Sometimes I get deep. Sometimes the depth amazes those who know me the best. This is one of those moments. I had mentioned that the humor in my posts would someday return. Today is not that day. It seems that God has caused me to reflect on my life over the past few weeks and come to some realizations that I possibly have ignored over time. The last couple of days, I have had an epiphany of sorts.
Life is finite.
The sooner one comes to this realization, the easier it is to deal with how you live your life. As I have stated in the past, I am not afraid of my future, as the control was passed on to someone else. I thought I would hate to have given that control away. In some ways, I am reluctant to do so. Growing up I thought I would live forever, without consequences for the choices I made. In the same breath, I don't regret anything I have done. It is all part of a master plan. I am simply along for the ride.
Life endures for a limited time only.
We have a period of time we are granted. How you take advantage of that time is entirely up to the individual. I can only hope that my time is not now. If the doctor tells me something that changes the OUTCOME, it will not change my OUTLOOK. I pray. I think of everything I could have possibly done to make my health a non-issue, and I realize that everything we do impacts tomorrow. Right now, right here, I can only make choices with consequences I can deal with. Life is a gift, not a right. Just like having a driver's license, I suppose. A poor analogy, maybe, but relevant, regardless.
We all want the best. Sometimes we want the best of everything. I am not sure I have ever been the type to want the best for myself, rather, I want the best for those I love. A better life, better opportunities, and a better outcome to whatever they choose to do. I have learned that being happy with what I have and not upset for the things I DON'T have is a great way to look at things. I have a house in Idaho I may lose. I don't care, or I don't care as much as I should simply because the people that were in it with me are with me now. I don't lose them if the house were to go away. I have them close by. That is important. It was then, and it always will be. Love your family. Even if some of that family is living on the edge. In the end, family is all we have left.
Life is measurable.
How would you measure your life to date? Are you satisfied? What do you regret if anything? Regardless of life's finite characteristics, it is still measurable. It is more than the glass being half full or half empty. It is about something being in the glass. Period. Will the contents of the glass be enough of a memory? My heart is my glass, my 'cup' if you will. I can say with complete comfort that my 'cup' runeth over. Love and support is everything. It is not the amount of money you have, the possessions you have (which will ultimately own you), the things which you wish to covet; it is about the here and now. It is the things you look forward to in the morning that most can take for granted. It is the air you breathe. It is the vehicle that makes you want to go forward every day. It is the bonds of family and friend that cannot break and will not bend. Those are the ties that hold you up when you no longer have the strength to go it alone.
It is your life. You have one to live. Live it well.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Wednesday, April 08, 2009
Symptomatic
A lot of people have asked me what my symptoms were leading up to my diagnosis, at least my initial diagnosis of a gall stone.
Back in 1994 I had some God awful stomach pains that bent me over something fierce. My first thought was my appendix, but where these pains were (just below the sternum, under the ribs, middle of torso) did not follow the normal location of an inflamed appendix. I went to emergency room where I got to experience the euphoria of Morphine. I now know why people become addicted to that drug. The pain went away and I drifted off to sleep. Although, when I woke back up a couple of hours later, I was still in immense pain. Doctors figured maybe I had an ulcer. So I got to drink some barium sulfate which, back then tasted like dog shit. They gave me an ultrasound, sure to find a perforation in my intestine. Nothing. My white blood cell count was high indicating infection, but they couldn't locate any infection to speak of. I spent the night in the hospital, not knowing what was going on. The following day I was discharged with instructions to exercise and stop drinking coffee. Nice. Modern medicine at its finest.
For the next 15 years, once or twice a year, I would have these pains and would just take the next 4-6 hours and deal with it. I would usually just lay down in the fetal position, or rock back and forth (ala Rainman), sweat, and it would pass. I wasn't about ready to go to the hospital again and find out there was nothing wrong. Remember, this began in 1994.
Fast forward to December of 2007. After I moved here in August of the same year, my parents told me that I needed to go to the doctor if for nothing else to get a base line on my medical life. I dreaded that having gained a ton of weight (figuratively speaking) and basically dreading doctors. I didn't want to know the truth. I didn't want to know I was most likely pre-diabetic, or my blood pressure was skewed, that I could not get on a normal scale...I didn't want to know any of it. I had fought bouts of depression over my declining condition for years. I knew I was in bad shape, but I figured I didn't want to know how bad. When my Dad told me that he feared I would die before him, it opened my eyes a bit to how people really saw me. So I went, kicking and screaming.
December of 2007, my blood glucose level was 101. Two tests over 121 indicate diabetes. At this point I was pre-diabetic, or what they call having "metabolic syndrome." I was prescribed Metformin (turns off liver production of glucose) and told to eat more fish, chicken and vegetables. My blood pressure was 150/90 which is hypertensive. I was prescribed Lisinopril which is a diuretic, meant to rid the blood of excess fluid to "thin" it out. Lose weight and eat better and all of this should go away. I hired Mrs. B (my Mom) to do some cooking for me. prepackaged vacuum sealed meals that were part of what the doctor required. I got a membership at CBRC. I worked out, I ate better. I lost a few pounds. Still, not much was changing.
May of 2008, I went back. Glucose was at 111, liver enzymes were slightly elevated indicating the liver was stressed about something. White blood cell count was slightly elevated, indicating infection. My blood pressure was better 130/80-ish. But something was screwing with my body's ability to metabolize glucose. No other changes were made other than to keep exercising.
I was laid off in September of 2008 and no insurance. I would not go back in to see my doctor until I had found gainful employment. I was hired at the Tri-City Herald in November, benefits effective January 1, 2009. I planned on going back to see him again ASAP after that date.
In February, I started feeling incredibly thirsty. I was drinking copious amounts of water. I couldn't get enough of it. I noticed I was losing weight rapidly, no matter what I ate. I would lose sometimes up to 4 pounds a day. I figured it had to do with walking 2-3 miles a day and eating better. I was up all might, every hour, going to the bathroom. I would have to go ALL THE TIME. My vision started getting blurry. My wife told me I probably needed to go see the doc. So I did. My glucose was at 365. My A1C test (measures blood glucose over a 3 month period) was at 15% (384). Normal is 7% or less. My liver enzymes were again elevated to an ungodly level. This was more serious. Kidneys were slightly damaged due to spilling the excess glucose through my urinary tract. Vision was bad due to the body's fight to flush the excess glucose from the capillaries in my eyes. I was getting a little nervous.
The gall stone they found had been growing since 1994. Every time I had pain, the stone had traveled from the gall bladder down to the bile duct. When the pain was gone, it had floated from the bile duct back to the gall bladder. Every time it traveled, it got bigger. Finally, it occluded my bile duct completely, causing the bilirubin to accumulate and turn me yellow. That was when the story that most of you have read, began.
I didn't have a whole lot of symptoms until they found the stone, other than the diabetes. My liver, not able to function properly, was producing glucose 24/7. The food I ate was creating more glucose. My pancreas could not excrete insulin fast enough. Part of me thinks that the liver has not been functioning properly for years. Maybe this will go away with time. I am prepared for it not to, however. To me, the diabetes and jaundice were a blessing in disguise. They found other things in there, mainly the spot on my spleen and the swollen lymph nodes. I pray, as you all do, that this is something that can be treated. A lot of things can be treated these days. I am more impressed with medicine now that I was 15 years ago. I now know how important it is to simply get checked out, at least annually if nothing odd appears on the blood tests. SEE YOU DOCTOR! It is easier to do than I have ever made it out to myself. I always thought they simply want to make a buck like anyone else and will diagnose you with Scarlet Fever so they can prescribe something. Not true. I cannot stress it enough. Especially if you have insurance. $20 and you know, at least know that nothing is wrong.
One of these days, the humor in my posts will return. I promise you that. I can talk about hospital gowns someday. Those are as flattering as Speedo.
Back in 1994 I had some God awful stomach pains that bent me over something fierce. My first thought was my appendix, but where these pains were (just below the sternum, under the ribs, middle of torso) did not follow the normal location of an inflamed appendix. I went to emergency room where I got to experience the euphoria of Morphine. I now know why people become addicted to that drug. The pain went away and I drifted off to sleep. Although, when I woke back up a couple of hours later, I was still in immense pain. Doctors figured maybe I had an ulcer. So I got to drink some barium sulfate which, back then tasted like dog shit. They gave me an ultrasound, sure to find a perforation in my intestine. Nothing. My white blood cell count was high indicating infection, but they couldn't locate any infection to speak of. I spent the night in the hospital, not knowing what was going on. The following day I was discharged with instructions to exercise and stop drinking coffee. Nice. Modern medicine at its finest.
For the next 15 years, once or twice a year, I would have these pains and would just take the next 4-6 hours and deal with it. I would usually just lay down in the fetal position, or rock back and forth (ala Rainman), sweat, and it would pass. I wasn't about ready to go to the hospital again and find out there was nothing wrong. Remember, this began in 1994.
Fast forward to December of 2007. After I moved here in August of the same year, my parents told me that I needed to go to the doctor if for nothing else to get a base line on my medical life. I dreaded that having gained a ton of weight (figuratively speaking) and basically dreading doctors. I didn't want to know the truth. I didn't want to know I was most likely pre-diabetic, or my blood pressure was skewed, that I could not get on a normal scale...I didn't want to know any of it. I had fought bouts of depression over my declining condition for years. I knew I was in bad shape, but I figured I didn't want to know how bad. When my Dad told me that he feared I would die before him, it opened my eyes a bit to how people really saw me. So I went, kicking and screaming.
December of 2007, my blood glucose level was 101. Two tests over 121 indicate diabetes. At this point I was pre-diabetic, or what they call having "metabolic syndrome." I was prescribed Metformin (turns off liver production of glucose) and told to eat more fish, chicken and vegetables. My blood pressure was 150/90 which is hypertensive. I was prescribed Lisinopril which is a diuretic, meant to rid the blood of excess fluid to "thin" it out. Lose weight and eat better and all of this should go away. I hired Mrs. B (my Mom) to do some cooking for me. prepackaged vacuum sealed meals that were part of what the doctor required. I got a membership at CBRC. I worked out, I ate better. I lost a few pounds. Still, not much was changing.
May of 2008, I went back. Glucose was at 111, liver enzymes were slightly elevated indicating the liver was stressed about something. White blood cell count was slightly elevated, indicating infection. My blood pressure was better 130/80-ish. But something was screwing with my body's ability to metabolize glucose. No other changes were made other than to keep exercising.
I was laid off in September of 2008 and no insurance. I would not go back in to see my doctor until I had found gainful employment. I was hired at the Tri-City Herald in November, benefits effective January 1, 2009. I planned on going back to see him again ASAP after that date.
In February, I started feeling incredibly thirsty. I was drinking copious amounts of water. I couldn't get enough of it. I noticed I was losing weight rapidly, no matter what I ate. I would lose sometimes up to 4 pounds a day. I figured it had to do with walking 2-3 miles a day and eating better. I was up all might, every hour, going to the bathroom. I would have to go ALL THE TIME. My vision started getting blurry. My wife told me I probably needed to go see the doc. So I did. My glucose was at 365. My A1C test (measures blood glucose over a 3 month period) was at 15% (384). Normal is 7% or less. My liver enzymes were again elevated to an ungodly level. This was more serious. Kidneys were slightly damaged due to spilling the excess glucose through my urinary tract. Vision was bad due to the body's fight to flush the excess glucose from the capillaries in my eyes. I was getting a little nervous.
The gall stone they found had been growing since 1994. Every time I had pain, the stone had traveled from the gall bladder down to the bile duct. When the pain was gone, it had floated from the bile duct back to the gall bladder. Every time it traveled, it got bigger. Finally, it occluded my bile duct completely, causing the bilirubin to accumulate and turn me yellow. That was when the story that most of you have read, began.
I didn't have a whole lot of symptoms until they found the stone, other than the diabetes. My liver, not able to function properly, was producing glucose 24/7. The food I ate was creating more glucose. My pancreas could not excrete insulin fast enough. Part of me thinks that the liver has not been functioning properly for years. Maybe this will go away with time. I am prepared for it not to, however. To me, the diabetes and jaundice were a blessing in disguise. They found other things in there, mainly the spot on my spleen and the swollen lymph nodes. I pray, as you all do, that this is something that can be treated. A lot of things can be treated these days. I am more impressed with medicine now that I was 15 years ago. I now know how important it is to simply get checked out, at least annually if nothing odd appears on the blood tests. SEE YOU DOCTOR! It is easier to do than I have ever made it out to myself. I always thought they simply want to make a buck like anyone else and will diagnose you with Scarlet Fever so they can prescribe something. Not true. I cannot stress it enough. Especially if you have insurance. $20 and you know, at least know that nothing is wrong.
One of these days, the humor in my posts will return. I promise you that. I can talk about hospital gowns someday. Those are as flattering as Speedo.
Monday, April 06, 2009
God is Good
When I turned 36, I figured that it would be just like any other birthday. After a certain age, parties and celebrations about aging seem to fall by the way side similar to libido and yard work. This year, I got a great gift. Quite colorful and unique.
I got jaundice.
Jaundice as a baby makes sense. It takes some time for the organs to realize that it is time to function on their own without the help of the womb. Jaundice as an adult is a tad different. At first, it was kind of interesting to have people stare at you for no apparent reason. I didn't know I was as yellow as I was since my vision was skewed. Right....I forgot to tell you that I also got another gift this birthday.
I got diabetes.
So, unlike birthdays past, I got a gift I will have forever. Like a diamond and about as expensive in monthly installments for medication and glucose testing supplies. However, jaundice plus diabetes in an adult has a number of diagnoses. Google DIABETES and JAUNDICE and you will get to read about pancreatic cancer. All of my symptoms were there. If nothing else, this eternal gift of diabetes was kind of nice since my body could not burn sugar, it had to burn fat for energy. Hell, I had plenty of that. I lost 60 pounds in about 3 months. However, so do cancer patients. I was a little worried. So, on to my next two gifts this year.
I got an ultrasound and a CT scan with iodine contrast.
Two masses were spotted. One on my pancreas and one on my spleen. Shit. The Internet could be right for once. So I was referred to a specialist, a gastroenterologist named Dr. Vong. That is short for his full LAST name that contained more consonants than vowels. He reviewed all of my tests; blood work, CT and ultrasound and decided that I needed to be scoped. This is a rather non-invasive procedure. I assume that it was non-invasive for two reasons. One, he told me so and second, I was zonked through the procedure and unaware I had 24 inches of camera-tipped cord down my throat. After the procedure, he told me I had an Easter egg sized stone in my bile duct that had been there for years. He was going to remove it the next day that same way he found it, by shoving a cord down my throat. I asked him if I could keep it like Tom Hank's kept Wilson in 'Cast Away.' No dice.
Here is the part that baffles me. The stone is removed, my liver returns from strike. I have a stint keeping my bile duct open since there may be more stones up there. I get pink skin again. I stop excreting orange crush through my urine (excess bilirubin) and find out I need to have my gall bladder out. The doctor who was going to do it came by to see me the morning after my surgery. He told me straight out that the mass on my spleen is still an issue, as are the swollen lymph nodes that surround my liver and even though I have solved one problem, I may have lymphoma. He won't know until they get in there and do a biopsy. This will happen next week.
So I may get a new hair-do for my next present. I may have even more weight loss and some nausea. The part that baffles me is I am not afraid of it. I am not afraid of any of it. It is out of my hands. There is nothing I can do to stop what may come. All I can do is make the most out of what I am doing TODAY. I deal with my diabetes daily. I monitor, eat, monitor, study, monitor, eat, drink, medicate, repeat. That part is kind of nice since I am now involved in my own prognosis. Out of everything that has happened I got the best gift of all.
Awareness.
Amen Brother.
I got jaundice.
Jaundice as a baby makes sense. It takes some time for the organs to realize that it is time to function on their own without the help of the womb. Jaundice as an adult is a tad different. At first, it was kind of interesting to have people stare at you for no apparent reason. I didn't know I was as yellow as I was since my vision was skewed. Right....I forgot to tell you that I also got another gift this birthday.
I got diabetes.
So, unlike birthdays past, I got a gift I will have forever. Like a diamond and about as expensive in monthly installments for medication and glucose testing supplies. However, jaundice plus diabetes in an adult has a number of diagnoses. Google DIABETES and JAUNDICE and you will get to read about pancreatic cancer. All of my symptoms were there. If nothing else, this eternal gift of diabetes was kind of nice since my body could not burn sugar, it had to burn fat for energy. Hell, I had plenty of that. I lost 60 pounds in about 3 months. However, so do cancer patients. I was a little worried. So, on to my next two gifts this year.
I got an ultrasound and a CT scan with iodine contrast.
Two masses were spotted. One on my pancreas and one on my spleen. Shit. The Internet could be right for once. So I was referred to a specialist, a gastroenterologist named Dr. Vong. That is short for his full LAST name that contained more consonants than vowels. He reviewed all of my tests; blood work, CT and ultrasound and decided that I needed to be scoped. This is a rather non-invasive procedure. I assume that it was non-invasive for two reasons. One, he told me so and second, I was zonked through the procedure and unaware I had 24 inches of camera-tipped cord down my throat. After the procedure, he told me I had an Easter egg sized stone in my bile duct that had been there for years. He was going to remove it the next day that same way he found it, by shoving a cord down my throat. I asked him if I could keep it like Tom Hank's kept Wilson in 'Cast Away.' No dice.
Here is the part that baffles me. The stone is removed, my liver returns from strike. I have a stint keeping my bile duct open since there may be more stones up there. I get pink skin again. I stop excreting orange crush through my urine (excess bilirubin) and find out I need to have my gall bladder out. The doctor who was going to do it came by to see me the morning after my surgery. He told me straight out that the mass on my spleen is still an issue, as are the swollen lymph nodes that surround my liver and even though I have solved one problem, I may have lymphoma. He won't know until they get in there and do a biopsy. This will happen next week.
So I may get a new hair-do for my next present. I may have even more weight loss and some nausea. The part that baffles me is I am not afraid of it. I am not afraid of any of it. It is out of my hands. There is nothing I can do to stop what may come. All I can do is make the most out of what I am doing TODAY. I deal with my diabetes daily. I monitor, eat, monitor, study, monitor, eat, drink, medicate, repeat. That part is kind of nice since I am now involved in my own prognosis. Out of everything that has happened I got the best gift of all.
Awareness.
Amen Brother.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Another Bun in the Oven
Nothing says what the fuck like hearing a dude got pregnant. Then, you hear he is pregnant again! Ok, so this goes to show that men can't say no, regardless of their anatomy.
I read something today that says the 'husband' and wife are just like any other couple. Pregnant man has a beard and a belly, a lot like most men watching NFL on any given Sunday. However, this belly gyrates with a moving being inside. This being is not a food item, rather a human being. Yes, this is totally just like any other couple I know of. I ran into a guy I used to work with and asked him when he was due. After getting stitches in the ER, I called to apologize for assuming he was pregnant. He looked just like Mr. Preggo. How was I to know? I mean, they are just like any other couple right?
I read something today that says the 'husband' and wife are just like any other couple. Pregnant man has a beard and a belly, a lot like most men watching NFL on any given Sunday. However, this belly gyrates with a moving being inside. This being is not a food item, rather a human being. Yes, this is totally just like any other couple I know of. I ran into a guy I used to work with and asked him when he was due. After getting stitches in the ER, I called to apologize for assuming he was pregnant. He looked just like Mr. Preggo. How was I to know? I mean, they are just like any other couple right?
Friday, October 24, 2008
36-hour Cialis
Dear Makers of Cialis,
I have a boner.
Let me rephrase that. Over the past day and a half I have had several throbbing stiffies that have lasted just under the 4-hour target mark for calling my physician. I just wanted to send this quick note that I think your product sucks balls, no pun intended.
Oh, yeah...and the whole adage of "when you're ready?" What kind of bullshit is that anyway? I am ALWAYS ready. What happens when SHE isn't ready? We mess around a bit, my prick still in its permanent catatonic state and yet, I pop the pill to wake it up, and she is no longer in the mood. So I am left to tug at this rock hard needless pole you have left me with. Even then I do not get any relief. This isn't the first time this has happened. Last week, I took one of your magic pills on Thursday thinking by Friday night, even at the tail end of the blood boost this son of a bitch gives me I would AT THE VERY LEAST catch her "in the mood," I got nothing. Have you ever been wearing khakis, only to have this protrusion grow even with the fabric resistance that is Dockers? It hurts like a son of a bitch. Not to mention, my constant adjusting makes people at work wonder if I am harboring a public lice farm in my shorts. Maybe you need to come up with a partnering drug called SHE-ALIS. The slogan can be, "when his raging rock cock is making him contemplate raping herd of sheep, you will for once in your life, be ready." It can be disguised as a Cheese-It. I can easily pass that to her a few minutes after I have popped my personal hormone. I have yet to see her pass up a Cheese-It.
So to conclude, go phuck yourselves. I hope you and your drug get ass raped by a herd of Wildebeests. I hope some deranged customer finds you and strips you down, paints your body with honey and throws you into a fire ant pile. In fact, I hope they force feed you your shit product and only paint the never ending erection you are FORCED to have and release the ants on your nether regions. At least then, you will know the pain I feel every time "I am ready."
Assholes.
Signed,
"I hate my constant unused erection"
I have a boner.
Let me rephrase that. Over the past day and a half I have had several throbbing stiffies that have lasted just under the 4-hour target mark for calling my physician. I just wanted to send this quick note that I think your product sucks balls, no pun intended.
Oh, yeah...and the whole adage of "when you're ready?" What kind of bullshit is that anyway? I am ALWAYS ready. What happens when SHE isn't ready? We mess around a bit, my prick still in its permanent catatonic state and yet, I pop the pill to wake it up, and she is no longer in the mood. So I am left to tug at this rock hard needless pole you have left me with. Even then I do not get any relief. This isn't the first time this has happened. Last week, I took one of your magic pills on Thursday thinking by Friday night, even at the tail end of the blood boost this son of a bitch gives me I would AT THE VERY LEAST catch her "in the mood," I got nothing. Have you ever been wearing khakis, only to have this protrusion grow even with the fabric resistance that is Dockers? It hurts like a son of a bitch. Not to mention, my constant adjusting makes people at work wonder if I am harboring a public lice farm in my shorts. Maybe you need to come up with a partnering drug called SHE-ALIS. The slogan can be, "when his raging rock cock is making him contemplate raping herd of sheep, you will for once in your life, be ready." It can be disguised as a Cheese-It. I can easily pass that to her a few minutes after I have popped my personal hormone. I have yet to see her pass up a Cheese-It.
So to conclude, go phuck yourselves. I hope you and your drug get ass raped by a herd of Wildebeests. I hope some deranged customer finds you and strips you down, paints your body with honey and throws you into a fire ant pile. In fact, I hope they force feed you your shit product and only paint the never ending erection you are FORCED to have and release the ants on your nether regions. At least then, you will know the pain I feel every time "I am ready."
Assholes.
Signed,
"I hate my constant unused erection"
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Peyton, the 5-year old diva
I am all for individuality. I want all my kids to have it. I want them to be able to stand up in any social situation and proclaim at the top of her lungs "CAR PE DIEM!" Hopefully, it suits the situation so that her reputation is not soiled.
However, it has come to my attention that my desire for a functioning, confident child is quickly being replaced by a roll of duct tape. Her timing is horrible. She barters more than OPEC. Ask her once to do something and the regret is immediate that a request was even uttered as she begins her filibuster. Asking her to get her pajamas on is usually followed with a banter about how cotton pajamas are being hemmed by the children of 3rd world countries and those governments are not paying those children more than pennies on the dollar. WHAT THE HELL?!?!?! Just go change. "Does it mean bed time," she usually asks. No, Peyton, it means a damn cocktail party. It's like talking to a Republican, Democrat or worse yet....a teenager. Two words come to mind. SHUT....UP!
A few nights ago, she gave my wife a look that could freeze water after she was asked to do something simple like brush her teeth. I immediately told her not to look at her Mother like that. Her response? Shoulders shrugged, she said "Did it look like I was doing that?" The look on her face was one of ass-clown bewilderment. Oh...no you didn't. I took two steps towards her and she cowered into the bathroom, toothbrush in hand. She fluffs her feathers with the best of them, but cannot really follow through. At 5-years old, I am not sure I want follow through. All of this unwanted emotion is coming from her without the help of hormones. Once her eggs start dropping, I am going on a long vacation.
It is difficult raising a diva. I am not sure where her dominating personality came from. The only thing missing from her lion-taming repertoire (her brother being the lion) is a whip. She reminds me of a cat, all fluffed up and growling, tail enlarged to 5 times its normal size. Her bark is worse than her bite. I am amazed at her lack of fear, however. Her brother, and frankly, her father, hate spiders. She kills them with the best of them. But when it comes to wanting her to go to sleep, there is something that makes her want to fight it. She has to pee, or blow her nose, or pee out her nose...something always makes her get up. If I didn't know any better, this girl had a UTI.
Instead of milk, maybe she should have cranberry juice?
However, it has come to my attention that my desire for a functioning, confident child is quickly being replaced by a roll of duct tape. Her timing is horrible. She barters more than OPEC. Ask her once to do something and the regret is immediate that a request was even uttered as she begins her filibuster. Asking her to get her pajamas on is usually followed with a banter about how cotton pajamas are being hemmed by the children of 3rd world countries and those governments are not paying those children more than pennies on the dollar. WHAT THE HELL?!?!?! Just go change. "Does it mean bed time," she usually asks. No, Peyton, it means a damn cocktail party. It's like talking to a Republican, Democrat or worse yet....a teenager. Two words come to mind. SHUT....UP!
A few nights ago, she gave my wife a look that could freeze water after she was asked to do something simple like brush her teeth. I immediately told her not to look at her Mother like that. Her response? Shoulders shrugged, she said "Did it look like I was doing that?" The look on her face was one of ass-clown bewilderment. Oh...no you didn't. I took two steps towards her and she cowered into the bathroom, toothbrush in hand. She fluffs her feathers with the best of them, but cannot really follow through. At 5-years old, I am not sure I want follow through. All of this unwanted emotion is coming from her without the help of hormones. Once her eggs start dropping, I am going on a long vacation.
It is difficult raising a diva. I am not sure where her dominating personality came from. The only thing missing from her lion-taming repertoire (her brother being the lion) is a whip. She reminds me of a cat, all fluffed up and growling, tail enlarged to 5 times its normal size. Her bark is worse than her bite. I am amazed at her lack of fear, however. Her brother, and frankly, her father, hate spiders. She kills them with the best of them. But when it comes to wanting her to go to sleep, there is something that makes her want to fight it. She has to pee, or blow her nose, or pee out her nose...something always makes her get up. If I didn't know any better, this girl had a UTI.
Instead of milk, maybe she should have cranberry juice?
Thursday, October 16, 2008
McCain?
I watched the debate last night as I was removing the bamboo shoots from under my toenails. I had nothing better to do. These debates are supposed to make voters lean one way or another. I made my decision.
I am voting for Nader.
I figure I will be able to say that I voted and not hear about how I needed to vote because it is my responsibility. I get sick of people telling me, when they hear I did not vote, how sad it is that I do not exercise my right to vote. I kindly remind them that it is, in fact, MY right, to do with as I choose, and to kindly get ass raped by a grizzly bear. This year however, I figure I will vote for the candidate that will only get 1% of the popular vote to quiet the nay-sayers, and then wait and watch as the country gets thrown down the shitter.
The only thing I learned after watching the final debate before the election is that McCain is a angry little man. His puffy face and beady eyes reminded me that he is a perfect politician. This is his last shot at a permanent pension and a life-time secret service detail. I see him, if he wins, laughing up a storm and saying "nee nerr nee nerr" all the way to Pennsylvania Avenue. I cannot, in good conscience vote for the husband of a Stepford wife. It scares me. He seemed so desperate to point out that Barack Obama is articulate and eloquent. I thought for sure they were going to get a room after bickering for 90 minutes. Can you imagine Cindy McCain going over to Africa on a human rights mission and getting.....dirty? Me neither.
McCain or Obama....Obama or McCain? How abut neither and we make Kevin Federline our king?
I am voting for Nader.
I figure I will be able to say that I voted and not hear about how I needed to vote because it is my responsibility. I get sick of people telling me, when they hear I did not vote, how sad it is that I do not exercise my right to vote. I kindly remind them that it is, in fact, MY right, to do with as I choose, and to kindly get ass raped by a grizzly bear. This year however, I figure I will vote for the candidate that will only get 1% of the popular vote to quiet the nay-sayers, and then wait and watch as the country gets thrown down the shitter.
The only thing I learned after watching the final debate before the election is that McCain is a angry little man. His puffy face and beady eyes reminded me that he is a perfect politician. This is his last shot at a permanent pension and a life-time secret service detail. I see him, if he wins, laughing up a storm and saying "nee nerr nee nerr" all the way to Pennsylvania Avenue. I cannot, in good conscience vote for the husband of a Stepford wife. It scares me. He seemed so desperate to point out that Barack Obama is articulate and eloquent. I thought for sure they were going to get a room after bickering for 90 minutes. Can you imagine Cindy McCain going over to Africa on a human rights mission and getting.....dirty? Me neither.
McCain or Obama....Obama or McCain? How abut neither and we make Kevin Federline our king?
Fight the Spammer
I received this email in my inbox.
Dear friend,I am sincerely Sorry for bugging into your privacy, it's due to a businessdeal in my bank value at thirty seven million four hundred thousand usdollars,($37.4M) as a foreigner can present you as the beneficiary to theinheritance.l am Mr.Rob Chapman Director of Systems The Banksa Managing Director, thisopportunity will be of mutual benefit to the two of us. I would provideyou with all the necessary documents to lay claims and also I would availyou with the modalities we shall follow once I hear from you Because of myposition in office, please endeavor to keep to your self issue concerningthis proposal.If you are interested,kindly get back to me with your full contactinformation's and phone number via email (mrrobchapman01@hotmail.com) oryou can reach me any time on my phone (+612-800-3 7218).If not interested you can delete this mail
Regards,Mr.Rob Chapman
I get several of these a month and normally delete them. Being unemployed does have its advantages in that I have some spare time now. So I responded. I don't have proof that I responded other than this cut and paste. But I assure you, this is what I sent this individual. I swear.
Dr. Mr. Rob Chapman,
Dear friend,I am sincerely Sorry for bugging into your privacy, it's due to a businessdeal in my bank value at thirty seven million four hundred thousand usdollars,($37.4M) as a foreigner can present you as the beneficiary to theinheritance.l am Mr.Rob Chapman Director of Systems The Banksa Managing Director, thisopportunity will be of mutual benefit to the two of us. I would provideyou with all the necessary documents to lay claims and also I would availyou with the modalities we shall follow once I hear from you Because of myposition in office, please endeavor to keep to your self issue concerningthis proposal.If you are interested,kindly get back to me with your full contactinformation's and phone number via email (mrrobchapman01@hotmail.com) oryou can reach me any time on my phone (+612-800-3 7218).If not interested you can delete this mail
Regards,Mr.Rob Chapman
I get several of these a month and normally delete them. Being unemployed does have its advantages in that I have some spare time now. So I responded. I don't have proof that I responded other than this cut and paste. But I assure you, this is what I sent this individual. I swear.
Dr. Mr. Rob Chapman,
Words cannot express the gratitude I have right now. Actions cannot express it either other than I shall give you a big hug and the Care Bear of your choice when we finally meet after you have made me a multi-millionaire. Your timing is impeccable. How did you know that I was broke? Also, do you have friends that have come across a lot of money because they all want to give it to ME! Talk about the right place at the right time. I sure am glad y'all found me. So what do we do next?
I am confused as to your accent. Most people lose the accent when typing but I could almost hear the excitement in your voice as you chose ME of all people to be the beneficiary of this money. Who died and made us rich, partner? Can we find some more dead people and take their millions? I think we can do a lot of good with this money. I know of at least one mobile home that needs some fixin', not to mention some friends who could use some new gloves for the winter.
Please email me and tell me what to do next. I am on pins and needles. A tad painful, but for this amount of cash, it don't hurt that bad.
Maybe he will write back....
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Costco on a Sunday
There are lots of things you should avoid as a human being. Putting your head in an oven. Shouldn't do that. Microwaving your cell phone wrapped in tinfoil, stuffed into an empty soup can. Shouldn't do that either. Bathe in battery acid. I have heard that is a no-no. Put Ben Gay on your dog's private parts. My brother did that once in high school. Probably a bad idea. Funny at 15, but not a good idea. Going to Costco on a Sunday is another one of those "are you seriously retarded" moments. I was retarded this past Sunday and did just that.
It isn't the fact that its busy. I can accept busy. Busy is not the right word for Costco on a Sunday. It is overwhelming. It's like 48 hours before a hurricane at Home Depot in St. Petersburg. It feels like a shopping spree at Toys R' Us for the not-so-privileged. It is over sized carts and one-armed sweeps. It is an over-abundance of the not-really-necessary. It is a chance to get things that in real life you don't need that much of but....it's right there in front of you and it's only $12. Two gallons of Cranberry-Pomegranate juice for $9? Hell yes! You may not know what it tastes like, but it's TWO GALLONS! That's $4.50 a gallon, $.07 an ounce and a cleaner urinary tract. That's a venti anything at Starbucks. Gotta do it.
This is the day, more so than normal, that the sample zombies come out. If you want to sample the newest appetizer, go on Sunday. I think half of the people shopping are just going for lunch. With 100 different samples to try, you can eat for free and get out without having to spend an arm and a leg for 269 Huggies diapers in a box that requires a travel trailer and 300 bungee cords. My wife and I followed a cart with an older couple that tried everything they came across. When I say everything, I mean everything. Whatever the sample, they had it. They both had it. Their cart remained empty through every isle. I was sure of the fact that these people were there just for the samples. We parted ways after about 66 samples, mostly because we actually were there to buy something. I couldn't get over the fact that they even sampled a medicine cup full of Splenda brown sugar. Who does that? Costco-ites, that's who. Stupid samples....
My brother went to take some shorts back to Costco back in 1997 (time unknown actually, but since he will be reading this, I figure I will exaggerate for fun) and was walking through the front door to the return counter. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a Costco Centurion guard approach, spear in hand, and grabbed my brothers arm to let him know that he shall not pass without the golden ticket. Feeling threatened and weaponless, he dropped the shorts and walked out, vowing never to return to Costco after his brush with death. To this day, he will not go back. It is kind of like an alien abduction. In his defense, I will say that the people that "guard" the entrance are pretty worthless. Even if the membership card is not valid, they will not be able to check out anyway. So why be so....brash? He doesn't go to Costco on Sunday or any other day that ends in "Y." One less customer.
Even Rome fell eventually.
The insanity that is Costco on a Sunday is really indescribable, even with the many words above. It is not something to experience. That is what the Eiffel Tower is for. I am sure there needs to be a disclaimer for that particular day. Shop at your own risk and watch for peeling flesh and puddles of drool. The zombies are about...
It isn't the fact that its busy. I can accept busy. Busy is not the right word for Costco on a Sunday. It is overwhelming. It's like 48 hours before a hurricane at Home Depot in St. Petersburg. It feels like a shopping spree at Toys R' Us for the not-so-privileged. It is over sized carts and one-armed sweeps. It is an over-abundance of the not-really-necessary. It is a chance to get things that in real life you don't need that much of but....it's right there in front of you and it's only $12. Two gallons of Cranberry-Pomegranate juice for $9? Hell yes! You may not know what it tastes like, but it's TWO GALLONS! That's $4.50 a gallon, $.07 an ounce and a cleaner urinary tract. That's a venti anything at Starbucks. Gotta do it.
This is the day, more so than normal, that the sample zombies come out. If you want to sample the newest appetizer, go on Sunday. I think half of the people shopping are just going for lunch. With 100 different samples to try, you can eat for free and get out without having to spend an arm and a leg for 269 Huggies diapers in a box that requires a travel trailer and 300 bungee cords. My wife and I followed a cart with an older couple that tried everything they came across. When I say everything, I mean everything. Whatever the sample, they had it. They both had it. Their cart remained empty through every isle. I was sure of the fact that these people were there just for the samples. We parted ways after about 66 samples, mostly because we actually were there to buy something. I couldn't get over the fact that they even sampled a medicine cup full of Splenda brown sugar. Who does that? Costco-ites, that's who. Stupid samples....
My brother went to take some shorts back to Costco back in 1997 (time unknown actually, but since he will be reading this, I figure I will exaggerate for fun) and was walking through the front door to the return counter. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a Costco Centurion guard approach, spear in hand, and grabbed my brothers arm to let him know that he shall not pass without the golden ticket. Feeling threatened and weaponless, he dropped the shorts and walked out, vowing never to return to Costco after his brush with death. To this day, he will not go back. It is kind of like an alien abduction. In his defense, I will say that the people that "guard" the entrance are pretty worthless. Even if the membership card is not valid, they will not be able to check out anyway. So why be so....brash? He doesn't go to Costco on Sunday or any other day that ends in "Y." One less customer.
Even Rome fell eventually.
The insanity that is Costco on a Sunday is really indescribable, even with the many words above. It is not something to experience. That is what the Eiffel Tower is for. I am sure there needs to be a disclaimer for that particular day. Shop at your own risk and watch for peeling flesh and puddles of drool. The zombies are about...
Thursday, October 09, 2008
Islamabad, Home of Dish Network Customer Support
I am all for companies saving money. If they want to outsource a job, there is not much we as little people can do to stop them. However, if they really wanted to save money, a better option may be to stop paying their CEO's so much money to delegate all of their work. The highest paid folks seem to do the least amount of work. At least, that is the view I get from the cheap seats.
What do I know. I am unemployed.
I recently moved from one apartment to another. In order for me to move my Dish Network service, I needed to have a technician come out to the new apartment to install it. An appointment was set for a Wednesday, which came and went without a technicians arrival. So I called 1-800-thick-accent to find out what occurred. The following discussion took place.
Dish Operator - Thank you for contacting DEESH NETWORK, home of best H-DEE and DVR service, my name is TOM, how can I help you.
Me- Your name is what?
D.O. - Tom. What is the problem I can help you with?
Me - Well, TOM....I was supposed to have someone come out today between 9AM and 12PM to install my dish and no one has arrived. I was wondering if something was wrong.
D.O. - I apologize for all inconvenience this may have cause. Let me look up your account things. May I please have the number of your phone?
Me - Looking at the phone, Tom, I think the number is 385. But it is a Motorola. I think I see a Z on the front of it.
D.O. - OK, sir, I am not finding a 385 in our system. You said your name was Motorola?
**At this point, it was too much fun not getting a tech out to my new place. So I just continued going on and seeing how far this would go**
Me - No, no....my first name is Z, like the Zebra. JUST...like....Zebra. Last name Motorola, middle name 385
D.O. - OK.... Sir, I am having a time finding your info. Please wait please.
**This is obviously a call overseas for more obvious reasons than the fact that the company in charge of handling Dish Network's service thinks Barbara Streisand music is any good**
Different Dish Network Operator - Hello, seer? My name is Mike. Can you please give me your account info again? I seem to not be able to find you.
Me - That's because Tom was working with me before. I am not sure what he did not understand. I gave him my phone number. It is. My name is .
Mike (Operator) - OK, here it is....one moment, please sir and apologize for the holding.
Tom - OK, seer. Thank you for the holding. Can you verify your address of your home please?
Me - Sure. It is.
Tom - OK, that is not the information that is in front of me.
Me - Hmmm...well that might explain why no one has come out to install my dish. Is it possible that someone can come out today? I am missing Jenna's Playhouse right now.
Tom - Sir, I apologize for all this problems. We can get someone out next week sometime. What is the address for the technician?
Me - I don't even know his name, so I couldn't tell you his address. I think he drives a truck though and carries a bag of tools.
Tom - OK, like I said again, I do apologize for all the problems. Uh....
Me - That's OK Tom. I accept your apology for the polar ice caps, but as far as the world economy, "sorry" just doesn't cut it.
Tom - OK, thank you. Can I get you with anything else today?
Me - Angelina Jolie, if possible.
Tom - OK, I will see if we can do that. Can you hold on for a moments?
Me - Sure
I was losing interest in playing "How Far To Push The Ishtar." It was too easy. Needless to say I promptly cancelled Dish soon after they missed their second appointment. I did give them all the info and argued profusely when I called later in the day on the incompetence in appointment scheduling and wondered why it was that an electronic key stroke is so hard to perform. I stressed to the next person I spoke with that Barbara Streisand was a HUGE turn off while on hold and several times I thought about repeatedly falling on a sharp instrument because of it.
I got several apologies. That was nice. Angelina, however, still has not gotten a hold of me.
What do I know. I am unemployed.
I recently moved from one apartment to another. In order for me to move my Dish Network service, I needed to have a technician come out to the new apartment to install it. An appointment was set for a Wednesday, which came and went without a technicians arrival. So I called 1-800-thick-accent to find out what occurred. The following discussion took place.
Dish Operator - Thank you for contacting DEESH NETWORK, home of best H-DEE and DVR service, my name is TOM, how can I help you.
Me- Your name is what?
D.O. - Tom. What is the problem I can help you with?
Me -
D.O. - I apologize for all inconvenience this may have cause. Let me look up your account things. May I please have the number of your phone?
Me - Looking at the phone, Tom, I think the number is 385. But it is a Motorola. I think I see a Z on the front of it.
D.O. - OK, sir, I am not finding a 385 in our system. You said your name was Motorola?
**At this point, it was too much fun not getting a tech out to my new place. So I just continued going on and seeing how far this would go**
Me - No, no....my first name is Z, like the Zebra. JUST...like....Zebra. Last name Motorola, middle name 385
D.O. - OK....
**This is obviously a call overseas for more obvious reasons than the fact that the company in charge of handling Dish Network's service thinks Barbara Streisand music is any good**
Different Dish Network Operator - Hello, seer? My name is Mike. Can you please give me your account info again? I seem to not be able to find you.
Me - That's because Tom was working with me before. I am not sure what he did not understand. I gave him my phone number. It is
Mike (Operator) - OK, here it is....one moment, please sir and apologize for the holding.
Tom
Me - Sure. It is
Tom -
Me - Hmmm...well that might explain why no one has come out to install my dish. Is it possible that someone can come out today? I am missing Jenna's Playhouse right now.
Tom -
Me - I don't even know his name, so I couldn't tell you his address. I think he drives a truck though and carries a bag of tools.
Tom - OK, like I said again, I do apologize for all the problems. Uh....
Me - That's OK Tom. I accept your apology for the polar ice caps, but as far as the world economy, "sorry" just doesn't cut it.
Tom - OK, thank you. Can I get you with anything else today?
Me - Angelina Jolie, if possible.
Tom - OK, I will see if we can do that.
Me - Sure
I was losing interest in playing "How Far To Push The Ishtar." It was too easy. Needless to say I promptly cancelled Dish soon after they missed their second appointment. I did give them all the info and argued profusely when I called later in the day on the incompetence in appointment scheduling and wondered why it was that an electronic key stroke is so hard to perform. I stressed to the next person I spoke with that Barbara Streisand was a HUGE turn off while on hold and several times I thought about repeatedly falling on a sharp instrument because of it.
I got several apologies. That was nice. Angelina, however, still has not gotten a hold of me.
Tuesday, October 07, 2008
The Difference Between and Douche and a Turd Sandwich
If you are a fan of South Park, the above title will ring more true to you than to those who aren't. It is a satirical reference to the election between George W. Bush and Al Gore. It is a choice between two things that, well, suck. This election, at least in my opinion, we face the same dilemma. I am torn between two people that I do not want in office. We DO need a change, not only because the Constitution says we do, but this country is going into the shitter real fast. But what kind of change can we tolerate? This election will be based on an electorate that has grown exponentially over the past 8 years. If nothing else, our country's problems have grown "acres" of voters. However, how educated are these voters? They are infants, frankly, eager to participate in a process that is unfamiliar to them. It is more than punching a ballot. It is educating yourself to find out where these politicians stand.
But where do they stand? A platform is only as strong as the candidate preaching it. G.W. has proven that you can say and do anything to get elected. Maybe now he and his Dad will have stuff to talk about at family gatherings. If you recall, his experience in government was as limited as Obama's, yet, he still got elected because he surrounded himself with great people. Where has that gotten us? Deeper in the hole, both globally and domestically. So are we prepared to allow a good speaker; an articulate inexperienced politician to take office based on the fact he is black, a first timer? I am not so sure. What has he really done?
Then you have McCain, who will most likely die in office. He has had more lesions removed from his face then any human on the face of the Earth, pun intended. He looks ailing. Plus, we will have a Stepford wife as a first lady. His V.P. will be seated next to Pelosi in the Senate. Talk about cat fight. This is a poor scenario. I believe in McCain's experience as a life long politician. I believe he has the experience to do the job, but my fear lies in his ability to finish what he starts. Does his heart have the beats remaining? Frankly, if it doesn't, I fear for the Nation. I like Tina Fe...err, Sarah Palin. I like the way she thinks, but is that her really thinking or is it some far off ghost writer? Maybe those people should be on the ticket; the people writing all of the fancy words these office seeker's speak.
So the choice is not as easy as it seems. I don't pay attention to the polls. I will tune into the debate tonight to listen to the banter back and forth but I doubt it will sway me much. I really don't know he to vote for come November. The douche....or the turd sandwich. Honestly, either one sounds awful.
But where do they stand? A platform is only as strong as the candidate preaching it. G.W. has proven that you can say and do anything to get elected. Maybe now he and his Dad will have stuff to talk about at family gatherings. If you recall, his experience in government was as limited as Obama's, yet, he still got elected because he surrounded himself with great people. Where has that gotten us? Deeper in the hole, both globally and domestically. So are we prepared to allow a good speaker; an articulate inexperienced politician to take office based on the fact he is black, a first timer? I am not so sure. What has he really done?
Then you have McCain, who will most likely die in office. He has had more lesions removed from his face then any human on the face of the Earth, pun intended. He looks ailing. Plus, we will have a Stepford wife as a first lady. His V.P. will be seated next to Pelosi in the Senate. Talk about cat fight. This is a poor scenario. I believe in McCain's experience as a life long politician. I believe he has the experience to do the job, but my fear lies in his ability to finish what he starts. Does his heart have the beats remaining? Frankly, if it doesn't, I fear for the Nation. I like Tina Fe...err, Sarah Palin. I like the way she thinks, but is that her really thinking or is it some far off ghost writer? Maybe those people should be on the ticket; the people writing all of the fancy words these office seeker's speak.
So the choice is not as easy as it seems. I don't pay attention to the polls. I will tune into the debate tonight to listen to the banter back and forth but I doubt it will sway me much. I really don't know he to vote for come November. The douche....or the turd sandwich. Honestly, either one sounds awful.
Sunday, October 05, 2008
My New Retirement Plan
Since the market has been performing swimmingly, I have been giving some serious thought to my financial future. Being 35-years old, it came to mind that this might be a good time to ponder the lifestyle I want when I retire. At the current pace, I am destined to have a shitload of inner tubes, cemented to a piece of plywood, ala Huck Finn, floating downstream on a major body of water.
My wife and I went to an exotic pet store in Kennewick yesterday and saw some baby tortoises. Not knowing about their cost, I was shocked that they were almost $200 a pop. For a four-hundred dollar investment, it is possible to breed these things and sell them to pet stores around the country. The thought occurred to me that the overhead required for such an investment would be rather small, at least initially. Figure the average brood for a mating pair is 30 eggs. Even if 50% perished, that left 15 baby turtles. Now, of course, the pet store would not pay retail, so figure a 50% reduction for a wholesale price, that was $100 a turtle. That's $1500 a brood. Tick, tock, tick, tock....
We also have an English Bulldog we want to breed. He is not a champion, and is pet quality (one of the best dogs I have ever owned), his semen would not be a "prize possession." However, it would be realistic to assume that we could get $300 per specimen shipped to an approved bitch.
Bitch....LOL....Bitch Bitch Bitch.....OK, all done.
That being said, the thought occurred to me AGAIN that I was missing on getting some money back from the market crashing by letting turtles hump in an aquarium and jerking my dog off. Of course, it is hard to explain how I made my money. I am sure I would have to come up with something other than I raise tortoises and give my dog a hand job every month. a 3000% return on investment is hard to come by. So, I think I will just refer to my idea as the BOHICA investment package, in the name of my bullie Gus.
Bend Over Here It Comes Again
I will have to research just how valid this opportunity is. I will keep you posted.
My wife and I went to an exotic pet store in Kennewick yesterday and saw some baby tortoises. Not knowing about their cost, I was shocked that they were almost $200 a pop. For a four-hundred dollar investment, it is possible to breed these things and sell them to pet stores around the country. The thought occurred to me that the overhead required for such an investment would be rather small, at least initially. Figure the average brood for a mating pair is 30 eggs. Even if 50% perished, that left 15 baby turtles. Now, of course, the pet store would not pay retail, so figure a 50% reduction for a wholesale price, that was $100 a turtle. That's $1500 a brood. Tick, tock, tick, tock....
We also have an English Bulldog we want to breed. He is not a champion, and is pet quality (one of the best dogs I have ever owned), his semen would not be a "prize possession." However, it would be realistic to assume that we could get $300 per specimen shipped to an approved bitch.
Bitch....LOL....Bitch Bitch Bitch.....OK, all done.
That being said, the thought occurred to me AGAIN that I was missing on getting some money back from the market crashing by letting turtles hump in an aquarium and jerking my dog off. Of course, it is hard to explain how I made my money. I am sure I would have to come up with something other than I raise tortoises and give my dog a hand job every month. a 3000% return on investment is hard to come by. So, I think I will just refer to my idea as the BOHICA investment package, in the name of my bullie Gus.
Bend Over Here It Comes Again
I will have to research just how valid this opportunity is. I will keep you posted.
Saturday, October 04, 2008
Dear the Person Who Wrote "City of Angels"
I hate you.
It isn't like I have not seen this movie numerous times. It is not like the movie's ending is a surprise. Guy is an angel, falls in love with a mortal human, becomes human to be with his love, love dies. Even on the outside looking in, it is as predictable as Tony Soprano's love for Italian food. I really only have one question.
Why?
There are so many other ways to end the movie. It is possible to even have a happy ending where they have little angel babies, or they both get to see angels walkng around. Instead, you proved yet one more time how women can not be satisfied. I mean really, what fruit salad needs Asian pears and nutmeg or All Spice? The salad seemed complete, especially since the end reult of eating the salad is the same regardless of its contents. It is still a very fibrous bowel movement, the smell of nutmeg being far removed early on in the digestion process.
I hate you.
Who the hell rides their bike on a mountain road with no hands, eyes closed, feeling the wind in their face? This does NOTHING except make logging truckers who kill those types of people guilty for the rest of their lives. All because someone thought it would be great to end the movie with a horrific car/bike accident. The only time I get to see the end of this movie is when my wife is gone because she always flips it about the time Nicolas Cage comes down from his Earthly shower to sit at an empty table, reminiscing about how men and women "fit together," and how fruit salad is super yummy WITHOUT ASIAN PEARS! Even then, when the candle goes out and he races down to hold his love, I am sure the question came up...WHY DID YOU THINK THE SALAD NEEDED ANYTHING ELSE???? WHY?!?!?!
So, just so we are clear....I hate you.
Signed,
Guy who paid retail to see this movie
It isn't like I have not seen this movie numerous times. It is not like the movie's ending is a surprise. Guy is an angel, falls in love with a mortal human, becomes human to be with his love, love dies. Even on the outside looking in, it is as predictable as Tony Soprano's love for Italian food. I really only have one question.
Why?
There are so many other ways to end the movie. It is possible to even have a happy ending where they have little angel babies, or they both get to see angels walkng around. Instead, you proved yet one more time how women can not be satisfied. I mean really, what fruit salad needs Asian pears and nutmeg or All Spice? The salad seemed complete, especially since the end reult of eating the salad is the same regardless of its contents. It is still a very fibrous bowel movement, the smell of nutmeg being far removed early on in the digestion process.
I hate you.
Who the hell rides their bike on a mountain road with no hands, eyes closed, feeling the wind in their face? This does NOTHING except make logging truckers who kill those types of people guilty for the rest of their lives. All because someone thought it would be great to end the movie with a horrific car/bike accident. The only time I get to see the end of this movie is when my wife is gone because she always flips it about the time Nicolas Cage comes down from his Earthly shower to sit at an empty table, reminiscing about how men and women "fit together," and how fruit salad is super yummy WITHOUT ASIAN PEARS! Even then, when the candle goes out and he races down to hold his love, I am sure the question came up...WHY DID YOU THINK THE SALAD NEEDED ANYTHING ELSE???? WHY?!?!?!
So, just so we are clear....I hate you.
Signed,
Guy who paid retail to see this movie
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Clay Aiken Is Gay?
I must say I was shocked to read that headline today. I was about as shocked to hear that Eddie Murphy was black, Colin Farrell was a man-whore, and Amy Winehouse has a drug "issue."
It seems ridiculous to me that this is even news worthy. He claims he "could not hide it anymore." I wish he was hiding Osama because it was painfully obvious he was as queer as a 3-dollar bill since he came on the scene. All the power to him for being sneaky and keeping it from everyone. Rest easy Ms. Aiken. We all knew but still are not going to buy your album.
It seems ridiculous to me that this is even news worthy. He claims he "could not hide it anymore." I wish he was hiding Osama because it was painfully obvious he was as queer as a 3-dollar bill since he came on the scene. All the power to him for being sneaky and keeping it from everyone. Rest easy Ms. Aiken. We all knew but still are not going to buy your album.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Why buy a mobile home?
Homes are not meant to be mobile. They only make sense when you own the ground you put them on. They then become real property with tax benefits. Other than that, they are migraines. My wife owned one before we got married. YAY, you might say, you married one of those real estate tycoons. No, this particular model, a 1972 Fleetwood single-wide mobile home, was placed in a park on rented ground. Owning this P.O.S. was just the first mistake. It gets worse from here.
I should preface the next tirade with a disclaimer that anyone who owns a mobile home but not the land is a fucktard and has the common sense of an infant gumming on a Ginsu. I have zero sympathy for those who invest in a car and wonder why it falls apart faster that Amy Winehouse. My wife vacated this property when she married an alcoholic. No, it wasn't me, rather it was her first husband. She found 3 sets of renters, 2 of which the park would not allow inside. Kind of like the Pentagon. They don't let just anyone in there. They have to be top notch winners with loads of cash and good credit because, well, they are renting a mobile home in a park simply to save money. Right....but only a mobile home owner would believe that shit anyway.
The renters had to get a co-signor who would agree to vouch for these assholes in the event they did not pay lot rent. My wife had them fill out an application, and did not pull credit or do any employment verification, simply needing to have someone in the place so she could move out and fornicate with Mr. Whiskey-dick. I am not bitter she was married before. Honestly, I am not. It only lasted 6 weeks anyway. Sounds almost like Britney's high school fling in Vegas. She has the renters sign a purchase agreement stating they could buy this wonderful piece of tin for $12,500 in five years. Not sure if that is a parting gift or what.
"Today, for curing cancer you get this..... 1972 Fleetwood single-wide home-on-wheels, tongue and groove removed for your conveniece. A 14 by 60 gem of a home, it comes with window coverings and 45 square feet of linoleum. This price package worth... a big ol' bag of dog shit!"
Five years came and went 3 years ago. No demand feature, no consequence for missing trailer tax payments or loan payments. SImply a thank GOD someone is in there taking care of my castle. It's almost like a 22 year old woman wrote the contract. Err....well, ok that's true. Now, the renters have not paid lot rent for three months, at about $400 a pop. The park manager who makes Jessica Simpson seem like a Rhode Scholar, is suing my wife for the unpaid lot rent. Not the renters, who apparently were evicted on July 31st, yet they are still living there. Not the co-signor who, according to Miss Smart Woman cannot be located, but my wife. Oh, and also the lender who holds the note to this piece of garbage. Makes tons of sense since the agreement signed by the renters and the park indicate that the tenants are liable for the lot rent.
Now, I get to make a trip to Idaho, on my own dime, to contest this action on behalf of my wife. I get to sit across from Wonder Woman as she attempts to justify her actions. This is the benefit of owning a mobile home. A big fucking migraine headache and elevated blood pressure. Not to mention, I have 4.5 hours of driving one way. I am so incredibly excited you have no idea. I am filing a small claims lawsuit against the renters for $5000 while I am there. It is $3362 short of what they haven't paid in taxes and payments. They will file bankruptcy as soon as the judgment is rendered anyway and become squatters officially, per the courts.
Why buy a mobile home again? Oh right......TO MAKE MY LIFE A LIVING HELL!
I should preface the next tirade with a disclaimer that anyone who owns a mobile home but not the land is a fucktard and has the common sense of an infant gumming on a Ginsu. I have zero sympathy for those who invest in a car and wonder why it falls apart faster that Amy Winehouse. My wife vacated this property when she married an alcoholic. No, it wasn't me, rather it was her first husband. She found 3 sets of renters, 2 of which the park would not allow inside. Kind of like the Pentagon. They don't let just anyone in there. They have to be top notch winners with loads of cash and good credit because, well, they are renting a mobile home in a park simply to save money. Right....but only a mobile home owner would believe that shit anyway.
The renters had to get a co-signor who would agree to vouch for these assholes in the event they did not pay lot rent. My wife had them fill out an application, and did not pull credit or do any employment verification, simply needing to have someone in the place so she could move out and fornicate with Mr. Whiskey-dick. I am not bitter she was married before. Honestly, I am not. It only lasted 6 weeks anyway. Sounds almost like Britney's high school fling in Vegas. She has the renters sign a purchase agreement stating they could buy this wonderful piece of tin for $12,500 in five years. Not sure if that is a parting gift or what.
"Today, for curing cancer you get this.....
Five years came and went 3 years ago. No demand feature, no consequence for missing trailer tax payments or loan payments. SImply a thank GOD someone is in there taking care of my castle. It's almost like a 22 year old woman wrote the contract. Err....well, ok that's true. Now, the renters have not paid lot rent for three months, at about $400 a pop. The park manager who makes Jessica Simpson seem like a Rhode Scholar, is suing my wife for the unpaid lot rent. Not the renters, who apparently were evicted on July 31st, yet they are still living there. Not the co-signor who, according to Miss Smart Woman cannot be located, but my wife. Oh, and also the lender who holds the note to this piece of garbage. Makes tons of sense since the agreement signed by the renters and the park indicate that the tenants are liable for the lot rent.
Now, I get to make a trip to Idaho, on my own dime, to contest this action on behalf of my wife. I get to sit across from Wonder Woman as she attempts to justify her actions. This is the benefit of owning a mobile home. A big fucking migraine headache and elevated blood pressure. Not to mention, I have 4.5 hours of driving one way. I am so incredibly excited you have no idea. I am filing a small claims lawsuit against the renters for $5000 while I am there. It is $3362 short of what they haven't paid in taxes and payments. They will file bankruptcy as soon as the judgment is rendered anyway and become squatters officially, per the courts.
Why buy a mobile home again? Oh right......TO MAKE MY LIFE A LIVING HELL!
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Parents Can Make Mistakes
Most times, parents are perfect people. Usually, we, as a breed, are never wrong. Unless it is was today, and it's warm outside, and my daughter is wearing long pants at recess.
Honestly, it is cold outside in the moring when I take her to school. In my mind, by this time next week it will be officially fall. I made a compromise and put a short sleeve shirt on her. However, when I picked her up, Peyton had her arms folded, glaring at me as if I was late for dinner. She was standing by her teacher for moral support and blurted, "You put pants on me today!" The thought crossed my mind that my error was it was BUCK ASS NEKKID day at her school but as I glanced around the playground, I noticed other clothed children frolicking harmlessly around the play equipment. I wasn't sure what to say other than to apologize to her royal highness in hopes I would be spared the guillotine. Her teacher smiled at me and said she would see us tomorrow. Personally, from my daughters look, I wasn't sure I would survive the night.
As we drove down the driveway of the school I made another mistake, asking her how her day was. After a few silent moments I turned over my right shoulder to see if she was still conscious. She was staring out the window, arms still folded. "Honey," I said, "how was your day today?" She turned her head 480 degrees to look over at me with a look that could stop traffic. "I had pants on today," and then she promptly turned bck towards the window.
In my defense, society sort of makes clothing mandatory, at least where I live and more so, at the age of 5. I tried to plead with my daughter this very case. I told her that despite my many trips to D.C., clothing is required whether the school is public or private. I begged her to understand that, even though she was upset, that maybe tomorrow she could pick out something less inhibitive like, for example, saran wrap. I apologized profusely for having to follow rules and wished that I was more like her and less likely to take direction or listen to adults.
Despite my efforts, she continued to watch the scenery pass by her window. I wasn't sure what to do next other than to simply ask her. So I did. I asked her what needed to do to make her happy, adding being naked was out of the question. She said just one word. Not 'tattoo,' or 'piercing,' or 'cell.' She just said shorts.
Eh?
It was hot at recess and the other kids were in shorts or skirts. She was the only one in pants. I should know better because I am Dad and know everything. If I could please remember that tomorrow, that would make her happy. Ok, I said. I will also try to remember that there is a high pressure system over the Pacific Northwest with a clockwise rotation, bringing warm air up from Southern California, causing temperatures to rise to un-seasonal highs. I did tell her that there was a low pressure system in the Gulf of Alaska that will bring in a cold front over the next couple of days, causing temperatures to drop about 10 degrees over the next couple of days. I finished by telling her that I will remember to dress her according to the barometric pressure.
"OK," she said, and the she asked me to turn the radio up because her favorite song was on. How wonderful it would be to be 5 and perfect.
Honestly, it is cold outside in the moring when I take her to school. In my mind, by this time next week it will be officially fall. I made a compromise and put a short sleeve shirt on her. However, when I picked her up, Peyton had her arms folded, glaring at me as if I was late for dinner. She was standing by her teacher for moral support and blurted, "You put pants on me today!" The thought crossed my mind that my error was it was BUCK ASS NEKKID day at her school but as I glanced around the playground, I noticed other clothed children frolicking harmlessly around the play equipment. I wasn't sure what to say other than to apologize to her royal highness in hopes I would be spared the guillotine. Her teacher smiled at me and said she would see us tomorrow. Personally, from my daughters look, I wasn't sure I would survive the night.
As we drove down the driveway of the school I made another mistake, asking her how her day was. After a few silent moments I turned over my right shoulder to see if she was still conscious. She was staring out the window, arms still folded. "Honey," I said, "how was your day today?" She turned her head 480 degrees to look over at me with a look that could stop traffic. "I had pants on today," and then she promptly turned bck towards the window.
In my defense, society sort of makes clothing mandatory, at least where I live and more so, at the age of 5. I tried to plead with my daughter this very case. I told her that despite my many trips to D.C., clothing is required whether the school is public or private. I begged her to understand that, even though she was upset, that maybe tomorrow she could pick out something less inhibitive like, for example, saran wrap. I apologized profusely for having to follow rules and wished that I was more like her and less likely to take direction or listen to adults.
Despite my efforts, she continued to watch the scenery pass by her window. I wasn't sure what to do next other than to simply ask her. So I did. I asked her what needed to do to make her happy, adding being naked was out of the question. She said just one word. Not 'tattoo,' or 'piercing,' or 'cell.' She just said shorts.
Eh?
It was hot at recess and the other kids were in shorts or skirts. She was the only one in pants. I should know better because I am Dad and know everything. If I could please remember that tomorrow, that would make her happy. Ok, I said. I will also try to remember that there is a high pressure system over the Pacific Northwest with a clockwise rotation, bringing warm air up from Southern California, causing temperatures to rise to un-seasonal highs. I did tell her that there was a low pressure system in the Gulf of Alaska that will bring in a cold front over the next couple of days, causing temperatures to drop about 10 degrees over the next couple of days. I finished by telling her that I will remember to dress her according to the barometric pressure.
"OK," she said, and the she asked me to turn the radio up because her favorite song was on. How wonderful it would be to be 5 and perfect.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Customer Service
It is a word that defines itself by simply existing. If someone works in customer service, you can ask specifics I suppose, but their job really boils down to making the customer happy. Am I wrong? How complicated is that? Apparently, very hard if you work for Clearwire.
I called them the other day to let them now I was dissatisfied with my wireless reception. My demeanor, in my opinionwas fine. I started off rather friendly and professional, even asking the MALE on the other end of the line how the weather was in New Delhi, just as a joke. Turns out, he was in Denver, and thought I was making fun of him. By the sounds of it, he was as white as Britney Spears' wedding dress. OK, maybe a little more caucasian than that. With all of the outsourcing going on these days, I figured it would be a "break the ice" type of comment. I was mistaken. A friend of his was laid off because his job was sent overseas. I asked what his friend did. He said, "he was a customer service agent, just like me!" Feeling like a dick for not knowing this before hand (believe it or not, the number listed on the website did not indicate that some people were laid off. BIG shock, I know), I apologized...and then did something I should regret, but don't.
I snickered.
As if I had just lit a pack of 10,000 firecrackers under his wheeling chair, I got laid into about how the economy sucks, and that he could lose his job any minute to some Ishtar in Pakistan and to have some sympathy. The guy had kids.
Right. OK, I said, and I asked his name. "GREG!" he replied. Cool. Greg, listen to what I am going to tell you because....well, I love you like the sister I never had. I have kids, Greg. I was laid off. Yet, I am not screaming. As you can see I am rather patient and calm. So either, (A) you need to cut back on the caffeine intake. Or (B) take a bottle of Goldenseal before lunch, eat a dozen poppyseed muffins, eat some cocoa powder so that you have every excuse to tell your employers you cannot go piss in a cup for at least a week and then DETOX! Your job will be outsourced because dicks like you that act pissy on the phone for making an hourly wage that may be unacceptable to you are a dime a dozen over in Islamabad. Let me ask you something, GREG, did someone put a gun to your head when you signed your offer letter?
No, he said.
Then stop acting like a child and give me some assistance with my problem
OK, he said. How may I help YOU?
I want to talk to your supervisor.
Really? Why, he asked.
Well, mostly because I want to get you fired for calling me a flogging donkey dick and how I needed to come over to your place of employment and lick your balls before you help me. I might even throw in that you are my gay lover and I was just calling to tell you to get tested. I haven't decided. May I talk to your supervisor now?
Sure enough, he got friendly after that. He wanted to know what my problem was and he wanted to know right......NOW! Needless to say, after our conversation, he transferred me to a tech who promptly did something that has tripled my internet speed. No time outs, no disconnections. Yup, Clearwire gives great service. They just need to be pushed a little.
Now I need to get a hold of Dish Network....
I called them the other day to let them now I was dissatisfied with my wireless reception. My demeanor, in my opinion
I snickered.
As if I had just lit a pack of 10,000 firecrackers under his wheeling chair, I got laid into about how the economy sucks, and that he could lose his job any minute to some Ishtar in Pakistan and to have some sympathy. The guy had kids.
Right. OK, I said, and I asked his name. "GREG!" he replied. Cool. Greg, listen to what I am going to tell you because....well, I love you like the sister I never had. I have kids, Greg. I was laid off. Yet, I am not screaming. As you can see I am rather patient and calm. So either, (A) you need to cut back on the caffeine intake. Or (B) take a bottle of Goldenseal before lunch, eat a dozen poppyseed muffins, eat some cocoa powder so that you have every excuse to tell your employers you cannot go piss in a cup for at least a week and then DETOX! Your job will be outsourced because dicks like you that act pissy on the phone for making an hourly wage that may be unacceptable to you are a dime a dozen over in Islamabad. Let me ask you something, GREG, did someone put a gun to your head when you signed your offer letter?
No, he said.
Then stop acting like a child and give me some assistance with my problem
OK, he said. How may I help YOU?
I want to talk to your supervisor.
Really? Why, he asked.
Well, mostly because I want to get you fired for calling me a flogging donkey dick and how I needed to come over to your place of employment and lick your balls before you help me. I might even throw in that you are my gay lover and I was just calling to tell you to get tested. I haven't decided. May I talk to your supervisor now?
Sure enough, he got friendly after that. He wanted to know what my problem was and he wanted to know right......NOW! Needless to say, after our conversation, he transferred me to a tech who promptly did something that has tripled my internet speed. No time outs, no disconnections. Yup, Clearwire gives great service. They just need to be pushed a little.
Now I need to get a hold of Dish Network....
Thursday, September 11, 2008
It is about time
I figured it was time. I have not written in this blog since October of LAST year. That's too long. So many things have happened since then. I am just no sure where to start.
I could discuss the wonders of communal living and how my apartment complex is as worthless as a bag of dicks at a frat house. I have an English Bulldog that is as fascinated with apartment living as I am. But I am responsible and clean up after him because, well, it is the responsible thing to do. Love, honor, cherish, and pick up your bulldog's dung. I do that, yet I received a notice on my door that indicated otherwise. Continued violations of the pet policy will be met with strict punishment.
Really?
What would that be exactly? Flogging in the courtyard? Drawn and quartered? I wish I had a copy of the manual this letter was pulled from. I was innocent but was given the guilty notice. I felt like Barry Bonds. I have a pretty good idea who told the office manager since I make friends around this complex like Marilyn Manson does at summer camp. The older I get, the less I have in common with those that want to drink all night and discuss sexual prowess at a high decibel level, and then piss in the parking lot below my window. I may be immature, but I am old now. Too old to tolerate the behavior of some people. This is my blog, my story and I am entitled to be holier than thou, OK?
My dogs craps mini-coopers. His crap cannot be mistaken by that of lesser creatures. He doesn't even crap by my apartment. It takes him a few minutes to wake up. Like clockwork, I am taking an Albertson's bag with me for the main event. He does his doo, I do my doo-picky, and then up for breakfast. It just so happens that the manager's girlfriend owns a yorkie I would love to drop kick to next week. She overheard me telling someone how much I hate yip yip dogs who have little purpose in this world other than making my ears bleed. So her idea of payback is hanging a notice on my door statng I have violated Fluffy's psyche and please stop before there is an inervention for Fluffy's crank habit. I am thinking the next doo bag I have to dispose of just may be going through her open car window. Maybe.....I don't know. I haven't decided how to fit a mini-cooper into a Toyota Corrolla.
Any ideas?
I could discuss the wonders of communal living and how my apartment complex is as worthless as a bag of dicks at a frat house. I have an English Bulldog that is as fascinated with apartment living as I am. But I am responsible and clean up after him because, well, it is the responsible thing to do. Love, honor, cherish, and pick up your bulldog's dung. I do that, yet I received a notice on my door that indicated otherwise. Continued violations of the pet policy will be met with strict punishment.
Really?
What would that be exactly? Flogging in the courtyard? Drawn and quartered? I wish I had a copy of the manual this letter was pulled from. I was innocent but was given the guilty notice. I felt like Barry Bonds. I have a pretty good idea who told the office manager since I make friends around this complex like Marilyn Manson does at summer camp. The older I get, the less I have in common with those that want to drink all night and discuss sexual prowess at a high decibel level, and then piss in the parking lot below my window. I may be immature, but I am old now. Too old to tolerate the behavior of some people. This is my blog, my story and I am entitled to be holier than thou, OK?
My dogs craps mini-coopers. His crap cannot be mistaken by that of lesser creatures. He doesn't even crap by my apartment. It takes him a few minutes to wake up. Like clockwork, I am taking an Albertson's bag with me for the main event. He does his doo, I do my doo-picky, and then up for breakfast. It just so happens that the manager's girlfriend owns a yorkie I would love to drop kick to next week. She overheard me telling someone how much I hate yip yip dogs who have little purpose in this world other than making my ears bleed. So her idea of payback is hanging a notice on my door statng I have violated Fluffy's psyche and please stop before there is an inervention for Fluffy's crank habit. I am thinking the next doo bag I have to dispose of just may be going through her open car window. Maybe.....I don't know. I haven't decided how to fit a mini-cooper into a Toyota Corrolla.
Any ideas?
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
Someone Get Me a Fucking Drink....NOW!
It has been 3 weeks since I moved here to Washington State. I have been a Mr. Mom, essentially, for 2 of those 3 weeks. Let me tell you how that works. I am a full time parent. I am a full time parent when I am working too. This is different, however, as I am doing everything a stay-at-home Mom does. Well, let me rephrase that….THIS LICKS NUTS!
I am grateful to my brother for allowing me, my wife, my two children and my 55-pound English Bulldog to move in with him. I really am. What I say from this point on is simply venting and should not be misconstrued as ungrateful.
Brief synopsis of my brother’s relationship situation. Divorced, has a live in girlfriend who moved here from Portland, OR. She has a son. I would call her a single mother but that would require mothering, so we will just leave the title alone. The son, however, has a title. I call him twat monster.
Yes I just made that up. If you knew what was going on here, you would call him the same thing.
The Second Edition of the Oxford English Dictionary contains full entries for 171,476 words in current use, and 47,156 obsolete words. This kid has a vocabulary of about 9 words, all of them associated with daily faux-gun play in the front yard with the rest of the PWC (panty waste clan). I named their group and am going to order them pink flamingo patches to go on their camouflage shorts. I am getting sidetracked. Here is a list of things he has done to all/some of the members of my family:
1. Burst into the spare bedroom where my kids were watching a movie, and using a scary voice, threatened to kill them while pointing a toy gun at them. Yes, they cried.
2. Emptied a new can of shaving cream into the bathtub while he showered (within the 1st 24 hours of our arrival)
3. Cleaned the toilet with one of our toothbrush heads on our SonicAir toothbrush
4. Spray painted 3 stripes on my English Bulldog
5. Beat my razor against the wall, bending the razor blades. I found this out by shaving my face, wondering why the hell it felt like sandpaper.
These are the things that I can remember or are worth telling. I do not have the time, or the carpal tunnel life to discuss the other things that this kid does. AMAZING! Mom is even worse. Wait, the VH (vaginal host) is even worse. My kids get one warning. If the requested action does not take place, then there is a consequence. After 3 kids, you kind of figure it out. My youngest doesn’t even get a warning anymore, which is probably why he sucks his thumb more than the other two. Fear will do that. Twat monster gets 7 warnings and after the 7th warning, nothing happens. She and my brother go into their bedroom and close the door, leaving me and my wife to tend to our kids, the dog, and IT. How would you handle this scenario?
· Dinner time. I have stayed home all day with the kids. I cook a meal for 4 adults, 3 kids and feed the dog. I take the dog out after eating to do #1, and hopefully #2 before coming in to get dinner on the table. Everyone sits. My kids, eat so-so. Twat monster doesn’t like anything from the ground, green, leafy or well done. This leaves starches and sugars. Twat monster complains about X. My brother tells him to shut up and eat his food. Vaginal host is silent. My kids observe…very focused on twat monster. Twat monster sees this and complains again. Wife cringes. Kids look at me, and smile. They complain. I tell twat monster to shut up and eat. My brother agrees. So do my kids as they have now learned the order of things. Twat monster laughs. Vaginal host still silent. I, at this point, am wondering when THE ONE PERSON WHO HAS THE GENETIC RIGHT TO DISCIPLINE THIS KID WILL ACTUALLY DO IT!??! My brother sucks his food down, begins to then inquire if anyone else is done, when a simple scan of the table will show that all other 6 occupants have just now put their napkins on their lap…except twat monster who is twisting it up to put in his right nostril. My wife tells twat monster to stop, the kids begin putting their napkins in their noses, to which I respond STOP, and then tell Twat monster to stop, causing the vaginal host to pipe in asking what he had done. Don’t look at me, look at Rocky over there clotting his fake hemoglobin. She says stop or he is going to his room. He stops, after laughing, scanning the table for an audience, my kids anxiously waiting for Act II, losing focus on the job at hand, which is eating. My wife’s hair is turning gray just watching vaginal host do nothing to stop her kid from manipulating my kids. My brother is pacing in the kitchen waiting for someone to finish to he can quickly help clean up after dinner and then retire to his room and close the twat monster shield, IE door. I look at my wife, whose appetite is coupled with mine in the toilet, wanting desperately for this scene to end. My kids are now trying to figure out which nostril actually requires plugging, to which my wife and I both tell them NEITHER and instruct them to eat or they will get down from the table. Twat monster acts up again, wanting to see actual discipline, my kids respond on cue causing my wife to take their plates away, much to their dismay, and remove them from the table. Twat monster grins. Vaginal host instructs him again that one more time will mean punishment. He grins, looks at his plate and starts playing with his food, calling it every name in the book in a robot voice. Vaginal host finishes her plate and then starts to do the dishes. Meanwhile our kids are crying because they have no idea what just happened. The dog is pacing around wondering where the axe came from that impaled my kids, trying to lick their tears away. My wife yells at the dog to get out of the way, scaring the kids, causing them to cry more. I walk over to help and step on a goat head that was brought in the house by twat monster since he cannot follow rule #1 (remove your shoes before entering the house). This cause me to suddenly grab for the wall to brace myself, which causes the dog to jump thinking he is going to get a beat down. He steps on my wifes foot, who then yells in pain due to the toe nail scratch, which causes my kids to cry more since Mommy yelled…..all because little twat monster was born.
So, yeah. It’s been three weeks. That was just tonight. Get it? I need a job or someone is going to jail.
I am grateful to my brother for allowing me, my wife, my two children and my 55-pound English Bulldog to move in with him. I really am. What I say from this point on is simply venting and should not be misconstrued as ungrateful.
Brief synopsis of my brother’s relationship situation. Divorced, has a live in girlfriend who moved here from Portland, OR. She has a son. I would call her a single mother but that would require mothering, so we will just leave the title alone. The son, however, has a title. I call him twat monster.
Yes I just made that up. If you knew what was going on here, you would call him the same thing.
The Second Edition of the Oxford English Dictionary contains full entries for 171,476 words in current use, and 47,156 obsolete words. This kid has a vocabulary of about 9 words, all of them associated with daily faux-gun play in the front yard with the rest of the PWC (panty waste clan). I named their group and am going to order them pink flamingo patches to go on their camouflage shorts. I am getting sidetracked. Here is a list of things he has done to all/some of the members of my family:
1. Burst into the spare bedroom where my kids were watching a movie, and using a scary voice, threatened to kill them while pointing a toy gun at them. Yes, they cried.
2. Emptied a new can of shaving cream into the bathtub while he showered (within the 1st 24 hours of our arrival)
3. Cleaned the toilet with one of our toothbrush heads on our SonicAir toothbrush
4. Spray painted 3 stripes on my English Bulldog
5. Beat my razor against the wall, bending the razor blades. I found this out by shaving my face, wondering why the hell it felt like sandpaper.
These are the things that I can remember or are worth telling. I do not have the time, or the carpal tunnel life to discuss the other things that this kid does. AMAZING! Mom is even worse. Wait, the VH (vaginal host) is even worse. My kids get one warning. If the requested action does not take place, then there is a consequence. After 3 kids, you kind of figure it out. My youngest doesn’t even get a warning anymore, which is probably why he sucks his thumb more than the other two. Fear will do that. Twat monster gets 7 warnings and after the 7th warning, nothing happens. She and my brother go into their bedroom and close the door, leaving me and my wife to tend to our kids, the dog, and IT. How would you handle this scenario?
· Dinner time. I have stayed home all day with the kids. I cook a meal for 4 adults, 3 kids and feed the dog. I take the dog out after eating to do #1, and hopefully #2 before coming in to get dinner on the table. Everyone sits. My kids, eat so-so. Twat monster doesn’t like anything from the ground, green, leafy or well done. This leaves starches and sugars. Twat monster complains about X. My brother tells him to shut up and eat his food. Vaginal host is silent. My kids observe…very focused on twat monster. Twat monster sees this and complains again. Wife cringes. Kids look at me, and smile. They complain. I tell twat monster to shut up and eat. My brother agrees. So do my kids as they have now learned the order of things. Twat monster laughs. Vaginal host still silent. I, at this point, am wondering when THE ONE PERSON WHO HAS THE GENETIC RIGHT TO DISCIPLINE THIS KID WILL ACTUALLY DO IT!??! My brother sucks his food down, begins to then inquire if anyone else is done, when a simple scan of the table will show that all other 6 occupants have just now put their napkins on their lap…except twat monster who is twisting it up to put in his right nostril. My wife tells twat monster to stop, the kids begin putting their napkins in their noses, to which I respond STOP, and then tell Twat monster to stop, causing the vaginal host to pipe in asking what he had done. Don’t look at me, look at Rocky over there clotting his fake hemoglobin. She says stop or he is going to his room. He stops, after laughing, scanning the table for an audience, my kids anxiously waiting for Act II, losing focus on the job at hand, which is eating. My wife’s hair is turning gray just watching vaginal host do nothing to stop her kid from manipulating my kids. My brother is pacing in the kitchen waiting for someone to finish to he can quickly help clean up after dinner and then retire to his room and close the twat monster shield, IE door. I look at my wife, whose appetite is coupled with mine in the toilet, wanting desperately for this scene to end. My kids are now trying to figure out which nostril actually requires plugging, to which my wife and I both tell them NEITHER and instruct them to eat or they will get down from the table. Twat monster acts up again, wanting to see actual discipline, my kids respond on cue causing my wife to take their plates away, much to their dismay, and remove them from the table. Twat monster grins. Vaginal host instructs him again that one more time will mean punishment. He grins, looks at his plate and starts playing with his food, calling it every name in the book in a robot voice. Vaginal host finishes her plate and then starts to do the dishes. Meanwhile our kids are crying because they have no idea what just happened. The dog is pacing around wondering where the axe came from that impaled my kids, trying to lick their tears away. My wife yells at the dog to get out of the way, scaring the kids, causing them to cry more. I walk over to help and step on a goat head that was brought in the house by twat monster since he cannot follow rule #1 (remove your shoes before entering the house). This cause me to suddenly grab for the wall to brace myself, which causes the dog to jump thinking he is going to get a beat down. He steps on my wifes foot, who then yells in pain due to the toe nail scratch, which causes my kids to cry more since Mommy yelled…..all because little twat monster was born.
So, yeah. It’s been three weeks. That was just tonight. Get it? I need a job or someone is going to jail.
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
I Hate to Say It....::sigh::
He didn't hit them out with a syringe. Say what you will about Barry Bonds and his chemically enhanced assault on the home run record, but keep in mind the cream and the clear and whatever other performance-enhancing drugs he might have used were not some kind of magic potions. He's not at 756 home runs, and counting, just because he found the right pharmacy.
In the endless discussion of all things Bonds -- his personality, his moral code, his legal affairs, his hat size -- the one inarguable fact about the man seems to have become an afterthought: Bonds is an incredible hitter, an absolute virtuoso in the batter's box. If there is to be an asterisk next to his name in the record books, perhaps it should be for that.
* He was a hell of a ballplayer, steroids or not.
Would Bonds have surpassed Hank Aaron as the most prolific power hitter in history without the aid of his friendly neighborhood BALCO lab? Probably not. But even so, good old-fashioned talent and hard work were more responsible for his greatness than anything concocted by renegade chemists. You don't have to give Bonds your adulation, but at least give him his due.
This isn't to say the booing that follows him around the country isn't well-earned. Bonds has brought most of that on himself, with as surly a public persona as any athlete in memory, to go along with the seemingly irrefutable evidence of his steroid guilt. But forget about Bonds the man for a moment and focus on Bonds with a bat in his hands. Those moments he spends in the batter's box should be appreciated, not lost in a shower of animosity.
Consider his remarkable sense of the strike zone, so rare for a power hitter, and the discipline that allows him to resist a fastball that's a millimeter off the plate. Watch the surprisingly compact swing he unleashes when he does get a pitch to his liking and how, even at the age of 43, he always seems to hit it on the sweet spot. The eye, the swing, the timing, the knowledge of the pitchers, all helped him to get to 756 just as much as any drug.
On some level, baseball fans realize this, even if some of them don't want to admit it. If you're not a Giants fan -- and perhaps even if you are -- you have probably booed him from the stands, or shaken your head disapprovingly when you've watched him on TV. But when he strides to the plate from the on-deck circle, you never turn away, do you? When he digs into the batter's box and starts wagging that short bat in preparation for the pitch, you stop what you're doing and give him your full attention, do you not?
When the Giants are on the road, boos invariably thunder down on Bonds when his name is mentioned or when he catches a fly ball, but listen to how silent it gets when he's at the plate and the pitcher goes into his windup. Notice how so many of the boos turn to cheers when he sends one into the stratosphere, even in the stadiums where he's considered the devil incarnate.
That's because fans can't help but admire when the game is played so well, when a hitter executes so flawlessly. And that is as it should be. For those milliseconds when Bonds uncoils that simple-yet-awesome swing, everything else should fall away -- the suspicions, the accusations, the investigations, all of it -- and we should marvel at the purity of his art. Watching Barry Bonds hit is one of sports' most beautiful sights. You don't have to love him, or even respect him, but don't cheat yourself.
Appreciate him.
In the endless discussion of all things Bonds -- his personality, his moral code, his legal affairs, his hat size -- the one inarguable fact about the man seems to have become an afterthought: Bonds is an incredible hitter, an absolute virtuoso in the batter's box. If there is to be an asterisk next to his name in the record books, perhaps it should be for that.
* He was a hell of a ballplayer, steroids or not.
Would Bonds have surpassed Hank Aaron as the most prolific power hitter in history without the aid of his friendly neighborhood BALCO lab? Probably not. But even so, good old-fashioned talent and hard work were more responsible for his greatness than anything concocted by renegade chemists. You don't have to give Bonds your adulation, but at least give him his due.
This isn't to say the booing that follows him around the country isn't well-earned. Bonds has brought most of that on himself, with as surly a public persona as any athlete in memory, to go along with the seemingly irrefutable evidence of his steroid guilt. But forget about Bonds the man for a moment and focus on Bonds with a bat in his hands. Those moments he spends in the batter's box should be appreciated, not lost in a shower of animosity.
Consider his remarkable sense of the strike zone, so rare for a power hitter, and the discipline that allows him to resist a fastball that's a millimeter off the plate. Watch the surprisingly compact swing he unleashes when he does get a pitch to his liking and how, even at the age of 43, he always seems to hit it on the sweet spot. The eye, the swing, the timing, the knowledge of the pitchers, all helped him to get to 756 just as much as any drug.
On some level, baseball fans realize this, even if some of them don't want to admit it. If you're not a Giants fan -- and perhaps even if you are -- you have probably booed him from the stands, or shaken your head disapprovingly when you've watched him on TV. But when he strides to the plate from the on-deck circle, you never turn away, do you? When he digs into the batter's box and starts wagging that short bat in preparation for the pitch, you stop what you're doing and give him your full attention, do you not?
When the Giants are on the road, boos invariably thunder down on Bonds when his name is mentioned or when he catches a fly ball, but listen to how silent it gets when he's at the plate and the pitcher goes into his windup. Notice how so many of the boos turn to cheers when he sends one into the stratosphere, even in the stadiums where he's considered the devil incarnate.
That's because fans can't help but admire when the game is played so well, when a hitter executes so flawlessly. And that is as it should be. For those milliseconds when Bonds uncoils that simple-yet-awesome swing, everything else should fall away -- the suspicions, the accusations, the investigations, all of it -- and we should marvel at the purity of his art. Watching Barry Bonds hit is one of sports' most beautiful sights. You don't have to love him, or even respect him, but don't cheat yourself.
Appreciate him.
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