I feel so sorry for the poor lady who had to rip her nipple rings out before she could fly. It must be hard living in Lubbock.
Maybe we should just blame it all on Janet Jackson. Apparently, ever since Janet’s hardware-bound nipple baring at the Super Bowl, even National Geographic has had to black-bar the titties in their photos.
“Wardrobe malfunction” MY ASS. “Gonna have you naked by the end of this song” I believe is the precise lyric to the Justin Timberlake song. And indeed he did.
But apparently it was all Janet’s fault? Have you ever noticed how NO ONE ever brings up the fact that Justin ripped her (velcro’d) breastplate off in the first place? Janet just magically exposed herself.
Yeah, there’s no deep-seated psychology there.
But, of course, the real kicker is that ANYONE is shocked by the sight of a nipple. Even one with a giant 80’s sun ring sculpture surrounding it. I expected the camera to pan the audience and find it filled with people in Puritan clothing, like a Thanksgiving pageant.
But record obscenity fines, flat album sales and a few years have sufficiently cleansed the collective conscience.
And by the way, Mr. Lubbock TSA Agent, just because YOU don’t want to have your nipple pierced doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with it. It just means it’s not for you. Which, living in Lubbock, probably also includes 99% of all things I consider fun.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Keep Your Nipples Where I Can See 'Em!
Did you hear about the Lubbock, TX woman whose nipple rings set off security in the Lubbock Airport? They made her take the rings out before they’d let her board the flight. Unfortunately, one of the rings had been in so long, the tissue had semi-attached itself and she had to use pliers to remove it. Ay-yi-yi. That makes me say “ouch” and rub my nipples just thinking about it. And I’m not even pierced. (Then again, any excuse to rub my nipples and say “ouch,” right?)
I don’t know for sure, but body-piercing doesn’t really seem like much of a terrorist marker to me (and given that the current crop of terrorists are predominantly Islamic—Bush and Cheney being the obvious exceptions—it seems even more unlikely. I’m guessing Islam frowns on body piercing.) But this is Lubbock, after all.
For the uninitiated, Lubbock is basically a flat desert/high plains kinda place in the Texas Panhandle. They have a decent University there . . . and not much else. It’s your basic West Texas ranching/oil town. They call themselves Flatlanders. Need I say more?
But I digress.
So Mandi Hamlin (I thought for sure she was a stripper, given the rings and the name, until I saw the photo. Then again, it’s Lubbock . . . goats look mighty pretty in the right shade of lipstick.) So Mandi Hamlin manages to pass through the big detector with no problems. But she was unlucky enough to be selected for secondary screening. Maybe because she looks like a rancher in drag.
Anyhoo, when the waiter/actor/feed store clerk/TSA agent waved the little wand in front of her boobies, it apparently whooped like a cowgirl at a barrel race. Ms. Hamlin (sorry, I can’t do the “mandi with an i” thing solo) informed the nice lady in sensible shoes that her nipples were pierced, and that was what was setting off the alarm.
Well, you would have thought she was a Fembot the way these people reacted. And after subjecting her to the painful, embarrassing and completely needless exercise, they never even mentioned her pierced belly button.
I’m sure Ms. Hamlin will get the last laugh, though. She’s hired Gloria Allred to represent her and GA has already staged a re-enactment, using a pierced bra contraption, and asking Mandi with an “I” to show the press corps exactly what she went through.
Why, America, are we so scared of the nipple?
I don’t know for sure, but body-piercing doesn’t really seem like much of a terrorist marker to me (and given that the current crop of terrorists are predominantly Islamic—Bush and Cheney being the obvious exceptions—it seems even more unlikely. I’m guessing Islam frowns on body piercing.) But this is Lubbock, after all.
For the uninitiated, Lubbock is basically a flat desert/high plains kinda place in the Texas Panhandle. They have a decent University there . . . and not much else. It’s your basic West Texas ranching/oil town. They call themselves Flatlanders. Need I say more?
But I digress.
So Mandi Hamlin (I thought for sure she was a stripper, given the rings and the name, until I saw the photo. Then again, it’s Lubbock . . . goats look mighty pretty in the right shade of lipstick.) So Mandi Hamlin manages to pass through the big detector with no problems. But she was unlucky enough to be selected for secondary screening. Maybe because she looks like a rancher in drag.
Anyhoo, when the waiter/actor/feed store clerk/TSA agent waved the little wand in front of her boobies, it apparently whooped like a cowgirl at a barrel race. Ms. Hamlin (sorry, I can’t do the “mandi with an i” thing solo) informed the nice lady in sensible shoes that her nipples were pierced, and that was what was setting off the alarm.
Well, you would have thought she was a Fembot the way these people reacted. And after subjecting her to the painful, embarrassing and completely needless exercise, they never even mentioned her pierced belly button.
I’m sure Ms. Hamlin will get the last laugh, though. She’s hired Gloria Allred to represent her and GA has already staged a re-enactment, using a pierced bra contraption, and asking Mandi with an “I” to show the press corps exactly what she went through.
Why, America, are we so scared of the nipple?
Friday, March 28, 2008
It's Probably Why He Crashed In the First Place
Apparently, 18-year-old Andrew Scheffer, a student pilot on a solo training flight, crashed his plane, but managed to alert authorities through text message.
“OMG! Totally crashed. In case UR wondering RUOK, NO! I f***in crashed my plane : - 0 LOL!
Authorities, unable to decipher the code on their own, called the number from which the text originated. Scheffer answered, “’Sup, bro?”
Scheffer was taken to a hospital and treated for frostbite, cuts on his scalp and a bruised kidney. Hospital authorities said there was nothing they could do about the fact that he was a doofus teen.
“OMG! Totally crashed. In case UR wondering RUOK, NO! I f***in crashed my plane : - 0 LOL!
Authorities, unable to decipher the code on their own, called the number from which the text originated. Scheffer answered, “’Sup, bro?”
Scheffer was taken to a hospital and treated for frostbite, cuts on his scalp and a bruised kidney. Hospital authorities said there was nothing they could do about the fact that he was a doofus teen.
Crikey!
Came across this item today. “A New Zealand man has been sentenced to community service after telling police he was raped by a wombat and the experience had made him speak ‘Australian’.”
Pause.
Not sure which part of this I want to go after first.
Okay, let’s jump on the ‘wombat rape.” I keep having visions of the wombat bending this guy over a coffee table, pounding away, saying things (in Wombat, of course) like, “Speak Australian! Speak Australian!” or “Who’s your marsupial?” or “Take it like a ‘Roo, Kiwi Boy!” or “You like my shrimp on your barbie, don’tcha?!”
You know, the usual sex talk.
And then I wonder what exactly it would sound like when a Kiwi started speaking “Australian.” Now I know that there is a difference in the accent, having hung with many a Kiwi and Aussie. But HONESTLY, it’s not that pronounced a difference. And thanks to the nice American Ad people (and Crocodile Dundee) who “translated” a bunch of Australian slang for us unsuspecting ‘Merkins to promote Foster’s Beer (the Old Milwaukee of Australia) and Aussie tourism, we all know what a “Sheila,” “Barbie,” and a “bloomin’ onion” are.
But I would be hard pressed to understand the difference if this man started speaking “Australian” instead of “kiwi.”
According to the article “Police prosecutor Sergeant Chris Stringer told the court alcohol played a large role in (the man's) life.”
Ya think?
Pause.
Not sure which part of this I want to go after first.
Okay, let’s jump on the ‘wombat rape.” I keep having visions of the wombat bending this guy over a coffee table, pounding away, saying things (in Wombat, of course) like, “Speak Australian! Speak Australian!” or “Who’s your marsupial?” or “Take it like a ‘Roo, Kiwi Boy!” or “You like my shrimp on your barbie, don’tcha?!”
You know, the usual sex talk.
And then I wonder what exactly it would sound like when a Kiwi started speaking “Australian.” Now I know that there is a difference in the accent, having hung with many a Kiwi and Aussie. But HONESTLY, it’s not that pronounced a difference. And thanks to the nice American Ad people (and Crocodile Dundee) who “translated” a bunch of Australian slang for us unsuspecting ‘Merkins to promote Foster’s Beer (the Old Milwaukee of Australia) and Aussie tourism, we all know what a “Sheila,” “Barbie,” and a “bloomin’ onion” are.
But I would be hard pressed to understand the difference if this man started speaking “Australian” instead of “kiwi.”
According to the article “Police prosecutor Sergeant Chris Stringer told the court alcohol played a large role in (the man's) life.”
Ya think?
Thursday, March 27, 2008
We Can All Hear You Now
So my nephew, the music prodigy, graduated from his groovy-woovy school in LA on Saturday. Since I was already in Los Angeles, I made my way to the wonderful old Wiltern Theater (and I JUST now figured out that Wiltern is an amalgam of Wilshire and Western, the intersection where the theater is located).
The Wiltern is one of those great old theaters with tons of decorative elements. Seating is perfect for a show. And I have to say, going to a rock and roll school’s graduation was far less painful than any other graduation I’ve attended thus far.
They had snacks and drinks for all the parents and friends, and given the high volume of dehydrating I had managed, I took to the water like a mermaid. Inevitably, nature called and I proceeded into a beautifully ornate men’s room in the basement of the theater.
The room was almost completely deserted, but I could hear the unmistakable sounds of a voice coming through a phone behind one of the stall doors. Now, anyone who has read this blog for any length of time will remember my keen aversion to cell phone use in public bathrooms. Actually, in ANY bathrooms.
But somebody was in here having a conversation with Charlie Brown’s teacher, from the sound of it.
“Wah-wah, wah-wah-wah,” said the teacher. “Wah-wah. Wah-wah-wah-wah.”
“Because I’m trying to wipe my ass!” said the in-stall-er.
“WAH?!”
“BECAUSE I’M TRYING TO WIPE MY ASS!” he repeated, obviously troubled by his callers insensitivity to his situation.
After I got over my shock. And finished giggling. I thought, “Wow. That would make an awesome ad for Bluetooth Hands Free.”
Of course, if I had been on the other end of that conversation, I wouldn’t have ever called his unwiped ass again.
The Wiltern is one of those great old theaters with tons of decorative elements. Seating is perfect for a show. And I have to say, going to a rock and roll school’s graduation was far less painful than any other graduation I’ve attended thus far.
They had snacks and drinks for all the parents and friends, and given the high volume of dehydrating I had managed, I took to the water like a mermaid. Inevitably, nature called and I proceeded into a beautifully ornate men’s room in the basement of the theater.
The room was almost completely deserted, but I could hear the unmistakable sounds of a voice coming through a phone behind one of the stall doors. Now, anyone who has read this blog for any length of time will remember my keen aversion to cell phone use in public bathrooms. Actually, in ANY bathrooms.
But somebody was in here having a conversation with Charlie Brown’s teacher, from the sound of it.
“Wah-wah, wah-wah-wah,” said the teacher. “Wah-wah. Wah-wah-wah-wah.”
“Because I’m trying to wipe my ass!” said the in-stall-er.
“WAH?!”
“BECAUSE I’M TRYING TO WIPE MY ASS!” he repeated, obviously troubled by his callers insensitivity to his situation.
After I got over my shock. And finished giggling. I thought, “Wow. That would make an awesome ad for Bluetooth Hands Free.”
Of course, if I had been on the other end of that conversation, I wouldn’t have ever called his unwiped ass again.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
An Easy Drive
It’s funny when you refer to six hours in a car as an “easy drive” but that’s exactly the way we felt about the last leg of the journey. Phoenix to Los Angeles. We got lucky with the last of the CDs we had purchased (the first 8 suh-hucked!). Thank God for Annie Lennox.
As I listened to her, I kept trying to imagine her competing on American Idol. How would an artist like that fare in this “talent” competition? But I digress.
I failed to mention our previous day’s lunch somewhere near the New Mexico/Arizona border. With only fast food joints to choose from, we picked a Wendy’s just off the highway. Uneventful meal. Odd assemblage of people. Looked like David Lynch had gotten into the hamburger business. Couldn’t help wondering if they were local or itinerant. Hmmm.
As we got ready to leave, a young cro magnon type held the door open for us. I thanked him as we walked past, as did Gardog. The young man’s response? “Whatever.”
WTF? Did we put you out? Were you struggling with your inner mommy demons, doing the right/polite thing, but holding a grudge about it? Or was that the equivalent of the Aussie, “no worries?”
Either way, we got a giggle out of it.
Los Angeles greeted us with a traffic jam. Such an appropriate welcome, don’t you think?
But great friends and great food awaited. And in the crisp blue of Southern California sunshine, all things seemed possible.
As I listened to her, I kept trying to imagine her competing on American Idol. How would an artist like that fare in this “talent” competition? But I digress.
I failed to mention our previous day’s lunch somewhere near the New Mexico/Arizona border. With only fast food joints to choose from, we picked a Wendy’s just off the highway. Uneventful meal. Odd assemblage of people. Looked like David Lynch had gotten into the hamburger business. Couldn’t help wondering if they were local or itinerant. Hmmm.
As we got ready to leave, a young cro magnon type held the door open for us. I thanked him as we walked past, as did Gardog. The young man’s response? “Whatever.”
WTF? Did we put you out? Were you struggling with your inner mommy demons, doing the right/polite thing, but holding a grudge about it? Or was that the equivalent of the Aussie, “no worries?”
Either way, we got a giggle out of it.
Los Angeles greeted us with a traffic jam. Such an appropriate welcome, don’t you think?
But great friends and great food awaited. And in the crisp blue of Southern California sunshine, all things seemed possible.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Phoenix, The Pizza Destination
Maybe we’d have better luck with the pizza cravings in Phoenix. Even though it is a long haul from Marfa to Phoenix, we decided to do it for one reason: Pizzeria Bianco. Bianco has been called a master pizza maker and his pizzeria is recognized as one of the best in the country. But there’s a twist. No reservations. No take-out. And Signore Bianco makes every pizza HIMSELF.
After grabbing a couple of drinks at the hotel bar, we took our gypsy cab (nice car, but we’re convinced the desk clerk alerted him and took a cut) to dinner. We thought we were arriving early enough to minimize the wait, and give us some time to maybe explore the area or have a cocktail.
The nice hostess informed us that our wait would be three-and-a-half to four hours. HUNH?!?! We looked at each other and said, “what else are we going to do,” and sat our asses down, thinking surely it wouldn’t be more than a couple of hours. That long wait time is a scare tactic, right?
The nice hostess also informed us that we could leave the property, but should check in every hour, by phone or in person, to maintain our spot on the list.
We wandered around a bit, only to realize that downtown Phoenix on a Tuesday is a whole lot like Marfa on a Monday. Dead, dead, dead.
So back to the bar at Bianco we headed. A lovely glass of wine later (it’s so much fun traveling with a sommelier!) I returned to the hostess to secure our position.
Now, let me describe the restaurant. There are approximately four tables for four. Two for two and a couple for five or six. The bar in the restaurant seats eight. As I approach the hostess, I am in line behind a young man checking on his table for two. His name is on the first page. Mine is well-down on the second. She informs him that there are 5 parties of two AHEAD OF HIM! Jeebus, where does that put me?!?!?!
“It’s looking like right at 10:35,” she says.
Did I mention that we had started the day in Central Daylight Time and ended the day in Mountain Standard? That means that 10:35 p.m. was going to feel like 12:35 a.m. to this old fucker. Damn you Bianco! Damn you and your fresh-daily mozzarella and perfect-every-time crusts.
Gardog was sweet about it. “I want you to enjoy this experience, not fall asleep in your pizza.” So back to the hotel we went, in search of a room service menu and a generic French Dip. Mmmm.
The pizza gods did not shine brightly on us this trip.
After grabbing a couple of drinks at the hotel bar, we took our gypsy cab (nice car, but we’re convinced the desk clerk alerted him and took a cut) to dinner. We thought we were arriving early enough to minimize the wait, and give us some time to maybe explore the area or have a cocktail.
The nice hostess informed us that our wait would be three-and-a-half to four hours. HUNH?!?! We looked at each other and said, “what else are we going to do,” and sat our asses down, thinking surely it wouldn’t be more than a couple of hours. That long wait time is a scare tactic, right?
The nice hostess also informed us that we could leave the property, but should check in every hour, by phone or in person, to maintain our spot on the list.
We wandered around a bit, only to realize that downtown Phoenix on a Tuesday is a whole lot like Marfa on a Monday. Dead, dead, dead.
So back to the bar at Bianco we headed. A lovely glass of wine later (it’s so much fun traveling with a sommelier!) I returned to the hostess to secure our position.
Now, let me describe the restaurant. There are approximately four tables for four. Two for two and a couple for five or six. The bar in the restaurant seats eight. As I approach the hostess, I am in line behind a young man checking on his table for two. His name is on the first page. Mine is well-down on the second. She informs him that there are 5 parties of two AHEAD OF HIM! Jeebus, where does that put me?!?!?!
“It’s looking like right at 10:35,” she says.
Did I mention that we had started the day in Central Daylight Time and ended the day in Mountain Standard? That means that 10:35 p.m. was going to feel like 12:35 a.m. to this old fucker. Damn you Bianco! Damn you and your fresh-daily mozzarella and perfect-every-time crusts.
Gardog was sweet about it. “I want you to enjoy this experience, not fall asleep in your pizza.” So back to the hotel we went, in search of a room service menu and a generic French Dip. Mmmm.
The pizza gods did not shine brightly on us this trip.
Marfa Lights Are Probably Dark on Mondays
So, I’ve been to Marfa before. I get that it’s a groovy little town. But the true emphasis should be on LITTLE, not GROOVY. And never is the littleness more apparent than on a Monday night.
We rolled in a bit early in the evening, checked into our groovy little hotel (one of three: the old grande dame, the hip redo and the motel at the edge of town). Pretty much everything in town was closed. Sidewalks were deserted. It was kind of like visiting a movie set when they weren’t filming. It looked like cool shit went down there, but you just couldn’t prove it.
I was also a little taken aback by the South Congress-ization of it all. It really felt like a little piece of Austin tucked into a desolate corner of Texas. Cool, but incongruous.
Only two of the town’s restaurants were open on Monday. Jett's Grill at the Paisano Hotel (named after Jett Rink, the antagonist of Giant) and Pizza Paradise, a hip gas station conversion. We opted for pizza, since Gardog had heard not-so-great things about Jett’s and we didn’t feel like ponying up a bunch of money for a mediocre meal in the middle of nowhere.
“We ran out of pizza at 5:30.”
Huh? How does one “run out of pizza?” Isn’t there a grocery store right down the street? Apparently the Wagon Train from Italy didn't arrive until Tuesday.
Fortunately, there was a Dairy Queen a half-block from the hotel. One Hungr-Bustr and a bottle of good wine later (we brought the wine), life was back to normal.
Next time I go to Marfa, it will be on a weekend. With friends.
We rolled in a bit early in the evening, checked into our groovy little hotel (one of three: the old grande dame, the hip redo and the motel at the edge of town). Pretty much everything in town was closed. Sidewalks were deserted. It was kind of like visiting a movie set when they weren’t filming. It looked like cool shit went down there, but you just couldn’t prove it.
I was also a little taken aback by the South Congress-ization of it all. It really felt like a little piece of Austin tucked into a desolate corner of Texas. Cool, but incongruous.
Only two of the town’s restaurants were open on Monday. Jett's Grill at the Paisano Hotel (named after Jett Rink, the antagonist of Giant) and Pizza Paradise, a hip gas station conversion. We opted for pizza, since Gardog had heard not-so-great things about Jett’s and we didn’t feel like ponying up a bunch of money for a mediocre meal in the middle of nowhere.
“We ran out of pizza at 5:30.”
Huh? How does one “run out of pizza?” Isn’t there a grocery store right down the street? Apparently the Wagon Train from Italy didn't arrive until Tuesday.
Fortunately, there was a Dairy Queen a half-block from the hotel. One Hungr-Bustr and a bottle of good wine later (we brought the wine), life was back to normal.
Next time I go to Marfa, it will be on a weekend. With friends.
Road Trippin'
So, I’ve spent the last week or so moving Gardog to Los Angeles, where he joins several other members of TOPIC (The O’Pine Inner Circle). 15 years ago we road tripped as two young, broke lads (okay, we weren’t THAT young or THAT broke). We thought it would be fun to recreate that adventure.
Shockingly enough, it was.
First stop, Marfa.
Shockingly enough, it was.
First stop, Marfa.
Monday, March 17, 2008
There's a Reason They Call Them PRIVATE Parts
So the Big Gay Tennis Circuit came to town this weekend. Yes, there is a Big Gay Tennis tournament. And if you ever wondered why the rainbow is the National Flag of Gaynation, go to a Big Gay Tennis tournament near you. Every size, shape, color, ability level and Kinseys 2-6. There was ONE straight guy playing doubles. But I figure, if you’re that cool with it, you have to have at least ONE gay bone in your body. Or did at one time.
There was also a sighting of the increasingly rare Fag Hag. Now, for the uninitiated, I know that sounds horribly rude and sexist. But, truth is, the Fag Hag has been a staple of gay culture for decades. But as the need for gay men to have women they could trot out as ‘cover’ has diminished, so has the role of the hag.
In fact, it’s reversed itself a bit. Thus the seemingly ubiquitous phrase, “my gays” being spoken by cool chicks everywhere.
So, imagine my surprise at seeing an old-fashioned, stereotypical Fag Hag coming to watch her Gay play tennis.
First of all, her Gay should have been shot for letting her out of the house in that tennis dress. Let’s just say that there should NEVER be that much cellulite seeing the light of day unless you’re by a pool or an ocean. We were neither.
She began watching the boys warm up, which usually takes 10 or so minutes.
“Oh MY GOD!” Exclaimed FH. “They have been warming up for like, 15 minutes! Does he think I have all day to sit around and watch him play tennis?!?!”
Um. Excuse me. It’s not about YOU! It’s about HIM!
The match began and her boy wasn’t doing so well.
“Maybe I should flash my coochie. That always gets him going. But that would probably gross you all out.”
Pretty damn much, lady. Too much pink for this early in the morning.
On the change over, her boy took a seat on the court to rest.
“WHY is he sitting down. I DO NOT HAVE ALL DAY to watch tennis. I swear, I’m probably going to have to leave before this is over.”
But I knew she wasn’t going anywhere. If she had had somewhere to be, she wouldn’t have shown up in that outfit. And she hadn’t gotten to flash her coochie yet.
There was also a sighting of the increasingly rare Fag Hag. Now, for the uninitiated, I know that sounds horribly rude and sexist. But, truth is, the Fag Hag has been a staple of gay culture for decades. But as the need for gay men to have women they could trot out as ‘cover’ has diminished, so has the role of the hag.
In fact, it’s reversed itself a bit. Thus the seemingly ubiquitous phrase, “my gays” being spoken by cool chicks everywhere.
So, imagine my surprise at seeing an old-fashioned, stereotypical Fag Hag coming to watch her Gay play tennis.
First of all, her Gay should have been shot for letting her out of the house in that tennis dress. Let’s just say that there should NEVER be that much cellulite seeing the light of day unless you’re by a pool or an ocean. We were neither.
She began watching the boys warm up, which usually takes 10 or so minutes.
“Oh MY GOD!” Exclaimed FH. “They have been warming up for like, 15 minutes! Does he think I have all day to sit around and watch him play tennis?!?!”
Um. Excuse me. It’s not about YOU! It’s about HIM!
The match began and her boy wasn’t doing so well.
“Maybe I should flash my coochie. That always gets him going. But that would probably gross you all out.”
Pretty damn much, lady. Too much pink for this early in the morning.
On the change over, her boy took a seat on the court to rest.
“WHY is he sitting down. I DO NOT HAVE ALL DAY to watch tennis. I swear, I’m probably going to have to leave before this is over.”
But I knew she wasn’t going anywhere. If she had had somewhere to be, she wouldn’t have shown up in that outfit. And she hadn’t gotten to flash her coochie yet.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Too Much of That Bootleg Liquor, Not Near Enough Champagne
DON’T EVER GET ARRESTED IN FAYETTEVILLE, AR! The old adage of being locked away and forgotten came true for Adrianna Torres-Flores (No relation to Roseanne Roseanna-Danna). Ms. Torres-Flores was locked in a holding cell and left there for FOUR DAYS. No food, no water, no bed, no blanket, no toilet. Apparently, no one works at the jail over the weekends.
When they found her on Monday, she was incoherent and dehydrated (not unlike most people in NW Arkansas, I suppose). She was rushed to the local medical center. And she’ll be fine. But you gots to watch out for that Ozark justice.
It seems the bailiff somehow “forgot” to arrange for her to be transported to an actual cell. And then it was a snow day. And then he went possum huntin’. And dang it if he didn’t drink too much moonshine on Saturday night and plum fergit to swing by the jail on Sunday. ‘Sides, Sundays is God’s day of rest and he couldn’t risk goin’ ta hell now, could he?
Or was it because she was accused of being part of a bootleg DVD/CD ring? Not that Arkansas hasn’t seen its share of bootlegging, but I could just hear the DA now. “We don’t need them people bringing in any more letters! We got plenty a alphabet. Don’t need no more.”
And why is it that seeing a stupid story with a dateline of Arkansas doesn’t EVER surprise me? Same goes for Alabama and certain parts of Louisiana. I mean, isn’t it well into the 21st Century? Aren’t we advanced enough and rich enough that there shouldn’t be pockets of abject ignorance?
It just really seems that we could do better. That education could be a higher priority than, oh, say—building sand castles in the middle east.
When they found her on Monday, she was incoherent and dehydrated (not unlike most people in NW Arkansas, I suppose). She was rushed to the local medical center. And she’ll be fine. But you gots to watch out for that Ozark justice.
It seems the bailiff somehow “forgot” to arrange for her to be transported to an actual cell. And then it was a snow day. And then he went possum huntin’. And dang it if he didn’t drink too much moonshine on Saturday night and plum fergit to swing by the jail on Sunday. ‘Sides, Sundays is God’s day of rest and he couldn’t risk goin’ ta hell now, could he?
Or was it because she was accused of being part of a bootleg DVD/CD ring? Not that Arkansas hasn’t seen its share of bootlegging, but I could just hear the DA now. “We don’t need them people bringing in any more letters! We got plenty a alphabet. Don’t need no more.”
And why is it that seeing a stupid story with a dateline of Arkansas doesn’t EVER surprise me? Same goes for Alabama and certain parts of Louisiana. I mean, isn’t it well into the 21st Century? Aren’t we advanced enough and rich enough that there shouldn’t be pockets of abject ignorance?
It just really seems that we could do better. That education could be a higher priority than, oh, say—building sand castles in the middle east.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Teeth of the Zipper Will Bite
Why can’t they keep their dicks in their pants?
Another politician tainted by a sex scandal. This time a Democrat. Seems Gov. Spitzer of New York learned a little more than he should have about one particular type of crime he had vowed to eradicate. Of course, since prostitution is widely recognized as the oldest profession in the world, they’ve obviously got a few tricks up their, er, sleeves. Not sure how, exactly, Spitzer thought he could get the job done. Apparently, this is what he thought “undercover” meant.
Now you all know how much I love hoisting these pious politicos on their own petards. I definitely love it more when it’s some gay-bashing Republican who gets caught on a cock hunt, but I shake my head in disbelief every time someone’s moral crusade is derailed by the compromise of their own moral standard.
Makes you wonder what “immorality” truly is. And if, just maybe, we ought to rethink the notion. Now I’m obviously more liberal than a lot of folks, but I just don’t have an issue with these acts themselves. Want a hand job in an airport bathroom? Be discreet. Don’t scare the children. And remember, that flight attendant has a plane to catch.
Want to stop off at the local cathouse. Cool. Just don’t go ranting about what a pox the practice is. Want a blow job in the Oval Office? What President wouldn’t? Want to write creepy IMs to underage boys . . . ew. I think we found the mark.
But how about this: Oil hits $109 a barrel, causing gas prices to soar right on past $4.00 a gallon? THAT I have moral issues with. That I find more obscene than anything involving (adult) genitalia. Mostly because it’s a completely manufactured situation, designed solely to benefit the cronies of the current administration. ‘Cause last time I checked, ExxonMobil really needed that extra sixty cents a gallon.
And by the way, didn’t it take us FOREVER to cross that $100 threshold, but only a couple of weeks to jump $9 more a barrel?!?!??! Where's the outrage people?
Of course, if we had more women politicians, we might see less of this nonsense.
Another politician tainted by a sex scandal. This time a Democrat. Seems Gov. Spitzer of New York learned a little more than he should have about one particular type of crime he had vowed to eradicate. Of course, since prostitution is widely recognized as the oldest profession in the world, they’ve obviously got a few tricks up their, er, sleeves. Not sure how, exactly, Spitzer thought he could get the job done. Apparently, this is what he thought “undercover” meant.
Now you all know how much I love hoisting these pious politicos on their own petards. I definitely love it more when it’s some gay-bashing Republican who gets caught on a cock hunt, but I shake my head in disbelief every time someone’s moral crusade is derailed by the compromise of their own moral standard.
Makes you wonder what “immorality” truly is. And if, just maybe, we ought to rethink the notion. Now I’m obviously more liberal than a lot of folks, but I just don’t have an issue with these acts themselves. Want a hand job in an airport bathroom? Be discreet. Don’t scare the children. And remember, that flight attendant has a plane to catch.
Want to stop off at the local cathouse. Cool. Just don’t go ranting about what a pox the practice is. Want a blow job in the Oval Office? What President wouldn’t? Want to write creepy IMs to underage boys . . . ew. I think we found the mark.
But how about this: Oil hits $109 a barrel, causing gas prices to soar right on past $4.00 a gallon? THAT I have moral issues with. That I find more obscene than anything involving (adult) genitalia. Mostly because it’s a completely manufactured situation, designed solely to benefit the cronies of the current administration. ‘Cause last time I checked, ExxonMobil really needed that extra sixty cents a gallon.
And by the way, didn’t it take us FOREVER to cross that $100 threshold, but only a couple of weeks to jump $9 more a barrel?!?!??! Where's the outrage people?
Of course, if we had more women politicians, we might see less of this nonsense.
Friday, March 7, 2008
Fuck Off, South Pas
Faithful reader Drax may be in big trouble. One of my good friends from college (her son is my godson), she lives in Pasadena, CA. And the woman can cuss like there’s no tomorrow.
Only a mile or so away, in South Pasadena, that would make her an outcast.
See the City Council of South Pasadena has now passed a proclamation declaring South Pas a “cuss-free zone.” WTF? Why don’t they outlaw people with a stick up their ass.
At first I thought, what a bunch of pious fucktards. Then I looked closer. And saw the picture of the instigator. His name is McKay Hatch and he’s the 14-year old founder of the South Pasadena High School No Cussing Club.
Membership: 1
Current Wedgie Threat Level: Orange
“My mom and dad always taught me good morals, good values, and not cussing was one of them," said McKay, who looks EXACTLY like a kid that would spout that sort of lame shit. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m all for morals and values. I just don’t think I define them by vocabulary.
Apparently, McKay’s classmates use blue language to show how cool they are. McKay knows you don’t need to say any of Carlin’s seven deadly words to be cool. Shucks. Fudge. Darn.
"I finally told my friends, `I don't cuss.' And I said, `If you want to hang out with me, you don't cuss."'
So . . . I’m guessing adorable little moppet McKay has a lot of free time on his hands. Probably met with a lot of “Fuck that, dipshit! Laterz.” Hey, there's nothing wrong with a little "me" time.
Hopefully McKay’ parents are so cluelessly goody that they’ve failed to mention the sin of Onanism. Otherwise, poor McKay’s one last joyful past time might be taken from him. And that would be a fucking shame.
Only a mile or so away, in South Pasadena, that would make her an outcast.
See the City Council of South Pasadena has now passed a proclamation declaring South Pas a “cuss-free zone.” WTF? Why don’t they outlaw people with a stick up their ass.
At first I thought, what a bunch of pious fucktards. Then I looked closer. And saw the picture of the instigator. His name is McKay Hatch and he’s the 14-year old founder of the South Pasadena High School No Cussing Club.
Membership: 1
Current Wedgie Threat Level: Orange
“My mom and dad always taught me good morals, good values, and not cussing was one of them," said McKay, who looks EXACTLY like a kid that would spout that sort of lame shit. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m all for morals and values. I just don’t think I define them by vocabulary.
Apparently, McKay’s classmates use blue language to show how cool they are. McKay knows you don’t need to say any of Carlin’s seven deadly words to be cool. Shucks. Fudge. Darn.
"I finally told my friends, `I don't cuss.' And I said, `If you want to hang out with me, you don't cuss."'
So . . . I’m guessing adorable little moppet McKay has a lot of free time on his hands. Probably met with a lot of “Fuck that, dipshit! Laterz.” Hey, there's nothing wrong with a little "me" time.
Hopefully McKay’ parents are so cluelessly goody that they’ve failed to mention the sin of Onanism. Otherwise, poor McKay’s one last joyful past time might be taken from him. And that would be a fucking shame.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Does It Really Have to Be This Hard?
Within a mile of my house, there are four post offices. None of them are the one that actually brings me my mail. And even though I know that the USPS is no longer a government agency, I can’t help but think that perhaps they took the worst of the bureaucracy when they spun off.
Case in point:
I ordered something on eBay and was anxiously awaiting its arrival. Since I “work from home,” I am almost always here to receive packages. Which makes every day sort of like Christmas. Or my birthday.
Anyhoo, when I go out to check the mail on Monday, I see a package slip, saying that they had tried to deliver, but I hadn’t been available. Funny, I had been sitting at my desk all morning. No doorbell. No nothing.
But since I figured it was my new purchase I put my nose back in joint and trotted dutifully to the post office that actually does deliver my mail. About 5 miles away.
What do they tell me? The package is still on the truck and won’t be back at the post office until after they’ve closed. Ooooooookay.
Nose back out of joint.
Luckily for me, there’s a place you can sign on the slip that says, “just leave the fucking package at my door.” (I paraphrase) So I signed that and stuck it in my mailbox first thing Tuesday morning.
When the mail came, I trotted happily down to the box to find NO slip and NO package, just the day’s junk mail. “Well,” I thought, “They’ll probably deliver it tomorrow."
Nope. Wednesday found me with another “we missed you” slip. But this one clearly said that the package was “at the post office.”
Cool. Back in the car. Back across town to my “neighborhood” post office. Different slack-jawed clerk, the flickering fluorescent lights slowly drawing the life from him.
“This package is still on the truck.”
@##@$@%@$@!#!##^&***&&%$@#!@@!!!!! Are you people fucking programmed to only offer 3 pat responses?! I calm myself. I can tell that the Living Dead could give a rat’s ass about my dilemma. I'm just another thing he has to get through to reach beer-thirty.
“Can you help me understand this situation, and perhaps help me get my package?” I inquire, as civilly as I can.
“Would yew lack tuh speek tuh a delivery supervisor?”
“More than life itself.”
I was directed to one of those quaint Dutch doors, reminiscent of simpler times and early Pee Wee’s Playhouse. And I wait.
Once the upper half of the door is opened, I guess that the reason for the delay was the need to wake the slumbering giant who was standing before me, rubbing his eyes. This guy appeared to have the intelligence of a troll. If only I had Harry Potter’s wand to shove up his nose and into his pea brain.
I lodged my complaint as politely as possible. Trying my best to keep my words in the three syllables or less range.
“Do you have a slip?”
“Sure do. Right here.” I handed it over. I explained that I had signed for the package to be left.
“Oh, you can’t sign for registered mail.”
Steam.
“Um, is there maybe another form that you could use to indicate that, because this one clearly says I can.”
“That’s our marketing department. I don’t have any influence over that.”
I didn’t ever know I could be mad and amused at the same time. That was some funny shit, the troll expounding on the difficulties of the “marketing department.” Ha fucking ha! No influence, indeed!
Flies with honey. Flies with honey. My new mantra.
The Troll looked at the slip again. “Oh, this should be here. Let me go get it for you.” My glee was mixed with hatred for the original slack-jaw. I shot him a meaningful look. He just stared, glassy-eyed, into middle-distance.
But wait, the troll is back. And there’s no package in his hands.
“You’ll need to go over to that woman. This type of package is kept under lock and key. And she’s the only one with the key.”
What is it a fucking PLUTONIUM wallet? Damn!
As you might imagine, they had appointed this particular Postal Worker to be the keeper of the key, most likely because her smile resembled the jagged teeth of the key she was keeping. I guess it’s kind of like how dog owners start to look like their dogs.
Not that she was smiling. Oh no. She was dead serious. And then she came back empty handed.
“This package is still on the truck.”
Keep. It. Together. O’P.
Back to the quaint Dutch door. I was starting to hate the Dutch.
Another round with the troll only elicited the helpful advice that “next time maybe you should use express mail.”
“I don’t generally have any control over other people’s shipping habits. And believe me, if I did, this would have come FedEX, not USPS.” I was starting to sound frantic.
Glassy stare into middle-distance.
“Great. Well, THANKS!”
The good news is, I did finally receive my package. Turns out the genius postman was knocking on the door of the storage room in the garage. Why does that not surprise me?
Case in point:
I ordered something on eBay and was anxiously awaiting its arrival. Since I “work from home,” I am almost always here to receive packages. Which makes every day sort of like Christmas. Or my birthday.
Anyhoo, when I go out to check the mail on Monday, I see a package slip, saying that they had tried to deliver, but I hadn’t been available. Funny, I had been sitting at my desk all morning. No doorbell. No nothing.
But since I figured it was my new purchase I put my nose back in joint and trotted dutifully to the post office that actually does deliver my mail. About 5 miles away.
What do they tell me? The package is still on the truck and won’t be back at the post office until after they’ve closed. Ooooooookay.
Nose back out of joint.
Luckily for me, there’s a place you can sign on the slip that says, “just leave the fucking package at my door.” (I paraphrase) So I signed that and stuck it in my mailbox first thing Tuesday morning.
When the mail came, I trotted happily down to the box to find NO slip and NO package, just the day’s junk mail. “Well,” I thought, “They’ll probably deliver it tomorrow."
Nope. Wednesday found me with another “we missed you” slip. But this one clearly said that the package was “at the post office.”
Cool. Back in the car. Back across town to my “neighborhood” post office. Different slack-jawed clerk, the flickering fluorescent lights slowly drawing the life from him.
“This package is still on the truck.”
@##@$@%@$@!#!##^&***&&%$@#!@@!!!!! Are you people fucking programmed to only offer 3 pat responses?! I calm myself. I can tell that the Living Dead could give a rat’s ass about my dilemma. I'm just another thing he has to get through to reach beer-thirty.
“Can you help me understand this situation, and perhaps help me get my package?” I inquire, as civilly as I can.
“Would yew lack tuh speek tuh a delivery supervisor?”
“More than life itself.”
I was directed to one of those quaint Dutch doors, reminiscent of simpler times and early Pee Wee’s Playhouse. And I wait.
Once the upper half of the door is opened, I guess that the reason for the delay was the need to wake the slumbering giant who was standing before me, rubbing his eyes. This guy appeared to have the intelligence of a troll. If only I had Harry Potter’s wand to shove up his nose and into his pea brain.
I lodged my complaint as politely as possible. Trying my best to keep my words in the three syllables or less range.
“Do you have a slip?”
“Sure do. Right here.” I handed it over. I explained that I had signed for the package to be left.
“Oh, you can’t sign for registered mail.”
Steam.
“Um, is there maybe another form that you could use to indicate that, because this one clearly says I can.”
“That’s our marketing department. I don’t have any influence over that.”
I didn’t ever know I could be mad and amused at the same time. That was some funny shit, the troll expounding on the difficulties of the “marketing department.” Ha fucking ha! No influence, indeed!
Flies with honey. Flies with honey. My new mantra.
The Troll looked at the slip again. “Oh, this should be here. Let me go get it for you.” My glee was mixed with hatred for the original slack-jaw. I shot him a meaningful look. He just stared, glassy-eyed, into middle-distance.
But wait, the troll is back. And there’s no package in his hands.
“You’ll need to go over to that woman. This type of package is kept under lock and key. And she’s the only one with the key.”
What is it a fucking PLUTONIUM wallet? Damn!
As you might imagine, they had appointed this particular Postal Worker to be the keeper of the key, most likely because her smile resembled the jagged teeth of the key she was keeping. I guess it’s kind of like how dog owners start to look like their dogs.
Not that she was smiling. Oh no. She was dead serious. And then she came back empty handed.
“This package is still on the truck.”
Keep. It. Together. O’P.
Back to the quaint Dutch door. I was starting to hate the Dutch.
Another round with the troll only elicited the helpful advice that “next time maybe you should use express mail.”
“I don’t generally have any control over other people’s shipping habits. And believe me, if I did, this would have come FedEX, not USPS.” I was starting to sound frantic.
Glassy stare into middle-distance.
“Great. Well, THANKS!”
The good news is, I did finally receive my package. Turns out the genius postman was knocking on the door of the storage room in the garage. Why does that not surprise me?
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Bipolar Christians of the World, Untie!
So, I’m having an unfamiliar retail moment yesterday. I was in need of some boxing and shipping services and was referred to a UPS Store on the north side of town. Now, I’m sure there’s one closer, but supposedly the proprietor of this one is amazing, according to the person who referred me.
Either that or he gets a kickback for the referral.
But, no worries. I dutifully make the trek into the strip mall under the raised highway. The one that had been described to me as “where a grocery store used to be.” Mmmm. Always a nice neighborhood economic indicator if the grocery store leaves.
The woman I was supposed to ask for was assisting another customer. There were several other customers milling about, doing self-service tasks. And then SHE walked in.
You could tell she was not quite right. A little too perky, the clothes a little yard-sale meets Garanimal meets crack whore.
Since I was being helped by the aging hippie, Larry (The man had a bad hip AND a pony tail—you find a better descriptor) crazy lady went to the owner. But she felt it necessary to have intimate conversations with anyone around her. At this moment, that meant me.
“Can you believe how cold it is outside? Yesterday it was like Summer in Miami and today, it’s like the North!”
I sort of smiled and nodded, hoping to do that “I’m-acknowledging-you-but-I’m-not-engaging-you” thing one does with crazy people.
“I’m a Christian. I’m a Christian. Deep, deep, deep, down . . . I’m a Christian. I really am. I used to say ‘this weather’s wacky.’ But now I say, ‘this weather’s wicked.’”
Good to know, Crack-wina. Now if you cold only tell me what one wears to an Apocalypse. Next!
Fortunately, Larry the Aging Hippie saved me with an extremely time-sensitive question about how many peanuts I would need for packing. I shrugged my excuse to the Wicked Witch of the Weather and turned to Larry to deeply ponder peanuts.
But it was not to be.
“I’m bi-polar,” she said to the ownerclerk. “So I don’t understand everything you’re telling me. I’m bipolar.” It turns out that what she couldn’t understand was that her shipment was going to cost her $15. And apparently, what she meant by bipolar was “broke.” Sister couldn’t make the payment.
She went outside to her crack buddy but he was no use. He’d already drunk the two beers I’d given him (I didn’t know you couldn’t ship full bottles of beer, and since it was the bottle design that was of interest, I gave him the beer inside) and had probably left his wallet in his other pants, which were most likely lying soiled beside an off-ramp in the vicinity.
So, she apologized and asked for her stuff back. But they still wanted her to pay for the box they’d used to stuff her shit into. And that’s when it got interesting. She screamed and yelled and laughed. Threatened and cajoled. Played victim and buddy and aggrieved customer. She even accused the proprietress of giving her friend beer, which apparently caused him to lose all of his money.
She handed the clerk the money, demanded to use the bathroom, because she couldn’t “hold it in no more.” And then she was gone. And all that was left was a her scent. Sort of wet air and cherry limeade and scrambled egg, all mixed together.
As I finished my transaction, the owner apologized profusely. She said she hoped I would come back, and that it wasn’t always like this.
“Too bad,” I sighed.
Either that or he gets a kickback for the referral.
But, no worries. I dutifully make the trek into the strip mall under the raised highway. The one that had been described to me as “where a grocery store used to be.” Mmmm. Always a nice neighborhood economic indicator if the grocery store leaves.
The woman I was supposed to ask for was assisting another customer. There were several other customers milling about, doing self-service tasks. And then SHE walked in.
You could tell she was not quite right. A little too perky, the clothes a little yard-sale meets Garanimal meets crack whore.
Since I was being helped by the aging hippie, Larry (The man had a bad hip AND a pony tail—you find a better descriptor) crazy lady went to the owner. But she felt it necessary to have intimate conversations with anyone around her. At this moment, that meant me.
“Can you believe how cold it is outside? Yesterday it was like Summer in Miami and today, it’s like the North!”
I sort of smiled and nodded, hoping to do that “I’m-acknowledging-you-but-I’m-not-engaging-you” thing one does with crazy people.
“I’m a Christian. I’m a Christian. Deep, deep, deep, down . . . I’m a Christian. I really am. I used to say ‘this weather’s wacky.’ But now I say, ‘this weather’s wicked.’”
Good to know, Crack-wina. Now if you cold only tell me what one wears to an Apocalypse. Next!
Fortunately, Larry the Aging Hippie saved me with an extremely time-sensitive question about how many peanuts I would need for packing. I shrugged my excuse to the Wicked Witch of the Weather and turned to Larry to deeply ponder peanuts.
But it was not to be.
“I’m bi-polar,” she said to the ownerclerk. “So I don’t understand everything you’re telling me. I’m bipolar.” It turns out that what she couldn’t understand was that her shipment was going to cost her $15. And apparently, what she meant by bipolar was “broke.” Sister couldn’t make the payment.
She went outside to her crack buddy but he was no use. He’d already drunk the two beers I’d given him (I didn’t know you couldn’t ship full bottles of beer, and since it was the bottle design that was of interest, I gave him the beer inside) and had probably left his wallet in his other pants, which were most likely lying soiled beside an off-ramp in the vicinity.
So, she apologized and asked for her stuff back. But they still wanted her to pay for the box they’d used to stuff her shit into. And that’s when it got interesting. She screamed and yelled and laughed. Threatened and cajoled. Played victim and buddy and aggrieved customer. She even accused the proprietress of giving her friend beer, which apparently caused him to lose all of his money.
She handed the clerk the money, demanded to use the bathroom, because she couldn’t “hold it in no more.” And then she was gone. And all that was left was a her scent. Sort of wet air and cherry limeade and scrambled egg, all mixed together.
As I finished my transaction, the owner apologized profusely. She said she hoped I would come back, and that it wasn’t always like this.
“Too bad,” I sighed.
A Great Day To Vote
So, it's decision time in Texas. You would think there's no one on the ballot besides Hillary and Barack, but there are lots of down-ballot races that will have major impact on our lives. So, do your homework. And vote.
Yesterday, I got the shock of my life. My mother, the lifelong Republican who voted for Bush twice (!!!!!!!!!!!) informed me she is "crossing over" and voting for Obama today.
"Why, because you hate HIllary so much?" I quipped.
"Well, I DO hate her, but no, that's not the reason." She went on to say that she actually thought Obama was the right choice for our country and that "McCain's time has passed."
Rock on Mom.
Unfortunately, I'm going to cancel out her vote. AND I'm going to caucus. I can't remember the last time an election in Texas actually had some consequences. Usually, we just put a check mark next to the name of the biggest turd and hope for the best.
SO . . . . Be smart. Go vote. And if you live outside of the great state of Texas, keep us in your prayers. Lord knows we need it.
Yesterday, I got the shock of my life. My mother, the lifelong Republican who voted for Bush twice (!!!!!!!!!!!) informed me she is "crossing over" and voting for Obama today.
"Why, because you hate HIllary so much?" I quipped.
"Well, I DO hate her, but no, that's not the reason." She went on to say that she actually thought Obama was the right choice for our country and that "McCain's time has passed."
Rock on Mom.
Unfortunately, I'm going to cancel out her vote. AND I'm going to caucus. I can't remember the last time an election in Texas actually had some consequences. Usually, we just put a check mark next to the name of the biggest turd and hope for the best.
SO . . . . Be smart. Go vote. And if you live outside of the great state of Texas, keep us in your prayers. Lord knows we need it.
Monday, March 3, 2008
Just Shoot Me
Anybody see the story this weekend about the guy in Washington State who had a buddy shoot him in the shoulder so he wouldn’t have to go to work?
Seriously, dude, how bad does that job suck? And you couldn’t come up with ANYTHING short of getting yourself shot? I’m guessing you’ve exhausted the pool of exotic illnesses and fabricated dead relatives beyond the point of credibility. What are you, a woodchuck? (is that an insult to woodchucks?) You just completely ran out of non-potentially-lethal options, eh?
Should have finished 8th grade.
Perhaps you should find a new job? Not that you aren’t going to have to find one anyway, after all this publicity. And I’m guessing said publicity will insure that your new job is even shittier than the one from which you will soon be fired. I mean, how stupid would your boss have to be to not have figured out that YOU SUCK AS AN EMPLOYEE since you have most likely used every excuse known to working man to avoid showing up.
The story didn’t say what kind of work the man did, but DAYUM! What job is so bad that you’d rather get shot than go to work?
And how did you convince your friend to shoot you? JFC! He’s got to be even dumber than you. Too bad he didn’t shoot you in the balls, then turn the gun on himself. I shudder at the thought of either of you reproducing.
Seriously, dude, how bad does that job suck? And you couldn’t come up with ANYTHING short of getting yourself shot? I’m guessing you’ve exhausted the pool of exotic illnesses and fabricated dead relatives beyond the point of credibility. What are you, a woodchuck? (is that an insult to woodchucks?) You just completely ran out of non-potentially-lethal options, eh?
Should have finished 8th grade.
Perhaps you should find a new job? Not that you aren’t going to have to find one anyway, after all this publicity. And I’m guessing said publicity will insure that your new job is even shittier than the one from which you will soon be fired. I mean, how stupid would your boss have to be to not have figured out that YOU SUCK AS AN EMPLOYEE since you have most likely used every excuse known to working man to avoid showing up.
The story didn’t say what kind of work the man did, but DAYUM! What job is so bad that you’d rather get shot than go to work?
And how did you convince your friend to shoot you? JFC! He’s got to be even dumber than you. Too bad he didn’t shoot you in the balls, then turn the gun on himself. I shudder at the thought of either of you reproducing.
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