Irish Proverbs

Since I haven't done any Bullshit Facts lately, I thought on this most holy and sacred day, to put up Bullshit Irish Proverbs. In the interest of scoring cheap Google hits, I didn't put 'bullshit' in the title. But I think they are true, anyway. It's not like I can make this stuff up....

The Irish don’t “black out” we take “wee naps” to recharge

Man I call best friend is the man who pays my tab

The ladies pop their gladdies when the lassies shake their assies

A shot of Jamison adds an inch

A shot of Tullamore adds a cup size

No matter how much we drink, U2 still blows

The only worse offense than drinking green beer is spilling green beer

Alcoholism is a made up disease; like depression and homosexuality

Scottsmen do wear skirts

Get the Mexicans outta here. Their holiday is 2 months away

Cabbage regenerates the liver

May the bottom of your glass come before the empty of your wallet

Guinness is the fuel of the world

You can tell the Irish bar stools by how good they look from underneath

July 4th is just another day

There be three levels of intoxication; drunk, FUBAR and MacGowan

Getting a kiss from a redhead is getting a kiss from God

May the wind rise to keep the vomit out of your hair

May you be a half hour in bed before the bartender realizes you skipped out on your tab

Hangovers are God’s way of letting you know you had a good time

Beer is an ugly man’s best friend

May the road rise to meet you as you fall to the gutter

Put silk on a goat, and it is still a goat. Ditto your wife

Sobriety always thwarts drunkenness

Marry a mountain girl, and you marry the whole mountain. Kinky

A bored man is not a drinking man

Better you plow a field by day than plow into a field at night

May your son marry a beautiful fair skinned redhead; my your daughter marry someone far more manly than that girly lad Michael Flatley

A bar that does not have at least two Irish brews on tap is a bar no one goes to

Are you looking at me? ARE YOU LOOKING AT ME?

The Wildwood Story; Sun By the "C"

The time is almost upon me. My first foray into the world of literary…literariness is just about to be unleashed upon the masses. I will spare you the agony of rewriting and reediting the “piece” (as us authors like to call these things. Kind of like how directors call movies “pictures”.) Upon reading it aloud (something that sounds really fey, but actually works) and poring over it for the 50^th fucking time, there is always something that can be done over/better/away with. I can only liken it to the agony of a parent debating what to name their first child. If you fuck it up, you are screwed for life. And who knows if I will ever be ‘published’ again, so this may very well be my only shot, so I better not fuck it up. And this is also why we don’t have kids, because I’d want to name it Supreme Being. Boy or girl.

OK, so I guess I lied about sparing you, my bad.

Anywhoo, I will remind you of the Charlie Brown analogy I used in a previous Wildwood Story post. Now, the ball is teed up and I am approaching. My article will be online the first weekend of March, with the print version following the next week. I start to run to the ball. On Saturday, I check the site, and sure enough, the first paragraph of my story is on the front page. Only 4 stories make the front, and mine is good enough (or least sucky, depending how you look at it). Wow, this is wicked cool. Sure, all of my stuff up to this point has been online, but this is a new and wider audience. I am now full speed, ready to kick the winning field goal at the Super Bowl. Even that skank Lucy has a look of sour acceptance on her face.

I have a superstition. I really don’t want to read it online. For some motarded reason, I think that is bad luck. Yea, I know, don’t ask me why, I just do. But it’s OK to peek. I click to just scan the article. Foot just about to make contact with the footba….

I click my story, only to see another story pop up in its’ place. YOINK! Lucy pulls the ball out at the last possible moment, prompting a cartoon like head over heels swirl as I crash into the ground.

You have got to be kidding me. I get this far, only to have the wrong story pop up? Just my damned luck. “It’s OK, Charlie Brown,” Lucy tells me, “you can try again. I promise I won’t take the ball away this time.” I dust myself off, and wonder how GD loaded I must be to be hallucinating Lucy.

OK, this is a minor, albeit it totally unforeseen, setback. After all this is the internet, and can easily be fixed. I track down my story within the website. I start to approach the ball again. The article opens up. There’s my title! I am gonna kick the ever loving shit out of this ball now. There’s my na…

YOINK! With the accuracy and precision only a spiteful broad can have, Lucy pulls the ball away again.

Kecvin. My GD name is spelled wrong.

Kecvin.

Really? Seriously? Kecvin?

In reality, it’s an easy mistake to make, the c key is right next to the v key. Just one simple slip of the finger and my name is spelled wrong. I am lying on the ground after another cartoon worthy tumble. Lucy comes up to me, laughing with ball in hand. Then she kicks me right in the nuts. I realize now this is an analogy; Lucy is really life kicking me in the nuts.

Did I really just a say a cartoon character is an analogy for life? I don’t know what I’m smoking, but I want some.

My immediate worry now is that my name is misspelled in the print version as well. Again, the Net is an easy fix, print not so much. I am sure there is only one run of the paper, and that’s it, I’m signing autographs as ‘Kecvin’. OK, that’s a lie. I’m signing autographs ‘Supreme Being’.

I reluctantly email the editor of these glaring omissions. When they are fixed, I’ll put the link up so you can baste in all my literary badassedness.

The Wildwood Story; I Oughta Be in Pictures

“I would like to use a picture as well.” A bit surprised, I say, “Uh…I will have to check.” As my story nears daylight, this is the editor talking. “Yes, I always like to use pictures in the stories. Do you have any from when you were here as a kid?” I know I don’t, and I highly doubt any of my sisters have any pictures of me during those fabled Wildwood weekends. Which, I am actually OK with.

As you peruse my FB site, you will, for the most part, notice a lack of pictures. It never fails to astound me that some people have over a thousand fucking pictures on their FB account. I don’t think I’ve even been in a 1000 pictures in the last 10 years. Hell, I’m only in four in my wedding album, and that’s just because I was pulling a ‘that guy’ in the background. The fact of the matter is that this Wildwood story is striking at one of my neurosis.

I don’t like myself. No, not in some haughty taughty, self help section Borders dweller type of way. I am OK with the broken mess I am these days. I am actually very hyper-critical about how I look. Yes, I know, I can hear you saying, “But, Kev, you usually look like shit. Or hungover. In fact, when I think of underemployed loser, the face I see is yours.” Looking back now, maybe that’s why I’ve always favored my ‘caveman’ look. Grow hair from every possible place to cover all the flaws. (These days, apparently I have a lot of flaws in my nose and ears.)

I am not thrilled with this prospect. I have been diligent over the last few months asking my family if they have any pics of me from that era. I guess they all knew I was ugly back then, because no one has any. Truth of the matter is I would actually prefer a picture from that era. At least readers could say, “Geez, I sure hope he got better looking when he grew up.”

The paper will even take a current day picture of me in Wildwood. Problem again here is that I don’t have any. I took a bunch from this trip as well as the first time we took Bauer down there. It’s a shame the paper won’t take a picture of Bau whizzing on the beach, ‘cause I got like ten of those shots.

It appears the only solution is to go down to Wildwood to take a new picture. And while I may groan at the 2+ hour trip down to take just one picture, I am actually excited about having a real reason to see the beach again. As much as I would enjoy it, I am also freaking out. Because I know there is no humanly possible way I could ever be happy with any picture. There’s just so many things I would/could hate.

First of all, I would have to look presentable. And the freaking beach in February doesn’t exactly lend itself to summer attire. And I wouldn’t want to wear something too uptight, nor too casual. Christ, this is way too tough for me. I’m going to have to be Madonna and bring like 10 ‘ensembles’ down just to be happy. Can you say high maintenance?

I would freak about my hair. Not that I have as much as I used (or want) to. But an ill wind can make a barely passable hair day into a birds nest from hell. Unfortunately, until I perfect my wind control machine, I am at the mercy of the mighty blow. I can just feel the wind conspiring against me.

Plus, what look am I supposed to do? I hate my smile. I just feel it’s blatantly fake and obvious. I can’t see how I could smile and not have it say anything but “cheesy”. So then do I try to sport a serious look? Maybe the tortured writer look? Maybe try to sport that small, knowing smirk that seems to be all the rage with action heroes today? Ugh, how do real authors do this kind of thing? I suppose I could try the realistic way I look when I write. But I don’t think they would appreciate the astounding amount of empties that I pile on my desk to write these Klogs to entertain you. Plus, I would totally have to minimize that window with all the naked chicks.

And where would I go to take this snapshot? The beach and Boardwalk seem the appropriate, if not obvious, choices. What do I do? Look at the beach? Yea, maybe the picture will be of me looking away from the camera as opposed to looking into the lens. Maybe a nice shot of me gazing into the ocean? Or a shot of me casually sitting on the rails of the Boardwalk? Maybe even on the steps of the beloved house. That last one might actually constitute trespassing.

The picture will be in black and white. 90% of my wardrobe is black, so I should actually wear a different color. Nor should I wear my ‘liquor in the front, poker in the rear’ shirt. I yi yi, this is not very enjoyable now. I would much rather the story runs with no visual. I know I would totally drive T nuts with my wild and unpredictable mood swings. Which is funny, because it’s usually the other way around. (ZING! I can say this because I know she doesn’t read this. So no one go ratting me out, eh?)

As it stands now, nature and life might prohibit this from even happening. Wildwood got walloped with snow. And I don’t think a picture of me sitting on a pile of yellowed snow as high as the boardwalk would serve the purpose. It’s almost like the cosmic balance of nature has stepped in to save me.

The saying goes we all suffer for art. While it’s debatable if this article is “art”, I can tell you I got the suffering thing down pat.

Epilogue: A few days ago, I email the editor that I just can’t produce a picture. She tells me she’s running it without a picture. D’oh!

New Kevolution Theory Word; Snoading

Snoading (sno-ding) v the practice of tying a load on when it's snowing; the intersection of snowing and drinking

Ex; "It's supposed to snow again? Fuck shoveling, I'm gonna be snoading."

Snoader (sno-derr) n someone who actively snoads

Ex; The package store is full of pathetic snoaders today."

Now go forth and spread the word.

The Wildwood Story; Title Hopes

I think you know me to be an honest kinda fella. But, truth is, I’ve been hiding something from you. I have my reasons. I will call your attention to an analogy that has seemed to be running through my pathetic existence the last few years; life is like Charlie Brown trying to kick that damn football. And for the last 8 months, I have seen that ball teed up right in front of me. Not taunting me or mocking me; just there. Enough distance that it wouldn’t be tantalizingly close to me. But has time has gone on, it has come closer. I mean, this is very good news for me and all. But it is just my pessimistic nature to not jinx it or call attention to it. The last thing I want to do is make a big deal, only for that bitch Lucy to come along and swipe the ball just as I kick. But now I have reason to believe that it will happen.

Something I wrote is going to be published. Like, semi-real deal, ink and paper published. Using my real name, and will be read by thousands of people published. Retelling a tale that was vital in my youth. About a topic that is near and dear to my cold, black heart. Surprisingly, this has nothing to do with fart jokes.

I wrote a ‘piece’ as real deal writers like to call these things. I submitted it to a paper, and they are going to run it. And this is no Penny Saver BS. The fine institution that will give the rest of the ignorant world my brilliance publishes five issues a year, and my article will be featured for the spring edition. Sure, it’s no NY Times, but who writes for that rag these days anyway? This is quite the thrill for your esteemed Klogger. On top of that, the topic is about something I love; the beach.

So now as this all gears up, it seems tailor made to Klog about. Writing about writing. I am sure you can throw in some BS Seinfeld reference, but I never watched that show. So how this all came to be follows. Last April, my wife and I had the opportunity to go to Wildwood, NJ for a few days. This was a big deal to me, as my obsession with all things beach started with my one weekend all summer I got to spend in Wildwood. (You can search out those Klogs with the summer tag) I had been away from Wildwood for about 20 years, so I was really looking forward to returning. It’s funny how many of those memories are so vivid.

We went down and had a blast. Part of the trip was to revisit the house my sisters and their friends rented for a few summers. When I was a kid, my entire year was based around the one lone weekend I would get to go to Wildwood. Those brief trips actually taught me a lot. It taught me how to save, as I would squirrel away my paper route money for months in advance. It taught me the value of having good times with good friends. The place we stayed in –basically a converted garage-taught me that I don’t need the finest things in life to have a good life. Er, wait a minute, being an unemployed loser taught me that. I learned that the beach is where I want to live one day. At the rate I’m going, I might be homeless under the boards, but that still counts.

So when I came back from this trip, I had a ton of material floating around in my head. So I do what I always do, huffed some gold spray paint and got to writing it out. I liked the resulting Klog, if not my keyboard being colored in gold. While we were down there, I brought back every paper they had. I felt like I was bringing a little piece back with me. One of the papers I brought back was mostly about people reminiscing about their favorite Wildwood memories. A light went off. Damn faulty switch.

I revisited the resulting Klog. I tore it apart (removed all the zombie references, didn’t think that would fly), drastically shortened and re-edited it and added some new material. Voila, I have a story. Feeling all WTF, I sent if off to this fine publication. Lo and behold, they will run it, but not till next spring, as it is spring themed. OK, a tease, but something to keep my eye on down the road.

Cripes, this Klog is going on too long already.

I made a rookie mistake. I never actually titled the story. The Klog name wasn’t going to work. So I had one weekend to come up with a title. In essence, it seems so easy, right? Just a few words, and you’re good to go.

Well, if it was that easy, would I be Klogging about it? Turns out it’s pretty damn difficult. Title is all important. If you have a good, appealing, original title, more people are apt to read it. Have a bland, boring, mundane title, and most people think it reads like a WEA new release book (ZING! But only my old work friends would get that one.) Cripes, this is tough. It seems far too easy to use some pap like “Summers of my Youth” or some such. I wanted to somehow work Wildwood in there as well. Because, surely, no one uses that in a Wildwood paper.

I feel the same torment parents must feel when naming their kids. This is my first published piece, is there some sort of bad karma if I give it a dud title? Will I forever rue the day I named it “Kev’s Totally Awesome Scenes of Neon Summers”? Maybe I shouldn’t stay away from the Summer Teeth pun? Man, all the hard work is done, I just gotta slap a title on the thing. I even try to do the cool singer/songwriter move. I go over the piece again, just looking for any random string of words that just might be a good title. No such luck, and who the hell wrote this drivel?

I spend many hours staring at the PC and the ceiling, trying to come up with that magic collection of words that will pop. I didn’t want anything too cutesy. I am always against alliteration. (Please tell me you got that joke.) No sense in rhyming anything. A witty turn of phrase would be nice, but I can’t come up with any to fit the bill. I know the clock is ticking.

Not that I fancy myself a word nerd or anything. But I do have certain words I like. One of those words suddenly pops up; no it’s not “motard”. That’s it! That will work! I think the word really pops. My only fear is that people don’t readily know what it means. I don’t want to be getting “writerly” all over their ass. It works and is original and I think at the very least will draw people in just to see WTF it means. I am happy, and really that’s all that matters. I wonder if every great writer or artist goes through this process every time. Not that much of my stuff will be published (outside of the music reviews), but I just don’t see an audience for a Klog like “Mandy Moore Watches Me Pee”. And that is really a travesty.

By now you are surely screaming, “What’s the damn title?” I can’t tell you. I can’t tell you because it gives me all the power. That’s just how insecure I am. No, really, I am afraid some bad karma will strike, or the very least someone could Google it, and end up here. Yea, I don’t think most of these Klogs would fit well with that crowd. I am just that damn good of a writer, I can write for many audiences. And I know that audience probably wouldn’t enjoy a Klog like “F the PH”. Call me Kreskin.

So look for this to be a series of posts, as I have plenty more neuroses to cover about my future award winning article.

iSland

I know we live in a modern age. It seems everyone just can’t survive without some technological doo dad that supposedly makes life easier and far more worth living. Kind of ironic that I get to this Klog days after the announcement of the iPad. We live in the age of i-everything; iPods, iPhones, iPads, etc. Recently, I have discovered a new i to add to the list. I proudly announce to you the Kevolution Theory iSland.

For the last 9 days, we have been disconnected. Seems this here PC caught a virus that surprisingly wasn’t from any number of questionable sites I frequent. I discovered this last Monday morning, and spent most of the day trying to track down the offending virus. This also entailed running a scan that goes on for hours. Being a guy and all, I seem to think this is something I should easily be able to fix. Turns out I was wrong. I thought the scan caught and corrected the offending bug, but I was wrong. I apparently did the cyber equivalent of poking it with a stick and insulting its parentage. Because after yet another reboot, there was even more shit missing. Damn. I try to fix it but clearly, I am beat.

Fortunately, I know a ‘computer guy’ who can unfuck our PC, it will just take him a week or so to do it. That’s a fair trade over those jackals at Geek Squad. Although I can’t decide if I feel better or worse actually knowing the person who will be nosing around my PC. I drop the PC off, and, we are thrust onto the iSland. We will have no real connection to the outside world for days. Someone really should invent some device you can just talk to somebody on. That would come in handy.

I can hear the nerds of you out there asking, “Well, why can’t you just go online from your phone? And why am I talking to myself?” The answer is that I am in the minority that doesn’t own an iPhone. I have learned that simply rubber banding my phone to my iPod does not grant it iPod like powers.

The first few days are actually not bad, kind of enjoyable. Sure, there are key times when we miss the easy access to info that we need; what the weather is going to be like, how do I get this poison out of my system, etc. Actually, we do other things. Things like talking. I know, I know, a man and his wife talking, sounds funny, right? And we eat together, too. We actually cook the meals. Fuck, it’s like we’re the Waltons.

I actually did something I’ve never, ever done. I read an entire book-a real book, too, not one with pictures, mazes or the usual Choose Your Own Adventure books that always finds me slayed at the hands of the dragon-200 or so pages in less than a day. OK, so insomnia was a big part of that, but it still counts. I highly recommend From Baghdad With Love.

Of course, I come up with a hundred good ideas for Klogs that will surely lead me to fame and fortune. Alas, most of those have been lost to the sands of time and massive amounts of cheap hooch. I learn that all the usual sites I go to for a laugh will still be there. Yes, people will still dress strangely at Walmart, and there will be another dozen funny dog videos, but ya know what? They’ll all still be there.

I go for a few days before feeling the need to check my email. I finally go to my parents to check. As I try to open attachments, I realize I can’t because my parents are still running Windows 63. So now I will have to go across town to my sister’s to look at attachments. OK, now this is getting to be a hassle. I manage to resist opening “those” emails from a few guys who always send me stuff that makes me smile.

You know what else I discover? I have a fucking life outside of Facebook. OK, barely a life outside of FB, but I really don’t miss it. I don’t miss the typical “nothing is new” or “what I did today” updates. Really, unless you figured out how to slay that dragon, no one fucking cares. I don’t miss the near constant updates asking ME to change MY status; even for just an hour. How about……no. Maybe it’s fun to be in some coterie (look it up) that loves posting cryptic updates. I think we were all enthralled with the girls posting their underwear color. Or how they are wearing their hair. Really fascinating stuff. I don’t miss the requests to change my status to have friends post shit about me. You know the ones; where you met me, how would you describe me, blah blah blah. One thing I have learned is that apparently no one cares about me to ask why I haven’t updated in 10 damn days. And I refuse to change my status to highlight some cause, ‘even if just for an hour’. News flash; nothing ever changes. You might as well be signing your name to any number of petition emails going around. “What’s that? 4000 nerds all signed an email about ? Well, shit, boys, let’s get on this.”

On a somewhat related note, I also don’t miss the alarmist and often untrue emails I get from certain people. You know the emails about Target hating the Veterans, etc. I mean, check Snopes before sending untrue shit out. I used to send them the link in private, but if they insist in continually sending those damn emails, I am going to CC everyone on the email. And, GD if Fred Hadayia didn’t email me again.

I got used to living Amish. I really didn’t miss the Net as much as I thought I would. It gave me more time to read, hang out with the dog, etc. Now that I have it back, it’s a rush to catch up and do a few more things to clean it and improve the speed. And catching up on Walmart pictures and dogs doing cute stuff.

I rather enjoyed my time on the iSland. You should go sometime.

Leave Me Alone, Fred Hadayia

I really shouldn’t be in the position to turn people away. I need all the connections I can, so as I might actually find a job that offers real human dignity and a wage slightly above paperboy. It’s hard to feel wanted, desired when I send out so many Goddamn resumes to jobs I am sure I am more than qualified to do. I’ve gotten into the practice of changing my resume every other month or so. I am on so many job sites anymore, I have honestly lost track. Plus, it’s an easy way to feel wanted.

On most sites, if you change your resume in the slightest (I’m talking like insert a comma of change one word) a rush of job offers will flood your inbox. I know I’ve written of this before, but it bears repeating. I don’t know how they do it, but there must be some bot or software on most major job sites that cause this. Without fail, whenever I change my resume, I get all kinds of offers for interviews.

They almost all seem to be for the same general line of work; for some form of insurance company. I have learned through trial and error that I should avoid these types of jobs. I have wasted my time in 2 ‘interviews’ for such outfits. Here’s a job hunting tip; if at an interview, they ask you next to nothing about your previous job history, head for ze hills. I admit to having no real software knowledge, but I imagine these programs some how monitor new resume postings. I am sure they look for keywords. And since every unemployed yahoo generally uses the same ‘power’ words, nearly every resume gets noticed by this insidious software. An email will automatically be triggered to your account. The deal with most of these jobs is they are almost always 100% commission based, something I am uncomfortable with. And a lot of them involve cold calling accounts. Seriously, would you buy insurance for your company from some stranger who just showed up at your door? Very rarely are you offered any kind of salary. Big corps love doing this because it’s less paperwork, and less money for them to spend on such frivolous things as ‘salary’ and ‘benefits’.

Sure, the first few times I changed my resume, I though I was all hot shit because I got a rash of new emails. It wasn’t too soon after that I saw these as spam. And it is here I met Fred.

Now I don’t know Fred, I mean, he might be a helluva guy and all. I do know two things about him. 1) He sure is persistent. Every GD time I change my resume, ol’ Fred sends me another form email. And 2) he must not be organized, because every time I change my GD resume, I get an email from him.

Fred strikes me as that nerdy little kid in school that keeps talking, but no one has a clue what the hell he’s babbling about. Speaking as a perspective employee, I sure can’t be impressed with Fred’s organization. I mean, what does it say when I always get an email from him? It says he’s not very organized. It says he can’t take a fucking clue, because not once have I ever replied to him. Being out of work for so long, I have developed a new talent to read between the lines. So if I have been getting the same from email from good old Fred, what does it say about the job? It says the job must suck. He’s apparently never been able to fill it, and if he did, the new guy must not have stuck around long enough.

Patrol the job ads on the internet enough, and you can develop a sense when a job is bad. I have literally seen the same job advertised by the same company for over 2 years now. That says a lot. It says either the job or the company must suck; maybe both. Using CAPS or 5 exclamation points is a red flag. I have developed a Spidey like sixth sense about such jobs. After I fell for one or two.

So it’s time to call Fred out. I usually try not to use last names here, but since this specific subject is easily searched, let’s just call him out. Yea, I’m talking to you Fred Hadayia, and he works for something called American Income Life (how ironic the acronym is, since he has been ailing me for two plus years now) You keep pestering me, and I don’t appreciate it. There is nothing in my bio that says I would have any proclivity to your job. Maybe my years of ignoring you haven’t proven the point to you yet. In case you don’t semi regularly get Fred’s email, it generally goes a little something like this:

My name is Fred Hadayia; I'm the State Director with American Income in Harrisburg, PA. Our Human Resource Department has viewed your resume on the Internet and I wanted to contact you to let you know we are looking for qualified candidates to help our rapid expansion. We had sent you an earlier email letting you know I would like to set up an interview with you. We are looking for Managers and Sales Associates to help us manage our expansion in central Pennsylvania. This position is for management and outside sales. THERE WILL NEVER BE ANY COLD CALLING OR PROSPECTING, EVER!!!

Please note the CAPS and exclamation points I alluded to earlier. Is Fred secretly an 11 year old girl?

(Anyone that gets the joke with the picture will earn my eternal repsect. That's a .37 value! Post your answer in the comment section below.)

Seriously, Fred Hadayia? You have a human resource department that poured over my resume, and decided I am not only a candidate, but a real deal “qualified” candidate? Well, shiver my timbers and other such antiquated euphemisms! I would hate to see the motards AIL actually rejects. I appreciate that you make some meager acknowledgement of your previous email that I immediately deleted. Maybe that wasn’t a clue, Fred Hadayia? I’m guessing you’re the type that didn’t get a lot of dates in school, am I right? I mean, that’s OK, I didn’t either, but I imagine you as actually worse off than me.

Fred Hadayia of American Income Life, I should also mention, in the interest of fairness, that the company you represent, American Income Life, has been the subject of some ethical debate. By way of reference, Fred Hadayia of American Income Life, I point you and my three other readers to this debate from some five years ago on Rip Off Report. Looks like you’ve got some ‘xplainin’ to do.

Fred Hadayia of American Income Life, I ask you publicly to please stop pestering me. I am not interested in your job, and we are both better served by ending this silly thing now. Best regards to you, Fred Hadayia of American Income Life.

DVD Bonus Material

No lie, as I was writing this and editing this (OK, that's a lie, clearly I don't edit my brilliance) I got yet another email from good ol' Fred. Generally, I am wary of using last names on here (don't tell me you never Googled yourself). I can only hope somehow, Fred stumbles upon this. I really hope unemployed people who get his bullshit will search this out and see what's going on. Consider this my service to the internet.

Alternate Title

I Don't Want You to Want Me, Fred Hadayia