I like it when people hurt themselves. I think it’s friggin’ hilarious to watch someone bounce off a trampoline or fall down the stairs. In fact, the older or younger they are, the funnier. Sure, it’s one thing to see your 23 year old pothead brother fall off the deck. But when it’s Grandma, it’s 50 times funnier. In fact, they made a whole show of this. Ever hear of America’s Funniest Home Videos? That is one of my all time favorite shows. If you happen to stroll by the Kevolution Theory compound Sunday between 7-8 and head me laughing my ass off, it’s because I am watching AFV. (Unlessof course it is football season.) Every week, it’s a new slate of people falling or tripping over all kinds of objects; picnic tables, dogs, steps, toys, chairs. They do it in all kinds of social settings as well; weddings, parties, picnics, proms, holidays. And every fucking time it cracks me up. It’s such a simple and basic tenet of humor; people in pain who aren’t you. Those of you cool enough to be my friends on MySpace often see me putting such videos up. I have enjoyed this for years and years.
So I guess it is only right that something like this happened to me. And while there was no one there to video tape it (that I’m aware of, thank God), karma commands me to share it with you. And what better way than to Klog about it, so anyone on the Internet can read about it. Hell, I’ve had thousands of laughs at stranger’s expense, so it’s only fait I share it with the vast World Wide Web. Plus I haven’t written anything in a while and would like to get my hits up past 100 before the year end. We all have goals.
There I am working on a window. For reasons not germane (look it up) to the story, I have to open the window so I can stick my head all the way through and get a look at something outside. Said window is pretty old. There are 4 “panes” in the window. There’s a screen, a storm window, then the actual wood window frames. Both hold panes of glass. One is in the up position, the other in the down position. I am inside the house, and I have to open the wood panes first.
The bottom wood pane opens about ¾ the way. The upper wood one isn’t moving at all. I try to open the storm window next, but to no avail. I have a hammer (which always adds to the funny). I try to lift the lower window all the way up so I have more space to work in. It’s still stuck. I try to hammer it up, but it’s a pretty old window, and I don’t want to break it. Hammer doesn’t work. So I drop it to the floor. So it makes total sense to try pushing the window up. I try with my hand, then arm, then shoulder. Damn it, why is it so fucking hard for me to open a freaking window? Next, I try to shoulder the window up with my left shoulder, while my right hand is on the top of the window, trying to push it up. I emit manly grunts to further accentuate my effort. So as I’m trying to push this window up, the previously stuck upper window decides to finally succumb to gravity. It suddenly loosens and comes down. Right on the tip ofmy middle finger.
YYYEEEEEEOOOWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!
My body immediately hits “Holy Fuck” on the pain meter. I look up and the window has caught my middle finger and wedged it between the lower window. O, OK, I see what’s happening her….
YYYYEEEEOOOWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!!!!
I see my finger is now trapped between both wood window panes. To the point where I can see both panes are bulging on their tracks, right where my now purple finger is stuck. I am trapped. I am alone. And I am starting to be in some serious, serious pain.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck ,fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” is the only word I can say at this point. Rather loudly, rapidly and worriedly. (I suppose, if I was writer, and I really wanted to embellish this story to add to the situation, I would say that this wasn’t my house and how not even 5 minutes before the window dropped, someone was in the very next room watching Church on TV. But, hell, even I don’t know if I am that good a writer yet or if I could even make something like that up.)
It’s funny how the mind reacts in this situation. There are fleeting few seconds of calm where you can study the situation and try to come up with a solution. Then there is the rest of the time when it is screaming “YYYYYYEEEEEEOOOOOWWWWWWWW! FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK….”
The window is much taller than me, so my finger (and by virtue my hand and arm) is now stuck well above my head. My first reaction is to wildly try to pull the lower window back down. No, I lie. I am sure you can appreciate how recollection of such a sudden and traumatic event can be a bit fuzzy. No my first reaction is to wildly try to pull my finger out. I try it. I try to grab my hand to pull, but it’s not coming out. Shit, this fucking hurts. OK, solution one doesn’t work, time for plan B.
Plan B is wildly trying to now pull the lower window down to get my finger out. Of course, my damn finger is the wedge between to the panes, so it’s not budging. OK, deep breath in. What can I do now? The hammer! Yea, the one that’s…all the way…over there….on the floor. Shit, if I had a hammer, I’d hammer in the morning, hammer in the evening, hammer the ever-loving shit out of this window.
Shit, another wave of pain radiates. This is so embarrassing, I’m kinda glad no one is here to see this and mock me. Even if someone was there, and they would ask me if I need help, I would coolly say, “Nah, man, you kidding me? I’m fine here. Fine, fine, fine.” Clearly, when you look into a house, and see some dork with his hand trapped in the window, and jumping about like a trapped money, you too would just keep walking along.
I am getting scared. My finger is getting crushed. And it’s high enough over my empty head that I can feel the weight shifting from the finger to my hand, to my wrist. Like Police Chief Wiggum said when he got his tie caught in the hot dog rotisserie, “This is gonna get worse before it gets better.”
For a fleeting second, that vision of the fox that chews his arm off to escape the trap comes to mind, but this is my right hand we’re talking about. I am a dominant rightie, so it has to stay. Plus, typing these Goddamn blogs would take 3 times as long with just my left hand.
We’re going on 2 minutes here. Yea, that doesn’t sound long, but get your finger stuck, and see how time flies. I am getting really worried that there might be some real damage being done here. I jump onto the window sill and start trying to wedge my body between my knees and the panes, just trying to wedge something loose. Finally, somehow, one of the panes moves, and my finger is free. Now the pain really starts. Throbbing. Wow, so much pain from just the tip of my finger. Surprisingly not a lot of blood, since I guess it stopped flowing to the tip. The rest of my finger feels a little bit like it’s been pulled away from my hand. I’ve broken fingers before, and this pain feels pretty similar. A few breaths in and out. “Everything will be all right” keeps running through my head. Like I’m a doctor or something.
It’s funny when you get something like this, how much you realize you use, say, your middle finger. I mean aside from flipping other people off in rush hour. All this happened on Wednesday. And since then, I’ve noticed how often I use my middle finger. Tying my shoes, washing dishes, shaking hands, lifting stuff, brushing my teeth, opening doors, typing Klogs, etc.
I was really tempted to post a picture of my finger here, but that is just too much work for a Saturday night. I will best describe it to you like this. It’s about 25% bigger than my other middle finger, in just about every dimension. The nail is almost entirely purple. The nail itself is now raised above the rest of my finger, and there seems to be some sort of bubble or something right past the nail (right where it was crushed). It looks like I shot steroids into it, and they all just stopped at the tip. It’s quite disgusting, and oddly fascinating at the same time. It’s a mild nuisance at this point. If I catch it in the right place, I still get jutting pain. It looks a lot worse than it feels.
So that’s my story. I have now karma-ically paid my dues to the universe, so I can go back to watching people fall with no guilt. In fact, I think that’s what I’m gonna do now.
As always, thanks for reading.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Saturday, August 9, 2008
Actors Who Piss Me Off; Matthew McConaughey
Longtime Missile readers will remember a bit I used to do about Rockstars Who Piss Me Off. It’s been awhile since I did one of these, but I saw something today that just fucking pissed me off. Read on.
First of all, I never had a particular ax to grind with Matt McConaughey. Like most men I know, I can’t say I’ve ever seen any of his movies. I can’t name any of his movies, so I don’t know if that even stands as him not ever having a hit movie. I do ‘fess up to being in the room for a bit while T was watching the one with Boobless Hudson trying to dump a guy. But I immediately left the room as soon as I saw this. I don’t know much about the man himself. A brief search reveals he apparently doesn’t like wearing a shirt, and at least on one occasion, was found naked playing bongos with another man. Infer what you want.
I know this guy is supposedly what many women consider “hot”. I don’t get it. He seems to have eyebrows that extend out over his eyes. He has wiry, balding hair. Personally, I don’t get him at all. I may not know much about Matthew McConaughey, but this I do know.
He is a flaming asshole.
How do I know this? I base this on the following article, which can be sourced at http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/n/a/2008/08/08/entertainment/e140304D70.DTL
Just listen to what this pompous airhead is doing. The actor kept the placenta from the July birth of his son and plans to plant it in an orchard, he tells CNN's "House Call with Dr. Sanjay Gupta. It's going to be in the orchards and it's going to bear some wonderful fruit," he says.
Well, geez, let’s tell the world just how really special the placenta from my drunken mistake’s birth is. Hey Dickwad, shut the fuck up, no one wants to hear this horse shit. I originally found this story from a headline on the bottom of TV. There was even a more bombastic boast, something like McConaughey saying his afterbirth tree will provide fruit for generations to come. What a crock of steaming horse shit. Let’s break down this shallow Hollywood logic, shall we?
First of all, just where does one store the placenta? Do you just throw is in some Tupperware and put it in the fridge? Or will a ZipLock bag do the trick? And it’s not only that he saved it, it’s that now he’s going on TV trumping about this, like he his some sort of Superparent, far better than some ham and egger raising his kids. He goes on in the article about how this is a ritual in Australia, and all the placenta tress grew higher than the natural trees.
This is fucking Australia we’re talking about here. The land of Crocodile Dundee, Men at Work and Crowded House. At least he didn’t name his kid Dingo. Now I don’t know if this is all legit, but it sounds like a crock to me.
Next, I don’t like the inference that he is “giving back to nature”. I believe the current, hip term is “going green”. Pul-leeze. I’ve said it before on the old .com message board, and it is true to this day.
You cannot call yourself green or environmentally friendly if you have kids. Period. Case closed.
That is an overtly harsh stance to have, but it is true. Think about it. Just by having even one kid, all the trash and waste it will exponentially create over its life. The biggest danger to this planet is us; people. The last thing we need is more of them to further tax our natural resources. But, no, this McConaughey kid is so damn special and comes from such great genes, that his afterbirth has to be buried in an orchard. Wow, that Matty sure is forward thinking. Sure, it’s Ok his cumdribble can use tons and tons of plastic, oil, oxygen, food etc. It’s Ok, because his placenta will help grow, like one totally bitchin’ peach tree or something. That will more than make up for the resources he will eat up.
And it’s not like Mc Conaughey will be raising this kid himself. Please. He’s a celebra-parent. He’s not gonna raise him, it’s more like his Ecuadorian housekeeper will raise him. Matt has got more guys to play naked bongos with. You can’t raise a kid with that kind of schedule. Listen to this asshole, not only will his kid’s tree be the best, but it will bear “some wonderful fruit”. Huh? Just what is the definition of wonderful fruit? Anderson Cooper? (Zing!)
Mc Conaughey sure must be some spermicidal superman. Not only is the afterbirth he spawned going to grow the strongest tree, it’s going to bear the best fruit. What an ego on this fucktard. Let me guess, this McConaughey fruit will be sold at a premium at some haughty-taughty Hollywood chic store. Gag me.
Ugh, it’s empty headed assholes like this that fire me up.
First of all, I never had a particular ax to grind with Matt McConaughey. Like most men I know, I can’t say I’ve ever seen any of his movies. I can’t name any of his movies, so I don’t know if that even stands as him not ever having a hit movie. I do ‘fess up to being in the room for a bit while T was watching the one with Boobless Hudson trying to dump a guy. But I immediately left the room as soon as I saw this. I don’t know much about the man himself. A brief search reveals he apparently doesn’t like wearing a shirt, and at least on one occasion, was found naked playing bongos with another man. Infer what you want.
I know this guy is supposedly what many women consider “hot”. I don’t get it. He seems to have eyebrows that extend out over his eyes. He has wiry, balding hair. Personally, I don’t get him at all. I may not know much about Matthew McConaughey, but this I do know.
He is a flaming asshole.
How do I know this? I base this on the following article, which can be sourced at http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/n/a/2008/08/08/entertainment/e140304D70.DTL
Just listen to what this pompous airhead is doing. The actor kept the placenta from the July birth of his son and plans to plant it in an orchard, he tells CNN's "House Call with Dr. Sanjay Gupta. It's going to be in the orchards and it's going to bear some wonderful fruit," he says.
Well, geez, let’s tell the world just how really special the placenta from my drunken mistake’s birth is. Hey Dickwad, shut the fuck up, no one wants to hear this horse shit. I originally found this story from a headline on the bottom of TV. There was even a more bombastic boast, something like McConaughey saying his afterbirth tree will provide fruit for generations to come. What a crock of steaming horse shit. Let’s break down this shallow Hollywood logic, shall we?
First of all, just where does one store the placenta? Do you just throw is in some Tupperware and put it in the fridge? Or will a ZipLock bag do the trick? And it’s not only that he saved it, it’s that now he’s going on TV trumping about this, like he his some sort of Superparent, far better than some ham and egger raising his kids. He goes on in the article about how this is a ritual in Australia, and all the placenta tress grew higher than the natural trees.
This is fucking Australia we’re talking about here. The land of Crocodile Dundee, Men at Work and Crowded House. At least he didn’t name his kid Dingo. Now I don’t know if this is all legit, but it sounds like a crock to me.
Next, I don’t like the inference that he is “giving back to nature”. I believe the current, hip term is “going green”. Pul-leeze. I’ve said it before on the old .com message board, and it is true to this day.
You cannot call yourself green or environmentally friendly if you have kids. Period. Case closed.
That is an overtly harsh stance to have, but it is true. Think about it. Just by having even one kid, all the trash and waste it will exponentially create over its life. The biggest danger to this planet is us; people. The last thing we need is more of them to further tax our natural resources. But, no, this McConaughey kid is so damn special and comes from such great genes, that his afterbirth has to be buried in an orchard. Wow, that Matty sure is forward thinking. Sure, it’s Ok his cumdribble can use tons and tons of plastic, oil, oxygen, food etc. It’s Ok, because his placenta will help grow, like one totally bitchin’ peach tree or something. That will more than make up for the resources he will eat up.
And it’s not like Mc Conaughey will be raising this kid himself. Please. He’s a celebra-parent. He’s not gonna raise him, it’s more like his Ecuadorian housekeeper will raise him. Matt has got more guys to play naked bongos with. You can’t raise a kid with that kind of schedule. Listen to this asshole, not only will his kid’s tree be the best, but it will bear “some wonderful fruit”. Huh? Just what is the definition of wonderful fruit? Anderson Cooper? (Zing!)
Mc Conaughey sure must be some spermicidal superman. Not only is the afterbirth he spawned going to grow the strongest tree, it’s going to bear the best fruit. What an ego on this fucktard. Let me guess, this McConaughey fruit will be sold at a premium at some haughty-taughty Hollywood chic store. Gag me.
Ugh, it’s empty headed assholes like this that fire me up.
Birthday Cards Suck
Birthday cards are a waste. I am sure Hallmark doesn’t want you to know that, but it’s true. I hate buying birthday cards. I mean, what’s the point? If you are giving a card instead of/with no present, why even bother? Unless there’s money in it, don’t waste our time. And if you are giving a card along with a present, again, I ask you, what’s the point? No one’s gonna pay attention to the card; they just wanna get to the present.
Maybe this is (yet another) example of how my view/feelings seems to differ from just about any other ration person in the world. Just so you know where I am coming from, there are three appropriate actions you can take when you discover it’s my birthday (which is March 22nd, BTW).
1) Shake my hand or pat me on the back and say “Happy Birthday”
2) Buy me a drink. Or 17.
3) Buy me a present.
You will note at no point of the above list does it say to buy me a card. If I never got another birthday card, it would never bother me.
I’ll tell ya a little something right now. If you do buy me a card, I will open it up, say how nice/funny, then promptly throw it right the hell in the trash. That’s right, I am not even gonna recycle it, just to spite you and your old fashioned thinking. Why do you hate Mother Earth so?
OK, so maybe every other motard out there doesn’t see it my way. Fine. I still hate shopping for birthday cards, or any cards for that matter. I always seek out to buy funny cards. Birthdays, wedding, anniversaries, graduations, funerals. Do you know how hard it is to find a “gee, I am sorry your favorite uncle died” card that is funny. We recently went to a wedding, and it was my job to buy the card. I bought the first humorous card I saw because it was the only one they had.
Let’s face it. Buying cards is a total chick thing to do. Guys don’t feel comfortable buying cards for anyone; wives, girlfriends, fathers, co-workers etc. Guys hate buying cards for other guys. There’s really no masculine way to do it. I swear, while I was out buying cards today (hence the idea for this post) I saw a “I really like your hair” card that chicks can buy for other chicks. WTF?
And since I hate buying cards, I put it off till the last minute (yea, another totally guy things guy do). That usually means I am doomed to go to the CVS up the street. I fucking hate CVS (Post for another day). It takes me seemingly forever to find at least a mildly humorous card, then I get behind some windowlicker that has coupons and returns, and the line just grows. Much like my frustration, I am there to buy one measly, unfunny card, and now I have to wait even longer to get the hell out of there?
Birthday cards are nice “notions”. Every year, one of my mom’s friends-who I haven’t really seen in like 20 years-sends me a birthday card to my parents’ house. That’s very sweet and all, but my life is not affected either way. It’s not like if she forgets, I will suddenly hate her. Further proof that bday cards are a waste; what do you do with yours? Right, you throw them right the hell out. (Unless of course they are from your significant other. That goes without saying, doofus.)
Maybe this all has something to do with me being unable to remember people’s bdays. Gun to my head, I could make a pretty close guess to my mom’s, and a general guess as to my dad’s. I definitely know my brother’s, and middle sister (she’s a New Year baby). I have 2 other sisters, one which I could accurately guess (it’s a few days from my mom’s and I always get them confused) and the other one I can guess the month. Yea, I know, that makes me a shitty person and all, but that’s just the way it is. And you are no better than me. Quick, when is my birthday? Yea, I thought so….
The selection of cards out there is weak, to say the least. It’s like Hallmark & Shoebox cornered the market and stopped trying. I am sure there is some cool internet place to get truly funny, edgy cards. But again, I refer you to the above paragraph about guys waiting for the last minute. I am more than happy with e-cards. You can personalize them to a degree, and it’s easier on the environment. I am sure some Internet genius is already working on porno e-cards. “Hi, my name is Destinee, and you can come into my Inbox anytime.”
So now we’re off to another birthday party, with another lame bday card in tow. The poor card will have a life of about 15 seconds from being opened to going into the trash. Really, I would much rather give the three bucks right to the person. Buying cards is the equivalent of throwing a few singles right in the trash. And I know of one place where I can use my singles far better….
Maybe this is (yet another) example of how my view/feelings seems to differ from just about any other ration person in the world. Just so you know where I am coming from, there are three appropriate actions you can take when you discover it’s my birthday (which is March 22nd, BTW).
1) Shake my hand or pat me on the back and say “Happy Birthday”
2) Buy me a drink. Or 17.
3) Buy me a present.
You will note at no point of the above list does it say to buy me a card. If I never got another birthday card, it would never bother me.
I’ll tell ya a little something right now. If you do buy me a card, I will open it up, say how nice/funny, then promptly throw it right the hell in the trash. That’s right, I am not even gonna recycle it, just to spite you and your old fashioned thinking. Why do you hate Mother Earth so?
OK, so maybe every other motard out there doesn’t see it my way. Fine. I still hate shopping for birthday cards, or any cards for that matter. I always seek out to buy funny cards. Birthdays, wedding, anniversaries, graduations, funerals. Do you know how hard it is to find a “gee, I am sorry your favorite uncle died” card that is funny. We recently went to a wedding, and it was my job to buy the card. I bought the first humorous card I saw because it was the only one they had.
Let’s face it. Buying cards is a total chick thing to do. Guys don’t feel comfortable buying cards for anyone; wives, girlfriends, fathers, co-workers etc. Guys hate buying cards for other guys. There’s really no masculine way to do it. I swear, while I was out buying cards today (hence the idea for this post) I saw a “I really like your hair” card that chicks can buy for other chicks. WTF?
And since I hate buying cards, I put it off till the last minute (yea, another totally guy things guy do). That usually means I am doomed to go to the CVS up the street. I fucking hate CVS (Post for another day). It takes me seemingly forever to find at least a mildly humorous card, then I get behind some windowlicker that has coupons and returns, and the line just grows. Much like my frustration, I am there to buy one measly, unfunny card, and now I have to wait even longer to get the hell out of there?
Birthday cards are nice “notions”. Every year, one of my mom’s friends-who I haven’t really seen in like 20 years-sends me a birthday card to my parents’ house. That’s very sweet and all, but my life is not affected either way. It’s not like if she forgets, I will suddenly hate her. Further proof that bday cards are a waste; what do you do with yours? Right, you throw them right the hell out. (Unless of course they are from your significant other. That goes without saying, doofus.)
Maybe this all has something to do with me being unable to remember people’s bdays. Gun to my head, I could make a pretty close guess to my mom’s, and a general guess as to my dad’s. I definitely know my brother’s, and middle sister (she’s a New Year baby). I have 2 other sisters, one which I could accurately guess (it’s a few days from my mom’s and I always get them confused) and the other one I can guess the month. Yea, I know, that makes me a shitty person and all, but that’s just the way it is. And you are no better than me. Quick, when is my birthday? Yea, I thought so….
The selection of cards out there is weak, to say the least. It’s like Hallmark & Shoebox cornered the market and stopped trying. I am sure there is some cool internet place to get truly funny, edgy cards. But again, I refer you to the above paragraph about guys waiting for the last minute. I am more than happy with e-cards. You can personalize them to a degree, and it’s easier on the environment. I am sure some Internet genius is already working on porno e-cards. “Hi, my name is Destinee, and you can come into my Inbox anytime.”
So now we’re off to another birthday party, with another lame bday card in tow. The poor card will have a life of about 15 seconds from being opened to going into the trash. Really, I would much rather give the three bucks right to the person. Buying cards is the equivalent of throwing a few singles right in the trash. And I know of one place where I can use my singles far better….
Friday, August 1, 2008
Scruffless
So I recently did something I haven’t done in years. It’s something I’ve kinda been thinking of toying with. Now that I can’t dye my hair funny colors, I guess that gives me a void in the “I feel like doing something different” department. It’s something I’m not particularly comfortable with, but once you start you can’t go back, so you have to fully commit. All I needed was the right occasion. And it finally presented it self. After doing a phone interview, I scored a second interview. Since it’s been a while since I’ve been this high on the horse, I thought now was the time to do it. Now was the time to change my appearance, and see if I got anywhere.
Yes, friends, I shaved.
I can’t tell you the last time I did it. I don’t shave for functions, funerals or weddings. Hell, I didn’t even shave for my wedding. Those of you lucky souls who know me, know my look. The “scruff” has always been a part of that. To properly set this dramatic development, some explanation is in order. At the very core, it’s this. I am ugly. Not fugly, mind you, just ugly. I am the kind of ugly that after you’ve had a few beers, I might, might, appear reasonably semi non-heinous. I figured out early on, I needed to hide my face. So, boom, long hair. But that only worked so much. So I decided to grow some scruff. More than a 5 o’clock shadow, not committing to the nerdliness of a full beard, somewhere in between. I did it for looks as well as convenience. I mean, what guy actually wants to shave every day? No one I know. Plus, I’m a bleeder. I seriously bleed just about every day on the “job”. But the thought of having a razor sharp blade that close to my neck and face early in the morning can lead to no good. So I opted to not even deal with it. Scruff was my way of hiding my ugly, another layer to hide behind.
In some circles, I am sure it tagged me as an 80’s holdover. Like I have all the Miami Vice episodes on tape. (Which I don’t by the way.) But it’s my look; I like it. I haven’t done any of this stuff to stand out or draw attention. I did it to hide more. Sometimes, I don’t like looking this way, but I am comfortable with it. So it’s everyone else’s problem to live with it.
Over the years, I added touches, like dying my hair, and experimenting with goatees, and longer chin scruff. A few years back, in addition to the scruff, I grew a soulpatch. The wife seemed to like it, and it’s pretty low-maintenance, so that has stuck, too.
Nature has gotten her revenge with my formally long and curly locks. All the dying and Stif Stuffing has taken its toll. Plus I tie it back now just about every day, which just yanks more and more of it out. I really think it’s something with bald men growing massive goatees. I guess it’s the thing to do. But check it out next time you see a bald guy; I bet he has a rockin’ goatee.
Anyway, when I got word about this interview, I toyed with the idea of shaving. I certainly wouldn’t take the soulpatch off, it takes to long to grow back. Plus, I’m like Homer Simpson when he shaves; the muzzle just grows right back in an hour. So I saw all of this as a sign that now was the time to experiment. Well, all of this, plus my trimmer shit the bed, so I was kinda screwed. No problem, I can man up. The fateful morning came. I looked in the mirror, at all my scruff, with no idea what cruel, cruel fate lays ahead for them. Filled the sink with warm water, got a new razor and lathered up. No going back, I can do this. One last inhale, then take the blade from the jaw upward.
Two things immediately struck me. One, how loud this is. It was really like taking a credit card over the scruff. I can’t describe the sound in any other way. I didn’t remember shaving being so loud. And the second thing that hit me was
YYYEEOOOOWWWWWW! Holy fuck, this fucking hurts! The air rushing to my previously covered flesh stung and hurt like a …a…big…stingy hurty thing. What the fuck? I immediately saw bare flesh where I literally never saw any. I was a bit worried as I had been working in the sun that week, that this would just add to any raccoon eyes effect, but gladly my pale skin held no such surprises. OK, first swipe is good. No river of blood. No scarring. Breath in and out, let’s do it again. (Insert credit card sound here) YYEEOOOWWWCCHHH. Imagine an R2-D2 scream here. What the fuck? Why does this shit hurt so much? How can guys do this every day? How come not every dude looks like ZZ Top? This sucks. The rush of air stings newly shoven (and, yes, BTW, I think I just invented that word ‘shoven’, past tense of shave) skin. OK, this is not fun.
The process repeats itself. The water in the sink continually grows bloodier and hairer. It takes some finagling, but I preserve the soulpatch. Fuck, yea, still rock n roll. After a shower, my face is still a tingle, and not in a good way. Luckily, there is no massive bleeding to content with, so that’s dodging a bullet. But my face still feels weird. Maybe there is some sort of chemical reaction to my skin and natural light. It’s not very distracting, but it is a bit odd feeling. It’s like I’m a Mexican wrestler, and I have just lost my mask. There is one less layer between me and the world.
It feels odd, like I am a bit naked. I check, and no, thankfully, I am not naked, so it’s just the shaving thing. The best way I can describe it is it stings. Constantly. I guess there is some sort of chemical reaction with the sun. I miss the whiskers. I miss the sensation of having stubble over my lips. I discover my tongue has a weird habit of ranging my upper lip, searching for leftover food. Yea, I know that’s totally disgusting, but I said it. I miss that occasional tongue swipe and getting an extra bit of lunch a few hours after the fact. OK, I’ll stop.
I don’t really resent it. I feel it’s more like a ‘doing something different’ thing. Yes, I do feel a bit uncomfortable, a bit odd. But it’s not like I am constantly running my hands up and down my jaw going “wow”. I know this will all grow back in a day.
Interview comes and goes. It’s not the point of this post, and as you can figure, I didn’t get the job. So it left me with a naked face. My next worry was what my friends would say. I am probably more “image” than anyone I know. People just attribute certain things with me being me. I really don’t think I could suddenly shave my head, and not catch a ration of shit from my friends. I would expect that, and they would be right in doing so. I don’t know of anyone in my circle of friends that if they suddenly changed their look would catch as much heat as me. And that’s not a knock, I think it’s because just about everyone else I know is firmly entrenched in their life’s path. Me, well I guess I am more shallow than that. Again, it’s just my perception. So I worry a bit as I face them (no pun intended) for the weekend.
2 things happen that surprise me. 1) my scruff doesn’t quite have the Homer Simpson-like resiliency I thought it would. I really thought the next day my 5 o’clock shadow would be well past 11:30. I thought it would grow back so fast I could hear it. But it didn’t/doesn’t. (OK, I don’t know what the proper tense would be. Fuck off.) This lack of development is a bit of a bummer. Now that leaves me to face my friends.
Supportive as they are, they say…nothing. Which I guess is the best thing they could say. It means one of two things. 1) They never even noticed. Or 2) They don’t really care. OK, maybe a sub point of 1 is they didn’t wanna say anything. Whatev, I am fine with it. In the end, it takes a few days to get my scruff up to snuff. The whole experience didn’t really bother me and wasn’t as traumatic as expected. It was a bit more painful that I expected, though. I wouldn’t be totally averse to doing it again in the future. The scruff does make me feel a lot more comfortable though. Like Popeye says, “I yam who I yam.”
DVD Extras
Additional Commentary
This was written in 2 pieces. The actual interview happened about 6-7 weeks ago. I wrote about half of it, then went through the whole Vacation Post stuff, so this took a backseat for a while. I am not a big fan of basically writing 1 thing in 2 pieces so far apart. I won’t tell you where the first part ended, hopefully you can’t figure it out. I haven’t de-scruffed myself since then.
Yes, friends, I shaved.
I can’t tell you the last time I did it. I don’t shave for functions, funerals or weddings. Hell, I didn’t even shave for my wedding. Those of you lucky souls who know me, know my look. The “scruff” has always been a part of that. To properly set this dramatic development, some explanation is in order. At the very core, it’s this. I am ugly. Not fugly, mind you, just ugly. I am the kind of ugly that after you’ve had a few beers, I might, might, appear reasonably semi non-heinous. I figured out early on, I needed to hide my face. So, boom, long hair. But that only worked so much. So I decided to grow some scruff. More than a 5 o’clock shadow, not committing to the nerdliness of a full beard, somewhere in between. I did it for looks as well as convenience. I mean, what guy actually wants to shave every day? No one I know. Plus, I’m a bleeder. I seriously bleed just about every day on the “job”. But the thought of having a razor sharp blade that close to my neck and face early in the morning can lead to no good. So I opted to not even deal with it. Scruff was my way of hiding my ugly, another layer to hide behind.
In some circles, I am sure it tagged me as an 80’s holdover. Like I have all the Miami Vice episodes on tape. (Which I don’t by the way.) But it’s my look; I like it. I haven’t done any of this stuff to stand out or draw attention. I did it to hide more. Sometimes, I don’t like looking this way, but I am comfortable with it. So it’s everyone else’s problem to live with it.
Over the years, I added touches, like dying my hair, and experimenting with goatees, and longer chin scruff. A few years back, in addition to the scruff, I grew a soulpatch. The wife seemed to like it, and it’s pretty low-maintenance, so that has stuck, too.
Nature has gotten her revenge with my formally long and curly locks. All the dying and Stif Stuffing has taken its toll. Plus I tie it back now just about every day, which just yanks more and more of it out. I really think it’s something with bald men growing massive goatees. I guess it’s the thing to do. But check it out next time you see a bald guy; I bet he has a rockin’ goatee.
Anyway, when I got word about this interview, I toyed with the idea of shaving. I certainly wouldn’t take the soulpatch off, it takes to long to grow back. Plus, I’m like Homer Simpson when he shaves; the muzzle just grows right back in an hour. So I saw all of this as a sign that now was the time to experiment. Well, all of this, plus my trimmer shit the bed, so I was kinda screwed. No problem, I can man up. The fateful morning came. I looked in the mirror, at all my scruff, with no idea what cruel, cruel fate lays ahead for them. Filled the sink with warm water, got a new razor and lathered up. No going back, I can do this. One last inhale, then take the blade from the jaw upward.
Two things immediately struck me. One, how loud this is. It was really like taking a credit card over the scruff. I can’t describe the sound in any other way. I didn’t remember shaving being so loud. And the second thing that hit me was
YYYEEOOOOWWWWWW! Holy fuck, this fucking hurts! The air rushing to my previously covered flesh stung and hurt like a …a…big…stingy hurty thing. What the fuck? I immediately saw bare flesh where I literally never saw any. I was a bit worried as I had been working in the sun that week, that this would just add to any raccoon eyes effect, but gladly my pale skin held no such surprises. OK, first swipe is good. No river of blood. No scarring. Breath in and out, let’s do it again. (Insert credit card sound here) YYEEOOOWWWCCHHH. Imagine an R2-D2 scream here. What the fuck? Why does this shit hurt so much? How can guys do this every day? How come not every dude looks like ZZ Top? This sucks. The rush of air stings newly shoven (and, yes, BTW, I think I just invented that word ‘shoven’, past tense of shave) skin. OK, this is not fun.
The process repeats itself. The water in the sink continually grows bloodier and hairer. It takes some finagling, but I preserve the soulpatch. Fuck, yea, still rock n roll. After a shower, my face is still a tingle, and not in a good way. Luckily, there is no massive bleeding to content with, so that’s dodging a bullet. But my face still feels weird. Maybe there is some sort of chemical reaction to my skin and natural light. It’s not very distracting, but it is a bit odd feeling. It’s like I’m a Mexican wrestler, and I have just lost my mask. There is one less layer between me and the world.
It feels odd, like I am a bit naked. I check, and no, thankfully, I am not naked, so it’s just the shaving thing. The best way I can describe it is it stings. Constantly. I guess there is some sort of chemical reaction with the sun. I miss the whiskers. I miss the sensation of having stubble over my lips. I discover my tongue has a weird habit of ranging my upper lip, searching for leftover food. Yea, I know that’s totally disgusting, but I said it. I miss that occasional tongue swipe and getting an extra bit of lunch a few hours after the fact. OK, I’ll stop.
I don’t really resent it. I feel it’s more like a ‘doing something different’ thing. Yes, I do feel a bit uncomfortable, a bit odd. But it’s not like I am constantly running my hands up and down my jaw going “wow”. I know this will all grow back in a day.
Interview comes and goes. It’s not the point of this post, and as you can figure, I didn’t get the job. So it left me with a naked face. My next worry was what my friends would say. I am probably more “image” than anyone I know. People just attribute certain things with me being me. I really don’t think I could suddenly shave my head, and not catch a ration of shit from my friends. I would expect that, and they would be right in doing so. I don’t know of anyone in my circle of friends that if they suddenly changed their look would catch as much heat as me. And that’s not a knock, I think it’s because just about everyone else I know is firmly entrenched in their life’s path. Me, well I guess I am more shallow than that. Again, it’s just my perception. So I worry a bit as I face them (no pun intended) for the weekend.
2 things happen that surprise me. 1) my scruff doesn’t quite have the Homer Simpson-like resiliency I thought it would. I really thought the next day my 5 o’clock shadow would be well past 11:30. I thought it would grow back so fast I could hear it. But it didn’t/doesn’t. (OK, I don’t know what the proper tense would be. Fuck off.) This lack of development is a bit of a bummer. Now that leaves me to face my friends.
Supportive as they are, they say…nothing. Which I guess is the best thing they could say. It means one of two things. 1) They never even noticed. Or 2) They don’t really care. OK, maybe a sub point of 1 is they didn’t wanna say anything. Whatev, I am fine with it. In the end, it takes a few days to get my scruff up to snuff. The whole experience didn’t really bother me and wasn’t as traumatic as expected. It was a bit more painful that I expected, though. I wouldn’t be totally averse to doing it again in the future. The scruff does make me feel a lot more comfortable though. Like Popeye says, “I yam who I yam.”
DVD Extras
Additional Commentary
This was written in 2 pieces. The actual interview happened about 6-7 weeks ago. I wrote about half of it, then went through the whole Vacation Post stuff, so this took a backseat for a while. I am not a big fan of basically writing 1 thing in 2 pieces so far apart. I won’t tell you where the first part ended, hopefully you can’t figure it out. I haven’t de-scruffed myself since then.
Clothes Shopping
Awright, guys, raise your hands if you hate going clothes shopping. (Trust me here, girlies, all the dudes are raising their hands, which is better than what they usually do with their hands in front of the computer) I will speak for the penised population and say we hate clothes shopping for ourselves. And here’s a newsflash, we generally hate clothes shopping for you girls, too. “No your ass doesn’t look big”, “yes that dress is fine on you”, “no, those pants don’t look any different from the other 30 pair of ‘taupe’ color pants you have”. We hate clothes shopping for ourselves. It has to have something to do with our male genes. Maybe because every time we shop, all of a sudden we see the 5 year old version of ourselves trying on all the horribly tacky clothes that our mom lovingly picked out for us. God, the pants she stuck me in when I was a kid.
I have very little fashion sense, especially when it comes to “dress up”. You know occasions that require my shirt to have buttons, my pants to be ironed, non sneaker like attire to be on my size 12s. Egad, do I have to wear a tie? I can count my suit jackets on one hand. I own 3; 2 black, and one..well…fuck, I totally forget, even though I just bought it a few months ago. I know 2 are black; they’re all purpose. Weddings, funerals, Xmas parties, business dinners, etc. Back when I was working, there was one dude who we always busted on because he always wore a black suitcoat at national meetings. All along, I was hoping my hip crowd would never notice I was doing the exact damn thing. I am sure they did, but at least never had the decency to call me on it to my face.
I don’t like getting dressed up. I hate it. I see nothing wrong with wearing a ratty old band t-shirt, cargo/board shorts and flips. OK, in the winter, shirt jeans (black, of course) and high top sneakers (because they make my size 12s look a mere size 11 ½). Anything out of that, and I feel severely motarded. I feel uncomfortable in my own skin, and most likely the social situation I find myself in. Or maybe it’s because I sweat like a fucking hog (they sweat, don’t they?) when you wrap me in a long sleeve shirt, tie, jacket, uncomfortable pants and shoes. I feel totally enclosed, like I am some sort of nerd sandwich.
So we’re going to a wedding tomorrow. That’s going to be outside. For those of you that don’t live here, I will tell you it’s been high 80’s low 90’2 for seemingly 2 weeks now. So the prospect of being all suited up for an outdoor wedding and reception is pretty appalling to me right now. Which means, fuck, I gotta go buy some new threads. So off to the fashion haven us poor folks call Kohl’s. I guess I shouldn’t rag on Kohl’s. I think they actually have some pretty cool stuff that you can’t find in any other of a number of retail clothiers. And their prices seem to be more than fair. It’s one of those places that say the regular price is X, but their price is so much cheaper, you would be retarded to not buy it. I am sure it’s an old practice, but not a lot of stores seem to do it anymore. You can’t go to Kohl’s too often, though. It’s a real good place to go, like 3-4 times a year, anything more would be a waste. Plus they apparently have some great sales if you have their card, coupon and correct blood type.
I do what any good husband would do; beg my wife to dress me. I still hold veto power, and it mostly an exercise of me holding up a shirt and pants and continually asking “does this go?” OK, so maybe once I asked if my ass looked fat, I’ll give ya that one. We both agree we aren’t getting too dressed up. I catch a break as this means, no jacket, no tie. Sweet! But I do have to buy a whole new ensemble. T gives me a bit of a head start by picking out the pants. OK, that’s half the battle. The pants are a light beige. In essence, pretty much anything else will match. As I browse, I come across some killer seersucker shirts. I know, I know, seersucker and all, but they were cool, palm tree covered light and airy shirts. Just what I need. I am all over this rack as T returns with her proposed shirt selections.
I flash back to being that 5 year old whose mom is forcing me to wear pretty much the ugliest stuff she can find. I am not some demented Ken doll she can dress up as she wishes. These shirts are ugly and very unKev. I mean those of you who have been lucky to have met me in person know I have a certain “look”. I am tall, over 6 foot. I still have shoulder length long hair, though it seems to be falling out like fetuses from the Spears sisters’ legs (ZING!), and I guess what you could call a rapidly decaying formerly athletic build. Scruff and a soul patch.
She brings me these shirts that look like they were picnic blankets in a previous life. Ugly picnic blankets. I mean, stripes, and designs and multicolored. I mean, I guess it’s great if you are an accountant or office manager or something. But not for a dude vainly holding onto his rock n’ roll past. The best way I can describe it, is like you rip the head of a typical Target model, and replace it with Nickelback dude. And vice versa. OK, that might be a pretty shitty analogy, but it’s the best I can do. She says to basically look for something ‘like this’ and leave for the women’s department.
Maybe I just never noticed before. Maybe all stores aren’t like this. But for this particular Kohl’s the women’s section is easily twice as big as the men’s. Oh vey, this could take a while. I have actually lost T in this store. It doesn’t take me too long to cruise the men’s section, and find a few possible shirt options. And then it’s like I am Michael Waltrip in any race. I just go around and around in circles, not really doing much. It doesn’t take me too much time to entirely cover the men’s and old-men’s-vainly-trying-to-look-young-section. Over and over. Yea, I did scoop up a few things. But really here, my work is done. Now it’s a battle to find T and het the hell outta here.
I find her relatively quickly. And she actually OKs my shirt choices. She’s not as lucky as me, she doesn’t find anything to wear. I mean, really, who the hell gets married and has the reception outside in fucking August? Another ray of luck shines down, as we agree to not buy shoes, we will wear flips. That’s fucking money right there and why I love this girl so damn much. That’s right, I am going to a wedding wearing flips; even with my disgusting toenail that has been filled with old blood since it got smacked in hockey. I will look ‘right’, I will not look/feel out of place. It could always be worse, I could be that schmuck wearing that tux in 90 degree heat. Actually, the groom is way cool, and a fellow Avalanche fan, so I will try to limit my bitching. I know there will be other stiffs there who felt like they had to wear the whole suit get up. Maybe, their girl made them do it. Either way, I will be mocking them.
I believe my stuff I won’t even have to iron. I fucking hate ironing; I try and try, but am just no good at it. T usually has to swoop in like SuperGirl and save the day. I’ve asked her repeatedly to dress up like SuperGirl, but that is a post for another day. She ended up getting a sundress, so we are all good to go. And maybe, just maybe, I will shave my toe knuckle hair. After all, he is an Avalanche fan…..
I have very little fashion sense, especially when it comes to “dress up”. You know occasions that require my shirt to have buttons, my pants to be ironed, non sneaker like attire to be on my size 12s. Egad, do I have to wear a tie? I can count my suit jackets on one hand. I own 3; 2 black, and one..well…fuck, I totally forget, even though I just bought it a few months ago. I know 2 are black; they’re all purpose. Weddings, funerals, Xmas parties, business dinners, etc. Back when I was working, there was one dude who we always busted on because he always wore a black suitcoat at national meetings. All along, I was hoping my hip crowd would never notice I was doing the exact damn thing. I am sure they did, but at least never had the decency to call me on it to my face.
I don’t like getting dressed up. I hate it. I see nothing wrong with wearing a ratty old band t-shirt, cargo/board shorts and flips. OK, in the winter, shirt jeans (black, of course) and high top sneakers (because they make my size 12s look a mere size 11 ½). Anything out of that, and I feel severely motarded. I feel uncomfortable in my own skin, and most likely the social situation I find myself in. Or maybe it’s because I sweat like a fucking hog (they sweat, don’t they?) when you wrap me in a long sleeve shirt, tie, jacket, uncomfortable pants and shoes. I feel totally enclosed, like I am some sort of nerd sandwich.
So we’re going to a wedding tomorrow. That’s going to be outside. For those of you that don’t live here, I will tell you it’s been high 80’s low 90’2 for seemingly 2 weeks now. So the prospect of being all suited up for an outdoor wedding and reception is pretty appalling to me right now. Which means, fuck, I gotta go buy some new threads. So off to the fashion haven us poor folks call Kohl’s. I guess I shouldn’t rag on Kohl’s. I think they actually have some pretty cool stuff that you can’t find in any other of a number of retail clothiers. And their prices seem to be more than fair. It’s one of those places that say the regular price is X, but their price is so much cheaper, you would be retarded to not buy it. I am sure it’s an old practice, but not a lot of stores seem to do it anymore. You can’t go to Kohl’s too often, though. It’s a real good place to go, like 3-4 times a year, anything more would be a waste. Plus they apparently have some great sales if you have their card, coupon and correct blood type.
I do what any good husband would do; beg my wife to dress me. I still hold veto power, and it mostly an exercise of me holding up a shirt and pants and continually asking “does this go?” OK, so maybe once I asked if my ass looked fat, I’ll give ya that one. We both agree we aren’t getting too dressed up. I catch a break as this means, no jacket, no tie. Sweet! But I do have to buy a whole new ensemble. T gives me a bit of a head start by picking out the pants. OK, that’s half the battle. The pants are a light beige. In essence, pretty much anything else will match. As I browse, I come across some killer seersucker shirts. I know, I know, seersucker and all, but they were cool, palm tree covered light and airy shirts. Just what I need. I am all over this rack as T returns with her proposed shirt selections.
I flash back to being that 5 year old whose mom is forcing me to wear pretty much the ugliest stuff she can find. I am not some demented Ken doll she can dress up as she wishes. These shirts are ugly and very unKev. I mean those of you who have been lucky to have met me in person know I have a certain “look”. I am tall, over 6 foot. I still have shoulder length long hair, though it seems to be falling out like fetuses from the Spears sisters’ legs (ZING!), and I guess what you could call a rapidly decaying formerly athletic build. Scruff and a soul patch.
She brings me these shirts that look like they were picnic blankets in a previous life. Ugly picnic blankets. I mean, stripes, and designs and multicolored. I mean, I guess it’s great if you are an accountant or office manager or something. But not for a dude vainly holding onto his rock n’ roll past. The best way I can describe it, is like you rip the head of a typical Target model, and replace it with Nickelback dude. And vice versa. OK, that might be a pretty shitty analogy, but it’s the best I can do. She says to basically look for something ‘like this’ and leave for the women’s department.
Maybe I just never noticed before. Maybe all stores aren’t like this. But for this particular Kohl’s the women’s section is easily twice as big as the men’s. Oh vey, this could take a while. I have actually lost T in this store. It doesn’t take me too long to cruise the men’s section, and find a few possible shirt options. And then it’s like I am Michael Waltrip in any race. I just go around and around in circles, not really doing much. It doesn’t take me too much time to entirely cover the men’s and old-men’s-vainly-trying-to-look-young-section. Over and over. Yea, I did scoop up a few things. But really here, my work is done. Now it’s a battle to find T and het the hell outta here.
I find her relatively quickly. And she actually OKs my shirt choices. She’s not as lucky as me, she doesn’t find anything to wear. I mean, really, who the hell gets married and has the reception outside in fucking August? Another ray of luck shines down, as we agree to not buy shoes, we will wear flips. That’s fucking money right there and why I love this girl so damn much. That’s right, I am going to a wedding wearing flips; even with my disgusting toenail that has been filled with old blood since it got smacked in hockey. I will look ‘right’, I will not look/feel out of place. It could always be worse, I could be that schmuck wearing that tux in 90 degree heat. Actually, the groom is way cool, and a fellow Avalanche fan, so I will try to limit my bitching. I know there will be other stiffs there who felt like they had to wear the whole suit get up. Maybe, their girl made them do it. Either way, I will be mocking them.
I believe my stuff I won’t even have to iron. I fucking hate ironing; I try and try, but am just no good at it. T usually has to swoop in like SuperGirl and save the day. I’ve asked her repeatedly to dress up like SuperGirl, but that is a post for another day. She ended up getting a sundress, so we are all good to go. And maybe, just maybe, I will shave my toe knuckle hair. After all, he is an Avalanche fan…..
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