I was going to bed as the midnight Sportscenter was just beginning. I hear the anchors talking about an "uncut interview" with Tiger Woods. Uncut? Hmmmm...I didn't hear anyone say unscripted. Why not...five minutes. What the FUCK? Only one thing is echoing in my mind.
Interviewer: "Why didn't you get treatment before things got out of hand?"
Tiger : I didn't know I was that bad...
Are you KIDDING me? Was it the 34th hooker and the multiple anal sex partners that pushed towards the realization that, OOPS, that's too far...I believe I have a problem? Come ON dude....you want the public to see you as broken and humble and then you come out and say you didn't know you had a problem with attempting to fuck the western hemisphere? You have possibly sewed more oats than the Amish. The sockeye salmon honor your abundance of man gravy. You need to be in a circus. You got mad juggling skills.
I have some new sponsor ideas for you. I mean, good bye squeaky clean image, bro. Nothing you can do will ever make the notion of you wanting that that Samson chick to "be your fucking whore" disappear. Embrace the new you. You like ass. Fine. You like a lot of ass. Welcome to manhood. You married a swedish bikini model and were bored....you DUMBASS MOTHERFU....(compose). Back to my ideas. I haven't seen a KY commercial worth a shit. I'd buy KY to be like Eldrick. Like, "Eldrick your prick to make it slick?" Just an idea. You are the marketing genius. You could sell ice to Eskimos. How about trojan minis? When you have just enough to pork #40....Trojan mini's, "it catches basically all that's left." No? Ok, well since Nike is probably gonna drop you soon, maybe you should start a shoe line called Ghetto Foot Wear. "Wear ghetto....get white chicks?" Too rascist? Right, because you are concerned about what people think.
Welcome to humanity Tiger. That burning sensation you feel when you pee isn't your career flaming out....that's gonorrhea.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
I'M 12-YEARS OLD BITCH!
I knew this would happen. Actually, I didn't know this very thing would happen, but I knew eventually that because I am getting older, I have less patience for little kids. I picture myself bent over, aching back from all the years of kissing corporate ass, walking slowly with a cane bitching about the rate of which life passes by. Wearing plaid somewhere below the waist. As times are changing however, I am beginning to think that I shant wait to be hunched over to be pissed off at youth. Now is the time to find a bastard 12-year old boy and kick him square in the balls to limit future procreation of miscreants. Take a trip to a local park, on equipment really made for younger kids.
I guess before I go further I have to give a legal disclaimer: I don't hate all Mexicans....just the ones mentioned in this post. So when I say , "this asshole Mexican, or this fucking beaner....I really do mean to emphasize the word "this." That being said....
My won is climbing up the ladder to go down the slide, and this Mexican kid with his brother go breezing by my son, almost knocking him down to get on TOP of the slide and check for cops...or Iguanas. My son just stares at him, like he normally does when things don't go his way. The Mexican kid looks at him and says, "what the fuck are you looking at," and goes on about looking for the Po-Po. I overheard this and wondered if I really actually heard this kid, playing on playground equipment for 7 -year olds, verbally chastise my son for being dense. I didn't really pursue it much further than that, because my won went on to chase his shadow, or count the cracks in the playground flooring. Insert my daughter....
Peyton is a social-butterfly. She will approach a bank robber holding a hostage and try to make friends with BOTH of them and won't stop until she has succeeded. She has no problem socially. However, she is always in a rush to do something on the playground. Wherever she goes, I always have to make sure that there is not another kid in the way or there will surely be a collision. Insert mini-Mexican, shit-for-brain's little brother. Somewhere, location unknown, there must have been a collision. Little bean starts crying. Big bean hops off his lookout post and says, "hey." Not really specifically knowing she was being spoken to, Peyton went on about her playground business. "hey....girl, I am talking to you." Flashback to The Christmas Story. She crawls into a tube and goes to the middle. He says, "that's right, you know who I am? I am 12-year's old BITCH." Ok, wait a minute. I look around. Where is this little assholes parent? I say parent, singularly, because this type of behavior means there is no mother in the house. There was papa bean, fresh from his parole hearing....3 other kids in tow, tattooed, unshaven, and...no shit, a wife beater on, a walking billboard for the need for chemical castration. He is oblivious, not only to the language, but to the disrespect he gave to a female. I hate that. The minute Jacob disrespects his mother or his sister, he gets discipline, INSTANTLY. Not big bean. Papa bean pretty much let it go on like it was no big deal.
Did I want to beat up a child? No, not really. I did want to shake him off the slide in hopes he would fall. I did wish him bodily harm. I did want to trip him as he ran by, but thought better of it thinking I could be wearing a shank, compliments of Papa Bean, if I did anything to harm the heir to his cocaine fortune. Aside from joining the cartel, I could only consciously dream of the aforementioned happening. You know when you see some kid being an absolute douche bag, you pray that one day, he gets an ass whooping so that he realizes that, in fact, he is not nearly as cool as thinks he is? I spanked my son in front of his daycare buddies because he thought the rules did not apply to him and his cool toddler friends. Must bring down the ring leader, lest the crew runs the show.
I'M 37-YEARS OLD BITCH! Where's my cane?
I guess before I go further I have to give a legal disclaimer: I don't hate all Mexicans....just the ones mentioned in this post. So when I say , "this asshole Mexican, or this fucking beaner....I really do mean to emphasize the word "this." That being said....
My won is climbing up the ladder to go down the slide, and this Mexican kid with his brother go breezing by my son, almost knocking him down to get on TOP of the slide and check for cops...or Iguanas. My son just stares at him, like he normally does when things don't go his way. The Mexican kid looks at him and says, "what the fuck are you looking at," and goes on about looking for the Po-Po. I overheard this and wondered if I really actually heard this kid, playing on playground equipment for 7 -year olds, verbally chastise my son for being dense. I didn't really pursue it much further than that, because my won went on to chase his shadow, or count the cracks in the playground flooring. Insert my daughter....
Peyton is a social-butterfly. She will approach a bank robber holding a hostage and try to make friends with BOTH of them and won't stop until she has succeeded. She has no problem socially. However, she is always in a rush to do something on the playground. Wherever she goes, I always have to make sure that there is not another kid in the way or there will surely be a collision. Insert mini-Mexican, shit-for-brain's little brother. Somewhere, location unknown, there must have been a collision. Little bean starts crying. Big bean hops off his lookout post and says, "hey." Not really specifically knowing she was being spoken to, Peyton went on about her playground business. "hey....girl, I am talking to you." Flashback to The Christmas Story. She crawls into a tube and goes to the middle. He says, "that's right, you know who I am? I am 12-year's old BITCH." Ok, wait a minute. I look around. Where is this little assholes parent? I say parent, singularly, because this type of behavior means there is no mother in the house. There was papa bean, fresh from his parole hearing....3 other kids in tow, tattooed, unshaven, and...no shit, a wife beater on, a walking billboard for the need for chemical castration. He is oblivious, not only to the language, but to the disrespect he gave to a female. I hate that. The minute Jacob disrespects his mother or his sister, he gets discipline, INSTANTLY. Not big bean. Papa bean pretty much let it go on like it was no big deal.
Did I want to beat up a child? No, not really. I did want to shake him off the slide in hopes he would fall. I did wish him bodily harm. I did want to trip him as he ran by, but thought better of it thinking I could be wearing a shank, compliments of Papa Bean, if I did anything to harm the heir to his cocaine fortune. Aside from joining the cartel, I could only consciously dream of the aforementioned happening. You know when you see some kid being an absolute douche bag, you pray that one day, he gets an ass whooping so that he realizes that, in fact, he is not nearly as cool as thinks he is? I spanked my son in front of his daycare buddies because he thought the rules did not apply to him and his cool toddler friends. Must bring down the ring leader, lest the crew runs the show.
I'M 37-YEARS OLD BITCH! Where's my cane?
Sunday, March 14, 2010
You Wanna Take a Ride on WHAT?!?!?
There are lots of things you never want to hear from your daughter, at ANY age. Things like, what's a gag reflex, or what does it mean to pop your cherry, and I hate the salty taste, or sexting is the shit. Those types of things tend to drive a father crazy. For me, I can only imagine what my reaction would be, but being a father of two girls allows me to hear them all, more or less, in a somewhat downgraded form. When my 6-year old started to sing Lady Gaga, I thought nothing of it until I heard her say "I want to take a ride on your disco stick." It was then I decided to crawl into a really big hole and cry. It got worse. I then had to explain what a disco stick was....in terms that a 6-year old can understand. Not easy considering this disco stick has nothing to do with botany.
I thought very hard about the next few sentences that were going to come out of my mouth. I was afraid of answering it wrong and making light of it, making her think it was an instrument of play used in video gaming. I thought better of that idea since she is growing up in that age and may accidentally ask to play with little Johnny's disco stick next, which may get her thrown out of the birthday party. That could be a problem. I couldn't use it to reference a stick shift in a car, since she may ask to borrow someones car and drive it, just as long as it wasn't a disco stick because she doesn't handle those very well. As soon as she goes off to school and goes to prom, I would hate for her reputation to be soiled because her disco stick prowess was not up to par, making her dateless to future dances, essentially helping her commit social suicide. What to do, what to do...
So I decided to use buzz words, wow her with medical terminology or basically dumb it down to the point where it no longer matters what the fuck a disco stick is, and try my HARDEST to make light of it to draw her focus elsewhere, like, cheat grass and sidewalk chalk. I used words like smooth muscle, prepuce, innervated nerves, increased blood flow, rigor, etc. Just enough for her to regret asking her father such a silly question. It isn't that I don't want her to feel comfortable asking me sexual questions. Being a father of two daughters I have tried to instill the exact opposite in them. I want them to feel comfortable about talking with me about ANYTHING, without recourse. I would just as soon, however, have these conversations with a child who's nocturnal emissions are down to ZERO and do not have training wheels on their bike. Looking in my rear view mirror I cringed thinking, after everything I had said, it could have possibly fallen on deaf ears. To my delight, her next question brought down my level of discomfort. "Can we have chicken nuggets for lunch?"
You bet, but just so you know....they are salty.
I thought very hard about the next few sentences that were going to come out of my mouth. I was afraid of answering it wrong and making light of it, making her think it was an instrument of play used in video gaming. I thought better of that idea since she is growing up in that age and may accidentally ask to play with little Johnny's disco stick next, which may get her thrown out of the birthday party. That could be a problem. I couldn't use it to reference a stick shift in a car, since she may ask to borrow someones car and drive it, just as long as it wasn't a disco stick because she doesn't handle those very well. As soon as she goes off to school and goes to prom, I would hate for her reputation to be soiled because her disco stick prowess was not up to par, making her dateless to future dances, essentially helping her commit social suicide. What to do, what to do...
So I decided to use buzz words, wow her with medical terminology or basically dumb it down to the point where it no longer matters what the fuck a disco stick is, and try my HARDEST to make light of it to draw her focus elsewhere, like, cheat grass and sidewalk chalk. I used words like smooth muscle, prepuce, innervated nerves, increased blood flow, rigor, etc. Just enough for her to regret asking her father such a silly question. It isn't that I don't want her to feel comfortable asking me sexual questions. Being a father of two daughters I have tried to instill the exact opposite in them. I want them to feel comfortable about talking with me about ANYTHING, without recourse. I would just as soon, however, have these conversations with a child who's nocturnal emissions are down to ZERO and do not have training wheels on their bike. Looking in my rear view mirror I cringed thinking, after everything I had said, it could have possibly fallen on deaf ears. To my delight, her next question brought down my level of discomfort. "Can we have chicken nuggets for lunch?"
You bet, but just so you know....they are salty.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Last Time I will Blog About This
Actually, that's a lie. Most of my blog is talking about stupid. Stupid will never be eradicated. It isn't like small pox. There is no vaccine for stupid, but I wish there were. I would get real good with a blow gun and grab my sack of darts and go fix stupid. Alas, however, a cure for stupid is far off in the distance. About the only way to get rid of stupid is to breed the stupid out of the blood line. That could take generations. So I fear I am going to be teaching my kid's the genentics of stupid, what to watch for, and please, don't recycle. There are bigger problems on this planet than carbon footpints. It's stupid people.
I always wondered what it would be like to be visibly de-friended on Facebook. Most people would probably behave as I did. It would go un-noticed. The only thing I did notice was that I was missing a bunch of negative shit on my front page. Redundant, negative garbage spewn like a true stupid person. I thought maybe I needed to go buy a lottery ticket. I thought my luck might be changing. I swore that....wtf? SHE'S DE-FRIENDED ME? AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHA! I felt dirty and happy all at once. You know, after the one night stand and the walk of shame....poor analogy in this case. REALLLLY poor analogy. This is a bad visual. Like old people phucking. Ugh... It didn't even cross my mind what I had done to make this happen. I didn't care. I still don't, yet, if she reads this she will think that I am blogging about it because I am hurt in some sense. Nothing could be further from the truth. I blog about it because I have about 20 minutes before I have to go to a parent/teacher conference, I have had 2 cups of coffee while I waited, and this is the kind of shit I do to pass the time. I talk about phuck tards. Welcome to my shit list. Its an awesome place to be.
I really won't name names because it would seem vindictive. However, the people that read this blog will know what I am talking about, who I am talking about and will most likely laugh with me. Others might be offended, which is OK too. I don't mean to offend people. I figure it is my job to point out stupid people so they could be avoided. Its like pulling your friend out of the way of a moving vehicle. Its just the right thing to do. I won't miss my stupid person. I am sure they will be replaced. It's sad, but stupid replicates faster than the national debt. In this case, its really fast. A couple of observations for this one however. Don't use pictures from 10 years ago thinking that it is going to help motivate you to look that way again. It is not possible, naturally anyway, to go there again. It is a far off land. Modeling? Really? REALLY?!?!?!? Like caskets, or what? Pleather? Come on....pleather is not in anymore....and you in it was never in.
"You're so vain.....you probably think this blog is about you...don't you....don't you...don't you......." Adios phuckchopos
I always wondered what it would be like to be visibly de-friended on Facebook. Most people would probably behave as I did. It would go un-noticed. The only thing I did notice was that I was missing a bunch of negative shit on my front page. Redundant, negative garbage spewn like a true stupid person. I thought maybe I needed to go buy a lottery ticket. I thought my luck might be changing. I swore that....wtf? SHE'S DE-FRIENDED ME? AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHA! I felt dirty and happy all at once. You know, after the one night stand and the walk of shame....poor analogy in this case. REALLLLY poor analogy. This is a bad visual. Like old people phucking. Ugh... It didn't even cross my mind what I had done to make this happen. I didn't care. I still don't, yet, if she reads this she will think that I am blogging about it because I am hurt in some sense. Nothing could be further from the truth. I blog about it because I have about 20 minutes before I have to go to a parent/teacher conference, I have had 2 cups of coffee while I waited, and this is the kind of shit I do to pass the time. I talk about phuck tards. Welcome to my shit list. Its an awesome place to be.
I really won't name names because it would seem vindictive. However, the people that read this blog will know what I am talking about, who I am talking about and will most likely laugh with me. Others might be offended, which is OK too. I don't mean to offend people. I figure it is my job to point out stupid people so they could be avoided. Its like pulling your friend out of the way of a moving vehicle. Its just the right thing to do. I won't miss my stupid person. I am sure they will be replaced. It's sad, but stupid replicates faster than the national debt. In this case, its really fast. A couple of observations for this one however. Don't use pictures from 10 years ago thinking that it is going to help motivate you to look that way again. It is not possible, naturally anyway, to go there again. It is a far off land. Modeling? Really? REALLY?!?!?!? Like caskets, or what? Pleather? Come on....pleather is not in anymore....and you in it was never in.
"You're so vain.....you probably think this blog is about you...don't you....don't you...don't you......." Adios phuckchopos
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Quality, not Quantity
I hate complaining, yet within every one of these posts is me....complaining. It's my nature and my vice. I don't do it in public forums even though this can be considered both public and forum. Fuck it. You will have to deal with me like the red-headed step-child that I am...at least today. It's my birthday. I'm right...if on no other day than today. Continue you on at your own risk....
Facebook is a great thing, I think. It passes the time, it allows us to keep up on the goings-on of our friends and family. It is, as defined, a social networking tool. It is meant to build some relationships, make new friends or friends that we have known for a long time. This blog has made its way overseas through the sharing of posts and I have made some "fans," both near and far. Maybe it will make it to SNL and I can write a skit about something funny. Who knows. If this blog doesn't go anywhere, that's OK too. It saves me on mental health visits and allows me a certain sense of security knowing I can rant a few paragraphs, hit post, and feel 100% better. This is one of those days. There might be some people, a handful, that I can count on one finger, that will look at this post and say, "WTF...I'm not like that." Yes you are. Its called denial. Look into it....
I used to think that the more friends I had on Facebook, the more fulfilling my life would be. Then I realized, after putting down the whip cream can, that makes as much sense as Gary Coleman babysitting my kids. I deleted some, not out of some level of disdain, or aggravation, but rather the quality of your friend list should be reasonable. It isn't fair to say "Hey I am your friend," and then say absolutely nothing for months. If you have so many friends that you can't talk to all of them, that is a problem. If you have a lot of friends (say over 600) and you DO talk to all of them, then you need to get out more because that is STILL not quality. My friends list is not used to beg and plead for assistance, favors, dinner, movie tickets....or anything remotely resembling materialism. I ask only for good conversation, a laugh or two, a "hey, what's up." Anything beyond that seems to be desperation, a quest for attention, a need for acceptance. If I had to rely on people on a website to validate my existence, there is a good chance I might eat a bullet. Yet, I see it...often. Its annoying. Its disturbing, but even more disturbing is that some people don't see it. So I write this just to make it crystal clear.
Maybe it's because its my birthday, or it's Wednesday...or I am stuck at school for both occasions. Maybe I am just tired of seeing the same bullshit pop up on my "most recent news" page. Either way, as comical as it is to see the same shit said over and over and over again, enough is enough. I don't care if your shit gets hacked. It comes from accepting friend requests from people you don't know. It comes from the spastic action of clicking anything that pops up. For future reference don't click any website that says www.iamgoingtotrollyourpagetomakeyousoundretarded. Ultimately, that's what happens. I don't feel bad for you. I think it's funny that you see shadows, or get frustrated that you can't log onto Facebook from somewhere other than a desk. It shows that you have an addiction problem. Or it shows that you have zero patience. It makes me laugh, but it's too predictable. Are you afraid to delete the profile and start over? Yes, you will have zero friends again, but you seemingly have all the time in the world to jot down all of their names. I am sure you can find them later. Insanity is defined as doing the same thing twice, the same way, and expecting different results. Do you hear that knock at your door? Insanity wants back in.
Keep your personal business off of the status updates. Everyone has problems, but so you know, Facebook is not a forum for the woe is me. It desensitizes people. Oh no, there it goes again....talking about how life sucks. FYI....life always sucks. Its called life. Appreciate the life you DO have and stop bitching about the shit you DON'T have. It gets old, real fast. Like progeria. Stop it because you look pathetic doing it. Facebook is not a place to get handouts. It's not a shelter....soup kitchen, or a shrink's office. Go to either of the above directly and bypass sharing your woes. It doesn't matter. I have my own problems to deal with and deal with them internally, not publicly. You should try it. Please. I won't complain.
...and that's a first.
Facebook is a great thing, I think. It passes the time, it allows us to keep up on the goings-on of our friends and family. It is, as defined, a social networking tool. It is meant to build some relationships, make new friends or friends that we have known for a long time. This blog has made its way overseas through the sharing of posts and I have made some "fans," both near and far. Maybe it will make it to SNL and I can write a skit about something funny. Who knows. If this blog doesn't go anywhere, that's OK too. It saves me on mental health visits and allows me a certain sense of security knowing I can rant a few paragraphs, hit post, and feel 100% better. This is one of those days. There might be some people, a handful, that I can count on one finger, that will look at this post and say, "WTF...I'm not like that." Yes you are. Its called denial. Look into it....
I used to think that the more friends I had on Facebook, the more fulfilling my life would be. Then I realized, after putting down the whip cream can, that makes as much sense as Gary Coleman babysitting my kids. I deleted some, not out of some level of disdain, or aggravation, but rather the quality of your friend list should be reasonable. It isn't fair to say "Hey I am your friend," and then say absolutely nothing for months. If you have so many friends that you can't talk to all of them, that is a problem. If you have a lot of friends (say over 600) and you DO talk to all of them, then you need to get out more because that is STILL not quality. My friends list is not used to beg and plead for assistance, favors, dinner, movie tickets....or anything remotely resembling materialism. I ask only for good conversation, a laugh or two, a "hey, what's up." Anything beyond that seems to be desperation, a quest for attention, a need for acceptance. If I had to rely on people on a website to validate my existence, there is a good chance I might eat a bullet. Yet, I see it...often. Its annoying. Its disturbing, but even more disturbing is that some people don't see it. So I write this just to make it crystal clear.
Maybe it's because its my birthday, or it's Wednesday...or I am stuck at school for both occasions. Maybe I am just tired of seeing the same bullshit pop up on my "most recent news" page. Either way, as comical as it is to see the same shit said over and over and over again, enough is enough. I don't care if your shit gets hacked. It comes from accepting friend requests from people you don't know. It comes from the spastic action of clicking anything that pops up. For future reference don't click any website that says www.iamgoingtotrollyourpagetomakeyousoundretarded. Ultimately, that's what happens. I don't feel bad for you. I think it's funny that you see shadows, or get frustrated that you can't log onto Facebook from somewhere other than a desk. It shows that you have an addiction problem. Or it shows that you have zero patience. It makes me laugh, but it's too predictable. Are you afraid to delete the profile and start over? Yes, you will have zero friends again, but you seemingly have all the time in the world to jot down all of their names. I am sure you can find them later. Insanity is defined as doing the same thing twice, the same way, and expecting different results. Do you hear that knock at your door? Insanity wants back in.
Keep your personal business off of the status updates. Everyone has problems, but so you know, Facebook is not a forum for the woe is me. It desensitizes people. Oh no, there it goes again....talking about how life sucks. FYI....life always sucks. Its called life. Appreciate the life you DO have and stop bitching about the shit you DON'T have. It gets old, real fast. Like progeria. Stop it because you look pathetic doing it. Facebook is not a place to get handouts. It's not a shelter....soup kitchen, or a shrink's office. Go to either of the above directly and bypass sharing your woes. It doesn't matter. I have my own problems to deal with and deal with them internally, not publicly. You should try it. Please. I won't complain.
...and that's a first.
Tuesday, March 09, 2010
E*Trade Baby is Harmless
I don't really like Lindsay Lohan. Ever since Parent Trap, she has been, what's the word.....high? Today I heard the most asinine thing ever and thought it was rant worthy. She is suing E*Trade for $100 million for libel and defamation of character. Seriously...it was the very obscure reference to a baby name Lindsay who was addicted to milk that pushed you over the libel edge? It couldn't be your lesbian escapades or the hundreds, if not THOUSANDS of paparrazi pictures of you stumbling out of the bars drunk off your ass? Or your rail thin coke arms, and the Red Bull/Marlboro light diet you are on, mixed in with a little meth. Yes, it was the baby that forever phucked your name up. Come on....lets get real here.
First, let's assume that you have a case (which you dont) and that E*Trade was actually attmepting to dirty your name (which is filthy to begin with) by using it in their commercial. So what? Getting aggravated at a baby named "Lindsay" that is addicted to milk proves one thing, that you are an addict, something that you vehemently denied in the past. You are in denial. It's not E*Trade's fault they pointed out the obvious. Everyone already knows you are a coke whore. Suing them is only bringing the known into a brighter light.
Second, $100 million???? Ala Johnny Mac, "YOU CAN'T BE SERIOUS!!!!" Where did this number come from? Has your tab run out at every bar in L.A.? To me, the ultimate layman, this is proving you need money for your addiction and Prada was not biting at any marketing offers you have made. Having your name attached to a product other than narcotics is like having Rosie O'Donnell be the spokesman for voting against Prop. 7. Don't make yourself worse than you already are. Apparently you need ANY publicity at this point. It's quite sad....
I have some studying to do...just needed to get this off my chest....
First, let's assume that you have a case (which you dont) and that E*Trade was actually attmepting to dirty your name (which is filthy to begin with) by using it in their commercial. So what? Getting aggravated at a baby named "Lindsay" that is addicted to milk proves one thing, that you are an addict, something that you vehemently denied in the past. You are in denial. It's not E*Trade's fault they pointed out the obvious. Everyone already knows you are a coke whore. Suing them is only bringing the known into a brighter light.
Second, $100 million???? Ala Johnny Mac, "YOU CAN'T BE SERIOUS!!!!" Where did this number come from? Has your tab run out at every bar in L.A.? To me, the ultimate layman, this is proving you need money for your addiction and Prada was not biting at any marketing offers you have made. Having your name attached to a product other than narcotics is like having Rosie O'Donnell be the spokesman for voting against Prop. 7. Don't make yourself worse than you already are. Apparently you need ANY publicity at this point. It's quite sad....
I have some studying to do...just needed to get this off my chest....
Friday, February 26, 2010
Women Talk More Than Men
Duh.....
Most will say that's because women have more important things to say and can express it better than a man can. I say, "did you say something?" In reality, my youngest children; Jacob, age 4 and Peyton age 6, prove this point rather nicely.
If you take Peyton anywhere, she doesn't stop talking....ever. From the time she gets in the car until the time she is pushed out of the car because of insanity, she is talking about anything she sees. There are more neurons be fired than contestants on "The Apprentice." I don't really listen because I am pretty up to date with the primary colors, the fashion sense of most 1st graders, the fact that Peyton's teacher is expecting twins this year, that the monkey bars are cold at recess and that Winter is not fun because the grass is always wet and they can't sit down. I ask, "why do you guys want to stand up from your desks at class, go outside and sit back down?" I get the 10,000 yard stare.
My son loves scenery. I assume he loves scenery or he is contemplating his next one syllable, off-topic contribution to any conversation taking place. For example:
Peyton : "....and when the bell rang, we lined up, not by height but by date of birth, which I organized and people weren't listening. All the other students went in and the teacher was telling me I had to hurry up before the kids got cold, which didn't make sense because we all had coats on and-"
Jacob: "Thomas is a blue train"
Nice aside, son. That throws Peyton for a loop because, although her voice has stopped, her brain has continued on and she forgets what she was saying. In all reality, Jacob's interventions often save me (and anyone else in the car) from further bleeding from our ears.
This brings me to my point. At Jacob's daycare, both of the provider's children were having emotional problems and were having meltdowns. This caused a lot of drama within the daycare, all of which Jacob seems to avoid except when it is behind my front door, and it involves his sister. Other than that, he is content with playing with his shadow. So when my wife picked him up today, the provider had mentioned all about the drama including the time, ambient temperature and daily rainfall measurement and apologized in advance if Jacob mentions something on the way home.
So my wife loads him into the car, he buckles up and promptly assumes the observational post of checking out the scenery as it flies by. My wife asks him, "what happened at daycare today." He says nothing happened....not making eye contact as he counts the pollen flying by the car. My wife says, "Lisa said her girls were mad...what happened?" He shrugs, looking at her and says, "they were mad I guess," and turned back to counting. If Peyton was in the car, who KNOWS if the story would have ended. In fact, if I were to go check on her right now, as she lays in bed, I would only guess that she would be mumbling about it still...even though she would have been home for almost 7 hours.
Future filibuster, anyone?
Most will say that's because women have more important things to say and can express it better than a man can. I say, "did you say something?" In reality, my youngest children; Jacob, age 4 and Peyton age 6, prove this point rather nicely.
If you take Peyton anywhere, she doesn't stop talking....ever. From the time she gets in the car until the time she is pushed out of the car because of insanity, she is talking about anything she sees. There are more neurons be fired than contestants on "The Apprentice." I don't really listen because I am pretty up to date with the primary colors, the fashion sense of most 1st graders, the fact that Peyton's teacher is expecting twins this year, that the monkey bars are cold at recess and that Winter is not fun because the grass is always wet and they can't sit down. I ask, "why do you guys want to stand up from your desks at class, go outside and sit back down?" I get the 10,000 yard stare.
My son loves scenery. I assume he loves scenery or he is contemplating his next one syllable, off-topic contribution to any conversation taking place. For example:
Peyton : "....and when the bell rang, we lined up, not by height but by date of birth, which I organized and people weren't listening. All the other students went in and the teacher was telling me I had to hurry up before the kids got cold, which didn't make sense because we all had coats on and-"
Jacob: "Thomas is a blue train"
Nice aside, son. That throws Peyton for a loop because, although her voice has stopped, her brain has continued on and she forgets what she was saying. In all reality, Jacob's interventions often save me (and anyone else in the car) from further bleeding from our ears.
This brings me to my point. At Jacob's daycare, both of the provider's children were having emotional problems and were having meltdowns. This caused a lot of drama within the daycare, all of which Jacob seems to avoid except when it is behind my front door, and it involves his sister. Other than that, he is content with playing with his shadow. So when my wife picked him up today, the provider had mentioned all about the drama including the time, ambient temperature and daily rainfall measurement and apologized in advance if Jacob mentions something on the way home.
So my wife loads him into the car, he buckles up and promptly assumes the observational post of checking out the scenery as it flies by. My wife asks him, "what happened at daycare today." He says nothing happened....not making eye contact as he counts the pollen flying by the car. My wife says, "Lisa said her girls were mad...what happened?" He shrugs, looking at her and says, "they were mad I guess," and turned back to counting. If Peyton was in the car, who KNOWS if the story would have ended. In fact, if I were to go check on her right now, as she lays in bed, I would only guess that she would be mumbling about it still...even though she would have been home for almost 7 hours.
Future filibuster, anyone?
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Something I posted to another website in 2006
Dear God,
I want my rib back.
So, feel free to get that to me whenever you can, because you wasted it. What were you thinking? Fifteen minutes after creation, I had not even healed yet from my ribectomy, and that bitch was eating the forbidden fruit. Why did you give me someone who doesn’t listen? If she isn’t going to listen to her Creator, why the hell would she listen to some idiot wearing a fig leaf over his nuts?
That’s another thing. What is with admonishing me for being bashful? I am wearing five square inches of roughage on my crotch. That’s it. This isn’t even enough foliage to cover a knee cap, let alone my package. I don’t really even want to discuss Eve pointing and laughing. I mean, come on, she has nothing to really compare it to, unless there is something you aren’t telling me.
I hope you understand, I am grateful for the company. I mean, this Garden is pretty and all, but there is nothing to do here. It was really cool that you told me I could fornicate all I want and make babies. But did you give any thought as to how Eve and I were supposed to take care of these kids? You do understand that fruit and vegetables are rather fibrous and well, lets just say I, personally, have not had a solid bowel movement for weeks. I can only imagine every couple of hours, our kids are sleeping in a pool of their own shit. Do you know how absorbent Catalpa leaves are? Not very, and the only bath is our drinking water. They don’t stop crying either. The fruit goes in, the fruit goes out- not to mention that Eve is always complaining that she never has enough ‘me’ time. This is bullshit.
Since Eve ate the fruit, she has to suffer the pains of child birth. As I am sure you know, sooner or later there will be some sort of pain killer for this, which I am sure you already know. What a harsh penalty. The serpent gets to crawl around on their belly for all eternity. Oh no, not that, God. Please don’t put the snake closer to their food or anything.
Meanwhile, behind Door Number Three, we have Adam, and since he listened to his “life partner,” he gets to work 50-hour work weeks to help repay his debt for taking God’s advice and trusting His “gift.” A lifetime of manual labor. That’s sweet, God. Thanks.
So if it is all the same, I would just rather you give me back my rib. We will try something else. Maybe you can make a hot chick out of a mushroom. Every new start-up operation has bugs to work out. At least the Earth is flat.
Sincerely,
Adam
I want my rib back.
So, feel free to get that to me whenever you can, because you wasted it. What were you thinking? Fifteen minutes after creation, I had not even healed yet from my ribectomy, and that bitch was eating the forbidden fruit. Why did you give me someone who doesn’t listen? If she isn’t going to listen to her Creator, why the hell would she listen to some idiot wearing a fig leaf over his nuts?
That’s another thing. What is with admonishing me for being bashful? I am wearing five square inches of roughage on my crotch. That’s it. This isn’t even enough foliage to cover a knee cap, let alone my package. I don’t really even want to discuss Eve pointing and laughing. I mean, come on, she has nothing to really compare it to, unless there is something you aren’t telling me.
I hope you understand, I am grateful for the company. I mean, this Garden is pretty and all, but there is nothing to do here. It was really cool that you told me I could fornicate all I want and make babies. But did you give any thought as to how Eve and I were supposed to take care of these kids? You do understand that fruit and vegetables are rather fibrous and well, lets just say I, personally, have not had a solid bowel movement for weeks. I can only imagine every couple of hours, our kids are sleeping in a pool of their own shit. Do you know how absorbent Catalpa leaves are? Not very, and the only bath is our drinking water. They don’t stop crying either. The fruit goes in, the fruit goes out- not to mention that Eve is always complaining that she never has enough ‘me’ time. This is bullshit.
Since Eve ate the fruit, she has to suffer the pains of child birth. As I am sure you know, sooner or later there will be some sort of pain killer for this, which I am sure you already know. What a harsh penalty. The serpent gets to crawl around on their belly for all eternity. Oh no, not that, God. Please don’t put the snake closer to their food or anything.
Meanwhile, behind Door Number Three, we have Adam, and since he listened to his “life partner,” he gets to work 50-hour work weeks to help repay his debt for taking God’s advice and trusting His “gift.” A lifetime of manual labor. That’s sweet, God. Thanks.
So if it is all the same, I would just rather you give me back my rib. We will try something else. Maybe you can make a hot chick out of a mushroom. Every new start-up operation has bugs to work out. At least the Earth is flat.
Sincerely,
Adam
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
My Downstairs Neighbors
If you can't beat them, wear a mask and try again.
It seems it stays quiet until bed time, and then all hell breaks loose. At what time would singing LDS hymns at 10:44PM sound like a good idea? They did this, as my kids told me later, while an infant was crying. In order to mask the sound of a screaming baby, we larger humans will try screaming as well. Forget that it is LDS. I don't care what color the religion was. My point is, this shit needs to stop...immediately.
"Why don't you go ask them to be quiet," you ask? I have. I have knocked on the door and stood there, without saying anything, and burned Moroni in effigy, yet, they sit back and smile, looking as if the 12th can of whip cream that was just inhaled is definitely not the last. My daughter went down to play with one of their feral children and came back up 9 minutes later complaining of the smell. Something doesn't make me feel comfortable knowing the lady watching my child cannot see her hand in front of her face. That, or she is rather tolerant of her kids walking on the counters and dangling from the window sill like dander. Either way, I might go nuts here soon....very....soon.
The real kicker was the guy asking me what I was doing this coming Sunday. I am all for religion, having God in your life. Stating I have God in my life entitles the receiver of said information an invitation to stop soliciting me to go to church with you. Your minivan seats 7. You plus Joseph Smith's bounty on your wife's vagina equals 7 already. No room and both my cars blew a head gasket and cannot drive. Walk? No...my kids have spina bifida and their knuckles aren't used to the pressure. I know you saw them playing yesterday, they just got it last night. The bikes have flat tires, stop looking in my garage. The skateboard isn't mine, unless its your son's and he left it in front of my door, then it IS mine and forever will be. Along with this scooter. Yes I tithe...I tithe the shit your kids leave around my front door, like this broken branch off that dead tree, this raccoon hat, Daniel Boone, and this set of Junie B. Jones books. Yes, you can have the dead bird. Probably ridden with Avian flu. Would I be interested in watching the Mormon National Convention on your TV? You mean the 14 inch color TV I see you all huddled around while playing pong? No I saw it already. From 1994? I missed that one, but I can't imagine it can be more riveting than the bamboo shoots in my toenails I have planned in the next 5 1/2 minutes. Can't be late for that. I know, my reluctance seems contrived but I really need to get going. I have found a bitch to fill full of semen. No, my bulldog. Long story...the short version is I would rather jerk him off into a tube than spend 9.5 hours in church with you today. But thank you for asking. Would I like to come over for some punch? No not really. Why? Have you ever seen the story about the Heaven's Gate cult? Oh, and you look like shit in purple velour.
Nice shoes though, wandering eye....
It seems it stays quiet until bed time, and then all hell breaks loose. At what time would singing LDS hymns at 10:44PM sound like a good idea? They did this, as my kids told me later, while an infant was crying. In order to mask the sound of a screaming baby, we larger humans will try screaming as well. Forget that it is LDS. I don't care what color the religion was. My point is, this shit needs to stop...immediately.
"Why don't you go ask them to be quiet," you ask? I have. I have knocked on the door and stood there, without saying anything, and burned Moroni in effigy, yet, they sit back and smile, looking as if the 12th can of whip cream that was just inhaled is definitely not the last. My daughter went down to play with one of their feral children and came back up 9 minutes later complaining of the smell. Something doesn't make me feel comfortable knowing the lady watching my child cannot see her hand in front of her face. That, or she is rather tolerant of her kids walking on the counters and dangling from the window sill like dander. Either way, I might go nuts here soon....very....soon.
The real kicker was the guy asking me what I was doing this coming Sunday. I am all for religion, having God in your life. Stating I have God in my life entitles the receiver of said information an invitation to stop soliciting me to go to church with you. Your minivan seats 7. You plus Joseph Smith's bounty on your wife's vagina equals 7 already. No room and both my cars blew a head gasket and cannot drive. Walk? No...my kids have spina bifida and their knuckles aren't used to the pressure. I know you saw them playing yesterday, they just got it last night. The bikes have flat tires, stop looking in my garage. The skateboard isn't mine, unless its your son's and he left it in front of my door, then it IS mine and forever will be. Along with this scooter. Yes I tithe...I tithe the shit your kids leave around my front door, like this broken branch off that dead tree, this raccoon hat, Daniel Boone, and this set of Junie B. Jones books. Yes, you can have the dead bird. Probably ridden with Avian flu. Would I be interested in watching the Mormon National Convention on your TV? You mean the 14 inch color TV I see you all huddled around while playing pong? No I saw it already. From 1994? I missed that one, but I can't imagine it can be more riveting than the bamboo shoots in my toenails I have planned in the next 5 1/2 minutes. Can't be late for that. I know, my reluctance seems contrived but I really need to get going. I have found a bitch to fill full of semen. No, my bulldog. Long story...the short version is I would rather jerk him off into a tube than spend 9.5 hours in church with you today. But thank you for asking. Would I like to come over for some punch? No not really. Why? Have you ever seen the story about the Heaven's Gate cult? Oh, and you look like shit in purple velour.
Nice shoes though, wandering eye....
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
I'll Stick With the Ailment, Thanks!
A friend of mine is embarking on training for a fitness competition. I think that's awesome. I cannot even fathom what it would take to remain focused and disciplined enough to avoid everything that this world will throw her way. She shall remain nameless out of respect for her. We got to talking about body fat percentages, what's healthy and what isn't. The lower a woman's body fat is, the less likely they are to have a period. Makes sense. I got to thinking about some of the ailments we suffer as individuals and the bullshit we have to put up with taking drugs to alleviate the symptoms related to said bullshit. I decided that, for the sake of my own insanity, I would pick a few of these "ailments," and dive a little further into curing them...and what someone would have to put up with.
Let's start with restless leg syndrome, or RLS for short. The drug used to cure your restless legs is called REQUIP, which is an FDA approved drug. Side effects include, back pain, depression, arthritis, insomnia, nocturnal cramps (which I imagine are lame, as compared to nocturnal emissions. One makes you smile, the other makes you say WTF?!?!?! I'll let you decide for yourself), spontaneous sweats...oh, and narcolepsy, which would be awesome driving 70 MPH over the Columbia River, don't you think? All this shit because you can't stop fidgeting? Sure, RLS might be something else, but I don't care. My post, my rules. I'd rather have twitchy legs.
Next we have menses. Yes, the beloved period. Apparently, its a pain in the ass; PMS, and all that other bullshit. They have made a cure for men already for PMS. Several actually, ranging anywhere from Keystone Light to Jack Daniels. However, they now have a drug that will cut your periods from 12 a year to 4. Sounds like a winner. However, Astra, as the drug is called can really mess you up. Hypertension, cramps, BLEEDING, blood clots, deep vein thrombosis, pulmonary embolism, MOOD SWINGS (sounds a lot like the regular PMS, doesn't it?0, bleeding from your eyes and/or ears. The list goes on. I look at it this way, God created the menstrual cycle. Since God made this cycle, and God is woman (so I have heard), don't you think that cleaning your uterus every 28 days is a good idea? Please, give me (or the woman in my life) all 12 periods. Sounds better than the alternative.
I figured if you are still with me, I will share one more so that you can go on to bigger and better things. Depression is not a joke. At least not to a person going through it. People all upset because it's raining is a different story. "But my doctor told me its cuz it rains" doesn't validate an illness. He is in the business for customer (patient) retention. Best cure for seasonal depression is a 24 foot U-Haul and a map. Other than that, stop whining. Cymbalta is a popular anti-depressant meant to cure those clinically depressed for one reason or another (guinea pig/beta fish/turtle/dog/cat/ex-spouse/mistress/ dying, on top of other things) and should be taken at proper dosage to have full effect. However, nothing says I AM HAPPY like public incontinence, which is a side effect of Cymbalta. Imagine, already hating life. Wife says take this little pill and all will be better. On the drive to the mall, you start to feel somewhat euphoric. You get out of the car, take a deep breath feeling like life is actually pretty awesome right now. You grab your wife's hand as a non-verbal "thank you for caring enough about you to give me this drug." You lean over to kiss her cheek while you are walking, open the door for her and then **BAM**, you shit yourself. People look at you and the shit running onto your shoes. They laugh. Now, tell me what is so anti-depressing about that? That's just ONE side effect. Couple that with bizarre behavior; bloody or black, tarry stools; blurred vision; confusion; dark urine; decreased concentration; decreased coordination; excessive sweating; fainting; fast or irregular heartbeat; fever or chills; hallucinations; memory loss; new or worsening aggressiveness, agitation, anxiety, hostility, impulsiveness, irritability, panic attacks, restlessness, or inability to sit still; pale stools; red, swollen, blistered, or peeling skin; ringing in the ears; seizures; severe or persistent dizziness or headache; severe or persistent nausea, vomiting, or diarrhea; severe or persistent tiredness or weakness; severe or persistent trouble sleeping; stiff muscles; stomach pain; suicidal thoughts or attempts; tremor; trouble urinating or change in the amount of urine produced; unusual bruising or bleeding; unusual or severe mental or mood changes; unusual weakness; vomit that looks like coffee grounds; worsening of depression; yellowing of the skin or eyes and you tell me....
wouldn't you rather just be depressed?
I think I'll just take the ailment....
Let's start with restless leg syndrome, or RLS for short. The drug used to cure your restless legs is called REQUIP, which is an FDA approved drug. Side effects include, back pain, depression, arthritis, insomnia, nocturnal cramps (which I imagine are lame, as compared to nocturnal emissions. One makes you smile, the other makes you say WTF?!?!?! I'll let you decide for yourself), spontaneous sweats...oh, and narcolepsy, which would be awesome driving 70 MPH over the Columbia River, don't you think? All this shit because you can't stop fidgeting? Sure, RLS might be something else, but I don't care. My post, my rules. I'd rather have twitchy legs.
Next we have menses. Yes, the beloved period. Apparently, its a pain in the ass; PMS, and all that other bullshit. They have made a cure for men already for PMS. Several actually, ranging anywhere from Keystone Light to Jack Daniels. However, they now have a drug that will cut your periods from 12 a year to 4. Sounds like a winner. However, Astra, as the drug is called can really mess you up. Hypertension, cramps, BLEEDING, blood clots, deep vein thrombosis, pulmonary embolism, MOOD SWINGS (sounds a lot like the regular PMS, doesn't it?0, bleeding from your eyes and/or ears. The list goes on. I look at it this way, God created the menstrual cycle. Since God made this cycle, and God is woman (so I have heard), don't you think that cleaning your uterus every 28 days is a good idea? Please, give me (or the woman in my life) all 12 periods. Sounds better than the alternative.
I figured if you are still with me, I will share one more so that you can go on to bigger and better things. Depression is not a joke. At least not to a person going through it. People all upset because it's raining is a different story. "But my doctor told me its cuz it rains" doesn't validate an illness. He is in the business for customer (patient) retention. Best cure for seasonal depression is a 24 foot U-Haul and a map. Other than that, stop whining. Cymbalta is a popular anti-depressant meant to cure those clinically depressed for one reason or another (guinea pig/beta fish/turtle/dog/cat/ex-spouse/mistress/ dying, on top of other things) and should be taken at proper dosage to have full effect. However, nothing says I AM HAPPY like public incontinence, which is a side effect of Cymbalta. Imagine, already hating life. Wife says take this little pill and all will be better. On the drive to the mall, you start to feel somewhat euphoric. You get out of the car, take a deep breath feeling like life is actually pretty awesome right now. You grab your wife's hand as a non-verbal "thank you for caring enough about you to give me this drug." You lean over to kiss her cheek while you are walking, open the door for her and then **BAM**, you shit yourself. People look at you and the shit running onto your shoes. They laugh. Now, tell me what is so anti-depressing about that? That's just ONE side effect. Couple that with bizarre behavior; bloody or black, tarry stools; blurred vision; confusion; dark urine; decreased concentration; decreased coordination; excessive sweating; fainting; fast or irregular heartbeat; fever or chills; hallucinations; memory loss; new or worsening aggressiveness, agitation, anxiety, hostility, impulsiveness, irritability, panic attacks, restlessness, or inability to sit still; pale stools; red, swollen, blistered, or peeling skin; ringing in the ears; seizures; severe or persistent dizziness or headache; severe or persistent nausea, vomiting, or diarrhea; severe or persistent tiredness or weakness; severe or persistent trouble sleeping; stiff muscles; stomach pain; suicidal thoughts or attempts; tremor; trouble urinating or change in the amount of urine produced; unusual bruising or bleeding; unusual or severe mental or mood changes; unusual weakness; vomit that looks like coffee grounds; worsening of depression; yellowing of the skin or eyes and you tell me....
wouldn't you rather just be depressed?
I think I'll just take the ailment....
Spammers
I don't want Viagra for $4. My wife might want me to want it, but I don't. I don't want $19,000,000. I do but I don't want the nightmare that comes with it. I certainly don't want to meet jennifer21f@yahoo.uk because, as we all know, if it ends in UK, that means her teeth are messed up. That, AND I DON'T NEED CRABS! Neither does my wife, which brings me full circle.
Are there people who really believe the shit that ends up in their spam box? Just today I was asked to meet "anywhere my desire took me," in order to hook up. Thanks to a high fiber diet, my desire took me to the bathroom. Would I still need to verify my age in order to take a dump in my own house? As of noon today, I inherited $109,000,000. All I needed to do was verify my identity and it was mine. This begs the question, didn't you already do that by finding my email address and ask me to help you and your club footed family? For fun, I always reply like a backwoods hick thanking the spammer profusely for funding by defunct moonshine operation and would gladly accept a cashier's check mailed to a PO BOX. It never works. Occasionally I get a response, but it never lasts as the spammer realizes they can't win. "But Eli, they could steal your identity." OK, have it. It hasn't done me any good lately. Knock yourselves out.
When I rented out my house in Nampa, ID on craigslist, I was approached by several out of work models from Canada, picture attached, offering to pay me 12 months rent up front, AND the deposit if I just sent them some information. Knowing it was bullshit, I deleted them, but I had just as much luck with the real people who actually did live there, did not pay rent and trashed the house. Note to future renters, please turn the water off when you decide to move out and break your lease. A flood above the garage makes a mess. Dicks.
It's only Tuesday. I figure by Friday, I should have the GDP of Paraguay waiting for me in a Nigerian desert somewhere. With that kind of cash, I am sure I could afford a firewall that would block these a-holes. Until then, I'll just keep ordering the little blue pill....for my wife's sake.
Are there people who really believe the shit that ends up in their spam box? Just today I was asked to meet "anywhere my desire took me," in order to hook up. Thanks to a high fiber diet, my desire took me to the bathroom. Would I still need to verify my age in order to take a dump in my own house? As of noon today, I inherited $109,000,000. All I needed to do was verify my identity and it was mine. This begs the question, didn't you already do that by finding my email address and ask me to help you and your club footed family? For fun, I always reply like a backwoods hick thanking the spammer profusely for funding by defunct moonshine operation and would gladly accept a cashier's check mailed to a PO BOX. It never works. Occasionally I get a response, but it never lasts as the spammer realizes they can't win. "But Eli, they could steal your identity." OK, have it. It hasn't done me any good lately. Knock yourselves out.
When I rented out my house in Nampa, ID on craigslist, I was approached by several out of work models from Canada, picture attached, offering to pay me 12 months rent up front, AND the deposit if I just sent them some information. Knowing it was bullshit, I deleted them, but I had just as much luck with the real people who actually did live there, did not pay rent and trashed the house. Note to future renters, please turn the water off when you decide to move out and break your lease. A flood above the garage makes a mess. Dicks.
It's only Tuesday. I figure by Friday, I should have the GDP of Paraguay waiting for me in a Nigerian desert somewhere. With that kind of cash, I am sure I could afford a firewall that would block these a-holes. Until then, I'll just keep ordering the little blue pill....for my wife's sake.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Apology?
Tiger isn't sorry. If you think he is sorry then you really, REALLY do believe that some estate manager in Monaco is going to give you $19 million if you give him your personal information. Better yet, the Canadian model who is willing to sublet your room for rent, and is willing to pay you 12 months of rent prepaid AND give you a hand job is actually real too. Come on, people. Don't fall for it, any of it, and that includes Eldrick's pseudo-apology.
I kept hearing words like "contrite," and sincere when people were talking about his "news conference." I didn't watch it, more or less, because nothing was going to be gained by the show that was being put on. It was Broadway as it's finest; a production meant for no one but himself. It always has been and always will be about Tiger Woods. Shame on him for making anyone believe otherwise, or for the media in making him a hero for coming out and facing the music. He didn't face any music. Where was his spouse? Where was his manager, his sponsors and the 100 RANDOM journalists that need to be there to ask questions. I don't even want to know why he had sex with the Northern Hemisphere. I want to know why he deserves privacy when he decided to flaunt his machismo in public. I don't care if you never had a childhood because of golf. I don't care that you grew up around insane discipline and structure and were never allowed out of the sandbox. I don't care that your marriage is a business arrangement, set up by your management team to tame the beast known as Tiger. None of that matters. What does matter is unscripted, honest answers to the questions people have. You cannot be the most well-known athlete in the world, put your dipstick into 339 women and not explain why. Tears of shame flow freely, not as you exit the stage. Reading something you didn't write, and acting as if the things coming out of your mouth resembled new and accurate information doesn't count. Not in my book anyway.
Honestly, I am boycotting golf now. I don't care to watch a glorified man-whore either win or lose. Doing so is reqrding the system that allegedly got him there in the first place. The only difference between Tiger and white trash is Tiger has better transportation to the Bunny Ranch. Beyond that, he is a walking example of what not to have date your daughter. If you really want to change your image, call yuorself Eldrick...but drop the 'E,' the 'L,' and the 'R' because that is all your are. A dick with too much money and too much time.
Asshole.
I kept hearing words like "contrite," and sincere when people were talking about his "news conference." I didn't watch it, more or less, because nothing was going to be gained by the show that was being put on. It was Broadway as it's finest; a production meant for no one but himself. It always has been and always will be about Tiger Woods. Shame on him for making anyone believe otherwise, or for the media in making him a hero for coming out and facing the music. He didn't face any music. Where was his spouse? Where was his manager, his sponsors and the 100 RANDOM journalists that need to be there to ask questions. I don't even want to know why he had sex with the Northern Hemisphere. I want to know why he deserves privacy when he decided to flaunt his machismo in public. I don't care if you never had a childhood because of golf. I don't care that you grew up around insane discipline and structure and were never allowed out of the sandbox. I don't care that your marriage is a business arrangement, set up by your management team to tame the beast known as Tiger. None of that matters. What does matter is unscripted, honest answers to the questions people have. You cannot be the most well-known athlete in the world, put your dipstick into 339 women and not explain why. Tears of shame flow freely, not as you exit the stage. Reading something you didn't write, and acting as if the things coming out of your mouth resembled new and accurate information doesn't count. Not in my book anyway.
Honestly, I am boycotting golf now. I don't care to watch a glorified man-whore either win or lose. Doing so is reqrding the system that allegedly got him there in the first place. The only difference between Tiger and white trash is Tiger has better transportation to the Bunny Ranch. Beyond that, he is a walking example of what not to have date your daughter. If you really want to change your image, call yuorself Eldrick...but drop the 'E,' the 'L,' and the 'R' because that is all your are. A dick with too much money and too much time.
Asshole.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
It's Not a Black Thing
I was waiting in line at Winco, behind a lady that was buying 15 vitamin waters and a loaf of French bread. She reminded me of Snooki from Jershey Shore in a way, except this lady made Snooki look like Bar Rafaeli. She was black, which has nothing and everything to do with this post. Her total came to $16 and some change. SOME....change, yet she proceeded to pull out a few sweaty dollar bills from her pancaked cleavage (yes, a contradiction in terms). I counted about $8, and then she pulled out a ziploc bag full of coins, mostly copper. She had put her cart in such a way that I could not get my cart by; my items having already been scanned. I was ready to bag. I took my cart behind her (more like lifted it over her head and dropped it on the other side of her) and bagged my stuff, standing behind her waiting....waiting....for her to count out her wishing well change. She turns to me, mid-count, and says, "if I wasn't black, you would be more patient."
Before I give my two cents regarding her comment, Ijust want to say I am color blind. Not in the literal sense, but in the realistic sense. I give two shits what color someone is. I don't lock my car doors around minorities, only skinny, white crack heads. I don't admonish a mexican wondering why everyone thinks mexicans are criminals. I assume that is what he said because he said it in Spanish and I am not bi-lingual, a pre-requisite for 80% of jobs here. God forbid the customers speak English, and I am admonished for bringing up the fact their country of residence is, in fact, AMERICA. But I suffer for not knowing Spanish. Not the time to start this conversation. Point is, black, yellow, red, brown (dark or light), I don't care. I'm not a racist.
A plethora of responses crossed my mind when I was told my impatience for her stupidity had to do with her being black. It had nothing to do with her being black. It could have been the OK 95 shirt she was wearing that had "The Who" tour dates on it from 1987. It might have been the lack of mammary support in a public place, giving me the feeling I was in an IHOP (yes, a flapjack, saggy boob reference). It very well could have been her lack of personal hygiene, a quality dental plan or the sweaty bills; having swabbed a dollar bill in Microbiology and found 3 pathogenic bacteria on it. It could have been her inconsiderate spot where she placed her cart, begging to be the center of attention. No, ma'am, my impatience isn't because you are black, it is because you are dumb. Dumb as the day is long which means after daylight savings time and before the winter solstice you are, most likely by state standards, retarded. I do have sympathy for the unemployed, but about as much patience as I do my 4-year old son while he fears wiping his own ass. Get a job, or get schooling. Either way, finances will improve. Beyond that, STOP WASTING MY FUCKING TIME WITH YOUR GALLON ZIPLOC BAG FULL OF LOOSE CHANGE! Being her, I would imagine, is like being a bag full of dicks. Only good for one thing, and shopping at Winco is NOT IT.
Instead of saying one, two, or a combination of the above, I simply said, "no, I have all the time in the world to prove Darwin was wrong," which brought a long moment of silence, and her inaction as she digested this bit of information like a 5-layer burrito. Thank God the checker said something to the effect of "ma'am, hurry the fuck up." Problem is, he was white too. Might as well been wearing a sheet. Bring on the tirade, Rosa Parks and this lady having a dream. She ended by saying," waht did WE ever do to you (assuming she meant black people). I sauntered up to the debit card machine and said one word.
KANYE....conversation over.
Before I give my two cents regarding her comment, Ijust want to say I am color blind. Not in the literal sense, but in the realistic sense. I give two shits what color someone is. I don't lock my car doors around minorities, only skinny, white crack heads. I don't admonish a mexican wondering why everyone thinks mexicans are criminals. I assume that is what he said because he said it in Spanish and I am not bi-lingual, a pre-requisite for 80% of jobs here. God forbid the customers speak English, and I am admonished for bringing up the fact their country of residence is, in fact, AMERICA. But I suffer for not knowing Spanish. Not the time to start this conversation. Point is, black, yellow, red, brown (dark or light), I don't care. I'm not a racist.
A plethora of responses crossed my mind when I was told my impatience for her stupidity had to do with her being black. It had nothing to do with her being black. It could have been the OK 95 shirt she was wearing that had "The Who" tour dates on it from 1987. It might have been the lack of mammary support in a public place, giving me the feeling I was in an IHOP (yes, a flapjack, saggy boob reference). It very well could have been her lack of personal hygiene, a quality dental plan or the sweaty bills; having swabbed a dollar bill in Microbiology and found 3 pathogenic bacteria on it. It could have been her inconsiderate spot where she placed her cart, begging to be the center of attention. No, ma'am, my impatience isn't because you are black, it is because you are dumb. Dumb as the day is long which means after daylight savings time and before the winter solstice you are, most likely by state standards, retarded. I do have sympathy for the unemployed, but about as much patience as I do my 4-year old son while he fears wiping his own ass. Get a job, or get schooling. Either way, finances will improve. Beyond that, STOP WASTING MY FUCKING TIME WITH YOUR GALLON ZIPLOC BAG FULL OF LOOSE CHANGE! Being her, I would imagine, is like being a bag full of dicks. Only good for one thing, and shopping at Winco is NOT IT.
Instead of saying one, two, or a combination of the above, I simply said, "no, I have all the time in the world to prove Darwin was wrong," which brought a long moment of silence, and her inaction as she digested this bit of information like a 5-layer burrito. Thank God the checker said something to the effect of "ma'am, hurry the fuck up." Problem is, he was white too. Might as well been wearing a sheet. Bring on the tirade, Rosa Parks and this lady having a dream. She ended by saying," waht did WE ever do to you (assuming she meant black people). I sauntered up to the debit card machine and said one word.
KANYE....conversation over.
Nursing School
I applied today. I submitted all of my transcripts, my application, my application to ATTEND CBC (even though I am already attending) and walked away. I felt like I was leaving behind a teenager to fend for themselves in the real world. In reality, I don't know what I feel like. I feel a lot of different emotions. Scared, excited, relieved...I believe there is a full spectrum of emotions going on right now.
Some would say its out of my hands and I can no longer change the outcome. Have I done enough? I am about to turn 37 years old and I am doing a complete 180 degree turn in my career path. I suppose I didn't have much of a career path to begin with. Sure, I did something I enjoyed for more than a decade, but I am not sure that counts. I wondered, handing everything over, have I done enough? It makes me sad to think that there is a possibility that I may not get in this time, and I have to drive to Yakima every day for a year. Time will tell, I suppose, on what will happen from here.
Pray for the applicants to this program...not just for me. It's very nerve racking and stressful. So much up in the air, but in the end, God's will be done....go or no go.
Some would say its out of my hands and I can no longer change the outcome. Have I done enough? I am about to turn 37 years old and I am doing a complete 180 degree turn in my career path. I suppose I didn't have much of a career path to begin with. Sure, I did something I enjoyed for more than a decade, but I am not sure that counts. I wondered, handing everything over, have I done enough? It makes me sad to think that there is a possibility that I may not get in this time, and I have to drive to Yakima every day for a year. Time will tell, I suppose, on what will happen from here.
Pray for the applicants to this program...not just for me. It's very nerve racking and stressful. So much up in the air, but in the end, God's will be done....go or no go.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Convenience
News flash....things are too convenient. Big surprise, I know, but its true. Cell phones, online check-in, online bill pay, online customer service, automated customer service, 411 and the list can go on. We have forgotten how to deal with people. We send text messages rather than make a phone call. E cards rather than a real card. I wrote in a card the other day for my wife and I started getting writers cramp after the first sentence. Is it bad when the muscles used to grasp a pen and write begin to atrophy?
Remember when you had to call the operator to get information, and they actually gave it back to you in their own voice? Now it's by robot. With the volume of convenience that we are provided, we sure do get impatient. When your cell phone locks up, how often do you say, "COMEEEE ONNNNNNNNNNNN," willing the message or phone call to go through? Forget that the request is being sent into space and has to return. Remember rotary dials on the phone? You get all excited to get a phone number, see two zeros and then frown knowing that calling this person is going to require at least 10 minutes.
I saw an electric pepper gringer at Bed, Bath and Beyond the other day. When did twisting your wrist become such a headache? The small bones in the wrist were made to do that action. Now we are just too lazy to grind, let alone shake the pepper. I bet if there were Bloody Mary's abound, no one would have a hard time shaking the Tobasco bottle....even if it were in the same motion.
If you tore the phone book page on accident, it was a pain in the ass because you had to wait a year to get another one. Now, we get 4 phone books a week, whether we want them or not. ::PLOP::...there it is in a plastic bag. DEX, DORX, DOTZ, and some other company, providing me an unsolicited copy of how people and business should be put together. It is the ultimate tree killer. But we needed them before. Now this service is an inconvenience. Those were the days.
These are just a couple of observations. Definitely a rant....but sometimes it blows me away how convenient we have it, and how impatient we get when the conveniences provided don't quite fit to our standards.
Remember when you had to call the operator to get information, and they actually gave it back to you in their own voice? Now it's by robot. With the volume of convenience that we are provided, we sure do get impatient. When your cell phone locks up, how often do you say, "COMEEEE ONNNNNNNNNNNN," willing the message or phone call to go through? Forget that the request is being sent into space and has to return. Remember rotary dials on the phone? You get all excited to get a phone number, see two zeros and then frown knowing that calling this person is going to require at least 10 minutes.
I saw an electric pepper gringer at Bed, Bath and Beyond the other day. When did twisting your wrist become such a headache? The small bones in the wrist were made to do that action. Now we are just too lazy to grind, let alone shake the pepper. I bet if there were Bloody Mary's abound, no one would have a hard time shaking the Tobasco bottle....even if it were in the same motion.
If you tore the phone book page on accident, it was a pain in the ass because you had to wait a year to get another one. Now, we get 4 phone books a week, whether we want them or not. ::PLOP::...there it is in a plastic bag. DEX, DORX, DOTZ, and some other company, providing me an unsolicited copy of how people and business should be put together. It is the ultimate tree killer. But we needed them before. Now this service is an inconvenience. Those were the days.
These are just a couple of observations. Definitely a rant....but sometimes it blows me away how convenient we have it, and how impatient we get when the conveniences provided don't quite fit to our standards.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Finally
Ok, so here goes.
Mark McGwire should not be in the Hall of Fame. I think, however, we should forgive him, mostly because no matter how much we chastise him for becoming 200% larger than most humans, he will forever and always have an acne scarred turkey neck. I find it funny that he came out and admitted using steroids. Its like Lindsay Lohan coming out and saying she is a coke whore, or Kate Gosslien's vagina was an Asian Baby Gatlin gun. No shit Sherlock. True, steroids cannot help you hit a baseball, except for the fact HGH makes old muscles and tendons required for the eyes to behave as though you are 20 years younger. Your reaction time is faster, your bat speed is faster, your force is massive compared to, for example, Jamie Moyer. So don't pretend to fool anyone with the statement "I got this gift from the man upstairs." The only truth to that statement is if McGwire was living in the BALCO basement. Remember when Brady Anderson (Baltimore Orioles lead off hitter) hit 50+ home runs one year and then disappeared off the face of the Earth? When you go from averaging 15 home runs and being 6'2" 195 pounds, and having a full head of hair, to hitting 52 home runs, growing an inch and a half and gaining 35 pounds and going BALD when you are in your 30's...there is a good chance that either (A) your were abducted by aliens and probed anally, or (B) you took some sort of performance enhancing drugs. Either way, disappearing off the face of the Earth makes sense.
The Hall of Fame is reserved for people whose performance was so amazing, they were better than anyone else who played the game. Pete Rose gambled. So what? OoooOoooooohhh noooooooo!!! Better ban him for life. Forget he earned the nickname 'Charlie Hustle." Forget the heart during playoff runs. Forget barrelling over a catcher in an All-Star game, playing at 110% even if it was just for show. Forget the fact he is the ALL-TIME HITS LEADER! Yes, let's ban that guy. Let's let Steve Howe keep playing after admitting he snorted more cocaine than Amy Winehouse. If anyone needs a reprieve, it's Pete Rose. He admitted he gambled...GAMBLED. Shit, we all gamble in one way or another. A lifetime ban? Really? Gambling on games, even ones he is playing or coaching in should not require wearing a DOUCHE cap the rest of your life. That should be reserved for special players...like Barry Bonds.
Hey Barry....do me a favor and just come out and admit the clear and cream were not a band in the 70's. Bullshit you didn't know what they were...unless you just like having strange men, or even men you trust rubbing you down with foreign shit. Maybe that is what you are trying to hide. You are as queer as a $3 dollar bill. I know lots of gay people. I have some gay friends. Come out of the closet, bro. It's socially acceptable now. Hell, some gay couples can now legally get married. Stop hiding. Or is it the excessive growth hormone is causing rapid bone growth in your face and head? One size helmet fits all does not quite pertain to you, does it? Forfeit your home run records....all of them. Be a man, the man you claim you are, and atone for being a phuckstick. I don't care who you are. God did not make it possible for an athlete to get better as they get older. You, my friend, can hit a baseball. Fine. That is not being debated. However, you have cheated. If you were in a different country, you would be drawn and quartered; your body strew about the 4 corners and hung in effigy as a reminder that you, to, can suffer from gigantism. Medically speaking it is obvious you cheated. Of course, I can't say the same about Rafael Palmeiro. Unless what he took was supposed to make him look like an accountant or a porn star from the 80's.
We finally got to learn, on the record, on of baseballs largest bodies, and one of the smallest heads, was cheating when he broke Roger Maris' homerun record. That's great you apologized to the Maris family. Not sure what it means. You seem sincere and contrite when speaking to Bob Costas. Although I have to admit, Bob Costas, at least in stature, reminded me of Macaulay Culkin in Home alone. He makes Dr. Ruth seem like the Jolly Green giant. If anyone needed steroids, it's Bob Costas. Not to be libelous, but it's true. Getting off topic here. The next thing you need to do is foreit your homeruns from 1993-2000...all of them. Accept it as your final punishment for cheating. Then, and only then, can you be considered for the Hall of Fame, enshrined in Storage room B as best of the Steroid Era. Hell, you can start, then endorsing Stridex. Just like Tiger Woods can endorse Cialis or Trojan.
Even cheaters can help sell to this consumer driven world.
Mark McGwire should not be in the Hall of Fame. I think, however, we should forgive him, mostly because no matter how much we chastise him for becoming 200% larger than most humans, he will forever and always have an acne scarred turkey neck. I find it funny that he came out and admitted using steroids. Its like Lindsay Lohan coming out and saying she is a coke whore, or Kate Gosslien's vagina was an Asian Baby Gatlin gun. No shit Sherlock. True, steroids cannot help you hit a baseball, except for the fact HGH makes old muscles and tendons required for the eyes to behave as though you are 20 years younger. Your reaction time is faster, your bat speed is faster, your force is massive compared to, for example, Jamie Moyer. So don't pretend to fool anyone with the statement "I got this gift from the man upstairs." The only truth to that statement is if McGwire was living in the BALCO basement. Remember when Brady Anderson (Baltimore Orioles lead off hitter) hit 50+ home runs one year and then disappeared off the face of the Earth? When you go from averaging 15 home runs and being 6'2" 195 pounds, and having a full head of hair, to hitting 52 home runs, growing an inch and a half and gaining 35 pounds and going BALD when you are in your 30's...there is a good chance that either (A) your were abducted by aliens and probed anally, or (B) you took some sort of performance enhancing drugs. Either way, disappearing off the face of the Earth makes sense.
The Hall of Fame is reserved for people whose performance was so amazing, they were better than anyone else who played the game. Pete Rose gambled. So what? OoooOoooooohhh noooooooo!!! Better ban him for life. Forget he earned the nickname 'Charlie Hustle." Forget the heart during playoff runs. Forget barrelling over a catcher in an All-Star game, playing at 110% even if it was just for show. Forget the fact he is the ALL-TIME HITS LEADER! Yes, let's ban that guy. Let's let Steve Howe keep playing after admitting he snorted more cocaine than Amy Winehouse. If anyone needs a reprieve, it's Pete Rose. He admitted he gambled...GAMBLED. Shit, we all gamble in one way or another. A lifetime ban? Really? Gambling on games, even ones he is playing or coaching in should not require wearing a DOUCHE cap the rest of your life. That should be reserved for special players...like Barry Bonds.
Hey Barry....do me a favor and just come out and admit the clear and cream were not a band in the 70's. Bullshit you didn't know what they were...unless you just like having strange men, or even men you trust rubbing you down with foreign shit. Maybe that is what you are trying to hide. You are as queer as a $3 dollar bill. I know lots of gay people. I have some gay friends. Come out of the closet, bro. It's socially acceptable now. Hell, some gay couples can now legally get married. Stop hiding. Or is it the excessive growth hormone is causing rapid bone growth in your face and head? One size helmet fits all does not quite pertain to you, does it? Forfeit your home run records....all of them. Be a man, the man you claim you are, and atone for being a phuckstick. I don't care who you are. God did not make it possible for an athlete to get better as they get older. You, my friend, can hit a baseball. Fine. That is not being debated. However, you have cheated. If you were in a different country, you would be drawn and quartered; your body strew about the 4 corners and hung in effigy as a reminder that you, to, can suffer from gigantism. Medically speaking it is obvious you cheated. Of course, I can't say the same about Rafael Palmeiro. Unless what he took was supposed to make him look like an accountant or a porn star from the 80's.
We finally got to learn, on the record, on of baseballs largest bodies, and one of the smallest heads, was cheating when he broke Roger Maris' homerun record. That's great you apologized to the Maris family. Not sure what it means. You seem sincere and contrite when speaking to Bob Costas. Although I have to admit, Bob Costas, at least in stature, reminded me of Macaulay Culkin in Home alone. He makes Dr. Ruth seem like the Jolly Green giant. If anyone needed steroids, it's Bob Costas. Not to be libelous, but it's true. Getting off topic here. The next thing you need to do is foreit your homeruns from 1993-2000...all of them. Accept it as your final punishment for cheating. Then, and only then, can you be considered for the Hall of Fame, enshrined in Storage room B as best of the Steroid Era. Hell, you can start, then endorsing Stridex. Just like Tiger Woods can endorse Cialis or Trojan.
Even cheaters can help sell to this consumer driven world.
Monday, January 04, 2010
Questions....
I really don't know where this is going, and I may or may not even publish it. There has been, however, something gnawing in my mind. I can't put my finger on it. I figured writing it down might make some sense of it.
I originally started this blog as a way to vent life's frustrations. I put things into perspective for myself that, when others read, my life's trial and tribulations brought laughter and joy to others. Sometimes my venting got out of hand. Some people got upset. Some people, maybe all of you, think I need to seek some help or get some medication. I went to a therapist once. Once. I won't go again. Although the circumstances of that visit were bullshit (too long a story to talk about and NOT worth the effort) my beliefs on the issue still stand. So here I am two paragraphs in and nowhere closer to untangling my cerbral fingers, grasping onto something that needs to unravel.
I am going to start writing something. I will be turning into en eBook if I do anything with it at all. I don't really want to talk specifics about the material that will be contained within the virtual paqes, but I can tell you that it is something I have been "working" on for the better part of my adult life. I have started and stopped so many time for so many stupid reasons that I cannot even count them all, nor give a real genuine reason as to why. There comes a point in one's life, however, that you begin to question the legacy you will leave behind. What will the life I have lived teach? What will I leave behind for others to draw upon when life gets difficult? Have I done, essentially, the things God has wanted me to do? There are so many questions, doubts, fears....I am not sure what it is I am left on this Earth to do.
It's late....and there is a big day ahead tomorrow. School at my age is draining. More later...
I originally started this blog as a way to vent life's frustrations. I put things into perspective for myself that, when others read, my life's trial and tribulations brought laughter and joy to others. Sometimes my venting got out of hand. Some people got upset. Some people, maybe all of you, think I need to seek some help or get some medication. I went to a therapist once. Once. I won't go again. Although the circumstances of that visit were bullshit (too long a story to talk about and NOT worth the effort) my beliefs on the issue still stand. So here I am two paragraphs in and nowhere closer to untangling my cerbral fingers, grasping onto something that needs to unravel.
I am going to start writing something. I will be turning into en eBook if I do anything with it at all. I don't really want to talk specifics about the material that will be contained within the virtual paqes, but I can tell you that it is something I have been "working" on for the better part of my adult life. I have started and stopped so many time for so many stupid reasons that I cannot even count them all, nor give a real genuine reason as to why. There comes a point in one's life, however, that you begin to question the legacy you will leave behind. What will the life I have lived teach? What will I leave behind for others to draw upon when life gets difficult? Have I done, essentially, the things God has wanted me to do? There are so many questions, doubts, fears....I am not sure what it is I am left on this Earth to do.
It's late....and there is a big day ahead tomorrow. School at my age is draining. More later...
Friday, January 01, 2010
FYI
This blog is all over the board. Some people like it. Some people don't. Some will leave comments or email me and say they laughed and cried all at once. It runs the "depth spectrum." Some posts are shallow, some middle and some deep. I am not an angel and there are some posts in here that aren't exactly clean. I have lost some readers, more or less because of this. So, be forewarned that one post you might read will make you think I am a saint...soon to be followed by a serious WTF??? Enjoy and I hope you come back again and again.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Life's Lessons
I swore to myself when I worked at Lifecare Center in Kennewick, I would never work with geriatric patients. I couldn't handle it. I figured there was a reason someone abandoned them in their time of need; left to be someone else's problem. They weren't the problem. The system failed them. As someone who spent most of their life focusing on the well-being of themselves, it was easy to say, "they are going to die soon anyway." Then I started working for a wonderful company called 'Visiting Angels." It was then my life changed for the better. I met Dick.
Dick has a ganglial degenerative disorder, similar to ALS, or Lou Gehrig's disease. I met a man that had so much to say, but the words got tangled in the spidered nerves in his brain that affected his speech. Nerves fired, then sputtered out. His left side is also paralyzed from this disease. Watching the disease eat away at his motor function is troubling, but it cannot affect his spirit. His eyes still glow. I can see it every time I walk into the room. Life is 90% observation and he can see everything. At Lifecare, I saw more than I cared too. I saw the life leaving people's eyes. I watched them be abandoned when they needed help the most. Help is not always physical. Sometimes people just need a smile to realize that someone is glad they are there. That's what I see when I see Dick. The last time I was there, as I helped him from his wheelchair, and into his recliner, he looked up at me and with what seemed to be all of his might, he said "thank you." Home care can be a thankless job, until that happens.
Then I met Ed. Thirty years ago, Ed had bladder cancer. Doctors gave him five years to live. Although bed bound, when I come to see him, he shows me what it is like to appreciate life. Melanoma has attacked his ears and nose. Lung cancer has begun to take hold as well. Still, he jokes about how his wife talks too much, about how the "Sea-chickens couldn't play their way out of a paper bag," and how, if he could have his way, I would be their full-time care giver. The first day I met him, he explained to me that he was not a piece of meat. Sadly I know exactly what he meant. I witnessed it, first hand. As much as I swore I would never go back to geriatric care, I find myself drawn to the humanity that comes with it. I am enveloped in humility; entangled in lessons from lives already lived. I am taught appreciation in the simplest of things. I admire Ed for his desire to fight for one more day to tell his wife he loves her, but to please not talk until it is a commercial. I hang on every word. Not for its meaning, but the effort taken to share the menial. If it is important enough to drain energy in sharing, is it not worth time for me to listen?
Then there is Paul, a 6'4" elderly, manic-depressive man who has some pretty volatile mood swings. Our first introduction was him asking me if I was there to break his knee caps. Although daily mobility had left him, a firm handshake had not. His wife struggled to get his cooperation with anything. I could see her frustration being taken out on him. He felt her frustration and I am sure felt emasculated knowing he could no longer take care of himself, let alone his wife. During one of his tantrums, I bent down to let him know that I was here to help HIM take care of his wife. I told him he needed to let me help him do this because I couldn't do it alone. His eyes met mine and he slowly nodded. My 3rd trip there, he was in his recliner. I went over to say hello and he looked up at me and started singing. His wife told me that every time she tells him I am coming he starts singing like he used to when he and his wife were first married. She started crying.
Sometimes I feel overwhelmed at life. I think of these specific individuals and I kick myself because my life is not that difficult. I have it pretty easy. Yes, there are things that happen that I wonder, "why me?" Then I think of the aforementioned. People wonder how they can change the lives of others. It isn't money. It isn't gifts, or "things." These "things" get lost, broken, sold, stolen. No one can steal your spirit away. No one can take your sense of humor. No one can steal your stories about where you have been. No one can steal what is important to you. You will be old someday too. How do you want to be treated? How do you want to be remembered? Hopefully now, I can begin to answer that for myself. Thank you God for pointing me in the right direction.
Dick has a ganglial degenerative disorder, similar to ALS, or Lou Gehrig's disease. I met a man that had so much to say, but the words got tangled in the spidered nerves in his brain that affected his speech. Nerves fired, then sputtered out. His left side is also paralyzed from this disease. Watching the disease eat away at his motor function is troubling, but it cannot affect his spirit. His eyes still glow. I can see it every time I walk into the room. Life is 90% observation and he can see everything. At Lifecare, I saw more than I cared too. I saw the life leaving people's eyes. I watched them be abandoned when they needed help the most. Help is not always physical. Sometimes people just need a smile to realize that someone is glad they are there. That's what I see when I see Dick. The last time I was there, as I helped him from his wheelchair, and into his recliner, he looked up at me and with what seemed to be all of his might, he said "thank you." Home care can be a thankless job, until that happens.
Then I met Ed. Thirty years ago, Ed had bladder cancer. Doctors gave him five years to live. Although bed bound, when I come to see him, he shows me what it is like to appreciate life. Melanoma has attacked his ears and nose. Lung cancer has begun to take hold as well. Still, he jokes about how his wife talks too much, about how the "Sea-chickens couldn't play their way out of a paper bag," and how, if he could have his way, I would be their full-time care giver. The first day I met him, he explained to me that he was not a piece of meat. Sadly I know exactly what he meant. I witnessed it, first hand. As much as I swore I would never go back to geriatric care, I find myself drawn to the humanity that comes with it. I am enveloped in humility; entangled in lessons from lives already lived. I am taught appreciation in the simplest of things. I admire Ed for his desire to fight for one more day to tell his wife he loves her, but to please not talk until it is a commercial. I hang on every word. Not for its meaning, but the effort taken to share the menial. If it is important enough to drain energy in sharing, is it not worth time for me to listen?
Then there is Paul, a 6'4" elderly, manic-depressive man who has some pretty volatile mood swings. Our first introduction was him asking me if I was there to break his knee caps. Although daily mobility had left him, a firm handshake had not. His wife struggled to get his cooperation with anything. I could see her frustration being taken out on him. He felt her frustration and I am sure felt emasculated knowing he could no longer take care of himself, let alone his wife. During one of his tantrums, I bent down to let him know that I was here to help HIM take care of his wife. I told him he needed to let me help him do this because I couldn't do it alone. His eyes met mine and he slowly nodded. My 3rd trip there, he was in his recliner. I went over to say hello and he looked up at me and started singing. His wife told me that every time she tells him I am coming he starts singing like he used to when he and his wife were first married. She started crying.
Sometimes I feel overwhelmed at life. I think of these specific individuals and I kick myself because my life is not that difficult. I have it pretty easy. Yes, there are things that happen that I wonder, "why me?" Then I think of the aforementioned. People wonder how they can change the lives of others. It isn't money. It isn't gifts, or "things." These "things" get lost, broken, sold, stolen. No one can steal your spirit away. No one can take your sense of humor. No one can steal your stories about where you have been. No one can steal what is important to you. You will be old someday too. How do you want to be treated? How do you want to be remembered? Hopefully now, I can begin to answer that for myself. Thank you God for pointing me in the right direction.
Tuesday, December 01, 2009
For the Love of Spam
I get these emails a lot. I respond to all of them. It depends on my mood what gets said. Since this quarter is winding down, I needed to let off some steam. I have copied his email....then my response. Feel free to skim. Just thought I would share.
Dear Friend,
As you read this, do not feel sorry for me, because I believe everyone will die someday. My name is Syed Aban a merchant in Dubai, U.A.E. I have been diagnosed with Esophageal cancer. It has defiled all forms of medical treatment, and right now I have only about a few months to live,according to medical experts. I have not particularly lived my life so well, as I never really cared for anyone(not even myself) but my business.Though I am very rich, I was never generous, always hostile and only focused on my business as that was the only thing I cared about. I assumed being a shrewd and mean businessman meant no room for failure in life. But now I regret all this as I know that there is more to life than just wanting to have all the money in the world, and i wish i lived my life better than i did.
Now that God has changed me, I have willed and given most of my property and assets to my immediate and extended family members as well as a few close friends. I see this as a rebirth for me, a chance to do something right for once, so God can have mercy on me accept my soul so, I have decided to give also to charity organizations, as I want this to be one of the last good deeds I do on earth. So far, I have distributed money to some charity organizations in the U.A.E, Malaysia, and India. Now that my health has deteriorated so badly, I cannot do this myself anymore.I once asked members of my family to close one of my accounts and distribute the money which I have there to charity organization in Bulgaria and Pakistan, they refused and kept the money to themselves. Hence, I do not trust them anymore, as they seem not to be contended with what I have left for them. The last bulk consignment of my money which no one knows about, is the huge cash deposit of twenty million dollars $20,000,000,00 that I have with a finance/Security Company abroad. I will want you to help me collect this deposit and share it to charity organizations. I have set aside 10%for your time and service.Please reply to my personal email at syedaban@sify.com with honesty as soon as you receive this eMail. God be with you.
Syed A. Aban.
To which I said.....
I think I love you. If I were not a complete idiot, the above statement would be true. I can imagine that you sent this out to 1000 people. Given the law of percentages, if 2% replied, you only need one sucker. But let's be honest. Fishing for identities to steal is a rough business. Its like working on commission. If you were selling used cars, and some guy walked up wanting the 2010 Bentley you had for sale for $275,000, you would get this rock hard boner until you realized he was just pulling on your flaccid dreams. Similar to the aforementioned story, I have no desire to help you distribute your millions. Since you have cancer, and I have time, please read below for just a couple of reasons.
You have distributed the "vast" amount of money already to known terrorist countries. Pakistan, Malaysia, India have known ties to Al Qaeda. Just so you know, in the grand USA, that's not a good thing to be touting about to the world. On Halloween, there aren't a lot of little ragheads that come ring doorbells and do the Jihaydi tongue roll for Snickers. It is likely to get you killed. So, the remaining money, in my opinion, should go to a stack of stinger missiles to kill any remaining camel jockeys that ride the Tora Bora mountain range. Bin Laden, no Bin Laden. If you are 10,000 feet above sea level, riding a camel carry a nap sack, let hellfire rain down upon you.
Secondly, if your family is taking advantage of you, why the hell would a complete stranger NOT take advantage of you? If God truly has taught you anything it would be an eye for an eye. Good for your family for raping your wallet since, while you were healthy I am sure you raped their souls with your bitterness. Good for them. Its like taking the shoes off a drive-by victim. As we say in "da hood," HE AIN'T GONNA NEED DEEZ SHOOZ NO MO!"
Third, I had a dream last night that said I needed to open a PO BOX and get ready to accept millions of dollars. Funny you emailed me no less than 8 hours after my dream. Tell you what. Lets just skip the semantics and you just mail me a cashier's check, money order...hell you pick it. No need to get all formal. I am sure my ex-wife doesn't need these recorded assets if you get my meaning. I imagine your harem will be clawing at your bones for spare marrow when you kick it. Same here, but I am still alive.
Finally, let's barter. You say I get 10% for my time, and 90% goes to charity. I am thinking that we should switch that. $2,000,000 to a charity would make any charity happy. 18,000,000 in my pocket would make Viagra unnecessary, and it would be a natural high that could last well beyond 4 hours without needing to call my physician. Get back to me when you get the cashiers check all printed.
Sincerely,
an Infidel
Dear Friend,
As you read this, do not feel sorry for me, because I believe everyone will die someday. My name is Syed Aban a merchant in Dubai, U.A.E. I have been diagnosed with Esophageal cancer. It has defiled all forms of medical treatment, and right now I have only about a few months to live,according to medical experts. I have not particularly lived my life so well, as I never really cared for anyone(not even myself) but my business.Though I am very rich, I was never generous, always hostile and only focused on my business as that was the only thing I cared about. I assumed being a shrewd and mean businessman meant no room for failure in life. But now I regret all this as I know that there is more to life than just wanting to have all the money in the world, and i wish i lived my life better than i did.
Now that God has changed me, I have willed and given most of my property and assets to my immediate and extended family members as well as a few close friends. I see this as a rebirth for me, a chance to do something right for once, so God can have mercy on me accept my soul so, I have decided to give also to charity organizations, as I want this to be one of the last good deeds I do on earth. So far, I have distributed money to some charity organizations in the U.A.E, Malaysia, and India. Now that my health has deteriorated so badly, I cannot do this myself anymore.I once asked members of my family to close one of my accounts and distribute the money which I have there to charity organization in Bulgaria and Pakistan, they refused and kept the money to themselves. Hence, I do not trust them anymore, as they seem not to be contended with what I have left for them. The last bulk consignment of my money which no one knows about, is the huge cash deposit of twenty million dollars $20,000,000,00 that I have with a finance/Security Company abroad. I will want you to help me collect this deposit and share it to charity organizations. I have set aside 10%for your time and service.Please reply to my personal email at syedaban@sify.com with honesty as soon as you receive this eMail. God be with you.
Syed A. Aban.
To which I said.....
I think I love you. If I were not a complete idiot, the above statement would be true. I can imagine that you sent this out to 1000 people. Given the law of percentages, if 2% replied, you only need one sucker. But let's be honest. Fishing for identities to steal is a rough business. Its like working on commission. If you were selling used cars, and some guy walked up wanting the 2010 Bentley you had for sale for $275,000, you would get this rock hard boner until you realized he was just pulling on your flaccid dreams. Similar to the aforementioned story, I have no desire to help you distribute your millions. Since you have cancer, and I have time, please read below for just a couple of reasons.
You have distributed the "vast" amount of money already to known terrorist countries. Pakistan, Malaysia, India have known ties to Al Qaeda. Just so you know, in the grand USA, that's not a good thing to be touting about to the world. On Halloween, there aren't a lot of little ragheads that come ring doorbells and do the Jihaydi tongue roll for Snickers. It is likely to get you killed. So, the remaining money, in my opinion, should go to a stack of stinger missiles to kill any remaining camel jockeys that ride the Tora Bora mountain range. Bin Laden, no Bin Laden. If you are 10,000 feet above sea level, riding a camel carry a nap sack, let hellfire rain down upon you.
Secondly, if your family is taking advantage of you, why the hell would a complete stranger NOT take advantage of you? If God truly has taught you anything it would be an eye for an eye. Good for your family for raping your wallet since, while you were healthy I am sure you raped their souls with your bitterness. Good for them. Its like taking the shoes off a drive-by victim. As we say in "da hood," HE AIN'T GONNA NEED DEEZ SHOOZ NO MO!"
Third, I had a dream last night that said I needed to open a PO BOX and get ready to accept millions of dollars. Funny you emailed me no less than 8 hours after my dream. Tell you what. Lets just skip the semantics and you just mail me a cashier's check, money order...hell you pick it. No need to get all formal. I am sure my ex-wife doesn't need these recorded assets if you get my meaning. I imagine your harem will be clawing at your bones for spare marrow when you kick it. Same here, but I am still alive.
Finally, let's barter. You say I get 10% for my time, and 90% goes to charity. I am thinking that we should switch that. $2,000,000 to a charity would make any charity happy. 18,000,000 in my pocket would make Viagra unnecessary, and it would be a natural high that could last well beyond 4 hours without needing to call my physician. Get back to me when you get the cashiers check all printed.
Sincerely,
an Infidel
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