The AP recently ran an article entitled “Attendants Fume Over Flightplan”. Several stewardess unions were unhappy with the portrayal of persons in their profession in said movie. A less flattering picture would have been what flight attendants actually do on airplanes, sell me overpriced drinks and ask for exact change. Apparently they are contractually obligated to have sex with pilots but they didn’t complain about that movie.
Lil’ Kim is painting herself as a victim of a bias against hip hop following her recent conviction. She got caught lying to a investigators looking into a shooting between rival entourages. Her testimony was contested by videotape evidence. She couldn’t have been caught more red handed in a lie if a chubby intern showed up with a semen stained dress. Amidou Dialo is a victim of racism; Lil’ Kim is a dishonest skank.
Racism is a real problem in America. I’ve seen the clutched purses in elevators. I’ve seen the suspicious looks from shop keepers. I’ve seen the black guy get sent to the back to wash dishes, while I got to work the front counter. I’m sorry I didn’t say anything then but, to be honest, washing Taco Bell dishes for minimum wage might be the only thing I hate more than racism.
I recently received that emails that’s being forwarded that states members of Congress don’t pay into Social Security yet draw fantastic retirement benefits from a taxpayer funded system. You see, the problem with this email, like almost all mass forwarded emails is that a simple internet search disproves them. Skeptical that I counter emails with the unedited, unverified internet, are you? Please lean into your monitor so that I can reach out and slap you. I countered this forward with the senate.gov website.
Listen man, I got the fire. I also have weapons and maps of government offices and arsenals. Why do they put Army Reserve and National Guard armories in residential areas? So that they can quickly start kicking down doors and shooting women and children.
However, we have the most open and transparent Legislature the world has ever known. The Executive branch is shady as all hell, but it's pretty easy to know what Congress is really doing.
These chain emails with incorrect and false information distract us from the real problems. Did you know that Congress spent $500,000.00 on a study to evacuate New Orleans last year? Why should we care, because the money was spent but no report was completed. You know the rest of the story as they keep interrupting the commercial breaks to tell you.
How much molybdenum or iron or brominated vegetable oil do you really need? You can get your answer from the Food and Drug Administration, which is in the pocket of big business, or you can get your answer from some tree hugging Boulder company that doesn't use the scientific method to test products.
It's time to wake up, to rise up, to take up arms and create the Drew World Order! You're either with me or against me. Every mahn dies, but no’ every mahn troooly lives.
Friday, September 30, 2005
Thursday, June 02, 2005
Too Much to Fit in One Title
Why am I forced to suffer through these morons? Why can't I push them in a giant meat grinder and feed them to the less offensive morons? Most people are not fit to vote or sit on a jury or drive or speak in public. Sit back whilst I dispense some justice.
Are you looking for a date or a shovel to the face? Why do online profiles and personal ads have to be so stupid? You love to laugh do you? What do you laugh at? Is it the Special Olympics, or Will and Grace? Because only one of those two things is really funny. Does your ad say that you're smart and have a great sense of humor? How about you put an intelligent or humorous sentence in your ad, lobotomite?
These are the same people that write a ridiculously stupid cookie cutter ad and then complain that there are no good people to date. There are lots of good people to date, but they have identified you as a troglodyte and moved on. Did you just write only that you are looking for someone fun, attractive and successful then complain that you got too many responses? It's called selectivity, Miss Social Disease. Please go stand in that line and do not resist the man shoving you down the metal chute.
You know who's about to taste some crowbar flavored righteousness? My gym teacher friend who complains about not having money. She recently asked for help replacing the pedals on her bicycle. These are pedals that match the shoes she also bought. Someone suggested a different set of shoes and pedals and she said she couldn't afford them because she was only a teacher. First I know how much teachers make. See salary.com It's twice what I make. Second, you only work 9 months of the year at a civil service job. You're a gym teacher. You should pay us not to feed you to the students. Lastly, teachers as a whole don't deserve a living wage because you're doing a piss poor job. How do I know? Everyone I meet is a fucking retard. My parents taught me how to read and write and count. Every teacher I ever had after that was worthless once she passed out the book. Since the kid in the front row often did the distributing of the books, I'm not really sure what the teacher was there for at all.
Here are people that are good at their jobs: dishwashers, lifeguards, postal delivery workers (I just put them here because they will shoot me if I don't), firemen--not fire fighters, firemen because some of you just aren't angry enough yet. Who dies in fires? People that are so stupid they don't deserve to live. You know that public service announcement that used to run on Saturday mornings about "Stop, drop and roll"? It deserves the paychecks of most of my teachers.
All children suck. The arrangement between parents is that we won't tell you how much your children suck so that you don't tell us how miserable our children are. It's all to avoid the painful and difficult conversation where you explain to your own children just how awfully they really do suck.
What in the hell is this brown fluid that keeps leaking out of my nose?
When I am walking my dog and we approach an intersection he sits and I stop. I look both ways and in most cases watch vehicles drive through said intersection. At a stop sign pedestrians have the right of way. My dog understands that better than the people Colorado gives driver licenses to. This is a dog that humps the wrong end of other dogs. Yet we give these turd heads the ability to careen through the city in a glass and metal and gasoline box of death.
If you got hustled by an online scam, there is no need to post to a message board warning others. You were promised lonely girls in your area, or prescription drugs without a prescription or free software or a job you were grossly unqualified for and it didn't work out that way? That doesn't surprise those of us who don't only use our heads to warm our pillows. Whether or not you used spell check or what you think is a big word, when your message is "Look out for this scam", all I read is "Could you tell me which way to The Grinder?"
I cleaned my rifle for bear season. I stocked up on ammunition during elk season. I calibrated my sight through duck season. When, oh when, do we have open season on journalists who write stories on the diet habits of celebrities?
I think that's about it for now. Since some of you asked, The Mustard can be found here. There are few things I enjoy less than watching general studies majors make millions of dollars to play a game, like people talking and writing about these meat heads. But, I'm a decent human being and thought some of you might enjoy this blog. Let's see how long it is before you nag me to post again.
Are you looking for a date or a shovel to the face? Why do online profiles and personal ads have to be so stupid? You love to laugh do you? What do you laugh at? Is it the Special Olympics, or Will and Grace? Because only one of those two things is really funny. Does your ad say that you're smart and have a great sense of humor? How about you put an intelligent or humorous sentence in your ad, lobotomite?
These are the same people that write a ridiculously stupid cookie cutter ad and then complain that there are no good people to date. There are lots of good people to date, but they have identified you as a troglodyte and moved on. Did you just write only that you are looking for someone fun, attractive and successful then complain that you got too many responses? It's called selectivity, Miss Social Disease. Please go stand in that line and do not resist the man shoving you down the metal chute.
You know who's about to taste some crowbar flavored righteousness? My gym teacher friend who complains about not having money. She recently asked for help replacing the pedals on her bicycle. These are pedals that match the shoes she also bought. Someone suggested a different set of shoes and pedals and she said she couldn't afford them because she was only a teacher. First I know how much teachers make. See salary.com It's twice what I make. Second, you only work 9 months of the year at a civil service job. You're a gym teacher. You should pay us not to feed you to the students. Lastly, teachers as a whole don't deserve a living wage because you're doing a piss poor job. How do I know? Everyone I meet is a fucking retard. My parents taught me how to read and write and count. Every teacher I ever had after that was worthless once she passed out the book. Since the kid in the front row often did the distributing of the books, I'm not really sure what the teacher was there for at all.
Here are people that are good at their jobs: dishwashers, lifeguards, postal delivery workers (I just put them here because they will shoot me if I don't), firemen--not fire fighters, firemen because some of you just aren't angry enough yet. Who dies in fires? People that are so stupid they don't deserve to live. You know that public service announcement that used to run on Saturday mornings about "Stop, drop and roll"? It deserves the paychecks of most of my teachers.
All children suck. The arrangement between parents is that we won't tell you how much your children suck so that you don't tell us how miserable our children are. It's all to avoid the painful and difficult conversation where you explain to your own children just how awfully they really do suck.
What in the hell is this brown fluid that keeps leaking out of my nose?
When I am walking my dog and we approach an intersection he sits and I stop. I look both ways and in most cases watch vehicles drive through said intersection. At a stop sign pedestrians have the right of way. My dog understands that better than the people Colorado gives driver licenses to. This is a dog that humps the wrong end of other dogs. Yet we give these turd heads the ability to careen through the city in a glass and metal and gasoline box of death.
If you got hustled by an online scam, there is no need to post to a message board warning others. You were promised lonely girls in your area, or prescription drugs without a prescription or free software or a job you were grossly unqualified for and it didn't work out that way? That doesn't surprise those of us who don't only use our heads to warm our pillows. Whether or not you used spell check or what you think is a big word, when your message is "Look out for this scam", all I read is "Could you tell me which way to The Grinder?"
I cleaned my rifle for bear season. I stocked up on ammunition during elk season. I calibrated my sight through duck season. When, oh when, do we have open season on journalists who write stories on the diet habits of celebrities?
I think that's about it for now. Since some of you asked, The Mustard can be found here. There are few things I enjoy less than watching general studies majors make millions of dollars to play a game, like people talking and writing about these meat heads. But, I'm a decent human being and thought some of you might enjoy this blog. Let's see how long it is before you nag me to post again.
Thursday, May 12, 2005
Finally, a list of things that don't suck.
The Enormous Omelet sandwich from Burger King, 700 calories of eggs, bacon, sausage and cheese. I could link you to any number of news articles crying about cholesterol or sodium or some other things that bed wetters cry about (most notably that rash) but I'm going to tell you that the sandwich rocks. The only thing that might have made this sandwich better would be pepper jack cheese or hot sauce but I have hot sauce at home. It has bacon and sausage, the one two punch of our mastery over pigs. For all you ridiculous vegetarians out there, first, you have CANINE teeth. I cannot have an intelligent conversation with you. Second, pigs are large and meaty and COME WHEN YOU CALL. Nature clearly wants me to eat them.
Black Cherry Kool-Aid. I was going to just say Kool-Aid, but let's be real here. Grape and Orange don't really taste like fruit. Lime is just foul. As if I didn't have enough disdain for executives and marketing weasels, who green lighted Raw Egg Flavor?
Mustard Nirvana. The Authentic Stadium Mustard available only in Greater Cleveland formerly found only in Cleveland Municipal Stadium is the king. All other mustards must fall prostrate before it. Under no circumstance should you ever confuse it with that abomination: Official Ballpark Mustard. Never have I seen such a horrific example of coattail riding in my life. There is a special place in hell for you purveyors of Official Ballpark Mustard. Even one packet of French's yellow mustard can kick the ass of all the ketchup in the world (or catsup for you Nancies, but since you're getting your ass kicked by a packet of mustard I don't know why I care about your spelling preferences). So you take a hot dog bun and put a stripe of spicy brown mustard down one side. Then you put some yellow mustard down the other side. After that you put a heavy stripe of Authentic Stadium Mustard right down the middle. A hot dog or bratwurst is then placed in this bed of greatness and consumed to reach a higher plane.
When a train holds up traffic but only goes a few yards from the edge of the road. I can ride my bicycle across the tracks behind the last car while you buffoons wait for some rail car to get unloaded in another state, because trains are long.
Strong Bad emails
People who don't lock their cars. I have been finding the greatest stuff. There are pills and tools and a baby that only knows curse words. Well it only knew curse words when I put it back. Taking a baby from a black Honda in a grocery store parking lot and putting a newly verbal baby back in a black Honda in some other grocery store parking lot is perfectly normal, right?
Prallethrin, Lambda-Cyhalothryn and/or my urine. I have unwanted six-legged visitors: big, black roaches, the kind that eat the other roaches. Roaches are the most hated, disgusting, garbage-fed monstrosities the world has ever known. I have the roaches that eat them. I don't like to sleep at night because if they eat roaches, I must be delicious. So the fancy chemicals are sprayed all over the house but sometimes one gets through. I caught one in my lavatory and threw it in the toilet. As it tried to free itself from the water, I urinated upon it. This amused the piss out of me. Taken with the supernatural waste fluid receptacle that I have, this went on for about ninety minutes before the intruder was flushed to his confirmed death.
My hair. It's thick and luxurious and still connected to my head. Holy freaking cow is it beautiful. Does the phrase "holy cow" count as Hindi blasphemy?
Cheap rent, a phone number the creditors don't have, that dog in Kenya that was going to eat that baby before she was interrupted, school bus crashes, ten for a dollar Ramen (Chicken flavor only), the fact that I can use flavor that many times in the same rambling, and this girl that's going to buy me dinner.
Go forth, faithful reader, and be less sucky.
Black Cherry Kool-Aid. I was going to just say Kool-Aid, but let's be real here. Grape and Orange don't really taste like fruit. Lime is just foul. As if I didn't have enough disdain for executives and marketing weasels, who green lighted Raw Egg Flavor?
Mustard Nirvana. The Authentic Stadium Mustard available only in Greater Cleveland formerly found only in Cleveland Municipal Stadium is the king. All other mustards must fall prostrate before it. Under no circumstance should you ever confuse it with that abomination: Official Ballpark Mustard. Never have I seen such a horrific example of coattail riding in my life. There is a special place in hell for you purveyors of Official Ballpark Mustard. Even one packet of French's yellow mustard can kick the ass of all the ketchup in the world (or catsup for you Nancies, but since you're getting your ass kicked by a packet of mustard I don't know why I care about your spelling preferences). So you take a hot dog bun and put a stripe of spicy brown mustard down one side. Then you put some yellow mustard down the other side. After that you put a heavy stripe of Authentic Stadium Mustard right down the middle. A hot dog or bratwurst is then placed in this bed of greatness and consumed to reach a higher plane.
When a train holds up traffic but only goes a few yards from the edge of the road. I can ride my bicycle across the tracks behind the last car while you buffoons wait for some rail car to get unloaded in another state, because trains are long.
Strong Bad emails
People who don't lock their cars. I have been finding the greatest stuff. There are pills and tools and a baby that only knows curse words. Well it only knew curse words when I put it back. Taking a baby from a black Honda in a grocery store parking lot and putting a newly verbal baby back in a black Honda in some other grocery store parking lot is perfectly normal, right?
Prallethrin, Lambda-Cyhalothryn and/or my urine. I have unwanted six-legged visitors: big, black roaches, the kind that eat the other roaches. Roaches are the most hated, disgusting, garbage-fed monstrosities the world has ever known. I have the roaches that eat them. I don't like to sleep at night because if they eat roaches, I must be delicious. So the fancy chemicals are sprayed all over the house but sometimes one gets through. I caught one in my lavatory and threw it in the toilet. As it tried to free itself from the water, I urinated upon it. This amused the piss out of me. Taken with the supernatural waste fluid receptacle that I have, this went on for about ninety minutes before the intruder was flushed to his confirmed death.
My hair. It's thick and luxurious and still connected to my head. Holy freaking cow is it beautiful. Does the phrase "holy cow" count as Hindi blasphemy?
Cheap rent, a phone number the creditors don't have, that dog in Kenya that was going to eat that baby before she was interrupted, school bus crashes, ten for a dollar Ramen (Chicken flavor only), the fact that I can use flavor that many times in the same rambling, and this girl that's going to buy me dinner.
Go forth, faithful reader, and be less sucky.
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
Old Ladies Are Completely Worthless
I was recently involved in Denver Digs Trees annual tree sale and distribution. As you may or may not know Colorado does not have a climate or landscape that facilitates natural tree reproduction. The ground is too hard and dusty and there is not enough rainfall to encourage seeds to take root. Almost all of the trees in Colorado's metropolitan areas were planted by people.
For those of you thinking that I care about oxygen or cleaning up pollution or any of that other crap trees take credit for, "What are you, stupid? Have you not been paying attention?" I plant trees because I hate people I would like to see them wiped off the planet. I side with the trees because they have like a 1 billion year evolutionary head start and none of them whine that global warming will flood the coasts.
On a related note, if there are any predatory alien species waiting to take over the earth I pledge my allegiance to you. If you would give me intergalactic travel or maybe death rays to shoot out of my eyes I will gladly, nee gleefully, destroy anyone and anything that opposes you.
So my job as a tree handler / mulch bagger entailed standing in garage full of trees and getting them for the customers. Someone calls out the name of the tree, I check the label, select the correct tree, put the roots in a bag, fill bag with mulch, give to customer, tell them to go away. Apparently the job of all the old ladies is to tell dumb stories, stand where I'm trying to walk, tell me they can identify trees better than the tag put there by the nursery, and keep me from getting another organic soda, which suck by the way, corporate sponsor.
Do you know what they did next? Wait. That's the tingling in my arm the doctor says I should call him about. Where are my pills, dammit?!
For those of you thinking that I care about oxygen or cleaning up pollution or any of that other crap trees take credit for, "What are you, stupid? Have you not been paying attention?" I plant trees because I hate people I would like to see them wiped off the planet. I side with the trees because they have like a 1 billion year evolutionary head start and none of them whine that global warming will flood the coasts.
On a related note, if there are any predatory alien species waiting to take over the earth I pledge my allegiance to you. If you would give me intergalactic travel or maybe death rays to shoot out of my eyes I will gladly, nee gleefully, destroy anyone and anything that opposes you.
So my job as a tree handler / mulch bagger entailed standing in garage full of trees and getting them for the customers. Someone calls out the name of the tree, I check the label, select the correct tree, put the roots in a bag, fill bag with mulch, give to customer, tell them to go away. Apparently the job of all the old ladies is to tell dumb stories, stand where I'm trying to walk, tell me they can identify trees better than the tag put there by the nursery, and keep me from getting another organic soda, which suck by the way, corporate sponsor.
Do you know what they did next? Wait. That's the tingling in my arm the doctor says I should call him about. Where are my pills, dammit?!
Monday, April 11, 2005
Giant Bladder's Greatest Hits
I don't post very often because I'm doing stuff, like helping Wisconsin pass laws to allow the hunting of cats or trying to figure out why every time I go to a meeting there is someone to ask retardedly stupid questions. If I can somehow get those people classified as feral cats in Wisconsin the world would be perfect.
So I would like to acknowledge my favorite visitors. First is whoever told the heart attack story to people in my old neighborhood. I'm sooo greatful to be worthy of gossip. Then there is my mother, who after reading the site called to tell me that, "I continue to be a disappointment and embarrassment" to her. Then she asked me, "Why can't you be more like your brother?" To which I responded, "Which brother?" She said, "I don't care. Just quit being like you." I told her that I think Hallmark makes a card with that on it. Then she cursed at me in Yiddish and hung up. I didn't even know my mother could speak Yiddish.
So I would like to acknowledge my favorite visitors. First is whoever told the heart attack story to people in my old neighborhood. I'm sooo greatful to be worthy of gossip. Then there is my mother, who after reading the site called to tell me that, "I continue to be a disappointment and embarrassment" to her. Then she asked me, "Why can't you be more like your brother?" To which I responded, "Which brother?" She said, "I don't care. Just quit being like you." I told her that I think Hallmark makes a card with that on it. Then she cursed at me in Yiddish and hung up. I didn't even know my mother could speak Yiddish.
Monday, March 28, 2005
No, I Won't Support Your Charity Part I
No, I will not support your charity. Charities that fall into either of these categories will not get my time or money: helping children or fighting disease.
I will not buy candy or cookies or candles or magazine subscriptions or whatever ridiculously overpriced crap it is this week to support your kid’s extra-curricular activity. It’s not my job. Children should be put in metal desks, given information via computer monitor, and then questioned about that information. Incorrect answers will result in a mild electric shock. The information could be presented again and the student tested again until all information had been retained. “All information” will include how to be of value to society.
Why do I love this plan, because it would be inexpensive and effective and it would crush the teacher’s union. Now I’m sure that there are some teachers who really believe that they are performing a noble service that we, as society, shun. Sure cops and fire fighters and soldiers get all the glory, but if everyone was just retaining more information we probably wouldn’t need any of them.
The problem no one wants to acknowledge is: some kids will never get out of the desk. I have no objection to you feeding and watering those kids. I think these kids should be ground up and fed to the kids that can learn but since I am a reasonable man you can keep the dumb ones as pets.
The metal chairs would fold up allowing the student to run on a treadmill, presenting the physical activity necessary for proper health. This would also not interrupt the presentation of information on the aforementioned monitor.
Oh yeah, we were crushing the teacher’s union. The union is just a bunch of people who get paid to whine and complain. Now they would really have something to complain about and no one would pay them. The only thing funnier than that kind of biting wit is a kid stuck down a well. Man, I love wells.
Why am I not the Secretary of Education?
Let’s get back to why I’m not supporting your charity. I don’t like children. I especially don’t like your children. I told you not to have them. Don’t come crying to me when you can’t afford to care for them. Your noisy germ bags are your problem end of discussion.
I will not buy candy or cookies or candles or magazine subscriptions or whatever ridiculously overpriced crap it is this week to support your kid’s extra-curricular activity. It’s not my job. Children should be put in metal desks, given information via computer monitor, and then questioned about that information. Incorrect answers will result in a mild electric shock. The information could be presented again and the student tested again until all information had been retained. “All information” will include how to be of value to society.
Why do I love this plan, because it would be inexpensive and effective and it would crush the teacher’s union. Now I’m sure that there are some teachers who really believe that they are performing a noble service that we, as society, shun. Sure cops and fire fighters and soldiers get all the glory, but if everyone was just retaining more information we probably wouldn’t need any of them.
The problem no one wants to acknowledge is: some kids will never get out of the desk. I have no objection to you feeding and watering those kids. I think these kids should be ground up and fed to the kids that can learn but since I am a reasonable man you can keep the dumb ones as pets.
The metal chairs would fold up allowing the student to run on a treadmill, presenting the physical activity necessary for proper health. This would also not interrupt the presentation of information on the aforementioned monitor.
Oh yeah, we were crushing the teacher’s union. The union is just a bunch of people who get paid to whine and complain. Now they would really have something to complain about and no one would pay them. The only thing funnier than that kind of biting wit is a kid stuck down a well. Man, I love wells.
Why am I not the Secretary of Education?
Let’s get back to why I’m not supporting your charity. I don’t like children. I especially don’t like your children. I told you not to have them. Don’t come crying to me when you can’t afford to care for them. Your noisy germ bags are your problem end of discussion.
Thursday, March 24, 2005
A true and personal entry.
So I'm back at my job after my heart attack and my co-worker asked how my family reacted to the news.
"I don't really talk to my family", I said.
"Really, why not?", she asked.
"We don't really get along. They call me butt juice."
"I think you're just making that up for attention", she speculated.
"It might have something to do with the fact that I tried lighting the house on fire, several times, with them in it."
"That's horrible", she exclaimed, "Why would you do something like that?"
"Because they call me butt juice." Why do I have to work with such stupid people?
"I don't really talk to my family", I said.
"Really, why not?", she asked.
"We don't really get along. They call me butt juice."
"I think you're just making that up for attention", she speculated.
"It might have something to do with the fact that I tried lighting the house on fire, several times, with them in it."
"That's horrible", she exclaimed, "Why would you do something like that?"
"Because they call me butt juice." Why do I have to work with such stupid people?
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
The rage has felled me.
Please excuse my absence of the past two weeks. I have encountered the amazing power of rage. I have faced it, been knocked down, and righted myself to carry on.
It was a typical day of giving tours in the candy factory. I had to listen to boring stories from old ladies about the sweets they used to get during the Civil War, morons asking about low-carb candy, and idiots who saw us on any one of hundreds of television appearances acting like they were in on some secret. So 90 minutes into my day I'd had more than should have had to take. Enter screaming baby.
I'm trying to explain the process of candy making to the mental deficients who can't understand, "See that? That's how they make candy." But the baby won't stop screaming and crying. I don't know why. I don't care. It's not my brat. So I tell its 600 pound mustachioed mother, "You shut that thing up or I will bury a claw hammer in its squishy little skull". Now I have the noise and poop machine and its progenitors' blathering to deal with.
Since I am a man of my word I head into the warehouse to find the tool box. That's where the hammer is. As I reach into said box with my tingly left arm I discover a pain greater than a kick to the groin. Gentlemen, did you ever notice that a strong blow to the gonads often causes nausea? That's because your body is trying to disperse the pain throughout your entire torso. Not so with the heart attack. Imagine if you will several strikes to the family jewels, all concentrated in an area of your chest the size of your fist. Go ahead, look at your fist. It's not a lot of space.
The next few parts of the story are gathered from witness reports and are hard to verify. It appears that another tour guide followed me into the warehouse to talk me out of dispensing justice on the spawn of hell and found me lying on the floor. It seems that CPR was administered or jumper cables were hooked up to my chest and the tow motor.
I awoke in the hospital. If I could for a second, a shout out to St. Anthony's in Denver, if they found out I wasn't a practicing Catholic they would have thrown me out on the street but when they thought I was just indigent they gladly switched the ticker from off to on.
So what have I learned from the experience you ask? First, coffee and cigarettes, despite being made exclusively from vegetable matter do not constitute a well balanced breakfast. Secondly, butter should not be eaten out of the tub with a spoon like ice cream, nor should mayonnaise or sour cream. I think they said something about peanut butter, any way I'll be washing fewer spoons from now on. Lastly, just squish the little head right then and there.
It was a typical day of giving tours in the candy factory. I had to listen to boring stories from old ladies about the sweets they used to get during the Civil War, morons asking about low-carb candy, and idiots who saw us on any one of hundreds of television appearances acting like they were in on some secret. So 90 minutes into my day I'd had more than should have had to take. Enter screaming baby.
I'm trying to explain the process of candy making to the mental deficients who can't understand, "See that? That's how they make candy." But the baby won't stop screaming and crying. I don't know why. I don't care. It's not my brat. So I tell its 600 pound mustachioed mother, "You shut that thing up or I will bury a claw hammer in its squishy little skull". Now I have the noise and poop machine and its progenitors' blathering to deal with.
Since I am a man of my word I head into the warehouse to find the tool box. That's where the hammer is. As I reach into said box with my tingly left arm I discover a pain greater than a kick to the groin. Gentlemen, did you ever notice that a strong blow to the gonads often causes nausea? That's because your body is trying to disperse the pain throughout your entire torso. Not so with the heart attack. Imagine if you will several strikes to the family jewels, all concentrated in an area of your chest the size of your fist. Go ahead, look at your fist. It's not a lot of space.
The next few parts of the story are gathered from witness reports and are hard to verify. It appears that another tour guide followed me into the warehouse to talk me out of dispensing justice on the spawn of hell and found me lying on the floor. It seems that CPR was administered or jumper cables were hooked up to my chest and the tow motor.
I awoke in the hospital. If I could for a second, a shout out to St. Anthony's in Denver, if they found out I wasn't a practicing Catholic they would have thrown me out on the street but when they thought I was just indigent they gladly switched the ticker from off to on.
So what have I learned from the experience you ask? First, coffee and cigarettes, despite being made exclusively from vegetable matter do not constitute a well balanced breakfast. Secondly, butter should not be eaten out of the tub with a spoon like ice cream, nor should mayonnaise or sour cream. I think they said something about peanut butter, any way I'll be washing fewer spoons from now on. Lastly, just squish the little head right then and there.
Tuesday, March 08, 2005
My dog, controlling the pet population
I know some people don’t like dogs, and some people don’t like people who have dogs. I’m not one to make enemies. So I did quite a bit of research and planning before I got my dog.
I adopted my dog from the city pound. As best as can be guessed he is part husky, part German shepherd and part something really, really large.
I purchased my house with the intention of getting a dog. It has a big yard with a privacy fence. I make sure the dog is walked in the morning and evening every day; yes I do pick up his droppings. Most evenings we also play fetch. Watching him guess which way the ball will bounce off the fence is tremendously amusing. He eats quality dog food, per the manufacturer and veterinarian’s recommendations, and always has access to clean water. He has a large collection of toys that keep him occupied when I am not home. He is fixed, a graduate of obedience school, good with children and old people, vaccinated and gets annual check ups, which is more often than his owner.
The dog, however, has bloodlust. When he was a puppy and he killed Miller moths, I believed he was sent from heaven. Then I would come home from work to find a dead bird in the yard. After that it was squirrels. Once, I found a rabbit. Yes, Virginia there is a progression. Now it’s cats. I figure he catches them and shakes them until he breaks their necks, because the carcasses are not really damaged.
I put the bodies in trash bags and throw them in the dumpster behind my house. If I see a sign in the neighborhood for a lost cat that matches one I’ve disposed of, I call and tell them, “Your cat’s not coming back.” Sometimes they cry. Sometimes they curse. I hang up and say to my self, “That wouldn’t have happened if they took care of their cat the way I take care of my dog”.
I adopted my dog from the city pound. As best as can be guessed he is part husky, part German shepherd and part something really, really large.
I purchased my house with the intention of getting a dog. It has a big yard with a privacy fence. I make sure the dog is walked in the morning and evening every day; yes I do pick up his droppings. Most evenings we also play fetch. Watching him guess which way the ball will bounce off the fence is tremendously amusing. He eats quality dog food, per the manufacturer and veterinarian’s recommendations, and always has access to clean water. He has a large collection of toys that keep him occupied when I am not home. He is fixed, a graduate of obedience school, good with children and old people, vaccinated and gets annual check ups, which is more often than his owner.
The dog, however, has bloodlust. When he was a puppy and he killed Miller moths, I believed he was sent from heaven. Then I would come home from work to find a dead bird in the yard. After that it was squirrels. Once, I found a rabbit. Yes, Virginia there is a progression. Now it’s cats. I figure he catches them and shakes them until he breaks their necks, because the carcasses are not really damaged.
I put the bodies in trash bags and throw them in the dumpster behind my house. If I see a sign in the neighborhood for a lost cat that matches one I’ve disposed of, I call and tell them, “Your cat’s not coming back.” Sometimes they cry. Sometimes they curse. I hang up and say to my self, “That wouldn’t have happened if they took care of their cat the way I take care of my dog”.
Wednesday, March 02, 2005
Dial-a-Song 20 Years of They Might Be Giants
Dial-a-Song 20 Years of They Might Be Giants
Holy fucking shit I love this stuff. Music with rules is for suckers. This is a killer collection from a killer band. If you disagree you are wrong, like racism and littering, just plain wrong.
All I’m saying is the live version of “Why Does the Sun Shine?” made me get up and dance in my living room. Now I don’t dance. I don’t dance like Muslims don’t eat pork or girls don’t pee standing up. But I got up and shook my body around the room like an epileptic getting electrocuted.
In fact I would have posted this a couple of minutes ago, but I had to go listen to it again.
I know, I know, if I had taken Composition 201 instead of Ceramics I would use fewer similes. However I wouldn’t have any where near as many ashtrays.
Just listen to the discs and feel good, dammit! Did your favorite band write a song about James K Polk or metabolisms and four chambered hearts? Holy fucking shit I love this stuff.
Holy fucking shit I love this stuff. Music with rules is for suckers. This is a killer collection from a killer band. If you disagree you are wrong, like racism and littering, just plain wrong.
All I’m saying is the live version of “Why Does the Sun Shine?” made me get up and dance in my living room. Now I don’t dance. I don’t dance like Muslims don’t eat pork or girls don’t pee standing up. But I got up and shook my body around the room like an epileptic getting electrocuted.
In fact I would have posted this a couple of minutes ago, but I had to go listen to it again.
I know, I know, if I had taken Composition 201 instead of Ceramics I would use fewer similes. However I wouldn’t have any where near as many ashtrays.
Just listen to the discs and feel good, dammit! Did your favorite band write a song about James K Polk or metabolisms and four chambered hearts? Holy fucking shit I love this stuff.
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
I don't like children
I really don't like children. No I'm not being cute or gruff for your amusement. I do not like children. They are noisy and dirty. They can't carry on intelligent conversation. They spread germs and break things. Many of them can't walk or use the toilet appropriately.
Someone's first steps are only worth noting if they are the first steps after an airplane crash. I walked over to you to hear that stupid story. Now I will crap my pants and see how fucking adorable it is.
Math and science and enough language to read about math and science are the only things children need to learn. So, no I don't want to buy overpriced waxy chocolate so your kid can play sports. Tell his big dumb ass to get a job.
Children are fucking leeches. They suck at the government teat and provide nothing of value. I did see one who couldn't read the cross walk get hit by a car once. He had entertainment value.
So unless your kid is getting hit with something or chopped up in farm equipment or can do a trick at least as good as a dog or monkey, I don't want to hear about it.
Now your teenage daughter that is willing to travel to West Virginia with me, she might be okay.
Someone's first steps are only worth noting if they are the first steps after an airplane crash. I walked over to you to hear that stupid story. Now I will crap my pants and see how fucking adorable it is.
Math and science and enough language to read about math and science are the only things children need to learn. So, no I don't want to buy overpriced waxy chocolate so your kid can play sports. Tell his big dumb ass to get a job.
Children are fucking leeches. They suck at the government teat and provide nothing of value. I did see one who couldn't read the cross walk get hit by a car once. He had entertainment value.
So unless your kid is getting hit with something or chopped up in farm equipment or can do a trick at least as good as a dog or monkey, I don't want to hear about it.
Now your teenage daughter that is willing to travel to West Virginia with me, she might be okay.
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