I must say I was shocked to read that headline today. I was about as shocked to hear that Eddie Murphy was black, Colin Farrell was a man-whore, and Amy Winehouse has a drug "issue."
It seems ridiculous to me that this is even news worthy. He claims he "could not hide it anymore." I wish he was hiding Osama because it was painfully obvious he was as queer as a 3-dollar bill since he came on the scene. All the power to him for being sneaky and keeping it from everyone. Rest easy Ms. Aiken. We all knew but still are not going to buy your album.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Why buy a mobile home?
Homes are not meant to be mobile. They only make sense when you own the ground you put them on. They then become real property with tax benefits. Other than that, they are migraines. My wife owned one before we got married. YAY, you might say, you married one of those real estate tycoons. No, this particular model, a 1972 Fleetwood single-wide mobile home, was placed in a park on rented ground. Owning this P.O.S. was just the first mistake. It gets worse from here.
I should preface the next tirade with a disclaimer that anyone who owns a mobile home but not the land is a fucktard and has the common sense of an infant gumming on a Ginsu. I have zero sympathy for those who invest in a car and wonder why it falls apart faster that Amy Winehouse. My wife vacated this property when she married an alcoholic. No, it wasn't me, rather it was her first husband. She found 3 sets of renters, 2 of which the park would not allow inside. Kind of like the Pentagon. They don't let just anyone in there. They have to be top notch winners with loads of cash and good credit because, well, they are renting a mobile home in a park simply to save money. Right....but only a mobile home owner would believe that shit anyway.
The renters had to get a co-signor who would agree to vouch for these assholes in the event they did not pay lot rent. My wife had them fill out an application, and did not pull credit or do any employment verification, simply needing to have someone in the place so she could move out and fornicate with Mr. Whiskey-dick. I am not bitter she was married before. Honestly, I am not. It only lasted 6 weeks anyway. Sounds almost like Britney's high school fling in Vegas. She has the renters sign a purchase agreement stating they could buy this wonderful piece of tin for $12,500 in five years. Not sure if that is a parting gift or what.
"Today, for curing cancer you get this..... 1972 Fleetwood single-wide home-on-wheels, tongue and groove removed for your conveniece. A 14 by 60 gem of a home, it comes with window coverings and 45 square feet of linoleum. This price package worth... a big ol' bag of dog shit!"
Five years came and went 3 years ago. No demand feature, no consequence for missing trailer tax payments or loan payments. SImply a thank GOD someone is in there taking care of my castle. It's almost like a 22 year old woman wrote the contract. Err....well, ok that's true. Now, the renters have not paid lot rent for three months, at about $400 a pop. The park manager who makes Jessica Simpson seem like a Rhode Scholar, is suing my wife for the unpaid lot rent. Not the renters, who apparently were evicted on July 31st, yet they are still living there. Not the co-signor who, according to Miss Smart Woman cannot be located, but my wife. Oh, and also the lender who holds the note to this piece of garbage. Makes tons of sense since the agreement signed by the renters and the park indicate that the tenants are liable for the lot rent.
Now, I get to make a trip to Idaho, on my own dime, to contest this action on behalf of my wife. I get to sit across from Wonder Woman as she attempts to justify her actions. This is the benefit of owning a mobile home. A big fucking migraine headache and elevated blood pressure. Not to mention, I have 4.5 hours of driving one way. I am so incredibly excited you have no idea. I am filing a small claims lawsuit against the renters for $5000 while I am there. It is $3362 short of what they haven't paid in taxes and payments. They will file bankruptcy as soon as the judgment is rendered anyway and become squatters officially, per the courts.
Why buy a mobile home again? Oh right......TO MAKE MY LIFE A LIVING HELL!
I should preface the next tirade with a disclaimer that anyone who owns a mobile home but not the land is a fucktard and has the common sense of an infant gumming on a Ginsu. I have zero sympathy for those who invest in a car and wonder why it falls apart faster that Amy Winehouse. My wife vacated this property when she married an alcoholic. No, it wasn't me, rather it was her first husband. She found 3 sets of renters, 2 of which the park would not allow inside. Kind of like the Pentagon. They don't let just anyone in there. They have to be top notch winners with loads of cash and good credit because, well, they are renting a mobile home in a park simply to save money. Right....but only a mobile home owner would believe that shit anyway.
The renters had to get a co-signor who would agree to vouch for these assholes in the event they did not pay lot rent. My wife had them fill out an application, and did not pull credit or do any employment verification, simply needing to have someone in the place so she could move out and fornicate with Mr. Whiskey-dick. I am not bitter she was married before. Honestly, I am not. It only lasted 6 weeks anyway. Sounds almost like Britney's high school fling in Vegas. She has the renters sign a purchase agreement stating they could buy this wonderful piece of tin for $12,500 in five years. Not sure if that is a parting gift or what.
"Today, for curing cancer you get this.....
Five years came and went 3 years ago. No demand feature, no consequence for missing trailer tax payments or loan payments. SImply a thank GOD someone is in there taking care of my castle. It's almost like a 22 year old woman wrote the contract. Err....well, ok that's true. Now, the renters have not paid lot rent for three months, at about $400 a pop. The park manager who makes Jessica Simpson seem like a Rhode Scholar, is suing my wife for the unpaid lot rent. Not the renters, who apparently were evicted on July 31st, yet they are still living there. Not the co-signor who, according to Miss Smart Woman cannot be located, but my wife. Oh, and also the lender who holds the note to this piece of garbage. Makes tons of sense since the agreement signed by the renters and the park indicate that the tenants are liable for the lot rent.
Now, I get to make a trip to Idaho, on my own dime, to contest this action on behalf of my wife. I get to sit across from Wonder Woman as she attempts to justify her actions. This is the benefit of owning a mobile home. A big fucking migraine headache and elevated blood pressure. Not to mention, I have 4.5 hours of driving one way. I am so incredibly excited you have no idea. I am filing a small claims lawsuit against the renters for $5000 while I am there. It is $3362 short of what they haven't paid in taxes and payments. They will file bankruptcy as soon as the judgment is rendered anyway and become squatters officially, per the courts.
Why buy a mobile home again? Oh right......TO MAKE MY LIFE A LIVING HELL!
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Parents Can Make Mistakes
Most times, parents are perfect people. Usually, we, as a breed, are never wrong. Unless it is was today, and it's warm outside, and my daughter is wearing long pants at recess.
Honestly, it is cold outside in the moring when I take her to school. In my mind, by this time next week it will be officially fall. I made a compromise and put a short sleeve shirt on her. However, when I picked her up, Peyton had her arms folded, glaring at me as if I was late for dinner. She was standing by her teacher for moral support and blurted, "You put pants on me today!" The thought crossed my mind that my error was it was BUCK ASS NEKKID day at her school but as I glanced around the playground, I noticed other clothed children frolicking harmlessly around the play equipment. I wasn't sure what to say other than to apologize to her royal highness in hopes I would be spared the guillotine. Her teacher smiled at me and said she would see us tomorrow. Personally, from my daughters look, I wasn't sure I would survive the night.
As we drove down the driveway of the school I made another mistake, asking her how her day was. After a few silent moments I turned over my right shoulder to see if she was still conscious. She was staring out the window, arms still folded. "Honey," I said, "how was your day today?" She turned her head 480 degrees to look over at me with a look that could stop traffic. "I had pants on today," and then she promptly turned bck towards the window.
In my defense, society sort of makes clothing mandatory, at least where I live and more so, at the age of 5. I tried to plead with my daughter this very case. I told her that despite my many trips to D.C., clothing is required whether the school is public or private. I begged her to understand that, even though she was upset, that maybe tomorrow she could pick out something less inhibitive like, for example, saran wrap. I apologized profusely for having to follow rules and wished that I was more like her and less likely to take direction or listen to adults.
Despite my efforts, she continued to watch the scenery pass by her window. I wasn't sure what to do next other than to simply ask her. So I did. I asked her what needed to do to make her happy, adding being naked was out of the question. She said just one word. Not 'tattoo,' or 'piercing,' or 'cell.' She just said shorts.
Eh?
It was hot at recess and the other kids were in shorts or skirts. She was the only one in pants. I should know better because I am Dad and know everything. If I could please remember that tomorrow, that would make her happy. Ok, I said. I will also try to remember that there is a high pressure system over the Pacific Northwest with a clockwise rotation, bringing warm air up from Southern California, causing temperatures to rise to un-seasonal highs. I did tell her that there was a low pressure system in the Gulf of Alaska that will bring in a cold front over the next couple of days, causing temperatures to drop about 10 degrees over the next couple of days. I finished by telling her that I will remember to dress her according to the barometric pressure.
"OK," she said, and the she asked me to turn the radio up because her favorite song was on. How wonderful it would be to be 5 and perfect.
Honestly, it is cold outside in the moring when I take her to school. In my mind, by this time next week it will be officially fall. I made a compromise and put a short sleeve shirt on her. However, when I picked her up, Peyton had her arms folded, glaring at me as if I was late for dinner. She was standing by her teacher for moral support and blurted, "You put pants on me today!" The thought crossed my mind that my error was it was BUCK ASS NEKKID day at her school but as I glanced around the playground, I noticed other clothed children frolicking harmlessly around the play equipment. I wasn't sure what to say other than to apologize to her royal highness in hopes I would be spared the guillotine. Her teacher smiled at me and said she would see us tomorrow. Personally, from my daughters look, I wasn't sure I would survive the night.
As we drove down the driveway of the school I made another mistake, asking her how her day was. After a few silent moments I turned over my right shoulder to see if she was still conscious. She was staring out the window, arms still folded. "Honey," I said, "how was your day today?" She turned her head 480 degrees to look over at me with a look that could stop traffic. "I had pants on today," and then she promptly turned bck towards the window.
In my defense, society sort of makes clothing mandatory, at least where I live and more so, at the age of 5. I tried to plead with my daughter this very case. I told her that despite my many trips to D.C., clothing is required whether the school is public or private. I begged her to understand that, even though she was upset, that maybe tomorrow she could pick out something less inhibitive like, for example, saran wrap. I apologized profusely for having to follow rules and wished that I was more like her and less likely to take direction or listen to adults.
Despite my efforts, she continued to watch the scenery pass by her window. I wasn't sure what to do next other than to simply ask her. So I did. I asked her what needed to do to make her happy, adding being naked was out of the question. She said just one word. Not 'tattoo,' or 'piercing,' or 'cell.' She just said shorts.
Eh?
It was hot at recess and the other kids were in shorts or skirts. She was the only one in pants. I should know better because I am Dad and know everything. If I could please remember that tomorrow, that would make her happy. Ok, I said. I will also try to remember that there is a high pressure system over the Pacific Northwest with a clockwise rotation, bringing warm air up from Southern California, causing temperatures to rise to un-seasonal highs. I did tell her that there was a low pressure system in the Gulf of Alaska that will bring in a cold front over the next couple of days, causing temperatures to drop about 10 degrees over the next couple of days. I finished by telling her that I will remember to dress her according to the barometric pressure.
"OK," she said, and the she asked me to turn the radio up because her favorite song was on. How wonderful it would be to be 5 and perfect.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Customer Service
It is a word that defines itself by simply existing. If someone works in customer service, you can ask specifics I suppose, but their job really boils down to making the customer happy. Am I wrong? How complicated is that? Apparently, very hard if you work for Clearwire.
I called them the other day to let them now I was dissatisfied with my wireless reception. My demeanor, in my opinionwas fine. I started off rather friendly and professional, even asking the MALE on the other end of the line how the weather was in New Delhi, just as a joke. Turns out, he was in Denver, and thought I was making fun of him. By the sounds of it, he was as white as Britney Spears' wedding dress. OK, maybe a little more caucasian than that. With all of the outsourcing going on these days, I figured it would be a "break the ice" type of comment. I was mistaken. A friend of his was laid off because his job was sent overseas. I asked what his friend did. He said, "he was a customer service agent, just like me!" Feeling like a dick for not knowing this before hand (believe it or not, the number listed on the website did not indicate that some people were laid off. BIG shock, I know), I apologized...and then did something I should regret, but don't.
I snickered.
As if I had just lit a pack of 10,000 firecrackers under his wheeling chair, I got laid into about how the economy sucks, and that he could lose his job any minute to some Ishtar in Pakistan and to have some sympathy. The guy had kids.
Right. OK, I said, and I asked his name. "GREG!" he replied. Cool. Greg, listen to what I am going to tell you because....well, I love you like the sister I never had. I have kids, Greg. I was laid off. Yet, I am not screaming. As you can see I am rather patient and calm. So either, (A) you need to cut back on the caffeine intake. Or (B) take a bottle of Goldenseal before lunch, eat a dozen poppyseed muffins, eat some cocoa powder so that you have every excuse to tell your employers you cannot go piss in a cup for at least a week and then DETOX! Your job will be outsourced because dicks like you that act pissy on the phone for making an hourly wage that may be unacceptable to you are a dime a dozen over in Islamabad. Let me ask you something, GREG, did someone put a gun to your head when you signed your offer letter?
No, he said.
Then stop acting like a child and give me some assistance with my problem
OK, he said. How may I help YOU?
I want to talk to your supervisor.
Really? Why, he asked.
Well, mostly because I want to get you fired for calling me a flogging donkey dick and how I needed to come over to your place of employment and lick your balls before you help me. I might even throw in that you are my gay lover and I was just calling to tell you to get tested. I haven't decided. May I talk to your supervisor now?
Sure enough, he got friendly after that. He wanted to know what my problem was and he wanted to know right......NOW! Needless to say, after our conversation, he transferred me to a tech who promptly did something that has tripled my internet speed. No time outs, no disconnections. Yup, Clearwire gives great service. They just need to be pushed a little.
Now I need to get a hold of Dish Network....
I called them the other day to let them now I was dissatisfied with my wireless reception. My demeanor, in my opinion
I snickered.
As if I had just lit a pack of 10,000 firecrackers under his wheeling chair, I got laid into about how the economy sucks, and that he could lose his job any minute to some Ishtar in Pakistan and to have some sympathy. The guy had kids.
Right. OK, I said, and I asked his name. "GREG!" he replied. Cool. Greg, listen to what I am going to tell you because....well, I love you like the sister I never had. I have kids, Greg. I was laid off. Yet, I am not screaming. As you can see I am rather patient and calm. So either, (A) you need to cut back on the caffeine intake. Or (B) take a bottle of Goldenseal before lunch, eat a dozen poppyseed muffins, eat some cocoa powder so that you have every excuse to tell your employers you cannot go piss in a cup for at least a week and then DETOX! Your job will be outsourced because dicks like you that act pissy on the phone for making an hourly wage that may be unacceptable to you are a dime a dozen over in Islamabad. Let me ask you something, GREG, did someone put a gun to your head when you signed your offer letter?
No, he said.
Then stop acting like a child and give me some assistance with my problem
OK, he said. How may I help YOU?
I want to talk to your supervisor.
Really? Why, he asked.
Well, mostly because I want to get you fired for calling me a flogging donkey dick and how I needed to come over to your place of employment and lick your balls before you help me. I might even throw in that you are my gay lover and I was just calling to tell you to get tested. I haven't decided. May I talk to your supervisor now?
Sure enough, he got friendly after that. He wanted to know what my problem was and he wanted to know right......NOW! Needless to say, after our conversation, he transferred me to a tech who promptly did something that has tripled my internet speed. No time outs, no disconnections. Yup, Clearwire gives great service. They just need to be pushed a little.
Now I need to get a hold of Dish Network....
Thursday, September 11, 2008
It is about time
I figured it was time. I have not written in this blog since October of LAST year. That's too long. So many things have happened since then. I am just no sure where to start.
I could discuss the wonders of communal living and how my apartment complex is as worthless as a bag of dicks at a frat house. I have an English Bulldog that is as fascinated with apartment living as I am. But I am responsible and clean up after him because, well, it is the responsible thing to do. Love, honor, cherish, and pick up your bulldog's dung. I do that, yet I received a notice on my door that indicated otherwise. Continued violations of the pet policy will be met with strict punishment.
Really?
What would that be exactly? Flogging in the courtyard? Drawn and quartered? I wish I had a copy of the manual this letter was pulled from. I was innocent but was given the guilty notice. I felt like Barry Bonds. I have a pretty good idea who told the office manager since I make friends around this complex like Marilyn Manson does at summer camp. The older I get, the less I have in common with those that want to drink all night and discuss sexual prowess at a high decibel level, and then piss in the parking lot below my window. I may be immature, but I am old now. Too old to tolerate the behavior of some people. This is my blog, my story and I am entitled to be holier than thou, OK?
My dogs craps mini-coopers. His crap cannot be mistaken by that of lesser creatures. He doesn't even crap by my apartment. It takes him a few minutes to wake up. Like clockwork, I am taking an Albertson's bag with me for the main event. He does his doo, I do my doo-picky, and then up for breakfast. It just so happens that the manager's girlfriend owns a yorkie I would love to drop kick to next week. She overheard me telling someone how much I hate yip yip dogs who have little purpose in this world other than making my ears bleed. So her idea of payback is hanging a notice on my door statng I have violated Fluffy's psyche and please stop before there is an inervention for Fluffy's crank habit. I am thinking the next doo bag I have to dispose of just may be going through her open car window. Maybe.....I don't know. I haven't decided how to fit a mini-cooper into a Toyota Corrolla.
Any ideas?
I could discuss the wonders of communal living and how my apartment complex is as worthless as a bag of dicks at a frat house. I have an English Bulldog that is as fascinated with apartment living as I am. But I am responsible and clean up after him because, well, it is the responsible thing to do. Love, honor, cherish, and pick up your bulldog's dung. I do that, yet I received a notice on my door that indicated otherwise. Continued violations of the pet policy will be met with strict punishment.
Really?
What would that be exactly? Flogging in the courtyard? Drawn and quartered? I wish I had a copy of the manual this letter was pulled from. I was innocent but was given the guilty notice. I felt like Barry Bonds. I have a pretty good idea who told the office manager since I make friends around this complex like Marilyn Manson does at summer camp. The older I get, the less I have in common with those that want to drink all night and discuss sexual prowess at a high decibel level, and then piss in the parking lot below my window. I may be immature, but I am old now. Too old to tolerate the behavior of some people. This is my blog, my story and I am entitled to be holier than thou, OK?
My dogs craps mini-coopers. His crap cannot be mistaken by that of lesser creatures. He doesn't even crap by my apartment. It takes him a few minutes to wake up. Like clockwork, I am taking an Albertson's bag with me for the main event. He does his doo, I do my doo-picky, and then up for breakfast. It just so happens that the manager's girlfriend owns a yorkie I would love to drop kick to next week. She overheard me telling someone how much I hate yip yip dogs who have little purpose in this world other than making my ears bleed. So her idea of payback is hanging a notice on my door statng I have violated Fluffy's psyche and please stop before there is an inervention for Fluffy's crank habit. I am thinking the next doo bag I have to dispose of just may be going through her open car window. Maybe.....I don't know. I haven't decided how to fit a mini-cooper into a Toyota Corrolla.
Any ideas?
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