, and I really hate doing it, I have to admit there is a really cool feeling that comes over me when I find a gift that has the extra bit of specialness about it. (Yes, I invented that word right now, deal with it) It doesn’t always happen, and sometimes it backfires, we’ve all given gifts that we thought the recipient would love only to see a look on their face that could best be summed up as “UGG”. But when the planets align and the gifts are perfect and you see a look of “WOW” on their face, it sort of al comes together.
You see, it’s not about the gift but the feeling that comes with the gift, and not the feeling of getting a really cool gift but knowing you put a big warm smile on someone you care about receiving the cool gift. Maybe it’s a greedy thing, sort of in reverse, but it feels good none the less. A warm feeling, much like the spiked eggnog, only with a hug.
Problem occurs when you can’t find that special gift for everyone on your list, then the pressure is on. I know I know, I mean how many shirts and socks can I get my dad? (note to self: he asked for black this year with some sort of blend)
Hmmmm….
Ummmm….
Oh yea.
I wondered where I was going with this very long look at my life in the next few days, Jesus, Christmas, eggnog, gift giving, PC people trying to wipe it out and skunk’s pituitary glands. I don’t know.
I’m too tired to tie it all together.
I really am.
I’m tired.
I need a nap, and when I wake up I’d like to see people coming together and actually practicing peace love and understanding (although they don’t actually have to listen to Elvis Costello) instead of the warped crazy ass shit they are doing now, where there is this idea of us and them and intolerance.
I know I’m dreaming big, but when I see Santa this year (and I will) I’m going to ask for a little piece and then a nap.
Need sleep.
But there is no sleep for me today, I have to work and it’s 3 days before Christmas, for those of you who find it un-pc to refer to the date like that, it’s December 22
Yea I celebrate Christmas and I think Jesus was a groovy dude, not that I think anyone else should. I honestly don’t give a skunk’s pituitary gland what others chose to believe just so long as they don’t believe in killing, stealing, raping, pillaging, beating up iguanas or doing what is considered somewhat “negative acts” against others.
That’s what it is supposed to be about, acceptance. Not the removal of, but the acceptance.
I’m not big on the PC crusaders, never have been, in fact I believe they are ruining it for everyone, including themselves. The sterilization of cultures is not a good thing; too many amazing things are getting lost from all cultures. Don’t believe me? See how long it takes to find a descent bagel and not round bread being passed off as a bagel … Meatsticks!
I find it interesting that any specific group of people would have a problem with Merry Christmas, it’s not like it implies “and all of you who do not believe in Jesus can go stick your head in a bucket of monkey puss”.
I honestly don’t get it. Sure we can separate church and state, and take religion out of most things “common” but wishing someone a ‘Merry Christmas’ is not all that different then ‘Happy Birthday’, or ‘Happy New Year’ or ‘Happy Second Day After You Passed Your Kidney Stone Day’ for that matter. It’s just a well wishing for a day or time of year.
I understand wanting equal billing, that’s cool, I’m even a fan of making more holidays. Who doesn’t want more days off from work? Let’s celebrate more days of love and peace; I honestly think we (that is people everywhere; Meatsticks & Non-Meatsticks alike) need more of that. Honestly, society is sort of going to hell in a hand-basket (yea I have no idea what that means either but stick with me here). But why do away with things? Why not just add more to the mix? There is always something to be learned from cultures & religions not of our own.
Oh right, I forgot better to be closed-minded and be afraid to venture out beyond our comfort zone.
Would you like sugar with that sarcasm? (In case you missed it)
Where was I?
Oh yea, a few days left before Christmas and I still have lots to do and I’m tired.
Tired of shopping.
Tired of running around in the cold weather.
Tired of not knowing if someone is going to like the gift I bought.
Tired of dealing with people fighting over parking spaces and driving slow in the left hand lane.
Okay here is where you are expecting the speech about the true meaning of Christmas.
But I’m not going to do it.
Nope.
I won’t.
No rant about the birth of Christ and the celebration of a child who was to bring Peace on Earth & Goodwill towards men.
‘No’, you say?
‘Why not’, you say?
‘Isn’t that what comes after the bitching and moaning about Christmas Shopping?’, you say.
‘Well yes’, I say, ’normally, but not today’.
You all know that diatribe and you all know as well as I do that there isn’t any more peace, on the this rock we call Earth, then there was over 2000 years ago. But his words and lessons are good, unfortunately some Meatsticks got their mitts into the religion thing and bastardized what was supposed to be a groovy love fest for all men and women, and no not in the hippy Woodstock orgy way, you sick bastard!
I’m talking about doing onto others as you would have them do on to you … and eggnog of course.
I’m pretty sure Jesus would agree with the spiked eggnog. I mean come on, nothing wrong with a little holiday cheer. So we will do onto others and drink heavily spiked eggnog. Sounds like a plan.
That’s the spirit of Christmas, you need the spirit part.
No you don’t have to drink eggnog you can drink whatever you want, you don’t even have to drink, but with all this PC culture erasing (hmmm, wasn’t there a fellow who tried to do away with some cultures a few years back?) going on in the world, it doesn’t hurt to numb a bit of the ol’ Gray Matter.
This all sounds well and good but it doesn’t get the gifts bought and wrapped, and as much as I hate doing it, and I really hate doing it, I have to admit there is a really cool feeling that comes over me when I find a gift that has the extra bit of specialness about it. (Yes, I invented that word right now, deal with it) It doesn’t always happen, and sometimes it backfires, we’ve all given gifts that we thought the recipient would love only to see a look on their face that could best be summed up as “UGG”. But when the planets align and the gifts are perfect and you see a look of “WOW” on their face, it sort of al comes together.
You see, it’s not about the gift but the feeling that comes with the gift, and not the feeling of getting a really cool gift but knowing you put a big warm smile on someone you care about receiving the cool gift. Maybe it’s a greedy thing, sort of in reverse, but it feels good none the less. A warm feeling, much like the spiked eggnog, only with a hug.
Problem occurs when you can’t find that special gift for everyone on your list, then the pressure is on. I know I know, I mean how many shirts and socks can I get my dad? (note to self: he asked for black this year with some sort of blend)
Hmmmm….
Ummmm….
Oh yea.
I wondered where I was going with this very long look at my life in the next few days, Jesus, Christmas, eggnog, gift giving, PC people trying to wipe it out and skunk’s pituitary glands. I don’t know.
I’m too tired to tie it all together.
I really am.
I’m tired.
I need a nap, and when I wake up I’d like to see people coming together and actually practicing peace love and understanding (although they don’t actually have to listen to Elvis Costello) instead of the warped crazy ass shit they are doing now, where there is this idea of us and them and intolerance.
I know I’m dreaming big, but when I see Santa this year (and I will) I’m going to ask for a little piece and then a nap.
Tuesday
Stupid thought 1
I haven’t had time to write so I thought I’d allow myself to post stupid thoughts.
I have them all the time, and why should I have to take the time to turn them into long diatribes, and maybe get lost forever before they materialize into anything.
So with that said I bring you ... (making trumpet sounds)
Stupid thought 1:
Why can’t I live in a world that pays you to sleep?
Thursday
Snowflakes and Screws
Saw something new today, a snowflake.
Yup a snowflake.
Not that I have never seen one before, I live in New Jersey, no shortage here, and although it’s late October and too soon for snowflakes, it’s not completely unheard of. The NEW part is that this flake was INSIDE my car.
I guess I should explain.
You know that theory about the fluttering of a butterfly wing causing a hurricane, or that if you had just been 5 minutes earlier your whole life could be different. Well same idea, smaller scale.
A couple of months back I was having a good day, the sky was blue, the air was hot but I had cold air pumping through my car so who could care? Not I, in short life was relatively spiffy. That of course was soon to change. All it takes is just a little twist of a screw to change your life. Sounds like a corny set up to a movie, or trite words of wisdom from a friend who watched a corny movie two days ago, but it’s true. And it did.
The screw belonged to a 10 year old car with about 135,000 miles on it; the car of course belonged to me.
The car. This car. My car, as it turns out is a bit lazy and spoiled. It likes to know the temperature and although it has a computer, it can’t seem to find the time to look it up on the NOAA website like the rest of us. Noooooo, it needs its very own thermostat and apparently a new one. Seems simple enough, right? Before I go any further I should mention the car is 10 years old with 135,000 miles on it, did I mention that already? Well in case you missed that, those stats seem to matter, if you don’t believe me go look it up, I’ll wait, I have time.
Back?
Okay. As you now know, a 10 year old car with 135,000 miles is worth about as much as a bucket of wet cement. And unless your name is Jimmy the Nose and you have an associate who needs to disappear, it isn’t much worth. However, none of this bothered me, I have to drive just about 120 light years everyday back and forth to work and as we all know now, cars seem to lose all their value under these conditions. Needless to say I wasn’t really thrilled about spending thousands of dollars on a future bucket of wet cement. Fixing the car seemed like the way to go.
This of course was a mistake.
You see, cars with 135,000 miles on them tend to have other issues, like oil leaks.
Mechanic: "Hey this is really leaking oil."
Me: "Yea I know, can you tighten up the bolts on the pan."
Mechanic: "Again?"
You get the picture.
Turns out you can only tighten a screw so much, before it gets so pissed off at you that it decides to strip, and not in the really cool Pin-Up girl sort of way. Have you ever had a car that needed a quart of oil a day? It’s not good. It was time.
I could go into the trials and tribulations of my car shopping but I know you’re sitting on the edge of your seat waiting to find out about the snowflake.
Remember the snowflake?
This is a story about a snowflake.
I’ll get to the snowflake in a minute.
So after what seemed like a lifetime of car shopping (which I will get into at a later time), I bought a new car.
It doesn’t leak oil, that’s the good news, but it does like to know the temperature. (I don’t get it either) Every morning when I get in it, it tells me what the temperature is outside. So not only does the engine want to know the temperature so it can open and close a valve, it has this need to show off and tell me the ambient temperature also. Which by the way, is really exciting stuff when it’s 72 degrees, however this has a reverse effect when it’s 36 degrees, especially in October.
This morning I wasn’t too excited, in fact I was fucking cold, and to let me know just how damn cold I was, the car decided to rub it in. That’s right, not only did it display the temperature, 36 (if you forgot) but it put up a little picture of a snowflake.
Just what the world needs, a smartass car.
Wednesday
Broccoli Killer
First some fun logic:
Animals have life forces because they are alive.
Plants are alive therefore they have a life force.
I think therefor I am.
Broccoli doesn't think so broccoli isn't really there?
... I see a flaw already
With that I would like to present the last days of Mr. Broccoli.
Earlier........ Broccoli: “Please don’t cut me down, I like it here with my family"I know what you’re thinking, ‘that can’t happen, broccoli has no lips’.
Later........... Broccoli: “ Holy crap it’s cold in here”
Later still... Broccoli: “ Holy crap it’s getting hot”
And finally . Broccoli: “ No not my head, Please don’t do th……..
Broccoli doesn’t care if it lives or dies, and neither does anyone else, in fact we prefer it dead, on our plate, like Chicken Little, Bessie the Cow and Wilbur the Pig. Oh right, not those, they were special like Bambi, but other nameless animals not clever enough to go into show business.
Hell, even the Jolly Green Giant turned on his own kind, even took sprout with him down the path of betrayal. It’s a dog eat dog world out there kids, even if you’re a vegetable.
But really what can broccoli accomplish in it’s life?
Besides of course something as trivial as photosynthesize.
But other then converting raw sunlight into life giving energy, what can broccoli do?
I mean really, can it program an Ipod?
Not even on it’s best day, lets kill it!
What’s my point this time?
Not sure I even had one, just something to think about on a dreary Wednesday
Tuesday
The Sponge Bob Syndrome
I’m sitting here watching Sponge Bob dance.
Bob’s a balloon, hovering above the office keeping a vigilant watch on the place. He’s sort of corporate, he’s wearing a tie; so no one questions his attendance.
He’s a happy little sponge, nothing seems to get him down, but I’m sure in time, like everyone else who has joined the rat race, that too will end soon enough.
Sad really, I’m getting used to SB, as he now likes to be referred as, he most likely won’t be here much longer. His arms have gone limp, his legs flat and he’s looking a bit thin in the waist. Still he’s dancing and smiling, a trooper to the end.
I wonder if we’ll talk of him when he’s gone. Others have left this place and no one seems to mention them much, people who have been here for years. It’s funny, no matter how irreplaceable you think you are, soon after you’re gone, you’re forgotten. It’s business as usual. That’s the cycle of life, always has been, always will be.
People are born, people die, even balloons come and go. To be honest, I haven’t put much into my relationship with SB, in fact I’ve never even really said hi to him. I just see him around, like so many others hanging about the place.
Sure I know his face, he may even know mine. But we never talk; I mean what would we talk about? We have so little in common. He’s a poriferan and I’m a human, probably not much middle ground. I should at the very least give him the number to good dentist, that would be nice of me. Maybe a conversation could start up there, well it might if he could talk. Then again, it could be insulting to approach him and start off with “Good morning SB, would you be needing a dentist?”
But talking to a helium filled Mylar balloon really isn’t the point, is it?
That’s just nuts.
Friday
Off with your head
Off with your head
Seems innocent enough, if you’re a queen (drag or otherwise) and you just don’t like what a subject has done. I have no problem with this sort of rash disciplinary action. Let’s face it, some people are better off without their heads. You see, heads contain brains, and some people really haven’t used their brains to the best of their ability, and wouldn’t they be better off without the cumbersome task of carry them around?
I thought so too.
I was going to leave this as is.
It sums it all up in a nice neat package don’t you think.
It implies all the necessary information, right?
For those who chose to not use their brains they just may end up without, sort of the use it or lose it rule. This hopefully will encourage people to use their brains for fear of losing them.
I know, I know, there are times we all shut down and use other parts of our bodies to operate heavy machinery. And that’s ok…. sometimes.
I’m focusing in on the times when using a bit of the ol’ gray matter might not be such a bad thing.
You know, like deciding that fresh air and water may be more important then a 50foot sailboat. Logic dictates you need both of the first to appreciate the second. But I digress.
Trying to accomplish something so insignificant as the preservation of life isn’t going to happen here, so lets tackle a smaller subject.
Lint
Yes you read that correctly, lint.
The stuff that was once your shirt.
It clogs your dryer, fills your bellybutton, and makes you dust your house, lint. For everyone it’s pain in the ass that is never going to go away. Every time I clean out the dryer lint catcher I look at particles of my shirt, my socks, my pants, even my un-mentionables which by the way are mentionable, they’re called underwear, (Boxer-briefs if your keeping notes), and say to myself or at least think in a pondering sort of way, damn that’s a lot of lint.
And it is.
It’s a lot of lint.
Makes you wonder if the shirt companies are doing this on purpose, sort of a planned obsolescence to bolster shirt sales. Bastards!
But what can we do, we are small, medium, and x-large but we are no match for them they are giant, and shirts just don’t come in that size. Sure you could go couture, but if we had that kind of cash lying about we wouldn’t be the ones cleaning out the lint trap and noticing our shirts committing suicide in the tumble cycle. It’s a catch 22 and we’re at the blackjack table coming up with a hard 16 and nothing but low cards filling up the table, we know a ten is a coming.
Lint seems insignificant, but so does the preservation of a habitable Earth, or so it would seem. I mean no one seems to really take the time to do anything about either one. Sure a few strides have been made, things like lint brushes, and vacuums but their not really cures are they? Nope, just ways to clean up the mess after it’s been made.
Doesn’t seem to be sensible use of the brain now does it?
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