Where Did My Humor Go?

You ever have a one of those months? How about 3 months? I have been so wrapped up in school, I have forgotten what this blog was all about...RELEASE! If you scan over my blog at all, you will see mostly rants, as advertised, about the mundane. Usually, they consist of the things we want to say but never do. A few things have either happened to me directly or I have been contemplating over this 3 month span that I thought I would bring up, mostly because I can, and minutely because I have a semi-captive audience due to your boredom.

Everytime I see the Drake commercial where he is about ready to bust out his egocentric line "last name EVA, first name GRAYEST," and then backs away from the microphone stating he "just doesn't feel it," I cringe. I know what is coming next. Sprite. Sprite apparently makes you spew out sentence fragments to a beat and makes you rich. It also segments your body in a robotic fashion and enhances memory function. Nothing says refreshing like split facial bones with high fructose corn syrup running through them.

My neighbor right next door recently got a "Labrador retriever" to replace a Rottweiler that had to be put down because it killed a small calf. Yes...it chased down, tackled a small cow. I met the dog once when we moved in. I thought to myself, "that dog is huge! A baby Holstein is gonna get it one day." Sure enough, dead cow, dead Rottweiler. So, they replaced it with this...dog. It was a black dog, but not a Labrador as she called it. It was a mix and she claimed it was going to be used for hunting. First of all, the dog was like a toddler in Toys R Us without a spending limit....or Adderall. It could not sneak up on corpse. It was so bad, it leapt a 6 foot wire fence to check out our yard when they were gone. My dogs went a little nuts. The one time I didn't have a spare jug of anti-freeze. Yes, cruel....terrible of me to say. However, the older I get, the less tolerant I am of stupid people. Secondly, NO ONE in that house should be anywhere near a gun. I don't care if they have taken 8 years of gun/hunting safety classes. I guarantee a Dick Cheney incident the first day out, but on themselves as they point the butt of the gun towards a pheasant. Stephen Hawking would have more luck killing a bird. It's times like these where country living sounds awesome.

I used to think that the people of Walmart website was a joke, a farce created by people with too much time on their hands. I figured some of these pictures were so obviously staged that no WAY could they be legit. Then I went to Walmart at 830AM. They're true...every single one of them. I didn't have my cell phone to capture what I saw, but I saw several people that are painfully color-blind and obviously single. I saw shorts and Santa-laden tube socks pulled up to the knees with mocassins. I saw chainmail armor shawls. I saw Oranges with greens and felt like screaming "IT'S THE GREAT PUMPKIN CHARLIE BROWN!" I actually thought I saw the crest of Xanthia (from the movie Role Models). The Santa sock/mocassin lady was getting her Xanax prescription filled and it all made sense. One of these circus freaks was toting around a snot filled fleshling, complaining that they needed to hurry so it didn't miss its home school lesson. Future generation people. I think someone needs to care IMMEDIATELY.

Gotta go...the neighbor's dog is on my roof....

No Solicitation

If you have a front door, then you can relate. Salesman suck. They don't suck as much as crabs, walking in the garage and stepping on glass, 2AM slumber interruptions from your kids informing you that their feet hurt, a kick in the balls, or being ass raped by a grizzly bear, but they suck. I understand we all have to make a living. I respect people that want to make money to pay for crack since they aren't related to the dealer. I admire someone who feels a job should help pay for fellatio from a total stranger. I think it builds character. The job, not the oral sex. But stop knocking on my door....especially when I have a sign that says not to.

The sign is a chance to think about what you are about to do next. You have one of two options. First, you could knock and get an ass chewing by me, made fun of, ridiculed for your inability to follow written instructions, making you UNEMPLOYABLE at such places as....Walmart! Or you could stop, read and move along. Seems simple really. It isn't like we are the only people out in the country. We have other houses around us. We have people more than willing to eat your yummy meat so you can pay some skank to do the same. Adults that come by and sell me shit are the ones that get me. I shouldn't get mad at kids, really, because they don't have the life experience to know better. Who better to teach them but me?

We had a kid from the neighborhood come by yesterday and ring the doorbell, right around the time I was trying to do something important like euthanize an earwig. I went to the door ready to spew my tirade when low and behold a kid was standing there selling me a fucking nest. A nest! Why the hell would anyone want to buy a nest? It was made out of twigs, grass and mud, setting his nest apart from every other fucking avian condo I have ever seen how? My door was open about 5 inches and he was giving me his schpeel about how I could own this nest for just $10 when I wondered why the door was open at all. I heard $10 and was floored. Where did he compare his prices? Was there a market survey about nest prices...USED nest prices in the 99336 zip code? Then I looked him head to toe and he had the hygiene of a crack addict's kid. The term "dime bag" came to mind....and then the $10 tag made sense.

"How was work Daddy?"

"Daddy got fired you little bastard...go sell that nest in the front tree for some crack cash."

I simply said "no," and started to shut the door, and he put his foot in the door and said, "please....its only $10!" Most people would see, "awww.....he is probably hungry or something....poor kid." I don't have the patience for compassion. I said "no, but I will consider shitting in an ALbertson's bag and trading you for the nest. Shit for shit seems fair." He just stared blankly, so I said "Walmart bag?" He shook his head no and made a scrunched up, icky face. I guess he knows Walmart better than Albertson's.

...and we have come full circle...

Your Unemployment Bothers Me

I understand the economy sucks right now. I understand you may not be educated enough to enter data on a computer screen, pronounce AND spell rezoomay, get up early and work all day, or even understand the concept of POS systems. However, seeing you sit on your ass, DAILY, puffing away continuously on Marlboro reds, sipping on yet ANOTHER soda from Sunmart is beginning to aggravate me.

When I ask you how the job hunt is going, be creative. Stating "there are just no jobs out there" is bullshit. There ARE jobs out there. You just don't want to (A) work the hours they are wanting you to work or (B) don't want to take the time to re-train yourself in a new field. Either way, it falls on the fact that you are fine with having garage sales every wekeend to help pay your rent with shit that is being donated by a church. You are probably OK with simply collecting unemployment benefits. Whatever the case, as a tax payer I feel like its my right to inform you that I think you can be doing more to find work. Your kids are old enough to take care of themselves. Your car seems to run fine. You are able to walk to the mailbox and back. Your voice, at least right now, is healthy enough to bellow at me, asking if my place of employment is hiring from across the street. Let's do some math, shall we?

Being I do not know the price of a carton of Marlboro reds, I have to assume they are expensive since they are a brand name. You have to buy a carton, because buying them by pack doesn't make sense. Figuring on the burly, raspy tone of your voice and your hacking productive smoker's cough, I am going to assume, again, that you smoke about 3 packs a day. There are 10 packs in a carton. So, if the price of a carton is $50, and you go through 2 cartons a week, that is $100 a week in just smokes, or $400 a month, almost $5000 a year. I have no idea what your unemployment is but lets guess its $400 a week...$1600 a month. Seems a bit much to me, but whatever...benefit of the doubt I guess. Rent can't be less than $700. So for $1100 a month you have a cush, comfy porch to park your ass while you burn 25% of your monthly state, provided stipend away. This leaves about, estimating of course, $500 for gas, groceries and utilities, not to mention your son's cell phone bill. Maybe it's your phone, but the manner in which he hides his conversations from you, I can only imagine it being his.

I guess I am aggravated at myself for realizing I needed a career change and getting the schooling required to change professions and actually doing it, while working, while making sure my kid's don't miss out on time with me, or making time for the family when I really need to be studying, and working 55 hours a week to make sure I do not have to depend entirely on others...and then watching you do nothing except progress towards cancer and arteries that resemble re-bar. Don't be shocked that I don't waive at you. Your choice to manipulate the system so your life is easier is yours to do with what you choose, as is my choice to be neighborly. Waving, although courtesy, is a sign that I am OK that you sit on your ass all day. I'm not, so I don't waive.

Oh, next week, the next time I see your cat I am going to give him some anti-freeze before he shits in my yard again.

P is Bad, but F is OK

It's been way too long since I have posted on here. I figured I needed to stay relevant and try my best to relay some humor to those that might need a giggle or two. School has been keeping me insanely busy. Life, in general has thrown some snags my way. I am still alive however, for better or worse.

Doing home care can introduce you to many different things. For example, in the elderly, a simple UTI (urinary tract infection) can cause the patient to become rather incoherent. The urge to pee is there, yet, nothing comes out. Now, as a care provider, I have to answer all requests for care. It would be un-ethical for me to ignore a request to empty a urinal that, 45 seconds ago was bone dry. However, I go. Let me paint a picture for you. Two people, husband and wife, laying in two twin beds adjacent to one another, the husband is VERY hard of hearing, and the wife is....nuts. Not dementia nuts, just....nuts. It is a choice she makes to be weird. She also has no problem stating what is on her mind. She asked me to make sure the window was open 4 inches and to be sure it was 4 inches I should put my penis up there. The husband has hair growing out of his ears, more or less because his ear canals are about as useful as Snooki's vagina. He speaks pretty well, just loud. Very loud. So now you know, husband, my client, has an urge to pee, yet no pee comes out. He is fairly lucid, yet his mind is fuzzy because of this infection. The wife is annoyed because when he calls for help, he yells. She hears just fine. However, she yells back at him, complaining that he doesn't need to yell. From the couch it sounds like this (I will change the names because of HIIPA)

Lloyd - AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
Rose - Dammit Lloyd, you don't need to yell (yelling)! What do you need?!
Lloyd - AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
Rose - Do you have to VOID?!
Lloyd - HUHHHHHH?!?!?!
Rose - DO....YOU....HAVE....TO....VOID!!!!?!?!!

I got up at "AHHHHHHHHHHH" the first few dozen times because that is the responsible thing to do. When I get in there, he taps his groin region above the covers, like I needed to hint of why I was being called in. I donned the gloves, pulled back the covers, and removed the urinal. It was as empty as the space between Lindsay Lohan's ears. I shake it in front of him, turn it upside down showing him it was empty. He stares at me, not in bewilderment but as if to tell me he likes ice cream or fuzzy bunnies. I put the urinal back. His wife tells him its empty and its time to go to bed. "HUHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!?!!?!?!?!?!?," he says. I walk out and go sit back down with highlighter and Nursing Fundamentals book in hand. Understand, for the first few hours of the shift, this went on continuously, every 5 minutes. The final time, Rose asked me not to come back and just ignore him. OK....so I did. Then I heard this conversation.

Lloyd - AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Rose - Shut UP Lloyd....you don't need anything!!!!
Lloyd - AHHHHHHHHH....AHHHHHHH....AHHHHHHH....AHHHHHH!!!!!!!
Rose - WHAT DO YOU NEEED!?!?! He was just IN HERE!!!! YOUR URINAL IS EMPTYYYYY!!!!! GO TO BED, ITS 1 IN THE MORNING! If you don't shut up I am going to put this pillow over your head!!!
Lloyd - PISS-O-RAMA...PISS-O-RAMA.....MR. DICK....PISS-O-RAMA
(this is the part that suprises the HELL outta me)
Rose - I hate that word Lloyd. Do you like that word, Lloyd?!?! Do you like being dirty? Do you like being FILTHY?!?!? I can't stand that FUCKING word!!!

Eh?

So, let me get this straight. It's NOT OK to say 'piss'...but perfectly fine to say 'fucking?' For a minute, I was thinking her conversation was going in an entirely different direction. I anticipated a "Titanic" type porno with a whispy-clad old lady getting nasty. Thank GOD that wasn't the case. I threw up in my mouth a little bit just thinking about it. I could start a blog just from the shit I hear coming out of this house. This is just a taste....sad and comical all at once.

No Sale

I had just come home from a 12-hour shift. My kids weren't eating, my wife was hating her life because of that, the dog had just eaten one of the kid's sausages, and I saw a spider. A BIGGGGG fucking spider about the size of Rhode Island, smoking, and listening to rap. Needless to say, knocking on my door in a sing-song kind of way, thinking it would be a light-hearted attempt at establishing rapport probably wasn't in this guy's best interest. Especially at 9AM, at my address, at this moment. Did you get all that? Essentially, it was a bad idea, a wrong idea. He couldn't be more wrong if he decided to dry hump a lamp shade at Walmart. Just....well, bad idea.

For starters, who usually comes knockin' at 9AM on a weekday? Missionaries, mostly. "I am here to talk about Jesus." OK, shoot. "Well it all started when Joseph Smith peered inside a gopher hole and the Angel Moroni gave him a golden Trapper Keepe..." **SLAM** At least, that has been my experience. If you are Mormon and you just got offended, I won't apologize for religious expression. You have your God and I have mine, and if I hear one more time they are the same, I might go Davidian. I am getting off track. I hate it when that happens. It seems I can never sta...OMG LOOK AT THE BOUNCY BALL!

Last year, I had some guy come by, winded from hauling his cankles around my apartment complex, asking if he could demonstrate a shampooer, one room, free. Sure, I said. Why not. The living room looked like it was part of Pamplona. He said he would be right back. He shows up with a Kirby. This guy was good. He had a great personality. In fact, I was sold on him alone, and sure enough the Kirby was as delivered. Cleanest carpet this side of Lady Gaga. He claimed to have won a trip to Denver with this sale. It took about 90 minutes, his boss came in and played Wii with my kids. It was almost like we were a family. Of course, even though he took my number because he said he and his wife were moving here after the trip, I haven't heard from him. In fact, he probably threw it away right after, just selling me the vacuum. My point is he sold me. He sold me the vacuum, he sold me the attachments, he sold me the possibly phone call down the road. He earned the sale.

I guess I should state that when this guy told me he was doing a demonstration, he handed me a pamphlet that said, in no more words than this "FREE CARPET CLEANING, TODAY ONLY, ONE-ROOM." Here was this 6'4 300lb black man stating he was going to clean my carpet for free. I guess in reality, he could have been casing the joint, which would be fine because I needed a lot of shit gone since were moving soon. When he came in, his first words were, "nice TV." Fuck.

I used to love hearing from telemarketers. I used to point out to them that their script sucked worse than Gigli and that the best advice I could give them is to develop a stutter and then a fictitious family so that pity would warrant a possible 20% increase in sales. I used to mock these poor bastards. They didn't stand a chance. A lot like this tool bag standing at my door. As I side-stepped the 70 pound menace known as Gus and held him at bay with one foot, all I got was "HI," and the flyer. Before he even started in I said, I'm not interested. Why not? Well for starters, your tie is a clip on, and the shirt needs to find an iron worse than a cheeseburger needs to find an Olsen twin. Your slacks either (A) aren't yours or (B) were hemmed by Hellen Keller. White socks and black dress pants don't work, ever. Your diastema can hold Kim Kardashian's ass. The last time your hair saw a comb, let alone shampoo was Y2K. Two words, your teeth are more yellow than a Lemonhead. If that isn't enough, I already have a Kirby. I don't need another one. You are one-year too late and I can't even tell you how many chromosomes. I start to close the door.

"Well, how did you know I was selling a Kirby?" Your marketing department blows more than Jenna Jameson. This is the same flyer that was given to me last year, when I bought my Kirby. There is that, and you are....well, you, standing here at 9AM and you don't have Jesus on the pamphlet so that kind of narrows it down, you jack wagon. "Well, how old is it? You might want to have a backup in case something goes wrong." Seriously? This is what is going to make me keep the door open? It's guaranteed for life, nutjob. If anything ever breaks I can take it to the Kirby store and get a brand new one. Why would I want to spend more money on a backup? You need to try harder than this. Why not try, do you need more shampoo? I have some in the van of felons that can't find employment elsewhere. How about, sorry for my appearance, I just flew in from Afghanistan. You could try, sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if you would like me to mow your grass and clean out your gutters? No means no, craftsman.

Now go away before I release the Cracken.

Adversity

I can't believe how much we bitch about things. This nation is only a couple hundred years old. We forget that sometimes, I think. Two-hundred years ago, a trip from New York to Los Angeles took a couple of years. Six people would leave, and nine would arrive, a couple of those as infants. Now, it takes a few hours. I can't remember the comedian that said this, but he told a story about how he was sitting in a plane,flying from L.A. to New York and he was sitting next to someone who was complaing about the wireless Internet connection not working. YOU ARE SITTING IN A CHAIR....IN THE SKY! For fuck sake, stop complaining. Same thing with cell phones. If there is no instant gratification, IE, your message doesn't go through right away, just wait. It's going to space, for the love of God, give it a minute. We have indoor plumbing. People used to shit in a hole and used plants to clean up as best they could. People used to get syphillus and die (or any other simple bacteria strains for that matter). Now we can cure these things with a simple dose or 5 of antibiotics. So, stop with the whining already.

I think as a society, we are in the phase of "what's in it for me." I know this is not news. We have been here for some time. We are sue happy. Stick it to anyone you can, as long as it isn't me. We are surprised when we get stuck. WHY MEEEEEEEE? Karma, that's why. Help your fellow man. Do things for others instead of yourself. Give, freely, of your time and energy. It will be repaid. Eventually, when its time. Maybe not YOUR time, but IN time it will be. Patience. Find it, have it, hold onto it, and then teach it. Pay it forward. It might happen to you some day, or it might not. However, it isn't a requirement that it is repaid. That doesn't mean you shouldn't do it any way. STOP BEING SELFISH! Service for others. Isn't that why we are here anyway?

If you don't like something, change it. People seem so shocked with being in a rut. Shift your thinking. Move, wobble, change the momentum, both of where you are going and how you get there. Surprisingly enough, you will get where you want to be. But repeating something in the hopes the outcome will be different defines insanity, does it not? I think there is enough crazy in the world. There is also too much whining about not having, not being able to, wishing and hoping that one day....what? We all say these things, think these things and wonder how someone else got where they are. Persistence. Two mice fall into a vat of cream. One mouse stopped trying to get out and quickly drowned. The other mouse kept fighting and, sure enough, climbed out of the butter to safety (Catch Me If You Can reference) Never give up. Never stop trying to be better. The world will eat you alive. You are owed nothing. We all have the same 24 hours in a day. How will you spend yours?

The consequences faced by many are a direct result from choices made. Choices are a constant. I don't like teeter totters. I never have. Up and down, up and down, a lot like the swings in life. Living for tomorrow, or living for yesterday. Choose. Pick one and stick with it, but don't tell me "I remember when." I don't think Hiroshima, Nagasaki, the Sioux, South Africa, Germany, Poland or NASA like to live in the past. Move on, move forward. Life is best viewed through the windshield, not the rear view mirror. It's OK to visit where you have been, but live for where you are going. Learn, adapt, overcome.

God brings men into deep waters, not to drown them, but to cleanse them. ~John Aughey

There Are No Words....

The People of Walmart dot com is the only 100% accurate website on the entire world wide web. When someone says, "you can't believe everything you see on the Internet," I usually pipe in with that one just to stop the madness. I don't really know where this is going. I may not even post it. But what I saw at Walmart today is something I believe, at least for the safety of anyone who reads this, I must point out so none of you make the same mistake.

I don't know much about women's fashion, or men's for that matter, but I do know that when something fits, you probably shouldn't wear it out in public. Of course, if you are making a trip to Walmart to fill the trough, by all means, wear something 10 sizes too small. Yes, I know your husband finds you sexy. You outweigh him by 150 pounds. If you asked, I am sure he would tell you that you looked great in your shorts, that caused circulatory distress in your lower body, as well as lymph fluid build up between your thighs....or is that a....oh man. "SHOULD I CHANGE?" "Oh no, sweetheart, you look hot in a poncho.....and rope belts are in. I heard that on Project Runway. What's that? Oh I know. Heidi Klum is chubby. But she has had 3 kids. You have 33,000 calories a day, and have never visited Alp de Huez, or the sidewalk. I can't turn off the light honey, that's the sun."

You know those contestants on American Idol who say "my Mom and friends all think I am an awesome singer?" They say that out of respect. Both because family is supposed to build your confidence. Friends are supposed to do that too. As are spouses. However, I believe the saying is, if you think your spouse has a sweat ring around her waist band, it's wise to say something. Sweat will build up wear the mushroom cap rests. Just sayin. I believe I saw a loafer hanging out of there with the initials J.R.H. (yes that is a Hoffa joke).

Oh, and if it looks like you aren't wearing shorts because the upper half hangs a bit low, your shorts are too short, regardless of what your husband says. Gravity tells a strong story. As does the Health Department has authority.

No Playing at 9:30PM

When we had a our garage sale a few weeks ago, there was a lady that came over to rifle through our stuff. In tow, she had her daughter, shy as the day is long. Now, I can remember being 7. I was a complete ham. I don't think I was ever the type to hide behind a thunder thigh. However, my wife insisted on making conversation thinking it would be in our best interest to make sure Peyton had a friend in the neighborhood. Being the cynical one, my first reaction was that this mother would treat our house like a pawn shop and let her daughter come over whenever she had a trick coming by. My wife insisted that she was sure this lady was not like that. No? You go to bed before the sun goes down. I want to see our neighborhood at night. She has a red porch light. She talks like Steven Wright. She has the mental capacity of a gnat and full lips. Do the math.

About 9:30PM last night, the doorbell rang. Now, I was working, and heard the story from my wife, but I believe it went about like this.

(Gus barks, wife stirs wondering if she actually dreamt that)
(wife gets up, Gus barks again just as an added nuisance)

(wife opens door, there is neighbor's daughter) Can Peyton play?

Wife says no, she is sleeping, maybe tomorrow. (door closes)

This was handled all wrong. It's like a choose your own adventure book. You buy one for $5 you might as well get use out of all the pages. My wife just went from page 1 to back cover. Boooorrrriiinnnnggggggg. Let's try this...

(I get up, see darkness, Gus barks) Shut up Gus! (dog cowers)

(unlock door. See potential homeless girl standing there) Can Peyton play?

Eli: Seriously? It's fucking dark out. What were you going to play? Steal the Bose?

girl: Huh?

Eli: Why are you not in bed? Reading? Listening to Kid Bop on your iPod. Petting Fluffy, playing with Barbies, bathing, or something other than ringing a doorbell at 9:30 at night?

girl: (stares blankly)

Eli: Is your Mom home? Got a John coming by?

girl: Who's John?

Eli: Not John..."a" John. Nevermind. My daughter is asleep as most 7-year olds are at 930 at night.

girl: but it's the summer

Eli: No shit. You know what you should do? Go get your reproductive organs removed. Yes, please do that. That statement right there says that 3 months out of the year, the copial Olympics occur at your house. First one to get burning urination gets the gold. Am I right? When you begin to bleed for 5 days and not die, you will then have a baby....because it's summer. Fuck sleeping....let's go have random sex. Right? Leave my daughter out of it, OK? She sleeps at night time Dr. Draco.

girl: OK (turns to leave)

Eli: wait....(girl turns to face me, smiling thinking I was going to change my mind) Take these.

girl: what are these?

Eli: Condoms. Have two. One for you later in life..although probably not much later, and one for your Mom so you don't happen again.

girl: but...(door closes)

I like my way better. However, I will miss my wife when she goes to Heaven and, well, I don't. There is a cost for certain types of humor....

I'm Not Discriminating, I Hate You Equally

My wife and I are in the process of hiring someone to take my son to and from school this fall and provide after school care. Realizing that I am going to be commuting to Toppenish just about every day, or buried in a book any day I am NOT commuting, and also realizing that it would cost about $1000 to have him go elsewhere, the nanny search had begun.

My wife posted an ad on craigslist searching for someone to provide the above services at $400 a month. I expected, well, an epic fail since craigslist doesn't provide much except for moving boxes and chlamydia. Yet, to my surprise she had several responses, and resumes, and follow up emails, none of which promised $300,000,000 in US DOLLARS with providing a DNA sample. Shocked, I remained hopeful that someone would be willing to do the impossible. There was one person in particular that sticks out, and not in a good way. She was pregnant, and was discarded right away since (A) she was due when school started and (B) my kids would not be a priority no matter how much she claimed otherwise. Frankly, that's the way it should be. My wife and I both figured stating those facts, "best of luck, but we are excluding you just from our past experiences with pregnant/new mothers and their ability to do the job." Was that enough? Nope. She felt discriminated against. She felt like we should not disregard her qualifications because she is having a baby just about the time she needs to start. I wanted to email her back, but my wife said no. I had to say SOMETHING. I was going to explode. YAY FOR BLOGS!

I hate clowns. Pennywise from 'It' pretty much fucked up my life as far as clowns go. Sorry Ronald McDonald, but I will not sit on the bench with you, no matter how inanimate you are. I hate spiders, so Charlotte can kiss my ass too. The Colonel is creepy and reminds me of a pedophile. I don't look at watermelon the same after I ate it as a kid while incubating a stomach virus and promptly threw up the watermelon. Not the watermelons fault, but tell that to my memory of seeing the watermelon seeds floating around in the toilet next to the bile. The list can go on, but I think you get my point. Past experiences have made a few things in my life unbearable. Putting up with stupid is just one more thing that is hard to stomach. So having someone feel excluded because they want to breed rather than have a career is asinine. Yes, its your choice to stay open like 7-11, just like its mine to disregard your interest in being our nanny for the same reason.

Now she claims that she always keeps promises and won't be like those other people. Whatever. So, Nostradamus, when you look into the crystal ball and the birth happens, tell me, will my son BE in school already, and who the fuck will pick him up? Just so you know, every birth is different, as are the complications that can accompany said birth. What is your uterus falls on the floor and you bleed out? Then what? What if there are complications and you are in the hospital for a few days? Sorry, but I can't come into work because I had a stroke from pushing this watermelon out of my nostril. Baby has pink eye. Baby is shitting swords so I can't make it. Yes your husband is home and can take care of the baby, making it possible for you to come to my house and care for my kids. This begs the question, what is you get post-partem depression and kill my children? Does he work? If he doesn't work, I can tell you from experience these little people cost bucks to care for and $400 doesn't cover much.

So many questions that need answers but frankly, we don't want to deal with them, so we kindly parted ways, via the Internet. I don't know her story and it doesn't really matter. I am sure she will find another happy opportunity via craigslist. Until then, best of luck. About the only thing I DO know after all of this is that spiders still suck.

Garage Sale

I am not sure I have ever written about neighborhood garage sales. I may have, but I am too lazy to go back and look it up. Frankly, the computer I am using is about 12 words behind when I am typing. So, it is very similar to watching the teletype machine at Quantico. That, and I did not get obese by being proactive. I hate change.

Recently, we had a garage sale. Slowly but surely, I have whittled down the personal withholdings down to something quite managable. My kids hate it because my wife and I allow them to participate in contributing to the garage sale by going through their toys and games and setting some aside for the sale. To say there is some resistance is like saying Hiroshima was just a small gas leak. They want to keep everything. Forget it might make some other kid happy. My primary motivation for getting rid of MatchBox cars is that I am tired of having to wait half the day for the creases in my son's face to dissapear. When he sleeps on a few cars, they always seem to find strange places on the body that leave marks strategically placed in all the wrong areas. I am afraid to take him out in public or I might get arrested for child abuse when, in all reality, he just has too much shit.

When we lay things out in the driveway, it's amazing to me the way people stroll around looking and browsing. I wonder what goes through their head when they see a ski mask, some rope, nunchucks and a case of mace all grouped together labeled "must go together." A lady came up with the book, "The Greatest Salesman in the World" and asked how much it was. I replied "fifty cents." Whoa, she said, and threw her eyebrows up like the sun. She put the book back. What the fuck? It's a $12.00 book. What's worse is that she probably would haver paid with a $20 bill.

You really get to know your neighbors too. Knowing that some of them can't read, I feel safe in posting that we very well could be the smartest people on our block. Yes, sad, I know. One of our neighbors came up and said, "Hello, my name is (blurred out name). I live right across the street." No shit? You mean where you just walked from? Where I see you perched outside chain smoking like a heroin addict, your kids dropping F-bombs while you smoke enough Camels to clear out the Saudis? Is your daughter the one that thinks her brother is a cock sucker and usually at 8AM when I am pulling into my driveway with my kids? Oh, hello. No, we don't have any methodone for sale. My neighborhood is the only place I have ever really lived where I felt I needed to lock my car. The first inclination that I had moved to "da hood" may have been my landlord stating that, although the neighbors look like they may kill you, they will give you the shirt off their back. Really? That's nice, but I really don't want Hepatitis.

There was one gentleman of Asian decent that came by and purchase my exercise ball, a purse and a pair of women's shoes. To me, I thought he was prepping to get his dick removed within the year and we had finally given him the courage to do so. I figure by next summer I will be living next to Ms. Wang(less). I hope to GOD he doesn't come thank me later...or she....whatever.

My Daily Bitch

Hard to believe, but it's venting time. Not necessarily about anything in particular, but just a few observational bullet points that have occurred throughout this week that I thought it was worth mentioning.

I witnessed a father (assume it was the father) berating his 4 girls because they were flittering around the store today. I sensed his frustration but could not determine the motivation. These are girls, young girls, I would guess between the ages of 3 and 7. 4 of them....just being girly. Maybe it was the 4 weddings he was not going to be able to pay for since he couldn't afford a razor...or soap. Maybe it was the fact that, brewing in his wife's womb, is girl #5? I somewhat despise the mentality that men continue to fire man gravy until a male child pops out. "I need an heir." An heir to what? Your huge stack of outdated Playboy's? Your vast estate filled with tax liens and non-running vehicles? Instead of the red vines, grab the help wanted sign, or some Trojans...the magnums aren't necessary...they really aren't.

Have you ever noticed that, no matter how empty a movie theater is, the crying baby will always sit behind you? Or the popcorn muncher? Or the 6'10 strong man competitor? Or half of the YMCA daycare? "I don't know why my baby is crying. This is usually when he takes his nap." Really? In the backback, and with dolby stereo playing in the background? Is that when he is at his best? You scarfing down popcorn like it is the key to losing baby weight? Half if it raining down on your napping child? Big shock the kid is screaming.

I went into Schuck's the other day. Clerk comes out from around the counter and asks if he could help me find anything. I said no, I was just looking around. He asked me if I was looking for anything in particular. I said I was looking for something unique, for someone special. He said, "A birthday gift?" I said no, anniversary. Clerk says, what kind of car does your wife drive? I said HE drives a Dodge Ram. Kinda got awkward after that.

Orkin man showed up today as my kids and I were leaving for the park. He had left his sprayer on my front porch for 24 hours. He knocks on the door and said he was here for our appointment so he could spray for earwigs. I said we didn't have an appointment. He said, "yeah....you did," with the tone that I was a fucking idiot for not knowing this. Loving confrontation, I said that no, our appointment was NEXT Thursday between 8am and 5pm and that he was just saying it was today because he forgot his sprayer. He said nothing. My kids started to walk out. He said, "want me to spray anyway since I am here? I can lock up for you. I am licensed and bonded and all that stuff." Sure, I said. Just don't steal my 52" 3D/HD Sony Brava and Playstation 3." He laughed...as did I, since I don't have those things but will suck for him when I call his boss tomorrow to say they are missing.

Orkin Blows

You know those commercials where a giant bug comes to someone's house and asks to use the phone because their car broke down, only to be chased away by the Orkin man, hard hat and all? I have some news for you.

Those are bullshit.

Orkin seems to be as effective as the justice system in L.A. county. Ever since we have started using Orkin, the bug population INSIDE my house has, at the very least, quintupled. I actually now have bugs inside that I never had before. I never had a centipede problem in my living room. Now I am sharing my couch. Food is missing. I am finding piles of perfectly rolled dung balls next to my end tables. The ants are taking baths in the shit the spray around the foundation. I swear, I think its just half and half, with a little sucrose, and larvae from the next generation of arachnid. It seems like guests for the earwig family reunion keep arriving, daily, in most rooms of the house. It's disturbing. I have called every pet store in the Tri-Cities area and no one carries anteaters. Lame. Exotic pet store my ass.

I have called Orkin and the gentleman that did such a great job the 5th time, came out to survey the problem and see how he could help. I advised him that him leaving and sending someone else would be a good start. I found out that he was the Orkin man that was assigned to my residence. Awesome. I asked where his hard hat was because he was going to need it. "Why," he asked. Well, there is a good chance that I am going to beat you to within an inch of your life with your gallon jug of worthless and put the spray nozzle....somewhere else. No hard hat. He asked me where the problem areas were. I asked him to point towards the ground. He looked down. I said again, extend your arm, extend your forefinger and point towards a fictitious spot a couple feet in front of him and then parade around the entire house, inside and out and those are my problem areas. He looked confused. I made it simple.

I went to the backyard and lifted the dog's water dish on the patio, and earwigs went scurrying for cover. He sprayed them with sugar water. I pointed to the ant trail leading from the bathroom wall to the front of the tub. He dropped some breadcrumbs and left an apple core. I asked him what the little bugs were that were scurrying away from us as I lifted my doormat up. He said he didn't know but this should help. Honey. "That should do the trick."

I envisioned some guy coming out that gave a shit that I can't sleep when I feel little legs scurrying across my body in the dark. I hate it when its movie night for the bugs in my house and I can hear applause. I don't like seeing earwigs....ever, let alone running across my keyboard when I am writing in this blog andkkfweofkvsasaklfjsdhshasxzdxzdxszdxzdszdsxz....DAMMIT! My kids can't sleep because of spiders, spiders I won't kill because when I DO kill it, I think of it being the heir to the throne, the only son, whom I have made into a one dimensional spot of goop, only to be discovered by some inferior insect and, to be spared further fear, informs the king that I have just ended the family tree. Then, the master spider, leader of millions, sends out his minions in a fit of rage, with instructions to bring me back alive so that I could be dealt with in the only way spiders know how to deal with humans. To haunt my slumber. Never heard, just seen, scurrying to the most impossible location ever, avoiding capture and death.

I hate you Orkin man.

Grow Up a Tad

I can understand that break ups suck. They do. If you are over the age of 22, there is a good chance that using Facebook as a sounding board for insults of your ex-significant other is a bad idea. Kind of like filling a big balloon full of hydrogen and throwing some loosely wired electronics in there. Big boom is not a surprise. It's not just a bad idea, it actually shows others your true colors and demonstrates qualities that, quite possibly, made the other person leave. I dunno. Just sayin.

I am speaking of someone in particular but they will remain nameless. Mostly because I don't want to show like I am picking sides. I am not. Actually, that's not true. I did pick sides, but I kept the choice to myself simply out of respect for the fallen. 100% of the time, these relationship issues require no one else's input, and when you ask for it in a public forum (I.E. a status update on Facebook) it is a senseless regression back to when you just started spewing menses and bullshit out of a couple of almost indentical orifices. Direct pressure, in both case, will stop the bleeding.

Some might say, "just don't be their friend." Well, I was de-friended already, but the settings allow for reading the posts on their wall. When I feel like I am being immature or am throwing fits at the mall, I go and read this individual's posts and I feel mature again. It isn't like this person is an idiot. They have, or at least I thought they had, a pretty good head on their shoulders. I am reminded just how wrong that observation was/is when I visit their page. To read the supporting comments that follow the vomit makes me click "HOME." It's sad really. The way in which bitterness causes a person to morph into a pile of shit right in front of your eyes.

Advice...take it, or don't. Grow up. Move on. Posting drivel and stupid pictures out of spite and looking for acceptance and approval is retarded. Go to a counselor, write in a journal. This is not a healthy way to deal with anything. It's immature and very child-like. This is something I expect from a toddler. Be bitter, but shut the fuck up about it in public. Don't celebrate an anniversary that is no longer there. Move....on. It's like lingering around a corpse wondering if maybe, just maybe, they might wake up. It's over. So act your age.

My Fellow Americans

Good evening.

I come before you tonight to discuss all that has happened over the last week in the gulf. We have had a major energy find in the Gulf of Oman.

(Mr. President, there is a large oil spill in the Gulf of MEXICO...not Oman. It is a natural disaster, not a find)

Excuse me, I have just been informed that just this past week, we have struck oil in the Gulf of Mexico. This discovery should allow over 20,000 barrels of new oil production per day. As we speak, engineers are looking to break the world record for the world's largest non-contained natural disaster. Representatives from Guiness are on sigh..

(Mr. President, this spill is not something you should be proud of. Some limey Brit is ruining are way of life. BE FIRM! Stop improvising and just read the script!)

Pardon me a moment, it seems that this is NOT a discovery, rather it is a disaster and one we plan on getting cleaned up in the next few days. My top advisers on the ground are awaiting 300,000 rolls of Bounty to begin skimming 150,000 square miles of ocean to help clean and contain this spill. Since school has been out, I have advised the education department to obtain every Sfork packet from every elementary school across this great country to help with the clean up process. This will serve two purposes. We will use the little Sfork to scoop up any and all oil we see on the surface of the water. Along with the Sfork, we will use the napkins to help clean the Penguins and whales that are getting all dirty.

(Mr. President, there are no penguins in the gulf, and there are no whales that are covered in oil. What the fuck are you reading???)

Since this disaster occurred on June 11th, we have been convening at Camp David engaging in brainstorming sessions, as well as beta testing a new MMA game for the XBOX 360. I have contacted Bill Gates to see if there is any way that Microsoft can begin developing a new game type centered around scrubbing Pelicans with Dawn. I intend to recruit the world's best gamers to help contain this oil from reaching the Horn of Africa.

(For the love of God Barack, seriously, your Presidency is at stake here. Be serious about this. That fucking Pelican photo has gone viral. It is going to end you!)

Right now B1 bombers are in route to Great Britain with instructions to find and terminate Tony Hayward's Welsh Corgi. This is meant to be a warning to him and all the inhabitants of Great Britain, as well as Iceland, that you are no longer welcome to suck the teet of the American people. We have needs and as President of this great province, I will make sure that he pays for all the damage his recklessness has caused the people of Rhode Island. Your Welsh is mine!

(Mr. President, you only have 30 seconds left. Please end this fiasco and find a way to save your legacy.)

In closing, I just want you to know that we are working hard to find the rewind button, or at least the pause button so we can get on top of this thing. I have asked James Cameron to go fishing and pick his brain about a possible solution. If he can create an entire movie about fictional blue people that live in a tree, I have no doubt that he can find away to clean up this mess.

Sic Semper Tyrranis!

B. Obama

Amazing

I went to Albertson's Express today to expressly obtain a couple of things and avoid having to go into the main store to get what I could easily acquire quickly. I like Albertson's Express for that reason. However, there was a gentleman in front of me, probably in his late 20's that, well, let's just say would not make theologians happy about having faith, rather this turd evolved....from one cell to maybe, 3, all contained within his liver to prolong the party.

He prepaid for fuel and asked the clerk to "turn on" the air machine so he could put air in his ears...err...tires. The clerk said that it costs .75 to get air. I audibly laughed because in my mind I tried to figure how much money I would owe for breathing over the last 37 years if that was, in fact, an expense needed for the air we breathe. Magellan turned and scowled at me. How dare I laugh at his predicament. How will the hoopty ever roll again? He paid for $50 worth of gas. I did the math in my head and was about ready to offer the mother of all suggestions and tell him to purchase just $49.25 in gas, and the funniest thing happened. He asked for the manager's name and the customer service number because he was CERTAINLY going to be complaining about this one. I mean, as he explained to the clerk and to anyone within an earshot, that ALLLLLLL the other gas stations in town allow for free air with every fill up, and it was ridiculous that THEYYYYYY wouldn't do that, especially since he is dropping almost $100 on gas. Again, I almost chimed in that, even with rounding he was incorrect, but he beat me to the punch with something even more asinine.

He got his receipt, taking it rather forcefully, with poor depth perception, swiping at air the first time, and the clerk kept her poise stating that he had .10 off for the price of his gas. "Pardon me," he says, somewhat smug. After explaining the rewards card incentive for cheaper gas by shopping at Albertsons, the whole incentive for the fucking program, he was floored. Not by the corporate generosity, rather that, on June 4th it was 15 cents. Very strange. As all conspiracy theorists would, he questioned the validity of this decline. Certainly...there must be a mistake. The clerk explained that the increases are in 5 cent increments and there was a good chance that one of the increments expired. OH HELL....you might as well just hit this bag of dicks with a brick. This chick, according to lite brite, was going to lose her job. Its not the last time she was going to hear from him. All of this for over, what? 75 cents plus 15 gallons (.05)...(carry the one)...$1.50? I couldn't believe it.

So as he left, all sorts of pissy, I walked up to the counter and my total was $4.10. I said, "WHATTTTTTTT?" She looked like she was about ready to explode. I told her that the proce tag said FREE and I wanted the customer service number, but laughed, only so she knew I wasn't serious. Crazy how people want so much for free, or cheaper because they have a beating heart. Would you throw a fit over saving $2? I am guessing he is behind on his tithes.

Nice RAK

I don't go to Starbucks too often. It seems ridiculous to me to spend $5 on a cup of coffee. Is it good? I don't know. It tastes like flavored coffee to me. I am not an expert in what Juan Valdez exported to this country on the back of some burro. I am guessing he had no problems bringing a large sack of beans stateside, along with some AK-47's and some stinger missiles to help finance his operation. THANK YOU BORDER PATROL! Sort of like Microsoft Works, a contradiction in terms. What are they patrolling anyway? The term alone would suggest it's bad to cross the border, yet...OK, anyway...that's another post.

The last two times I have gone there, I have paid the bill for the car behind me. I don't know why I have done that. I guess it is a positive wild hair. Maybe some day someone will do that for me, when I have kids bouncing around my car and am running from the repo man. It never adds up to much, but it is a small random act of kindness that hopefully will make someone's day. Yes, it goes against the principle of $5 coffee, which turns into $10 coffee. However, I feel better, and there might be a slight chance, like that kid on Pay It Forward (Haley Jo whatever), that someone does it for someone else. This helps avoid the "what's in it for me" mentality that is plaguing the globe. Maybe someone will stop to help the bleeding man on the sidewalk instead of watching him die. Too often decisions are made based on personal gain. At some point, it needs to stop. I'll make my contribution, albeit small, in the Starbuck's drive thru.

Even if it means $10 coffee.

Some thoughts

There is an opening for Kennewick city planner. There isn't? Well, hell, there should be. Who the HELL thinks it is a good idea to chip seal Clearwater/Columbia Center Blvd. during the day, causing traffic to be backed up in all directions? I am not sure how this even looked good on paper. Maybe it needed it. I don't know, but for the LOVE OF GOD, do this kind of crap at night. It makes more sense. I don't care to hear about the night differential that you will have to pay a night crew. It inconveniences the constituents that vote for you. DO IT!

To the guy who passes me, only to come to a screeching halt at the red light that was just in front of us....WHY???? The first one to the red light...still stops, Magellan. Do you realize that driving is NOT a right, its a privilege? I know you may not value the 1986 Toyota Corolla, nor its thousand of moving parts. I can assure you, however, that (1) you are missing class right now, and (2) your parents would not appreciate you flipping me the bird as I laugh and shake my head at your stupidity. I keep thinking Darwin was wrong, and then people like you come along and disprove all of my reasearch. A$$hole!

To the helpful Walmart employee who wanted to show me how to use the self-checkout station...if I wanted help, I would go to one of the many lit lanes you have in your store. I know you want to show initiative to your boss so that someday you can graduate to full-time checker status, but don't use me as your corporate ladder rung. I go to this lane because I have 4 items, all of which can fit in a bag. Yes, I do know its a touch screen, and these little bar codes are UPC scanner tags that the system recognizes and rings up accordingly. I get it. I also get that, unless you put it in the bag right away, the system will not proceed because, since an item was rung up, it needs to be weighed, which is below the stack of bags. How sneaky. Please stop looking at the clothes I bought and telling me you have the same shirt. It makes me feel dirty. Such a big corporation, and such a shitty dental plan.

To the guy working back in electronics, TALKING ON HIS CELL PHONE, while I stand in front of the mp3 player display case. Why, YES, you can help me. Sorry to interrupt your discussion of your copial conquest from the night before, but this case is locked and somehow management entrusted you with the keys. I left my monkey in the car, or else I would have him do it. Believe it or not, I would like something in the case. I am not here parusing. I am a hunter/gatherer. I found my prey. Just call your friend back, so you can find out from his sister if size really does matter.

When I walk over to the dressing room with a few items of clothing to try on, why is it that the fitting room attendant asks me what he/she can do for me? Its not like they are selling pretzels and drinks back there. I don't see auto mechanics, taste testers, sample givers, or Senske employees. I see doors...several doors. I just want one of them unlocked. Its kind of a rhetorical thing. Me, a couple of items of clothes on the hangers, walking towards the fitting rooms. Doesn't require much thought. Yet, I seem to have to do this every time I go. Two minutes after I am let into a fitting room, I get a knock at the door asking if everything is OK. Why wouldn't it be? Did you forget that the angry badger was in room 3 and not room 1?

Last but not least, when I am peeing in the men's room, I use a stall. I do this because it seems like every other time I ever used a urinal, some a'hole wanted to talk about his day. This isn't a social time for me. I have to urinate and would like to do so in peace. This is not a wake for Uncle Charlie where we can discuss all the memories we have had with him. Just...pee. That's all I want to do. I don't need a bathroom buddy. This is not kindergarten. Call me grumpy, call me anti-social, but shut the hell up so I can get in, and get out. Sort of like a date with Lindsay Lohan.

Here's Your Sign

Empty garage, boxes in my car...and the question is posed:

Are you moving?

Under normal circumstances, I would laugh out loud, as would the poser of the question, because it would be easily recognized as rhetorical. Not in this case, however. It was a serious question. It was asked expecting an answer. Now, because the person asking is as far away from my heart as common sense is to Lindsay Lohan, I couldn't think of what to say fast enough. I was at a corssroads of confirming my reservation to hell, or being kind and compassionate to the mentally handicapped. I suppose I should let you know who asked. My neighbor. The Rock Band expert, lawyer extraordinaire, arse munch that lives below me. I simply said, "yup." But then he did something even more retarded and asked why. Oh...my...really?

I could have went a number of ways. Why am I moving? I miss silence. I would like my kids to be able to sleep as opposed to listening to your feral brood scream at O-dark thirty. I miss a hymn-less evening. Don't care to hear Jonah and the Whale, Veggie-tales, the 3rd, 4th, 5th and 6th degrees of heaven, the Annual LDS conference from 1999 or crying at 150 decibels. If I wanted to be disturbed at that level I would camp out on an airport runway. I miss walking to my front door without having to sidestep moonrocks, or landscaping littering my walkway. I miss the lack of sidewalk chalk surrounding my front door. I miss my son being able to go play without getting cold-cocked by a plastic lightsaber because your son believes he is a phucking Jedi. I miss looking outside and sipping on coffee from my balcony in peace, rather than watching your kids swinging from a tree branch like phucking chimps. I miss taking my dog outside and having him simply pee instead of answering 75 questions about what kind of dog he is and if he will bite your kids. He will bite your kids because he likes the taste of unkempt humanity.

Mostly, I miss having stimulating conversation with intelligent life. I hate our one word conversations...you saying hi and me closing my door. I hate having to put in headphones to walk to my car so you get the idea I am not interested in conversation with you, but seeing you try to talk to me anyway. I hate your gazes and the fact your torture your wife with your penis and making her raise ANOTHER child she will never see. I hate the fact that you as worthless as a bag if dicks at a Fever game. I hate hearing you, seeing you, listening to anything coming from below me and the zoo that is the front window of your apartment. I hate the doorbell ringing at 945PM and then, when I answer it, no one is there...even though I heard your door close just after the bell rang....only to have it happen again. But I realllllly hate having to control myself from dragging you outside and pulling a Lorena Bobbit to spare humanity from another misconceived notion of populating the Earth.

Be gone with you...

I Found These Words

A few days ago, a client of mine had decided that that day was the day he wanted to go into hospice. It had been discussed previously but was decided upon in an instant. Family members were buzzing around getting some personal items; pictures, comfort items. These things were things he wanted with him when he died. In my heart of hearts, I believe he wanted to go die and not do so at the expense of his family or me (his caregiver), furthering his cause of not wanting to be a burden to his family. This is the man for whom "Pride Never Dies" was written for.

As I helped pack some things for them, and helped load my client in a vehicle, I shook hands with some of the family, them thanking me profusely for everything I had done for their father. I brushed these thanks aside trying to make them focus more on getting to point B. I said nothing, however, to my client. In the chaos that was his departure, I didn't say goodbye. In all reality, I didn't know what to say. What do you say to someone that was going off to die? I was at a loss. So I said a prayer as I watched him ride away. For the next 24 hours, I was still thinking about what I didn't say, and more importantly, who I didn't say it to. So I sat down and wrote a letter to his son and wife, in the hopes that it would circulate amongst the siblings I had come to know. I wrote them this:

I wanted to take a moment to write you a quick note, not only to let you know how honored I was to help to take care of your father, but also how incredible it was to meet all of you in the process.

Your father is a great man, full of kindness, patience, and love. As soft spoken as he was, his words are full of life. It was apparent that the well-being of others was far more important than the well-being of himself. This was something I saw in all of his children; taking care of the father just as the father had taken care of his children many years ago.

I do not know why God makes ill the ones we love the most. All we can ever ask for is that when that day comes, that there is no pain, no suffering, and that they go in peace, knowing that they are in a better place. My hope for you, and the family that remains is that you celebrate the life that was lived, and that memories left behind help you get through the harder times that may lie ahead. I pray not only for your father's comfort but for your comfort as well. God bless.

I am not sure of the outcome of this letter. I am not expecting anything to come of it. I just felt I needed to say something...and I hope it can help someone when the time comes, even if that someone is me.

Open letter to Ben

Dear Ben (you're last name is too fucking long),

Listen Tige...err...Jess....err...Big Benjamin Rothlesfuckhound...stop accosting females, OK? I am going to attribute your stupidity to your head hitting the pavement a few years ago when you decided red did not, in fact, mean stop. What is it with multi-millionaires? Do the rules not apply to you? Rape is, as defined by Webster's dictionary, what you did to two females. Look it up. I did, and that's what I saw. Some 6'5" fuck chop with a group of body guards standing outside the bathroom door making sure you could fuck some drunk chick silly.

In all reality, you and your other fuck buddies (also famous rich people) are going to ultimately be alone in everything you do. When you win, you will celebrate with some friends, and then come the time they all have to go home to their families, you will go home to you and you trophy case. There is one thing missing in that trophy case. It's a get out of jail free card. You have used two of them, and will now have to survive on morals and personal ethics, both of which you apparently left at Miami, Ohio.

If I were you, I would go slumming at Cleveland bars so a group of drunk Browns fans can get you all sorts of fucked up and then let a grizzly bear ass rape you for a few hours. Maybe then you will see the err in your ways. But for the rest of us NON-Ben fans, save the apology your attorney wrote for your victims. I am sure they would love to hear something more sincere than "those bitches were lyin!" Maybe then, these "kids" you speak of, the ones that look up to you will do so because you are admirable, and not because you are 77 inches tall.

Sincerely,

America

P.S. - for all of you in the continental United States, something you might want to invest in...

Equality is Overrated

I am pretty sure this blog will pees someone off. I am all for equality for women in sports. Hell Title IX is my favorite mandate for college athletics. It was one of many reasons I didn't get to play Division I baseball at Boise State. Not bitter, really. I could have gone to play in Europe for a year, all expenses paid. Passed that up. Choices, decisions; our lives are dictated by them. I have lived with the consequences of my choices. I am rambling. I DO have a point.

Remember when Michele Wie wanted to play golf with the men? Remember how she did so incredibly awesome from the black tees? Me neither. Yes, she can hit it a ton. Yes, she is a great golfer, but until you dominate your own gender's sport, please refrain from wanting to play where the penises do. You couldn't hang. It's the truth. "But she is a better golfer than you." I hope so. She's a phucking pro. It's what she does for a living. She had better be better than me. When that fiasco was going on I was so tired of hearing about it. I knew come Saturday her pipe dream of making the cut would dissipate faster than the Situation's chivalry. Sure enough, no Michele Wie on the weekend. She has since won something on the LPGA. I think so anyway. Once you become a youthful Annika Sorrenstam, you can come back to the PGA and fail. Until then, waddle your vagina around the course with the other vaginas, K?

This brings me to Danica Patrick. I am not sure what to say other than I wish she was on that plane with Ritchie Valens. You know how many times she has won on the Indy circuit? Once. You know how she won? Helio Castroneves put on his brakes and let her by. Any argument to the contrary is bullshit. She is mediocre, at best. Great, she drives well. But no one has said she drives well without saying for a female driver. She is a marketer's wet dream. The media gobbles her up because she stands 5'2 and weighs 105 pounds. She still looks like Gollum. Have you seen her in the Sports Illustrated bikini shoot? She looks like a man. I'm not impressed, not with her driving ability, nor her femininity. I don't care she is a woman driving a car, continuously turning left, whether it is Indy or Nascar. She has behaved like a spoiled little brat in the pits, a few times bum rushing fellow drivers. Thank God for people holding her back because I would hate to actually measure how far shit flies. Yay, she is an athlete. So was Charles Barkley.

So it isn't that I think women should not have equality in sports. But in reality, you need to earn the opportunity to be a part of a male-dominated sport once you have dominated the female equivalent; both of which these women have failed to do. Yet, I still hear them complaining about how the doors are shut to women in male sports. SHUT UP ALREADY! Beat up the women you play against with multiple victories and prove there is no competition for you. Until then, you will need to learn to squat and aim into a standing urinal. Move along, we are all stalked up on crazy here.

OBAMANOMICS

I don't know how log this post will be. In my mind its been going round and round for quite awhile. I was watching MSNBC's Power Lunch today and heard how Obama's rating is creeping up, and Wall Street just loves Obamanomics. Something crossed my mind when I heard it.

WHAT THE FUCK?

OF COURSE WALL STREET LOVES IT! They got billions of dollars to stay afloat! They are living on the people's money; money we didn't want to give. I would have happily painted a bullseye on the streets below the AIG building with the words "LAND HERE" along the top of it. People think Michael Moore is a liberal asshole. Often I agree. However, he is right a lot of the time, stating the things people feel and cannot voice. Wall Street loves Obamanomics. Good LORD....I would too if I was Wall Street. You have not accountability for the shit you have done. Poor decisions and attempting to operate on false profits. Its debauchery, yet its being glorified by the media.

I voted for Obama, mostly because he wasn't McCain. I couldn't vote for an almost dead man and risk putting Palin in the White House. I suppose I just can't stomach Palins voice long enough to really understand what she stands for. However, come mid-term elections, every incumbent is not getting my vote. I am not voting party lines, I am voting for someone who is n ot using Washington as a job. Senators should not be using this as a career. Lifetime politicians scare me. Constituents need to be heard. If they do not respond to phone calls and letters (Washington residents voiced opposition to reforming health care 3:1, yet our senators voted YES to reform), then voting them out seems logical to me.

I am not political by any sense. I do believe, however, this country was built by the people, for the people and escaped the monarchy of a king. Change is good, when it can be agreed to on a bi-partisan basis. However, ramming it down my throat only makes me wonder where the motivation was in the first place. Joe Biden's words ring in my head, as he introduced Obama at a post-bill signing news conference, attempting to whisper, with microphones on "this is fucking historic." Even watching Nancy Pelosi take credit for something that really is not hers drives me nuts.

You know what would be historic? Lowering the unemployment rate. Rebuilding New Orleans and solidifying the levies to avoid this tragedy occuring again. Cure cancer. Improve feul economy on cars, and then make those cars affordable. Since the public purchases gas, give some profits back to the people in the form of fuel credits. Overhaul the welfare system and allow benefits for those that need them rather than those that abuse them. Take care of the people that elected you. Perfect the domestic agenda before foreign policy. Don't be a politician, rahter be the person you were before you got into politics. Remember what it's like to be an average Joe, before the perks. Above all else, FUCKING LISTEN TO THE MESSAGES PEOPLE LEAVE! If the people say no, you say no. Period. If you don't plan on voting for the people, don't be shocked, come November, when you are part of a blood path.

Let the revolution begin!

A Better Value Menu

Some jobs are better for others. For example, I am mechanically retarded. I can change my oil, fiddle with something long enough to make it function, change a light switch, and a light bulb. Anything more complex than that, however, and I leave it to the experts. Small engine repair? Not for me unless the small engine needs scrapping. Not withstanding the aforementioned, I believe it is in any employee's best interests to be able to do simple math, or recognize U.S. currency at face value, lest the corporation loses money. I remember when Eminem got fired from Little Caesar's and I laughed, along with the dude that was banging his Mom. How does one do that? Well, I found out how last night on my way to work.

I decided to try McDonald's coffee. I have heard the commercials and figured it was worth a try. I drove up and ordered an iced-coffee. Total was $3.13...window 1. I recognized window 1 because, well, the number one was posted right under he word WINDOW. Easy enough. I handed the girl $3.25. She takes an order while making change. She hands me a receipt, and $3.12 back. I don't hesitate, grab the money, and say thanks, essentially stamping my ticket to hell. I drive up to window 2, grab the coffee and pull away. I look at the receipt. The cashier had typed into the register that I had given her $6.25. I was somewhat floored. This is the next generation of smart. I gave her 3 wrinkly, worn $1 bills. How that is confused with anything other than 3 wrinkly, worn $1 bills is beyond me. Do I drive around the front and make someone aware of my mistake because that is the right thing to do? Or do I just drive away and let nature take its course, allowing the drawer balance at the end of the night be the lesson in retardedness? What to do, what to do....

I decided for option #3, doing nothing as I was running late for work last night.

Menu price of iced-coffee - $3.13

Actual cost of iced-coffee - $.01

Finding the best value menu item ever - PRICELESS

Pride Never Dies

I am working with a man who seems to feel as though his very existence is an inconvenience. He doesn't like to have to be cared for. He doesn't want to be waited on. As he struggles to do the simplest of things, he apologizes. He feels as thoughif he wasn't around, that those who love him the most would be able to go along with their lives in peace; without having to take care of him.

I am not part of this family, but I am part of a family. The circle of life is just that. A circle. It is never ending. I impagine being a patriarch is a tough job. I am a father of three wonderful kids. I would hope that, as a reciprocal gift, they would take care of me if I ever needed it. Its what you do with the people you love. You return the favor; the many years that parents take care of their kids, you take care of the parents. This man, I can imagine, was a strong head of household. He is a very tall man in stature, weakened by a disease that is draining his strength daily. As he shuffles left, then right, then left, with every step, he feels as though the family member stabilizing his steps from behind is inconvenienced. I don't know if he is in pain, but I know he hurts. He hurts for the days that he was the one who lifted up his children, high into the air and made them feel like they could do anything. He forgets that, by doing so, he was preparing them for this day. This day when he is the one that needs lifting, carrying, supporting.

This job has taught me so many different things at some of the weirdest times. I am an observer. I watch, I listen, I learn. I learn that even the sickest people get the most satisfaction by simply standing up on their own. These are possibly some of the last victories, albeit small in nature, that last the longest. Yesterday, I needed help. Today I did it on my own. I can't wait for tomorrow when I can show people I am strong. Whether or not his cancer takes his life away, he is proof of a simple fact, one that possibly we could all use as we fight, not just illness, but life...

Pride will never die.

Some Imbalances Can't Be Fixed

If a person develops a pituitary tumor, there is a cascade of events that occur because the hormone release track is interrupted. Growth hormone should stop being released at around puberty, but if that doesn't happen, a number of diseases can occur. Same thing with anti-diuretic hormone. If that is not secreted, you can't stop peeing....not incontinence, but it creates a water problem, big time. Luteinizing hormone won't get properly balanced, causing bizarre secondary sexual characteristics, and follicle stimulating hormone imbalances can cause sterility. I have learned that there is no shut the phuck up hormone, not medically, but I am witnessing what an imbalance would look like. (I decided that removing her name is the only fair thing to do since it is next to impossible for her to defend herself while I am still alive.)

(NAMELESS IDIOT) March 24 at 7:31am Report
FYI I now have 686 friends!!!! I don't even miss your name calling. And, my friends are happy you aren't there to ruin their days, discount their importance in my life, and call me names. Thanks for helping me toss out all of the "bad apples" so to speak.

I am not a mean person by nature. I am pretty laid back. I thought a bit about responding back via Facebook, but instead of doing that, I decided to post my response here, for the world to read. I am sure it will get heated. Some people might say, "OH MY GOD, that POOR girl." Rightfully so. However, maybe she should have just let the sleeping dog lie. No biggie to me, this gives me something to write about that's entertaining.

Dearest Moron,

Where to begin. For someone not missing me, its funny how you specifically sought me out to let me know you don't miss me. Being we are no longer friends on Facebook, you had to go outside your immense friends list to find me, click my name, and then click send message. As predicted, you being you, by telling me you have 686friends. That's awesome. I am glad you find value in those relationships. I am not saying they aren't important people in your life. I have no idea. But you advertise it to me like I have a speck of feeling that they matter to you. I don't give a shit.

The simple truth of it is, the fact an Internet posting gets all of your friends riled up defines hilarity. Really? I had no idea I had that kind of impact. Thank you for demonstrating how powerful my words are. You have told me before I don't know you. It's true. I know only what I have seen through Facebook. They are very sad, depressing, redundant factoids that make me wonder if some intervention needs to take place for the safety of your children. You gave me nothing to go on. Kind of like Heidi Montag, your life is undesirable, minus the decent looks and phuckability. There is nothing to go on except the high pitch whining about life. Get past it. Get way past it and stop looking in the rear view mirror. Right now, there are some friends on your list that keep you around for the entertainment value alone. It keeps them going, not in favor of you, but justifies their own life being decent in comparison to yours. You are the rule. When someone says "It could be worse," they mean you. Not a guess. It's a fact. I have heard it first hand, and have seen it many times in emails I have received.

Last but certainly not least, stop emailing me. Stop communicating with me altogether. The end result will be blog fodder. I actually have a fan base outside of Facebook that wonders what I will say next. Your fan base is a group of people that stumbled upon a picture of you after Googling "hopeless" and then hitting images. Your trials and tribulations don't matter. Your negativity is old. You are pathetic in more ways than I care to describe. There are not enough adjectives to properly give your life its proper due. I am sure there are a few people that are glad you grace this Earth. That's great for them. Stop pretending I care that they care. Life has taught me a lot about what's important in my life. The things that aren't important, I let go of. Hence my no longer being your friend on the Internet. I won't miss you. I am glad, however, that some of my friends have kept you around. At least, vicariously through them, I can see just how retarded you are. You did teach me one very valuable thing....

It could be worse....

Tiger....Tiger...Tiger....

I was going to bed as the midnight Sportscenter was just beginning. I hear the anchors talking about an "uncut interview" with Tiger Woods. Uncut? Hmmmm...I didn't hear anyone say unscripted. Why not...five minutes. What the FUCK? Only one thing is echoing in my mind.

Interviewer: "Why didn't you get treatment before things got out of hand?"

Tiger : I didn't know I was that bad...

Are you KIDDING me? Was it the 34th hooker and the multiple anal sex partners that pushed towards the realization that, OOPS, that's too far...I believe I have a problem? Come ON dude....you want the public to see you as broken and humble and then you come out and say you didn't know you had a problem with attempting to fuck the western hemisphere? You have possibly sewed more oats than the Amish. The sockeye salmon honor your abundance of man gravy. You need to be in a circus. You got mad juggling skills.

I have some new sponsor ideas for you. I mean, good bye squeaky clean image, bro. Nothing you can do will ever make the notion of you wanting that that Samson chick to "be your fucking whore" disappear. Embrace the new you. You like ass. Fine. You like a lot of ass. Welcome to manhood. You married a swedish bikini model and were bored....you DUMBASS MOTHERFU....(compose). Back to my ideas. I haven't seen a KY commercial worth a shit. I'd buy KY to be like Eldrick. Like, "Eldrick your prick to make it slick?" Just an idea. You are the marketing genius. You could sell ice to Eskimos. How about trojan minis? When you have just enough to pork #40....Trojan mini's, "it catches basically all that's left." No? Ok, well since Nike is probably gonna drop you soon, maybe you should start a shoe line called Ghetto Foot Wear. "Wear ghetto....get white chicks?" Too rascist? Right, because you are concerned about what people think.

Welcome to humanity Tiger. That burning sensation you feel when you pee isn't your career flaming out....that's gonorrhea.

I'M 12-YEARS OLD BITCH!

I knew this would happen. Actually, I didn't know this very thing would happen, but I knew eventually that because I am getting older, I have less patience for little kids. I picture myself bent over, aching back from all the years of kissing corporate ass, walking slowly with a cane bitching about the rate of which life passes by. Wearing plaid somewhere below the waist. As times are changing however, I am beginning to think that I shant wait to be hunched over to be pissed off at youth. Now is the time to find a bastard 12-year old boy and kick him square in the balls to limit future procreation of miscreants. Take a trip to a local park, on equipment really made for younger kids.

I guess before I go further I have to give a legal disclaimer: I don't hate all Mexicans....just the ones mentioned in this post. So when I say , "this asshole Mexican, or this fucking beaner....I really do mean to emphasize the word "this." That being said....

My won is climbing up the ladder to go down the slide, and this Mexican kid with his brother go breezing by my son, almost knocking him down to get on TOP of the slide and check for cops...or Iguanas. My son just stares at him, like he normally does when things don't go his way. The Mexican kid looks at him and says, "what the fuck are you looking at," and goes on about looking for the Po-Po. I overheard this and wondered if I really actually heard this kid, playing on playground equipment for 7 -year olds, verbally chastise my son for being dense. I didn't really pursue it much further than that, because my won went on to chase his shadow, or count the cracks in the playground flooring. Insert my daughter....

Peyton is a social-butterfly. She will approach a bank robber holding a hostage and try to make friends with BOTH of them and won't stop until she has succeeded. She has no problem socially. However, she is always in a rush to do something on the playground. Wherever she goes, I always have to make sure that there is not another kid in the way or there will surely be a collision. Insert mini-Mexican, shit-for-brain's little brother. Somewhere, location unknown, there must have been a collision. Little bean starts crying. Big bean hops off his lookout post and says, "hey." Not really specifically knowing she was being spoken to, Peyton went on about her playground business. "hey....girl, I am talking to you." Flashback to The Christmas Story. She crawls into a tube and goes to the middle. He says, "that's right, you know who I am? I am 12-year's old BITCH." Ok, wait a minute. I look around. Where is this little assholes parent? I say parent, singularly, because this type of behavior means there is no mother in the house. There was papa bean, fresh from his parole hearing....3 other kids in tow, tattooed, unshaven, and...no shit, a wife beater on, a walking billboard for the need for chemical castration. He is oblivious, not only to the language, but to the disrespect he gave to a female. I hate that. The minute Jacob disrespects his mother or his sister, he gets discipline, INSTANTLY. Not big bean. Papa bean pretty much let it go on like it was no big deal.

Did I want to beat up a child? No, not really. I did want to shake him off the slide in hopes he would fall. I did wish him bodily harm. I did want to trip him as he ran by, but thought better of it thinking I could be wearing a shank, compliments of Papa Bean, if I did anything to harm the heir to his cocaine fortune. Aside from joining the cartel, I could only consciously dream of the aforementioned happening. You know when you see some kid being an absolute douche bag, you pray that one day, he gets an ass whooping so that he realizes that, in fact, he is not nearly as cool as thinks he is? I spanked my son in front of his daycare buddies because he thought the rules did not apply to him and his cool toddler friends. Must bring down the ring leader, lest the crew runs the show.

I'M 37-YEARS OLD BITCH! Where's my cane?

You Wanna Take a Ride on WHAT?!?!?

There are lots of things you never want to hear from your daughter, at ANY age. Things like, what's a gag reflex, or what does it mean to pop your cherry, and I hate the salty taste, or sexting is the shit. Those types of things tend to drive a father crazy. For me, I can only imagine what my reaction would be, but being a father of two girls allows me to hear them all, more or less, in a somewhat downgraded form. When my 6-year old started to sing Lady Gaga, I thought nothing of it until I heard her say "I want to take a ride on your disco stick." It was then I decided to crawl into a really big hole and cry. It got worse. I then had to explain what a disco stick was....in terms that a 6-year old can understand. Not easy considering this disco stick has nothing to do with botany.

I thought very hard about the next few sentences that were going to come out of my mouth. I was afraid of answering it wrong and making light of it, making her think it was an instrument of play used in video gaming. I thought better of that idea since she is growing up in that age and may accidentally ask to play with little Johnny's disco stick next, which may get her thrown out of the birthday party. That could be a problem. I couldn't use it to reference a stick shift in a car, since she may ask to borrow someones car and drive it, just as long as it wasn't a disco stick because she doesn't handle those very well. As soon as she goes off to school and goes to prom, I would hate for her reputation to be soiled because her disco stick prowess was not up to par, making her dateless to future dances, essentially helping her commit social suicide. What to do, what to do...

So I decided to use buzz words, wow her with medical terminology or basically dumb it down to the point where it no longer matters what the fuck a disco stick is, and try my HARDEST to make light of it to draw her focus elsewhere, like, cheat grass and sidewalk chalk. I used words like smooth muscle, prepuce, innervated nerves, increased blood flow, rigor, etc. Just enough for her to regret asking her father such a silly question. It isn't that I don't want her to feel comfortable asking me sexual questions. Being a father of two daughters I have tried to instill the exact opposite in them. I want them to feel comfortable about talking with me about ANYTHING, without recourse. I would just as soon, however, have these conversations with a child who's nocturnal emissions are down to ZERO and do not have training wheels on their bike. Looking in my rear view mirror I cringed thinking, after everything I had said, it could have possibly fallen on deaf ears. To my delight, her next question brought down my level of discomfort. "Can we have chicken nuggets for lunch?"

You bet, but just so you know....they are salty.

Last Time I will Blog About This

Actually, that's a lie. Most of my blog is talking about stupid. Stupid will never be eradicated. It isn't like small pox. There is no vaccine for stupid, but I wish there were. I would get real good with a blow gun and grab my sack of darts and go fix stupid. Alas, however, a cure for stupid is far off in the distance. About the only way to get rid of stupid is to breed the stupid out of the blood line. That could take generations. So I fear I am going to be teaching my kid's the genentics of stupid, what to watch for, and please, don't recycle. There are bigger problems on this planet than carbon footpints. It's stupid people.

I always wondered what it would be like to be visibly de-friended on Facebook. Most people would probably behave as I did. It would go un-noticed. The only thing I did notice was that I was missing a bunch of negative shit on my front page. Redundant, negative garbage spewn like a true stupid person. I thought maybe I needed to go buy a lottery ticket. I thought my luck might be changing. I swore that....wtf? SHE'S DE-FRIENDED ME? AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHA! I felt dirty and happy all at once. You know, after the one night stand and the walk of shame....poor analogy in this case. REALLLLY poor analogy. This is a bad visual. Like old people phucking. Ugh... It didn't even cross my mind what I had done to make this happen. I didn't care. I still don't, yet, if she reads this she will think that I am blogging about it because I am hurt in some sense. Nothing could be further from the truth. I blog about it because I have about 20 minutes before I have to go to a parent/teacher conference, I have had 2 cups of coffee while I waited, and this is the kind of shit I do to pass the time. I talk about phuck tards. Welcome to my shit list. Its an awesome place to be.

I really won't name names because it would seem vindictive. However, the people that read this blog will know what I am talking about, who I am talking about and will most likely laugh with me. Others might be offended, which is OK too. I don't mean to offend people. I figure it is my job to point out stupid people so they could be avoided. Its like pulling your friend out of the way of a moving vehicle. Its just the right thing to do. I won't miss my stupid person. I am sure they will be replaced. It's sad, but stupid replicates faster than the national debt. In this case, its really fast. A couple of observations for this one however. Don't use pictures from 10 years ago thinking that it is going to help motivate you to look that way again. It is not possible, naturally anyway, to go there again. It is a far off land. Modeling? Really? REALLY?!?!?!? Like caskets, or what? Pleather? Come on....pleather is not in anymore....and you in it was never in.

"You're so vain.....you probably think this blog is about you...don't you....don't you...don't you......." Adios phuckchopos

Quality, not Quantity

I hate complaining, yet within every one of these posts is me....complaining. It's my nature and my vice. I don't do it in public forums even though this can be considered both public and forum. Fuck it. You will have to deal with me like the red-headed step-child that I am...at least today. It's my birthday. I'm right...if on no other day than today. Continue you on at your own risk....

Facebook is a great thing, I think. It passes the time, it allows us to keep up on the goings-on of our friends and family. It is, as defined, a social networking tool. It is meant to build some relationships, make new friends or friends that we have known for a long time. This blog has made its way overseas through the sharing of posts and I have made some "fans," both near and far. Maybe it will make it to SNL and I can write a skit about something funny. Who knows. If this blog doesn't go anywhere, that's OK too. It saves me on mental health visits and allows me a certain sense of security knowing I can rant a few paragraphs, hit post, and feel 100% better. This is one of those days. There might be some people, a handful, that I can count on one finger, that will look at this post and say, "WTF...I'm not like that." Yes you are. Its called denial. Look into it....

I used to think that the more friends I had on Facebook, the more fulfilling my life would be. Then I realized, after putting down the whip cream can, that makes as much sense as Gary Coleman babysitting my kids. I deleted some, not out of some level of disdain, or aggravation, but rather the quality of your friend list should be reasonable. It isn't fair to say "Hey I am your friend," and then say absolutely nothing for months. If you have so many friends that you can't talk to all of them, that is a problem. If you have a lot of friends (say over 600) and you DO talk to all of them, then you need to get out more because that is STILL not quality. My friends list is not used to beg and plead for assistance, favors, dinner, movie tickets....or anything remotely resembling materialism. I ask only for good conversation, a laugh or two, a "hey, what's up." Anything beyond that seems to be desperation, a quest for attention, a need for acceptance. If I had to rely on people on a website to validate my existence, there is a good chance I might eat a bullet. Yet, I see it...often. Its annoying. Its disturbing, but even more disturbing is that some people don't see it. So I write this just to make it crystal clear.

Maybe it's because its my birthday, or it's Wednesday...or I am stuck at school for both occasions. Maybe I am just tired of seeing the same bullshit pop up on my "most recent news" page. Either way, as comical as it is to see the same shit said over and over and over again, enough is enough. I don't care if your shit gets hacked. It comes from accepting friend requests from people you don't know. It comes from the spastic action of clicking anything that pops up. For future reference don't click any website that says www.iamgoingtotrollyourpagetomakeyousoundretarded. Ultimately, that's what happens. I don't feel bad for you. I think it's funny that you see shadows, or get frustrated that you can't log onto Facebook from somewhere other than a desk. It shows that you have an addiction problem. Or it shows that you have zero patience. It makes me laugh, but it's too predictable. Are you afraid to delete the profile and start over? Yes, you will have zero friends again, but you seemingly have all the time in the world to jot down all of their names. I am sure you can find them later. Insanity is defined as doing the same thing twice, the same way, and expecting different results. Do you hear that knock at your door? Insanity wants back in.

Keep your personal business off of the status updates. Everyone has problems, but so you know, Facebook is not a forum for the woe is me. It desensitizes people. Oh no, there it goes again....talking about how life sucks. FYI....life always sucks. Its called life. Appreciate the life you DO have and stop bitching about the shit you DON'T have. It gets old, real fast. Like progeria. Stop it because you look pathetic doing it. Facebook is not a place to get handouts. It's not a shelter....soup kitchen, or a shrink's office. Go to either of the above directly and bypass sharing your woes. It doesn't matter. I have my own problems to deal with and deal with them internally, not publicly. You should try it. Please. I won't complain.

...and that's a first.

E*Trade Baby is Harmless

I don't really like Lindsay Lohan. Ever since Parent Trap, she has been, what's the word.....high? Today I heard the most asinine thing ever and thought it was rant worthy. She is suing E*Trade for $100 million for libel and defamation of character. Seriously...it was the very obscure reference to a baby name Lindsay who was addicted to milk that pushed you over the libel edge? It couldn't be your lesbian escapades or the hundreds, if not THOUSANDS of paparrazi pictures of you stumbling out of the bars drunk off your ass? Or your rail thin coke arms, and the Red Bull/Marlboro light diet you are on, mixed in with a little meth. Yes, it was the baby that forever phucked your name up. Come on....lets get real here.

First, let's assume that you have a case (which you dont) and that E*Trade was actually attmepting to dirty your name (which is filthy to begin with) by using it in their commercial. So what? Getting aggravated at a baby named "Lindsay" that is addicted to milk proves one thing, that you are an addict, something that you vehemently denied in the past. You are in denial. It's not E*Trade's fault they pointed out the obvious. Everyone already knows you are a coke whore. Suing them is only bringing the known into a brighter light.

Second, $100 million???? Ala Johnny Mac, "YOU CAN'T BE SERIOUS!!!!" Where did this number come from? Has your tab run out at every bar in L.A.? To me, the ultimate layman, this is proving you need money for your addiction and Prada was not biting at any marketing offers you have made. Having your name attached to a product other than narcotics is like having Rosie O'Donnell be the spokesman for voting against Prop. 7. Don't make yourself worse than you already are. Apparently you need ANY publicity at this point. It's quite sad....

I have some studying to do...just needed to get this off my chest....

Women Talk More Than Men

Duh.....

Most will say that's because women have more important things to say and can express it better than a man can. I say, "did you say something?" In reality, my youngest children; Jacob, age 4 and Peyton age 6, prove this point rather nicely.

If you take Peyton anywhere, she doesn't stop talking....ever. From the time she gets in the car until the time she is pushed out of the car because of insanity, she is talking about anything she sees. There are more neurons be fired than contestants on "The Apprentice." I don't really listen because I am pretty up to date with the primary colors, the fashion sense of most 1st graders, the fact that Peyton's teacher is expecting twins this year, that the monkey bars are cold at recess and that Winter is not fun because the grass is always wet and they can't sit down. I ask, "why do you guys want to stand up from your desks at class, go outside and sit back down?" I get the 10,000 yard stare.

My son loves scenery. I assume he loves scenery or he is contemplating his next one syllable, off-topic contribution to any conversation taking place. For example:

Peyton : "....and when the bell rang, we lined up, not by height but by date of birth, which I organized and people weren't listening. All the other students went in and the teacher was telling me I had to hurry up before the kids got cold, which didn't make sense because we all had coats on and-"

Jacob: "Thomas is a blue train"

Nice aside, son. That throws Peyton for a loop because, although her voice has stopped, her brain has continued on and she forgets what she was saying. In all reality, Jacob's interventions often save me (and anyone else in the car) from further bleeding from our ears.

This brings me to my point. At Jacob's daycare, both of the provider's children were having emotional problems and were having meltdowns. This caused a lot of drama within the daycare, all of which Jacob seems to avoid except when it is behind my front door, and it involves his sister. Other than that, he is content with playing with his shadow. So when my wife picked him up today, the provider had mentioned all about the drama including the time, ambient temperature and daily rainfall measurement and apologized in advance if Jacob mentions something on the way home.

So my wife loads him into the car, he buckles up and promptly assumes the observational post of checking out the scenery as it flies by. My wife asks him, "what happened at daycare today." He says nothing happened....not making eye contact as he counts the pollen flying by the car. My wife says, "Lisa said her girls were mad...what happened?" He shrugs, looking at her and says, "they were mad I guess," and turned back to counting. If Peyton was in the car, who KNOWS if the story would have ended. In fact, if I were to go check on her right now, as she lays in bed, I would only guess that she would be mumbling about it still...even though she would have been home for almost 7 hours.

Future filibuster, anyone?