Surely there must be something wrong with me. I am a grown, well mannered adult. I am sure one day I will hold a respectable and responsible job, when I fucking find one. I have never been arrested. I talk to most of my family. I am happily married; at least that’s what I think I am. But everyone is doing something that I refuse to. Just about everyone I know is on Facebook.
I don’t get the hubbub. I have a MySpace, and am perfectly content with that. O, how everyone I know goes on and on about Facebook. “I’m on it all the time.” “I’ve met so many old friends there.” Maybe it’s my decidedly old school thinking. Maybe it’s something new that I secretly fear. Or maybe it’s because I think everyone on there is a narcissist. Who am I to judge? I get emails all the time from people I barely know who invite me on. I think it’s about time to see what all this hullabaloo is all about.
I’m no fool though. I create a bogus account. No way I am giving myself up if I don’t like what I see. Here’s the first thing I don’t like about Facebook; you can’t see anyone’s page. There are many attention whores on MySpace who have their pages as public, so you can look at their blogs & pictures. You can get a general idea of what they are up to. You can see where they work, if they’re married, what they like to do, etc. It’s a great way to just kind of “drop in” and see what this person is doing, then scram with never revealing yourself. Thank God the internet has made stalking so much easier.
No such luck on FB. Every page is locked; you have to be their friend to have access. All you get is a picture, and sometimes a location. It seems to me, that just like in MySpace, all these pictures seem very deliberately posed & staged, but I will get to that later on. Yet, in many cases, you can see those person’s friends. Huh?
Here I am old school. Friend is a very serious, heavy word. I don’t really consider myself having very many friends. Yes, it is a small group, but I would almost be willing to die for any of my friends. Almost. So the fact that you can go to someone’s FB, or even MySpace for that matter, and see they have 300 friends is a turn off to me. It tells me this person has totally devalued the meaning of “friend”. Apparently, to these folks, someone who you’ve known all your life is in equal standing with someone you met at that kegger last week. That’s rude and disrespectful in my world.
I also think much of FB is lurid. I see just about every girl lists her maiden name as well as her married name(s). It’s almost like they think someone is out there, thinking of them, pining for them, searching for them. It’s a little bit high school for me. Yet, the coin has another side; it’s also a great way to track down girls as well. Ah, the net givith and taketh away. That’s why I am not on FB, nor use my real name on MS. I am not looking to be found. Honestly, I really don’t think there is anyone out there actively combing the Net to look for me. But I would be scared to find that out, though. There are very clearly a few people I hope never to hear from again. The fact that they could look me up on FB is a bit scary. I don’t want any of my stalker ex-girlfriends bothering me these days. Yes, Christina Applegate, I’m talking about you. (make ‘call me’ motion with hand.)
I don’t like the search engine. It needs to be expanded upon. The by name field needs to be filtered by city. And sure, options like by work and school are fair. But it could be more. Other search options should include; by name of bar, by name & place of party, train and of the catch all “that one time at…” I guess the appeal for me today will be high school. I hated my time at HS; and I have no contact with anyone from that era. You see, I believe in karma. We all know that friends will come and go over the years. There may be that one person that appears, and just as quickly fades for no reason. But I believe if you were really meant to be my friend, we would still be in touch today. Yes, I can look back and name 2 dozen people I wish I was still friendly with. There are a few people I wonder about quite often. But for whatever reason, we’re not in contact. Friendship goes 2 ways as well. And it just looks like maybe it was something that just runs its course. There have rarely been cases where someone has disappeared, then reappeared years down the road and assumed the same prominence.
High school seems to be the appropriate place to start, since I have no attachments there. This point is reaffirmed when I only barely recall 5 of the first 10 names. Lo and behold, here is a guy I was actually fairly tight with in grade school and high school, so let’s click on him. (Names will be changed to protect the guilty and the stupid.) First thing, Will, change your fucking picture. You look like a pedophile, which really wouldn’t surprise me. Hmm, a bunch of names that aren’t familiar, a girl I haven’t seen since 8th grade. Foggy HS memories start coming back. Names I haven’t thought of in 20 years. Hey, one of the smart girls turned out pretty cute, go figure. And that cute girl hit the wall, so sad. Man, this FB is all about busting illusions, huh?
It’s an odd collection, as I’m sure everyone’s is. I notice a lot of people either list where they now live, or who they work for. OK, that’s a big reason I won’t go on here. It’s hard to appear ‘successful’ when you’ve been out of work for 2 years. That is so not the image I would want to convey. Yea, this would have been cool 3 years ago when I was hob-nobbing with rockstars. That would have made all the girls jealous. Face it, if I got on there now & said I was unemployed, I am sure every one of those bitches would shake their head and go “yea, I thought so.”
How sweet, the HS sweethearts are still married and have 2 kids now. I am seeing a trend here that bothers me a bit that I will get to a bit later on. Ha, someone actually has their prom picture up, that’s funny. There’s the requisite burn out, pictured on the golf course. Damn, for sure, I thought that guy would end up huffing spray paint under the bridge. But, no, it appears even he can fucking find a job. WTF is wrong with me? Here is another one of the hot girls. It’s just Kay’s married name and a picture of her 2 kids. Seeing this makes me happy; it tells me she is now a fat cow. Ha, take that, Kay. As I scroll down, I see another disturbing trend that I will also touch on later.
Christ, there’s Pat! Pat was a tall, red haired geek. He was one of those guys a lot of people made fun of. And there he is, balding white hair, and with a girl, so good for him. O God, Ray. Ray was the nerdliest of the nerdliest. Yes, he was even worse than me. He always looked a bit odd. His hair always seemed wet. He was so bad, he used to be our bitch. My collective of nerds all sat at the same table for lunch. And we used to make him go and get out food. Then we’d fuck with him some more. We’d get him to get us fries, and when he came back we yelled at him because we wanted cheese fries, so Ray would have to go back up in line and exchange fries. I am not lying when I said we did this every fucking day. And Ray was also the kid who played with himself during religion class. No lie. We would watch him as his hand disappeared into his pocket. It looked like there was a small animal trapped in there, he was so active. Wait a minute, this is also the kid that handled our lunches? Uh, excuse me a minute as I go puke a bit. Unfortunately (or maybe fortunately), he chose not to post his picture.
Here’s another one of the girls I recall as cute, and it looks like she held up quite well. I guess there is some justice in the world. Shit, there is Steve. I hung out a lot with Steve in grade school. When we got to high school, he started showing some burn out tendencies. So it is no surprise his pic is him playing guitar in Mobile, Al. Nice arm tattoo, he is just the way I thought he would be.
So this brief jaunt down memory lane will now serve as the basis for the rest of my FB thoughts. Everyone is on here looking to get fucked. Everyone on here is a narcissist. Everyone on here is a poser. Let’s look at some of the trends I’ve uncovered.
Trend #1 the default pictures. There seem to be a few variations here. Some people show their wedding picture. By & by, this is OK. It satisfies two curiosities; 1) what you look like these days and 2) who you be fucking. I notice another trend, which I will term “look how well I am doing”. (and, yes, this is a bit tenuous since I am out of work, but, hey, write your own thing) Here is so and so on the boat. Really? OK, maybe it’s just my fragile state of mind, but it seems a tad too much. There is another trend of golf of all things. I don’t get golf, but I guess a lot of other guys do, as quite a few ex-classmates have their pic playing golf. Even the burnout has his picture on the golf course. Shit, I always thought he’d be on grass, but not that kind. Another one which I hate is pics with kids. Either you with your sperm donation or just the kids themselves. No one wants to see that. For example, there’s Jeff, another one of the more popular and handsome kids back then. His pic is him holding his kid. Now it’s not bad enough Jeff has a bunch of white in his hair, but holding a child makes him look like he’s pushing 50.
Seeing all this aging going on makes me feel pretty damn good. Why, you ask? Look, you know I have very little vanity or ego about my appearance. It’s not common or in vogue to be honest. I hope I don’t come off as having an ego here, but I will say it anyway. I look far better than most of the guys in my class today. Honest to God, no BS. I really think I have turned out far better than any of those ballsacks. Some have lost their hair, while I still have most of mine, and it’s still generally shoulder length.
A few months back, I ran into a girl I went to HS with. And she did not recognize me. This is really one of the biggest compliments any of those nerds could pay me. Yes, my hair is ‘long’, and I am trying my best to cultivate a true Grizzly Adams goatee these days. It is a fact I am in far better shape today then I was 20 years ago. In fact, I would make a fair wager to say I have a far better body than anyone on the football team. (Big whoop, I know that amounts to nothing in real life, but just lemme get my jollies here, OK?) I am really half tempted to get one of those infamous MySpace “angle” type pictures, and put it on their to boggle their little minds. I am sure I would win ‘best transformation from nerd to axe murderer’ at the reunion this year.
Default pictures can also be at the beach. My favorite ones are where it’s just the person all dolled up. You know they are available and trolling for action.
Yea, I think a lot of these photos cry “look at me!” Every picture tells a story, but the lack of a picture also tells a story. It tells everyone else you look horrible and hideous. I see some heifers in Will’s friends pictures, but at least they are who they are. But what’s the point of not putting your picture up? There is a fair deal of vanity to these things, definitely. So why not go all the way and commit? It only allows for rampant and probably incorrect speculation. (You have been reading this article, right?) This also applies if you have a picture of your pet.
I am always a bit jealous when I see some nerd I went to HS with ended up moving somewhere exotic. Like, you know, anywhere but here. I am sure it’s no where near as glamorous as I am envisioning, but that’s always been a hang up with me. And I see some people list their company name as well. OK, that makes me jealous, too.
Which brings me to Trend #2, which I find equally if not more so disturbing. No one had this many fucking friends. I am sorry, but I call shenanigans. No one has over 100 friends. It stops becoming about ‘friends’, and more about making people think you have that many friends. Seriously, no one falls for it. It becomes a cock-off to make sure you have more ‘friends’ than any one else. I make this decision based on Will. As I scrolled through his friends, I see many ‘friends’ he never even spoke to in HS. Now, all of a sudden, they’re friends? Bullshit, no they are not. It’s like baseball cards; you want more than anyone else. You want the ‘complete set’, even though that is an impossibility. You add that guy who vomited on your good shoes because you think it’s ‘funny’ you tell your friends. But it’s just another sign of your vanity and insecurity.
I’ve heard stories of people becoming addicted to FB; they’re on it all the time. Even though I have a lot of time on my hands, I think I check MS every few days. I know you can change your moods or something on there. Look, my life ain’t that interesting that I constantly have to update it every 10 seconds. I am sure a general statement of “I’m still fucking unemployed” will cover me for a period of time. I have heard stories of people updating it through out the day. “I am at work” “I am tired” “I am hungover” “I am 15 seconds older then when I was on here last”
All in all, it was a nice little trip down memory lane. It’s a mild temptation at best, but not enough for me to get on it. Yea, it’s a bit intriguing, and maybe if I was at a different point in life it would make sense. It would be flattering to have someone ‘find’ me, but everyone I know who wants to find me knows where I am. And that is good enough for me.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Things That Go Beep in The Night
Four in the morning
Came without a warning
Everybody’s got a place to be
-Night Ranger
Being unemployed, I spent a lot of time existing (because I sure as hell won’t call this living) in my house. I have become attuned to many things that previously would be unheard and unseen. Lately, I have become attuned to many sounds that previously were just ‘wallpaper’. It’s funny when you slow down, the things you can catch. Quiet can be so loud sometimes.
My house is no different. It’s a cacophony of sounds on days like this. Sometimes it’s all comforting; other times its pretty disconcerting. There are sounds that are constant. For example, the ticking of the Homer Simpson clock downstairs in the living room. The ticks can travel all the way upstairs to the bathroom. If I put another battery in the clock, Homer will issue one of his trademark quotes at the top of every hour. Yea, that’s pretty cool, but that got real old real quick the first few days. Plus it was freaking the dog out. So now we save Homer for just the special occasions, like wakes.
Our new fridge makes sounds. (It never fails, once you lose your job, every major appliance will fail. So far we’ve bought a dryer, washer and fridge.) It also has the annoying habit of freezing the icemaker. Ice gets caught in the chute, and the motor won’t turn to crush the ice. This has happened twice, and it’s a fucker both times. We’ve resorted to pouring hot water through the ice maker to melt the clogged ice. It’s not a very neat process, at least Bauer licks up all the water on the floor. I swear, if it was ethical to put Spic n Span on his tongue, I would have him clear the floors. Every few days, I will get some ice for my water, just to keep the chute clear. Then I will hear water run into the freezer, and a few more rounds of ice will drop during the day.
If it’s a windy day, the flag outside (duh) will whip back and forth. The wall will creak as the flag blows. There are the normal creaks and moans that any 50 year old house will have. Fortunately, it is not the scary kind, like footsteps on major joists shattering. And the toilet runs like a motherfucker.
Bauer performs his own concerts. You can hear his nails as he continues to scratch our exposed hardwood floors to shit. Even his dog tags emit a certain jingle that is all his own. That is actually pretty comforting. He’ll groan as he plops down on the floor. He’ll bark when other dogs walk by. Or the mailman. Or the Jehovah’s Witnesses, which is OK because I trained him to do that.
Over the last few weeks, months actually, there’s been a new sound. It happens twice. One seems to be intermittently on its own schedule. The other time is at freaking 4 o’clock every morning. I am a light sleeper. Often, I won’t hear its digital cry at 4AM. The last few weeks however, the alarm has gotten me almost every morning. I guess it’s not all bad, there have been times it’s awakened me from nightmarish dreams. You know the one with the scary monster that is chasing you and your feet won’t move? You just stand there as this killer rages towards you. The 4 AM beep can be a savior.
No one likes to get woken up at 4 fucking AM. Doesn’t matter what the cause. Kid crying, smoke alarm going off, bloodthirsty killer coming up the stairs. We’ve all been there. We hear that foreboding and unexplainable sound, and roll over in our warm bed praying it’s just nothing. Or nudge our mate, and pretend to be asleep so they can go put out that grease fire in the kitchen. It’s clear that over the last few weeks, I’ve been waking up at 4 when this hidden alarm goes off. It sounds like a digital alarm from a watch or stopwatch. Not terribly loud, but loud enough. Not big, but small enough to hide when it goes off.
The 4 AM wake up call doesn’t jive with me too well. Usually because I have to get up half a dozen times a night and go pee. We don’t have one of dem dere fancy bedrooms with the bathroom right next to the bed. Well, technically, we do have a small deck right off our bedroom that I might or might not have pissed off of during the summer. I’ll let the neighbors figure that one out. The bathroom is the other end of the hall. Not a long trip, but enough to keep me awake for another 45 minutes or so. You can imagine I am not thrilled to hear the digital rooster go off at 4. So one morning, I’m whizzing away, when I hear it go off. Ha! The stars have aligned! I run downstairs to try to track it down. I’m like a blind Perry Mason. The alarm stops before I can track it down. It’s coming from the dining room, possibly the closet. Bauer, who usually sleeps under the dining room table is looking at me like WTF are you doing? Now he’s up, and he wants to pee, too. I let him out as I stare into the black night, promising this will be the last time this happens to me. A fire is lit.
The next morning, I am now bent on finding this damn thing. I diligently tear everything apart in the closet. It’s a mess of various shit we haven’t used in years; sleeping bags, party favors, my pride, etc. And bags, lots and lots of bags. Backpacks, gym bags, hockey bag, sacks. It is in one of these that I find a stopwatch. Ha! I have finally found the culprit! Now if I can only somehow include this in my resume. I remove the battery, and leave it on my desk as a sign of victory. Ah, yes it sure will be sweet to sleep through 4 AM tomorrow…
My body wakes up a few minutes before the chirping would start. It’s somehow gotten on a schedule because of all this. But I will soon head back to sweet, sweet slumber come…. FUCK! Is that the alarm still going off?? WTF? I thought I got it! Shit! Shit, shit, shit. My wife rolls over, “I thought you said you got that thing?” “Yea, me too.”
As I Klog this now, I still hear that occasional beep. Fuck, this is pissing me off. T found a stopwatch in her schoolbag that might now be the culprit. And I believe I turned the alarm off. Now I will get a screwdriver (the tool, not the drink, although that might not be a bad idea, either) and pop the battery out of that. Hopefully, that will be it. Well, I better get to bed, I might have an early call tomorrow…
Bonus material
Commentary
OK, I admit, this is a rather quick and dirty Klog. It’s more of an exercise than my usual attempt at humor. Lately, I’ve been reading books about writing. And I’m trying to incorporate some things I’ve learned. This Klog is a bit more like a ‘slice of life’ piece then my usual stuff. I tried to bring in some minor details to make it feel like you hear all the usual sounds that go on in my house. So please forgive me if this wasn’t the usual “funniest Klog you’ve ever read” post. I hope you enjoyed it anyway, and please feel free to tell me if you didn’t.
Plus, I always wanted to start a Klog by quoting one of my favorite bands. Now I just gotta figure out how to start a Klog with Dogstar….
Came without a warning
Everybody’s got a place to be
-Night Ranger
Being unemployed, I spent a lot of time existing (because I sure as hell won’t call this living) in my house. I have become attuned to many things that previously would be unheard and unseen. Lately, I have become attuned to many sounds that previously were just ‘wallpaper’. It’s funny when you slow down, the things you can catch. Quiet can be so loud sometimes.
My house is no different. It’s a cacophony of sounds on days like this. Sometimes it’s all comforting; other times its pretty disconcerting. There are sounds that are constant. For example, the ticking of the Homer Simpson clock downstairs in the living room. The ticks can travel all the way upstairs to the bathroom. If I put another battery in the clock, Homer will issue one of his trademark quotes at the top of every hour. Yea, that’s pretty cool, but that got real old real quick the first few days. Plus it was freaking the dog out. So now we save Homer for just the special occasions, like wakes.
Our new fridge makes sounds. (It never fails, once you lose your job, every major appliance will fail. So far we’ve bought a dryer, washer and fridge.) It also has the annoying habit of freezing the icemaker. Ice gets caught in the chute, and the motor won’t turn to crush the ice. This has happened twice, and it’s a fucker both times. We’ve resorted to pouring hot water through the ice maker to melt the clogged ice. It’s not a very neat process, at least Bauer licks up all the water on the floor. I swear, if it was ethical to put Spic n Span on his tongue, I would have him clear the floors. Every few days, I will get some ice for my water, just to keep the chute clear. Then I will hear water run into the freezer, and a few more rounds of ice will drop during the day.
If it’s a windy day, the flag outside (duh) will whip back and forth. The wall will creak as the flag blows. There are the normal creaks and moans that any 50 year old house will have. Fortunately, it is not the scary kind, like footsteps on major joists shattering. And the toilet runs like a motherfucker.
Bauer performs his own concerts. You can hear his nails as he continues to scratch our exposed hardwood floors to shit. Even his dog tags emit a certain jingle that is all his own. That is actually pretty comforting. He’ll groan as he plops down on the floor. He’ll bark when other dogs walk by. Or the mailman. Or the Jehovah’s Witnesses, which is OK because I trained him to do that.
Over the last few weeks, months actually, there’s been a new sound. It happens twice. One seems to be intermittently on its own schedule. The other time is at freaking 4 o’clock every morning. I am a light sleeper. Often, I won’t hear its digital cry at 4AM. The last few weeks however, the alarm has gotten me almost every morning. I guess it’s not all bad, there have been times it’s awakened me from nightmarish dreams. You know the one with the scary monster that is chasing you and your feet won’t move? You just stand there as this killer rages towards you. The 4 AM beep can be a savior.
No one likes to get woken up at 4 fucking AM. Doesn’t matter what the cause. Kid crying, smoke alarm going off, bloodthirsty killer coming up the stairs. We’ve all been there. We hear that foreboding and unexplainable sound, and roll over in our warm bed praying it’s just nothing. Or nudge our mate, and pretend to be asleep so they can go put out that grease fire in the kitchen. It’s clear that over the last few weeks, I’ve been waking up at 4 when this hidden alarm goes off. It sounds like a digital alarm from a watch or stopwatch. Not terribly loud, but loud enough. Not big, but small enough to hide when it goes off.
The 4 AM wake up call doesn’t jive with me too well. Usually because I have to get up half a dozen times a night and go pee. We don’t have one of dem dere fancy bedrooms with the bathroom right next to the bed. Well, technically, we do have a small deck right off our bedroom that I might or might not have pissed off of during the summer. I’ll let the neighbors figure that one out. The bathroom is the other end of the hall. Not a long trip, but enough to keep me awake for another 45 minutes or so. You can imagine I am not thrilled to hear the digital rooster go off at 4. So one morning, I’m whizzing away, when I hear it go off. Ha! The stars have aligned! I run downstairs to try to track it down. I’m like a blind Perry Mason. The alarm stops before I can track it down. It’s coming from the dining room, possibly the closet. Bauer, who usually sleeps under the dining room table is looking at me like WTF are you doing? Now he’s up, and he wants to pee, too. I let him out as I stare into the black night, promising this will be the last time this happens to me. A fire is lit.
The next morning, I am now bent on finding this damn thing. I diligently tear everything apart in the closet. It’s a mess of various shit we haven’t used in years; sleeping bags, party favors, my pride, etc. And bags, lots and lots of bags. Backpacks, gym bags, hockey bag, sacks. It is in one of these that I find a stopwatch. Ha! I have finally found the culprit! Now if I can only somehow include this in my resume. I remove the battery, and leave it on my desk as a sign of victory. Ah, yes it sure will be sweet to sleep through 4 AM tomorrow…
My body wakes up a few minutes before the chirping would start. It’s somehow gotten on a schedule because of all this. But I will soon head back to sweet, sweet slumber come…. FUCK! Is that the alarm still going off?? WTF? I thought I got it! Shit! Shit, shit, shit. My wife rolls over, “I thought you said you got that thing?” “Yea, me too.”
As I Klog this now, I still hear that occasional beep. Fuck, this is pissing me off. T found a stopwatch in her schoolbag that might now be the culprit. And I believe I turned the alarm off. Now I will get a screwdriver (the tool, not the drink, although that might not be a bad idea, either) and pop the battery out of that. Hopefully, that will be it. Well, I better get to bed, I might have an early call tomorrow…
Bonus material
Commentary
OK, I admit, this is a rather quick and dirty Klog. It’s more of an exercise than my usual attempt at humor. Lately, I’ve been reading books about writing. And I’m trying to incorporate some things I’ve learned. This Klog is a bit more like a ‘slice of life’ piece then my usual stuff. I tried to bring in some minor details to make it feel like you hear all the usual sounds that go on in my house. So please forgive me if this wasn’t the usual “funniest Klog you’ve ever read” post. I hope you enjoyed it anyway, and please feel free to tell me if you didn’t.
Plus, I always wanted to start a Klog by quoting one of my favorite bands. Now I just gotta figure out how to start a Klog with Dogstar….
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Girl Scout Cookies
I got some disturbing news today. I heard a commercial declare that February is National Girl Scout Cookie Month.
Huh? Just when exactly did they successfully lobby Congress for this? When I was growing up, February was always Black History Month. I sure hope those damn Girl Scouts don’t cause a riot over this. I thought they were supposed to be helpful little things.
OK, so maybe you are not as disturbed as I over this news. This mean for the next month, where ever I go-grocery store, gas station, sperm bank, free clinic-those damn Scouts are going to be there. “Would you like to buy some Girl Scout cookies? Would you like to buy some Girl Scout cookies?” O puke.
Let’s just call this what it is-racketeering. These little snots are like the Mafia..um…I mean…of course….if such thing as a …Mafia actually existed. Which of course it doesn’t. That’s just in the movies. Anyway, this means a month of constantly being accosted. The rotary phone, the milkman and the plague have all made their exit, as they are unneeded these days. So why do GS cookies still linger on?
I mean, who came up with this marketing plan anyway? “OK, we’ll sell cookies to raise funds, that’s a great idea. Now where can we sell our cookies? I know! In front of grocery stores!” Huh? That makes no sense. Why would I want to buy GS cookies in front on a grocery store, when, for less money, I can actually go in to the grocery store and buy more cookies? And good ones too, like Double Stuf or Chips Ahoy. Say what you want about mass produced cookies, but Oreo and Chips Ahoy are cookie nirvana. Plus you get, like, 100 of them for roughly the same price. Hell, you can even get more Hydrox cookies for the same money.
Who amongst you has not settled down in front of the TV with a package of Oreos, just to wake up at 4 AM with the TV still on and find the Oreos all gone, the couch covered in Oreo residue and even mouth shaped pieces of the package missing? G’head, my hand is raised as well.
Wanna piss off a Girl Scout? (and who here really hasn’t had the desire?) Blow by them on the way into the grocery store. Buy a thing of Chips Ahoy. When you come out, loudly proclaim to them, “Why should I spend 3.50 for your crappy cookies, when I can spend 2.89 for 75 Chip Ahoy cookies?” Then laugh maniacally as open the bag right in front of them. “Yum,” as you cram your hole with delicious Chips Ahoy goodness. Hey, someone has to teach these girls about reality, it might as well be you. O sure, the moms will go on about how you “just scarred them for life”. But trust me, as these girls grow up, they will thank you for what they did. Then they will eat another sleeve of Double Stufs.
The commercial continues. “And as always, a box of GS cookies are $3.50. 3 fucking 50? Do you know how many cookies are in a typical GS box. I will tell you; it’s fucking 15. So that equals…(let’s see, 15 gazinta 3.50…) like 23 cents per cookie. In this economy? Are you kidding? For .23 the cookie should at least come with a slip of paper with a favorable fortune.
“Your purchase will help a young girl learn and grow,” the commercial continues. Huh? When I was young, you saw the occasional Scout picking up trash or helping an elderly lady across the street. Now think, when is the last time you saw a Scout do that? Or anything? There’s no community presence at all. I never see Girl Scouts raking my lawn, shoveling my driveway, spray painting my house number on the curb or even helping me stumble home from the strip club where all their mothers work. Don’t these girls get badges for knot-tying or old lady helpering? The only time I see the snots are when they are peddling their cookies. So where does all this dirty cookie money go? Is there some secret clubhouse where they hang out with all the new Barbie & Bratz toys they buy? I call for a quick and thorough investigation.
I always though the Scouts were breeding grounds for predators who weren’t religious. There is something way freaky about seeing a 40 year old Boy Scout in the 4th of July parade. Why would I want to give money to support something like that? I swear one year, one of those creepy old Boy Scouts had a badge for something called “The Ol’ Brown Eye”.
If I get one more dismissive look form one of those little whores when I tell them I am not buying any of their frigging cookies, I really might snap. “Listen, honey, I can’t afford the freakin’ 3.50 this year because I am UNEMPLOYED. My money has to go to other things, like the power company, the water company, the mortgage, car insurance. God forbid you are one day in my shoes. So take yer Goddamned box of cookies and shove them up your…”
Whoops! Let’s not go there.
And honestly, I do have another axe to grind here. Like 16-17 years ago, the Girl Scouts made awesome strawberry and cream cookies. I swear it, though no one seems to remember it. I even did a fairly lengthy internet search (5 minutes) and found only 2 mentions on a message board about them. Isn’t this the type if shit they invented the Internet for? But I know they did make them, and I gladly devoured the few boxes I was ever able to lay paws on. I see now they have introduced a new flavor called daisy go rounds, which sounds dangerously close to daisy chain if you ask me.
In the next few weeks, you will no doubt be pestered by a dozen or so folks who want you to buy a box of cookies from their daughter’s troop. It is kind of an awkward situation to say, “No, I have 7 boxes of shitty Samoas at home that I won’t eat.” No one likes to be constantly asked, and if the GS were really on the ball, they would present you with a small pin that says something to the effect of “No thanks. I already bought GS cookies this year. Now kindly leave me the fuck alone.” OK, so the GS would probably never put ‘fuck’ in any of their promotional material. But if they were slick, you’d have to buy like 3 boxes to get the pin. Now, that’s marketing.
Huh? Just when exactly did they successfully lobby Congress for this? When I was growing up, February was always Black History Month. I sure hope those damn Girl Scouts don’t cause a riot over this. I thought they were supposed to be helpful little things.
OK, so maybe you are not as disturbed as I over this news. This mean for the next month, where ever I go-grocery store, gas station, sperm bank, free clinic-those damn Scouts are going to be there. “Would you like to buy some Girl Scout cookies? Would you like to buy some Girl Scout cookies?” O puke.
Let’s just call this what it is-racketeering. These little snots are like the Mafia..um…I mean…of course….if such thing as a …Mafia actually existed. Which of course it doesn’t. That’s just in the movies. Anyway, this means a month of constantly being accosted. The rotary phone, the milkman and the plague have all made their exit, as they are unneeded these days. So why do GS cookies still linger on?
I mean, who came up with this marketing plan anyway? “OK, we’ll sell cookies to raise funds, that’s a great idea. Now where can we sell our cookies? I know! In front of grocery stores!” Huh? That makes no sense. Why would I want to buy GS cookies in front on a grocery store, when, for less money, I can actually go in to the grocery store and buy more cookies? And good ones too, like Double Stuf or Chips Ahoy. Say what you want about mass produced cookies, but Oreo and Chips Ahoy are cookie nirvana. Plus you get, like, 100 of them for roughly the same price. Hell, you can even get more Hydrox cookies for the same money.
Who amongst you has not settled down in front of the TV with a package of Oreos, just to wake up at 4 AM with the TV still on and find the Oreos all gone, the couch covered in Oreo residue and even mouth shaped pieces of the package missing? G’head, my hand is raised as well.
Wanna piss off a Girl Scout? (and who here really hasn’t had the desire?) Blow by them on the way into the grocery store. Buy a thing of Chips Ahoy. When you come out, loudly proclaim to them, “Why should I spend 3.50 for your crappy cookies, when I can spend 2.89 for 75 Chip Ahoy cookies?” Then laugh maniacally as open the bag right in front of them. “Yum,” as you cram your hole with delicious Chips Ahoy goodness. Hey, someone has to teach these girls about reality, it might as well be you. O sure, the moms will go on about how you “just scarred them for life”. But trust me, as these girls grow up, they will thank you for what they did. Then they will eat another sleeve of Double Stufs.
The commercial continues. “And as always, a box of GS cookies are $3.50. 3 fucking 50? Do you know how many cookies are in a typical GS box. I will tell you; it’s fucking 15. So that equals…(let’s see, 15 gazinta 3.50…) like 23 cents per cookie. In this economy? Are you kidding? For .23 the cookie should at least come with a slip of paper with a favorable fortune.
“Your purchase will help a young girl learn and grow,” the commercial continues. Huh? When I was young, you saw the occasional Scout picking up trash or helping an elderly lady across the street. Now think, when is the last time you saw a Scout do that? Or anything? There’s no community presence at all. I never see Girl Scouts raking my lawn, shoveling my driveway, spray painting my house number on the curb or even helping me stumble home from the strip club where all their mothers work. Don’t these girls get badges for knot-tying or old lady helpering? The only time I see the snots are when they are peddling their cookies. So where does all this dirty cookie money go? Is there some secret clubhouse where they hang out with all the new Barbie & Bratz toys they buy? I call for a quick and thorough investigation.
I always though the Scouts were breeding grounds for predators who weren’t religious. There is something way freaky about seeing a 40 year old Boy Scout in the 4th of July parade. Why would I want to give money to support something like that? I swear one year, one of those creepy old Boy Scouts had a badge for something called “The Ol’ Brown Eye”.
If I get one more dismissive look form one of those little whores when I tell them I am not buying any of their frigging cookies, I really might snap. “Listen, honey, I can’t afford the freakin’ 3.50 this year because I am UNEMPLOYED. My money has to go to other things, like the power company, the water company, the mortgage, car insurance. God forbid you are one day in my shoes. So take yer Goddamned box of cookies and shove them up your…”
Whoops! Let’s not go there.
And honestly, I do have another axe to grind here. Like 16-17 years ago, the Girl Scouts made awesome strawberry and cream cookies. I swear it, though no one seems to remember it. I even did a fairly lengthy internet search (5 minutes) and found only 2 mentions on a message board about them. Isn’t this the type if shit they invented the Internet for? But I know they did make them, and I gladly devoured the few boxes I was ever able to lay paws on. I see now they have introduced a new flavor called daisy go rounds, which sounds dangerously close to daisy chain if you ask me.
In the next few weeks, you will no doubt be pestered by a dozen or so folks who want you to buy a box of cookies from their daughter’s troop. It is kind of an awkward situation to say, “No, I have 7 boxes of shitty Samoas at home that I won’t eat.” No one likes to be constantly asked, and if the GS were really on the ball, they would present you with a small pin that says something to the effect of “No thanks. I already bought GS cookies this year. Now kindly leave me the fuck alone.” OK, so the GS would probably never put ‘fuck’ in any of their promotional material. But if they were slick, you’d have to buy like 3 boxes to get the pin. Now, that’s marketing.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Suffering for Art
In my quest to be a real ‘writer’ (stop your snickering), I’ve become aware I should expand my horizons. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m not going to stray too far from fart jokes and stuff, but maybe tackle some new challenges. It seems most writers suffer for their art. So why should I be any different? Sometimes great things come from pain. And, today, for you, brave reader, I am willing to suffer.
So there I am in Sam’s Club a few weeks back. I know, I know, evil empire and all, but I am out of work and that’s a damn good price for 8 pounds of chicken breast. I like to expand my food/drink horizons from time to time; try something new or I’ve never had before. You have to understand, as much as I write about how much I drink, I am really quite boring. The fact is I drink far more milk, water, green/black tea than anything else. Occasionally I step out and treat myself to Propel. And I’ve gotten into some funky juices now. Who ever thought blueberry and pomegranate juice wouldn’t taste like yak barf? I was looking for something new, and it came down to something called Fruit 20 or Talking Rain. I had never seen this Talking Rain stuff before. It’s one of those trendy drinks that brags about being organic and shit. OK, I’m game.
I come home, chill it, and proudly boast how on point I am. This stuff will be good for me, and no doubt increase my vitality, health and over all damn good looks. I drink the first one and-
BLAH! This shit tastes like fucking Alka Seltzer. Holy shit, how did this happen. After further review, this swill turns out to be ‘sparkling artesian spring water’. It comes in funky flavors like pomegranate & lime? I guess pomegranate is the new ‘it’ fruit. The label might as well say gravel and iodine. This shit is horrid. I have clearly made a gross error. I couldn’t even finish the 17 ounce bottle. Yea, that’s right, 17 ounces, 1 extra ounce of crap than usual bottles. I promptly try to forget I have a case of this shit now.
Flash forward a few weeks. I am a bit stalled for something creative to write about. Then it hits me. I can Klog about trying to finish one bottle of this stuff, how long it will take me and my thoughts. I will stretch my writing wings (and learn to fly again learn to live so free…). Suffering and misery could work for me.
So here we are. It’s just about 9:30 AM. I have already performed many household duties; wash, make the bed, do the dishes, and now is about the time I fucking bang my head against the wall as I search for decent job opps online. It is a meager existence to be sure. And I will document, real time, the progress of me trying to drink this shit. Yes, great writers write about their drug habits, I will try to sound manly drinking ‘sparkling water’. Hey, ya gotta start somewhere, and I can’t afford cocaine right now.
9:30 AM Taking the cap off now, here we go.
9:31 Ready to give up. I don’t even know why they say this has a flavor, I can only taste what I can only describe as “general yuckiness”
9:51 Jesus Christ, this sucks. Right now, how many other losers are there wearing Homer Simpson slippers cruising Monster, CareerBuilder, etc looking for a job? Ugh, how hopeless. Here’s what I’ve learned spending this much time online; there are apparently 3000 girls right here in my town that would fuck me, but no job that belies my degree and 8 years in sales and marketing. But I think this is the week I score an interview. Wanna know why? Because last night at hockey I got a black eye. I put my stick in front of this guy with a notorious slap shot. And I watch the ball leave his stick, bounce off of my blade and shoot right up to my eye. This morning, there isn’t much swelling, but I am sporting a nice shade of blood red from the side of my eye half way across. It looks like I put eye liner on, then stopped half way. Sigh, this dose of reality sucks, almost as much as this pomegranate and lime shit. I take another small sip, but I am clearly not winning.
10:05 Well, one good thing about this stuff, it makes me belch. The scary part is my burps actually have more taste going out.
10:57 Who am I kidding here? Why do I get so into an idea, and then just give up? Kinda like New Years’ Eve. At about 1 AM I decided I would try to stay up for 24 hours. Don’t ask me where I got that idea; probably the same place I got this one. Come the 23rd hour, I thought “what the fuck is the point” and went to bed. I am not giving up on this, it’s just a small break. That shit don’t taste any better at room temp, so I put it back in the fridge and will get after it in a bit.
1:04 There is nothing more depressing than trying to find a job. For the last few hours, it’s been the same Goddamn thing. Let’s see, I interviewed with them a year ago, sent them a resume more than a year ago, that one is the same company I interviewed with last year but with a new name. I think it’s dawning on me the best I can do is apparently assistant manager at Mr. Muffler. I wouldn’t even be Mr. Muffler, I would have to be Mr. Muffler Jr. Or Mr. Muffler the 2nd. After a maddening waste of time, I look forward to taking Bau for a walk. To
day it was snowing big, fluffy flakes. And as we were walking, we could hear church bells ringing off in the distance. Kinda cool in a serene way. I really think Bauer is the only one rooting against me landing a job. Most afternoons, I will take the PC downstairs, just so I can hang with him a bit. Anyway, I’m eating lunch now, and totally wussed out about drinking more of that Talking Rain shit. I wonder how they come up with the fruit combinations. Just who is responsible for aligning pomegranate with lemon? Wouldn’t lemon and lime make more sense? How about strawberry & banana. I will finish my lunch, then drink some more. Man, suffering for art sucks.2:06 Seriously, is this swill they feed to like hogs and sheep(s)? I can’t imagine anyone actually thirsting for this. “Hey, honey thanks for cutting the lawn in the 105 degree heat. Can I get you something to drink? How about a nice, cold pomegranate & lemon sparking water?” People can’t drink this on its own, no way. They have to mix it with something. What the hell, do you add like 5 teaspoons of sugar? Real fruit? What the hell do you…..o….o no….no…..no. Please don’t tell me I really came up with this idea. No. Fuck. I did. It’s there now. Shit, really? It can’t be any good, can it? Fuck. Fuck, I wonder what it tastes like….with coconut rum. Really? Dayload on a fucking Tuesday afternoon? Talk about stereotypical out of work loser. But it would be strictly in the name of science. Or literature. Fuck, if I do it, it is really opening up Pandora’s Box.
2:12 Pandora’s Box is opened. There is no turning back. I don’t know what this will taste like. At least with Coke, you can get a good idea of the mix by the color. And the Coke is just for coloring, BTW. But when you mix 2 clear liquids, you just never know. O well, cheers, and down the hatch.
2:13 First thoughts. Not enough rum. There is still an Alka Seltzer like, bitter taste right at the top. Not as chalky as just the plain sparkling water though. But since rum is involved, I owe it to follow it out.
2:16 Ok, this is odd. The more I sip-and make no mistake, this is something you can’t take a full swig of-the less and less grotesque it is. Which was exactly my angle with the chicks in high school. Actually, mixing this concoction reminds me of a story from when I was a kid. It was one of the rare weekends when my parents left me alone. I had to be like 14-15 and dumb as shit (Yea, funny how not much has changed). I had to take advantage. They had a small collection of liquor bottles. I knew if I took a lot from just one, they would notice. So my brilliant idea was to take just a little bit from ALL of them. I didn’t care about what mixed with what, it all went together. So in one big jug I mixed amaretto, vodkas, whiskeys, rums, etc. I then took my jug o’ happiness and met up with a friend so we could drink. Only, after I opened it up, I discovered that many strange and foreign reactions had taken place. The best way I can describe it is to say if looked like moose yack. Not that I’ve even seen moose vomit, but I imagine it to be fairly similar. Something congealed, and it looked like oats in larvae. But, fuck, I couldn’t waste it. So I summoned all the Irish in me to take a good, long swig. Now, I don’t remember waking up in the hospital 4 days later. ..just kidding. I realized I had just wasted the whole damn thing. It was undrinkable.
2:39 The slush is now becoming a bit sugary. I realize that the coconut taste is masked by the pomo-lime connection. And maybe some Coke would make things go a bit smoother. Hey, I never said I would drink the sparkling water straight, did I? No, I’m allowed to mix. There’s still a lot of the sparkling water left, though. I was hoping to knock it out in one more drink. What to do, what to do?
3:10 OK, the Coke def helps. Now there’s a bit of an unpleasant aftertaste, but over all, it’s far better than just the sparkling water.
4:30 Uh Oh, wife just pulled up, and I am surely buzzing. Shit, way to be the stereotype, dufus. She comes in. “Hey! Have you been drinking?” “Wha..wait…what honey? And I musht shay you look shimply rafhishing.” “Goddamn it, I am out earning money and you’re drinking? What the fuck? And hey! Is that an empty box of bon bons on the floor?” “Wha..wait…where? Aw shift. Umm…uh…Goddamn it Bauer! Bhad dhog! You are a vewy bahd dog.” “Uh, dipshit,” she replies,” dogs can’t eat chocolate, it makes them sick.” “Well,” dipshit answers, “that would explain the human size dump under the dining room table. Anh bfy the way, youuuu lhook shimply rashivishing.” Shit, no response. Have to go to back up plan. I roll on the floor, “Ow! My eye! My eye!”
7AM Next day. Shit, it’s Wednesday? What the hell happened to Tuesday? In conclusion, I was able to finish the bottle, but not on its’ own.
I hope you enjoyed my suffering, you sick bastards.
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