Having never met the guy, nor even talked to him on the phone, I had no idea what to expect. I called his cell phone to see when he would be arriving.
“Yeah?”
“Shank?”
There was a long silence. “Yeah?”
“It’s Paul. What’s happening?”
“I’m driving. Fast.” His voiced seemed calmer and deeper than I imagined. I could detect no outward signs of a mental disorder.
“How far out are you?”
“A couple of hours.”
We talked about beer for a minute and it was over. I was somewhat relieved that he didn’t sound crazy—I had a very real fear he would sound like he was on meth or something.
When the doorbell rang I was still apprehensive. I opened up and there he was; a normal looking guy. I would go so far as to say innocent looking. Life hadn’t yet beaten him into the ground.
Once inside the questions started from both sides. He seemed very polite. Too polite. I thought maybe I was being duped. He’d act all polite and everything and then go berserk and pee on the carpet or something. We discussed the serial killer theories from both viewpoints, seeing as how we didn’t really know each other from Adam. He would accept nothing from us except bottled beer. Maybe he thought we’d try to poison him, or at least drug him up.
About fifteen minutes after he got there my wife went outside and backed into his car right in the driveway. I guess that loosened things up because the cocktails started flowing, the shoes came off and we relaxed and started talking shit about other bloggers. Much shit was dished out as is often the case when the other people aren’t around to make it a fair fight. Somehow I expected him to talk faster and be more aggressive, but he was pretty laid back and comfortable in his skin.
He made some classic comments, like, “Your wife really looks a lot younger than you.” I’m not sure if it was a compliment to my wife or a statement about my age. Anyway, he turned out to be a very intelligent guy and not a raving lunatic. In fact he was really nice guy who I consider a friend.
The next morning he was hammering beers by 8:00AM, much to my wife’s amusement. Somehow I don’t think she’d be amused if I did that alone, but Shank was a guest and was on vacation, so it seemed reasonable. Then we talked more shit about other bloggers and how we dislike most everything about the human race.
I wish he could have stayed longer.
Tomorrow evening I’m expecting a guest. I have never met him, nor have I ever spoken to him on the phone. He will be spending the night and his name is Shank.
This is not a test.
The only thing I haven’t decided is who I’m going to have answer the door and say it’s me. I’m torn between a 400LB black man and a 94 LB Vietnamese guy with women’s glasses.
Maybe I’ll just do it myself in the nude. Decisions, decisions, decisions.
Okay, in the following video clip, a group of people can be heard cheering "Alahu Akbar!" at the victory celebration of the first Muslim congressman elected to office in the US. In frickin Minnesota, of all places.
If you can give me one good reason why that shouldn't send up a red flag, I'll give you a whole fifty bucks.
Link here. If you don't want to watch the whole thing, go to the last few seconds of the v-log and you'll see the clip.
Seriously, that's the equivalent of the KKK showing up and screaming "White is right!" Double Yoo Tee Ef?
Today was another great addition to the stressful theme of current and future personal events. I live about 30 minutes from the area that was hit by tornadoes early this morning, and I don't think I've ever seen our ED as full as it was this morning. Crappy news is that all the patients we saw were pediatric multiple traumas, good news is they all survived or were transferred out; sad news is that at least one of them is now on his second set of parents. And he's not even in middle school yet.
You know, of the 30 or so people who lived on the street where this tornado touched down, it seemed like virtually all of them were related. We're sitting in the command center looking at the white board with all the patients (or dead at the scene) on it, their ages, their current locations, and the places that they're going to be transferred to. Seriosuly, maybe five different families.
The worst part was when someone would call in looking for a SoAndSo whose name was written under the heading 'Confirmed Fatalities.' No one was really quite sure how you effectively communicate information like that over the phone without sounding like a soulless son of a bitch, so we just referred them to County. Good God.
The Wife had her clinical rotation in the ED today too. Talk about trial by fire.
Seriously, what a fucked up couple of days. Got back from a few days off work and had to use a flamethrower to make a path to my desk through the bullshit that had accumulated in my office. Finally came out of the weeds (heh, as if) yesterday, just in time for Mom's cancer to start acting up. She had some kind of wacked out reaction to her last chemoembolism (necrotised tumor? clot? infection?) that caused a little fluid buildup. A scary event, but treatable. They never found out exactly why her liver was kicking back, but all the cultures came back negative for infection or roving cancer cells. Which reminds me. If I die and come back for a second life or something, I want to be some kind of cellular organism that eats cancer cells. What a bunch of fucking punks.
We're still trying to find someone to sign the old apartment over to, in an effort to avoid paying the exorbitant breaklease penalty. Had a promising contact come in, but we won't know if he's approved until tomorrow or Friday. Which reminds me. This is just conjecture, but what if the apartment complex is screwing me? They don't want me to transfer my lease to anyone, because they can rent the apartment for about $150 more per month. So everytime somebody applies, they just don't approve them. That means the company gets to keep the $50 app fee that everyone pays, they get to charge me the $1100 breaklease penalty, and they get to make an extra two grand on the new lease. /tinfoil hat off/
My brother's wedding is the weekend after Thanksgiving, and I'm leaving Saturday for the long journey. Leaving early, spending the night with some weirdos I met over the internet, and then continuing on Sunday to the condo that we're staying in. Which reminds me. These condo people could be a fucking modified Nigerian scam for all I know. We send a few emails, then I give them my credit card number (like a dumbass) and they're supposed to send me the code to the keylock. What a racket. Right now some dicksmack is buying a lifetime supply of Slim Jims with my credit card. All I'm saying is I better be getting the air miles.
Then when we get back from vacation the last weekend of this month, we're going to have to move the last load of furniture out to the house. Not too big a task since we're already about 70% moved out, but it'll mean renting a truck to throw the mattresses, couch, and dressers on. Which reminds me. Moving is a clusterfuck. I'm living out of my sock drawer, all my other clothes are either at the new place or packed for the trip. My house looks like a full-on crack den, the TV's sitting on the floor next to the DVD player, there's nothing but nails hanging everywhere, and it echoes.
Seriously, after this shit I'm going to need a vacation.
If you really want people to think you're a moron, make sure the outgoing message on your voicemail is tacky.
For instance, say someone like uh, me, puts an ad in the paper for some used home appliances. You, incidentally, might be interested in said appliances; so you call the number in the ad and leave a message. I, in turn, call the number you leave in the message to contact you. Uh-oh. Guess what? You don't answer the phone! Bummer!
That's right, it goes straight to your voicemail. Which, unfortunately for the both of us, is a 50-Cent song that's so garbled and distorted that it's barely recognizeable. Instead of leaving you a message, I think to myself 'Man, that shit is retarded.' Click.
Getting drunk in an airport is impossible. There's just not enough money in the world. My recommendation - mix a half bottle of Coke with some Jack. You'll be three sheets to the wind before your first connection, and the second flight will be a kickass good time. Even if you're sitting next to two middle-aged divorcees from Jersey who're sporting vintage Jellies.
Speed limits were meant to be broken; which is why no one obeys them. Seriously, have you ever known anyone who drove the speed limit? Everyone always goes for five over. I'd stake my reputation on it.
You're a tourist, of course the locals don't like you. Tread lightly but for the love of Pete don't be some kind of pantywaist.
From the more great words in print series:
Somewhere in England a guy thought it would be a good idea to try and shoot fireworks out of his ass. The money line:
“He is now recovering in a Sunderland hospital after sustaining internal injuries including a scorched colon.”
A scorched colon. Speechless.
I normally don’t post or care about this kind of thing but this is just too good. Britney Spears told her swollen nard bag of a husband that she was divorcing him. Via a text message. The best part, however, is the quote:
“Federline, her former backing dancer, was later seen crouched in a corner crying.”
I guess I’m an ass, but there’s nothing I enjoy more than seeing something like that in print.
In the next twenty days, I will only spend 6 at work. That's right, it's vacation time bitches!
I leave Thursday afternoon for a snorkeling/camping trip with my big brother. It's his bachelor party, and he wanted to do something with just the guys. I don't see any strippers in our future, but my brother was never really the stripper type, so it's not surprising.
Then I come back for a week, and leave again that weekend for his wedding. That's the long one, almost 10 days. I drive out on a Saturday, and The Wife joins the party the following Wednesday. Uncles, aunts, cousins, and people I'm not sure how I'm related to usually come out of the woodwork for weddings; prompted mostly by an open bar and the chance to make extended family feel "socioeconomically disadvantaged". Well, not all of them; but there are more than enough. I plan on having breakfast on the beach every morning and spending some serious time in the water. I think I'm slates somewhere in there as best man, so I suppose I might have to put a shirt on at some point; but we'll have to play that one by ear.
Of course, all this means I'll probably have a severly limited Christmas vacation. Meh.
I was nine, maybe ten years old at the time. A family member living in SE Asia was moving to another location and was forced to part with their dog. We got a long letter about the dog and finally the thing was shipped around the world in a small cage and my parents picked it up at Kennedy airport while I was at school one day.
My excitement level was high. I really wanted a dog and now I was finally getting one. When I got home from school there was no evidence of a dog. I ran through the house looking everywhere and there was simply no sign of the thing. My father was out back watering the lawn. I noticed a bandage on his hand.
“Where’s the dog?”
“Somewhere in the house,” he said.
“Look,” he continued,” I need to tell you how it is. This animal was trapped in a cage for a long time as it flew around the world. It’s afraid. Who knows what the hell happened to it on those planes, but you need to stay away from him for a while. He’s on edge. Just leave him alone for a few days.”
“Okay. I understand. What happened to your hand?”
“Sammy bit me.” Sammy was the dog’s name.
I went back in the house to look for the dog. I at least had to look at the thing. I didn’t even know what kind of dog it was. A room to room search produced no results and soon I was reduced to looking closets and whatnot. Finally, I found the dog lying far underneath a sofa hiding. I still couldn’t see what the hell it looked like. It seemed to be a large, hairy ball. I stuck my head under there as close as I could. He started growling. I spoke to him in a soothing voice and reached my hand in. I was sure that if I could just pet him he would understand that he had a friend. Just as my hand reached him he lunged for it. It was like a fucking crocodile. I snatched my hand away just in time—I mean it was close. I backed off.
I was disillusioned. My new friend turned out to be a goddamned vicious beast. A goddamned ocelot. I still didn’t even know what I was looking at. It was just a big hairy monster.
I left the thing alone for a few days. I didn’t even see it around the house. It was about a week later when I came home from school and saw it in the yard that realized it might be a normal dog after all. I opened the gate and it didn’t run away so I picked up a stick and threw it and Sammy brought it back. He let me pet him. He seemed to pretty happy. And that night he jumped up on my bed and slept with me.
Sammy and I became inseparable. He would wait by the fence every day for me to get home from school. When he saw me coming he would go berserk. Sammy turned out to be a great dog. I kept trying to find out what kind of a dog it was but I didn’t have much luck. None of my friends had ever seen anything like it either. Sammy didn’t mind my friends as long as they didn’t get too close. Any threatening gesture and Sammy would lunge at them. He was very protective. In fact, if my parents so much as raised their voice to me Sammy started growling at them. And that big bastard could be scary.
One afternoon I came home from school and Sammy wasn’t there. I was worried and ran into the house looking for my old man.
“Where’s Sammy?”
“Your mother took him to the vet or something. They’ll be back.”
I was lying on my bed when I heard the car door slam. I heard Sammy running down the hall towards my room and I opened the door and got the shock of my life. Sammy had been shaved down. All the fur was gone and he was about half the size he was before. And worse than that—he was a poodle. He had been shaped into one of those French poodles that you see on TV. I didn’t know what to say or what to do. He was going crazy, excited to see me and everything and I reached down and started to pet him but it was all too much. All too much.
I got over the fact that Sammy was a poodle. It came down to the fact that he was the same dog as before, but with a fucked up haircut. But when people asked me what kind of dog I had I never really answered. I just mumbled something. And when I was out walking the dog I felt like ass. But in the end Sammy was my friend. I guess it was no fault of his. Last night I had a dream that Sammy was still alive. And I woke up and felt a weight against me in bed I reached down to pet him, but it was my wife lying against me, not Sammy. It was a cruel way to wake up. But now the story is told and I feel somewhat better about the whole thing. Poodle or not, he was a goddamned vicious beast.
Lot's of people make the mistake of thinking tax day is in the middle of April. Not so. That's the day when the red hot poker gets inserted. It gets put in the fire tomorrow on voting day.
Before you pull the lever, consider your candidates. Picture them reading the poem below. Decide if they would smile knowingly, laugh maniacally or withdraw their nomination. Vote for the ones that would withdraw.
Tax his land, Tax his bed,
Tax the table at which he's fed.Tax his tractor, Tax his mule,
Teach him taxes are the rule.Tax his cow, Tax his goat,
Tax his pants, Tax his coat.Tax his ties, Tax his shirt,
Tax his work, Tax his dirt.Tax his tobacco, Tax his drink,
Tax him if he tries to think.Tax his cigars, Tax his beers,
If he cries, then Tax his tears.Tax his car, Tax his gas,
Find other ways to Tax his assTax all he has, then let him know
That you won't be done
Till he has no dough.When he screams and hollers,
Then tax him some more,
Tax him till he's good and sore.Then tax his coffin, Tax his grave,
Tax the sod in which he's laid.Put these words upon his tomb,
"Taxes drove me to my doom..."When he's gone, do not relax,
Its time to apply the inheritance tax.
I'm growing this plant on my kitchen windowsill. Right above the big alabaster double-sinks, on the 80-year old wood ledge at the base of the sinlge plateglass windows. It gets cold in the kitchen during the winter, but the sun that beams through on that side of the house keeps the plant well.
I was sitting in the breakfast nook this morning, enjoying my 6am cup of coffee and relishing in that intense light that slides through during the early winter hours. Just basking, sipping, gearing up - when I heard the sound. It was loud, but clear and crisp. Almost like the world smallest firecracker had gone off in my inner ear. The tiniest assault rifle had been fired from withing my cochlea.
I looked up and noticed that a tiny shard of the clay pot holding my plant had splintered off into the sink. It clattered against the ceramic surface. I slid my glance back up to the pot, and I could actually see the roots pushing out on the potter. The stone was swelling, flexing on all sides. Jesus.
With a periceing crackle the potter finally shattered into countless micropebbles, red and burning, raining down on the room. Fire was literally falling from the ceiling in my kitchen, as was potting soil and the occasional leaf or root. I hid under the table and shut my eyes.
This isn't happening.
This isn't happening.
So I was wading through the detritus at CNN.com and found this snippet. The police chief in this small town was trying to tell his boys in blue that he'd like for them to shape up a little. He even gave a list of practical reasons for a healthy regimen of diet and exercise.
Apparently someone's feelings were hurt. Evidently the term 'jelly belly' hjas some serious cultural connotations, and using such an epithet got the chief booted.
To me it doesn't seem like the guy said anything too pointy; but maybe I'm too insensitive. I could be wrong here, but I see the police force structured in a similar fashion as the military. When the chief says "Gimme twenny!", you do it. You don't start whining about how the chief made you feel insecure about your weight. Mostly because that would make you a big fat pussy.
If you ask me, there must've been some preexisting issues in the department; and the disenfranchised parties saw this as an opportunity to remove an irritant.
And then there was this poor bastard at a Planet Fitness gym in another podunk town. His membership was revoked and he was escorted out of the facility. For what? For grunting.
Apparently grunting is overly intimidating and judgemental behavior, even if you are squatting 500lbs. Now, in every gym I've ever been to I've heard grunting; as well as all manner of macho posturing. I never saw it as intimidating though, I mostly found it intensely funny. Trying like hell to stifle my laughter for fear that they would drive me into the ground with their bare fists like some kind of human tent stake.
But seriously, people grunt when they're taking a shit. It seems only reasonable to expect a gym to have a couple grunters inside.
Can you believe this kind of shit happens, let alone makes the papers? I can see tomorrow's headline: "Little Johnny escorted to principal's office for throwing dirt on playground."
