Oh, lord... I swear, my mind is about as reliable as a $2.00 retreaded tire. I must have Oldtimer's Disease.
So, I get up this morning, bright and early, coffee myself into awareness and get ready to start my day. I have an appointment, don't you know. Yes, at 8 o'clock I have to go put some new tires on the car. I've got clothes laid out. My wallet and keys are ready and waiting on the kitchen counter. I was prepared. OK, I'm anal but I'm likeable.
Seasquirt is watching me. Pondering what I am doing. In amusement. He's already figured out what I'm doing and is just sitting back and seeing how far I take it until he gets the pleasure of bitch slapping my brain into reality. Finally, yes finally, he looks at me and asks "What the fuck are you doing???". I respond, "tires on the car". He cocks his head and gives me the Seasquirt "look" over the top of his glasses. Then he giggles. I hate that. For no other reason than that I know I'm about to be told I'm doing something really bloody stupid. And that I'm probably doing it with shoulders back and head held high. And all without the good sense god gave a toothpick...
Then he tells me "Honey, it's Tuesday.". ??? Huh??? Wha'??? Yeah, I'm only a day early in my quest for new designer tires. Which would be Wednesday. As in tomorrow. Where the bloody hell did Monday go??? I mean, come on, it was yesterday. I was there!!! I even remember it. I just don't remember it as being YESTERDAY!!! We got a new cell phone. We had lunch at Culver's with Andy. I pestered the shit out of Nancy at AMS by asking "cuanto es esto" about everything I could put my hands on. Hell, I even drove on the beltline and you know how much I hate that thing. I even remember stealing a brand new bottle of Cholula Sauce off of the table at Culver's. (YES, they have that there now!!! I'm in heaven!!!) Yes, I remember yesterday. Yes, I remember Monday. I just don't remember it as being yesterday. Or Monday. And I was there. Saint's on a stick, it was less than 24 hours ago. Oh just fuck me, I have the short term memory of a freaking goldfish. Hey, look! I've got a plant... Hey, look! I've got a plant... Hey, look...
I'm starting to feel like Julie Christie's character in "Leaving Her". I'm about half a nonosecond away from starting to put pots and pans in the freezer and tossing the gum out and chewing the wrapper. Hell, I already carry on conversations with myself when I'm in the kitchen. Truly scary part of that is, I'm usually doing it in several different voices... What's next, I start naming the refrigerator magnets??? The silverware??? OK, I will admit that I already have a "special" fork that I call Marco. Don't ask...
Seasquirt, fasten your seat belt, it's gonna be a bumpy ride...
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
gOD, I DO LOVE ME SOME FLASH DRIVE!!!
So, as you all know, I ride on the short bus when it comes to anything even remotely technologically advanced. Yes, my cellphone actually has rotary dial on it. I pretty much reached my technological plateau when we had things called cordless phones with big retractable whip antenna things on them. Those things were damned near the size of CB antennas. And that was in the house!!!
I'm a diehard Apple guy. Now I'm on a PC with Windows Fuckyouverymuch 2.0 Vista.... Do I need to say anymore??? But, the computer was a much needed gift from a dear friend when I was in dire straights and I thank her dearly. Butmygod, Windows. What a clusterfuck!!!
So, guess who has managed to eat up more than 70 percent of the available hard drive downloading porn on this computer in less than two weeks??? Ooops, my bad. But I make no excuses.
What can I say, I love prawns. No, wait. That should have been "I love porn." There. I've said it!!! No surprise, huh???
So, my poor computer is up to its nipples in peters (sigh...) and I was at at a loss. FMTFTYFF!!! And then precious little SeaSquirt came to my rescue and started offering me these things called flash drives. I was a bit apprehensive....
Well, an hour later and damned near 11 gigs of new memory at my disposal I am a happy camper. I am a man of acreage (not really). I had NO idea what those little puppies were capable of. OMg!!! I AM IN FUCKING HEAVEN!!!
How the hell can something half the size of a stick of gum actually manage to hold dozens of gigs of naked men doing the kind of things I like to watch??? Technology.... ahh, I'm baffled. But thankful.
I'm a diehard Apple guy. Now I'm on a PC with Windows Fuckyouverymuch 2.0 Vista.... Do I need to say anymore??? But, the computer was a much needed gift from a dear friend when I was in dire straights and I thank her dearly. Butmygod, Windows. What a clusterfuck!!!
So, guess who has managed to eat up more than 70 percent of the available hard drive downloading porn on this computer in less than two weeks??? Ooops, my bad. But I make no excuses.
What can I say, I love prawns. No, wait. That should have been "I love porn." There. I've said it!!! No surprise, huh???
So, my poor computer is up to its nipples in peters (sigh...) and I was at at a loss. FMTFTYFF!!! And then precious little SeaSquirt came to my rescue and started offering me these things called flash drives. I was a bit apprehensive....
Well, an hour later and damned near 11 gigs of new memory at my disposal I am a happy camper. I am a man of acreage (not really). I had NO idea what those little puppies were capable of. OMg!!! I AM IN FUCKING HEAVEN!!!
How the hell can something half the size of a stick of gum actually manage to hold dozens of gigs of naked men doing the kind of things I like to watch??? Technology.... ahh, I'm baffled. But thankful.
Monday, February 18, 2013
YOU'RE NEVER TOO OLD TO MAKE A SPECTACLE OF YOURSELF IN PUBLIC.
I will never pass up the opportunity to cause a scene, public or private. Preferably public. Give me the chance to sink my canines into the jugular of socially acceptable behavior and I pounce like a feral cat. Rude, crude, lewd and socially unacceptable is not just a saying to me, it's a freaking motto. A lifestyle if you will. Oh, come on, you know what I'm capable of!!!
Last weekend I was given a glorious opportunity to shine and I went for that bait like a hungry shark. Good friends were throwing another of their wonderful theme parties and this one had my name written ALL over it. They threw a Medieval Banquet based on The Age of Chivalry and said come dressed appropriately. Of course, I did. I dug out one of my old Renaissance Faire costumes from the storage locker and spent two weeks shopping at Hobby Lobby to get all of the accessories that I needed to make it just right. You know, you just can't have enough velvet ribbons and feathers, can you??? Let alone rabbit fur wrapped boots and tights. And an onion (Plague, don't you know) and a large wooden spoon (useful for both eating and disciplining the occasionally unruly Pope or surly peasant). Let me tell you, that spoon came in REALLY handy since I was seated at the head table next to a rather annoying Pope. I hope he still has a couple of welts on his miter.
Anyway, half way through this fiasco we were divided up into teams, given a bag of stuff and told to go create our family crests. Luckily, my team was fun. One was dressed as the Evil Queen from Snow White, complete with apple and another one had a purse full of pot. Fifteen minutes later, down in the basement I have somehow managed to damn near permanently adhere myself to a counter with a hot glue gun, sear off a couple of my finger prints and get drunk as hell on homemade mead. Yeah, surprise, huh??? By this time one of my other Renaissance Faire personalities has bubbled to the surface: Dirty Peter, The Rat Peddler. Trust me, he's horrid and needs to be beheaded. Or at the very least whipped into some some sort of silence. Needless to say, the Evil Queen and I joined forces and soon our family crest was laden (overrun???) with rats and bleeding onions. I LOVE that queen!!!
So, back upstairs, in between the smoked salmon and meat course we are suddenly obliged to explain our family crests. Keep in mind, I'm wildly up to my tights in mead at this point and am starting to have out of body experiences. Which, btw, was all the better because the Pope was starting to wear on my nerves. And his miter was starting to look a bit tattered at that point, thanks to my trusty spoon. So, I am urged to hall myself upright. So, there I am, teetering on a chair, flagon of mead in what was left of my fingers and launch into my rant. Lord, I am amazed at how easily I can blow smoke at mirrors out of my ass at a moments notice. Ah, yes, the Noble House of Peter. A fine family, an old line family of rat peddlers. Yes, we introduced rat in a cup, rat on a rope and rat on a stick. For the privileged few with a PayPal account we even offer the availability of the Rat Of The Month Club. Only two pieces of gold a month. With automatic renewable monthly billing. What can I say, we're literally up to our ankles in the little fuckers!!! Yes indeed you can trust the House of Peter! We're all about family. Cause nothing is more fun than a house full of Peters!!! HUZZAH!!! At this point Dirty Peter seizes what is left of my brain and I decide to introduce my family. My lovely wife, Iswalla...Peter. And our charming conjoined triplet daughters, Ineeda, Iwanta and Icrava... Peter. The Pope blanched. And I struck him once more. Ladies in waiting courtsied and counts bowed. I have no idea why. Perhaps because I was finally done and the rambling was over. My family just threw bread at me and wished a pox to descend upon the head of the Noble House of Peter. omg, who the hell wants a Peter with a pox on it???
Then as we sup'd on sweets to clear our palettes we were summoned to sing before her Majesty, Queen Iris. Of course by this point the entire House of Peter is up to their eyeballs in mead and decides to to do some Frankie Valli and The Four Seasons. Do-wop style. We won!!! Thank god for alcohol!!!
Now, the kicker to this cluster is that I was actually named King of the Festival. Lord, talk about a rigged election.!!! But the crown is FAGULOUS!!! But I did get the opportunity to decide next years theme: "Spy vs Spy". Luckily, I'm good with explosives... I wonder if Hobby Lobby has detonator cord???
Last weekend I was given a glorious opportunity to shine and I went for that bait like a hungry shark. Good friends were throwing another of their wonderful theme parties and this one had my name written ALL over it. They threw a Medieval Banquet based on The Age of Chivalry and said come dressed appropriately. Of course, I did. I dug out one of my old Renaissance Faire costumes from the storage locker and spent two weeks shopping at Hobby Lobby to get all of the accessories that I needed to make it just right. You know, you just can't have enough velvet ribbons and feathers, can you??? Let alone rabbit fur wrapped boots and tights. And an onion (Plague, don't you know) and a large wooden spoon (useful for both eating and disciplining the occasionally unruly Pope or surly peasant). Let me tell you, that spoon came in REALLY handy since I was seated at the head table next to a rather annoying Pope. I hope he still has a couple of welts on his miter.
Anyway, half way through this fiasco we were divided up into teams, given a bag of stuff and told to go create our family crests. Luckily, my team was fun. One was dressed as the Evil Queen from Snow White, complete with apple and another one had a purse full of pot. Fifteen minutes later, down in the basement I have somehow managed to damn near permanently adhere myself to a counter with a hot glue gun, sear off a couple of my finger prints and get drunk as hell on homemade mead. Yeah, surprise, huh??? By this time one of my other Renaissance Faire personalities has bubbled to the surface: Dirty Peter, The Rat Peddler. Trust me, he's horrid and needs to be beheaded. Or at the very least whipped into some some sort of silence. Needless to say, the Evil Queen and I joined forces and soon our family crest was laden (overrun???) with rats and bleeding onions. I LOVE that queen!!!
So, back upstairs, in between the smoked salmon and meat course we are suddenly obliged to explain our family crests. Keep in mind, I'm wildly up to my tights in mead at this point and am starting to have out of body experiences. Which, btw, was all the better because the Pope was starting to wear on my nerves. And his miter was starting to look a bit tattered at that point, thanks to my trusty spoon. So, I am urged to hall myself upright. So, there I am, teetering on a chair, flagon of mead in what was left of my fingers and launch into my rant. Lord, I am amazed at how easily I can blow smoke at mirrors out of my ass at a moments notice. Ah, yes, the Noble House of Peter. A fine family, an old line family of rat peddlers. Yes, we introduced rat in a cup, rat on a rope and rat on a stick. For the privileged few with a PayPal account we even offer the availability of the Rat Of The Month Club. Only two pieces of gold a month. With automatic renewable monthly billing. What can I say, we're literally up to our ankles in the little fuckers!!! Yes indeed you can trust the House of Peter! We're all about family. Cause nothing is more fun than a house full of Peters!!! HUZZAH!!! At this point Dirty Peter seizes what is left of my brain and I decide to introduce my family. My lovely wife, Iswalla...Peter. And our charming conjoined triplet daughters, Ineeda, Iwanta and Icrava... Peter. The Pope blanched. And I struck him once more. Ladies in waiting courtsied and counts bowed. I have no idea why. Perhaps because I was finally done and the rambling was over. My family just threw bread at me and wished a pox to descend upon the head of the Noble House of Peter. omg, who the hell wants a Peter with a pox on it???
Then as we sup'd on sweets to clear our palettes we were summoned to sing before her Majesty, Queen Iris. Of course by this point the entire House of Peter is up to their eyeballs in mead and decides to to do some Frankie Valli and The Four Seasons. Do-wop style. We won!!! Thank god for alcohol!!!
Now, the kicker to this cluster is that I was actually named King of the Festival. Lord, talk about a rigged election.!!! But the crown is FAGULOUS!!! But I did get the opportunity to decide next years theme: "Spy vs Spy". Luckily, I'm good with explosives... I wonder if Hobby Lobby has detonator cord???
Monday, February 11, 2013
I AM NOW USING A PC...
Oh lord, just fuck me in a dirt road until I bleed! And not in that good way that I like. A PC???
As you all know, I am a die-hard, dedicated, card carrying MAC person. I love Apple. They're FABULOUS!!! User friendly little things they are. Intuitive. Warm and fuzzy. Cuddly. Bottom line, they just make sense. PC's are scary. And stupid. They make about as much sense a a bowling ball with nipples. Or a wet paper bag full of rocks at a TSA line up. I hate PC's almost (yes, ALMOST) as much as I hate Microsoft!!! How the hell did all of you mindless cattle get sucked into the psychic vampire vacuum of Windows??? Let alone, how did you manage to get convinced it made sense? Or worked anywhere near efficiently? Or that it didn't need more bandaids and "patches" as a runaway trainwreck on the brown acid??? It's a cluster fuck in a blender on puree with too much salt!!!
OK, with that said.... My 11 year old, coal fired MAC laptop finally gave up the ghost. Died. Gone. Just gone. Dropped like a turd from a tall cows ass it did. Much the way Catherine The Second of Russia did in 1796. Right to the ground, totally off the radar and right of the throne. Not the Royal Throne, mind you, the one she was peeing on. But I digress....
So, here I set, in front of my "new" PC. A very gracious gift from a dear friend who shall remain nameless (Nancy Garcia) who was in the process of updating here system. It's a tower, I've never owned one of those before. I had now idea where to put it. It's got an enormous flat screen that's huge. I went to Staples and with the help of a fiendeshly friendly computer gamer geek actually managed to upgrade myself to a cordless keyboard and mouse. I also told him that I was looking for typewrighter ribbons. His eyes glazed over and he damn near fainted. When I asked him if there were any keyboards with a rotary dial he ran like the Siege of Leon was coming...
Now, back to my rant. Bill Gates should be hung out to dry!!! Microsoft should be outlawed by The Hague!!! This is the single most back-asswards operating system I have ever worked on in my life!!! It's draconian!!! It's hateful!!! It's stupid!!! It's convoluted!!! It's a CLUSTERFUCK!!! jesus christ!!! Everything on Microsoft is totally reversed from Mac. I have cancelled damn near everything I have attempted to do or download (porn) and lost just about everything else I have tried to save.
And what the hell is up with this left/right two click mouse thing??? DUH!!! Wuh?!? What the fuck were you thinking??? (OK, I give you credit for the roller ball thing, I'm getting used to that) But, dude, could you have possibly made a mouse more complicated??? It's a mouse, not rocket science.
Why is fucking everything on Microsoft hidden??? Where does it mysteriously go when you accidently close it? Why are there no drop down menus? GIVE ME BACK MY FUCKING PORN YOU ROTTEN BITCH!!!
I am slowly going full blown bat shit crazy with this new computer. It vexes me. It disturbs me. It makes me want to grab a handgun and run to the nearest liquor store and just run totally nuts.
Beware, I'm back...
As you all know, I am a die-hard, dedicated, card carrying MAC person. I love Apple. They're FABULOUS!!! User friendly little things they are. Intuitive. Warm and fuzzy. Cuddly. Bottom line, they just make sense. PC's are scary. And stupid. They make about as much sense a a bowling ball with nipples. Or a wet paper bag full of rocks at a TSA line up. I hate PC's almost (yes, ALMOST) as much as I hate Microsoft!!! How the hell did all of you mindless cattle get sucked into the psychic vampire vacuum of Windows??? Let alone, how did you manage to get convinced it made sense? Or worked anywhere near efficiently? Or that it didn't need more bandaids and "patches" as a runaway trainwreck on the brown acid??? It's a cluster fuck in a blender on puree with too much salt!!!
OK, with that said.... My 11 year old, coal fired MAC laptop finally gave up the ghost. Died. Gone. Just gone. Dropped like a turd from a tall cows ass it did. Much the way Catherine The Second of Russia did in 1796. Right to the ground, totally off the radar and right of the throne. Not the Royal Throne, mind you, the one she was peeing on. But I digress....
So, here I set, in front of my "new" PC. A very gracious gift from a dear friend who shall remain nameless (Nancy Garcia) who was in the process of updating here system. It's a tower, I've never owned one of those before. I had now idea where to put it. It's got an enormous flat screen that's huge. I went to Staples and with the help of a fiendeshly friendly computer gamer geek actually managed to upgrade myself to a cordless keyboard and mouse. I also told him that I was looking for typewrighter ribbons. His eyes glazed over and he damn near fainted. When I asked him if there were any keyboards with a rotary dial he ran like the Siege of Leon was coming...
Now, back to my rant. Bill Gates should be hung out to dry!!! Microsoft should be outlawed by The Hague!!! This is the single most back-asswards operating system I have ever worked on in my life!!! It's draconian!!! It's hateful!!! It's stupid!!! It's convoluted!!! It's a CLUSTERFUCK!!! jesus christ!!! Everything on Microsoft is totally reversed from Mac. I have cancelled damn near everything I have attempted to do or download (porn) and lost just about everything else I have tried to save.
And what the hell is up with this left/right two click mouse thing??? DUH!!! Wuh?!? What the fuck were you thinking??? (OK, I give you credit for the roller ball thing, I'm getting used to that) But, dude, could you have possibly made a mouse more complicated??? It's a mouse, not rocket science.
Why is fucking everything on Microsoft hidden??? Where does it mysteriously go when you accidently close it? Why are there no drop down menus? GIVE ME BACK MY FUCKING PORN YOU ROTTEN BITCH!!!
I am slowly going full blown bat shit crazy with this new computer. It vexes me. It disturbs me. It makes me want to grab a handgun and run to the nearest liquor store and just run totally nuts.
Beware, I'm back...
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Thar' She BLOWS!!!
OK, as you all well know, shopping is like mother's milk to me. Hell, I'll buy shit I don't even want just to keep other people from having it. Yes, I know, it's a sickness. I just hope that they never find a cure for it.
So, today I decided to go out grocery shopping at my favorite store, Woodman's. What can I say, you just gotta love a grocery store that's big enough to park a 747-800 in. I got lost in Woodman's once. They had to send out a search party with dogs to find me. They eventually located me in the ethnic aisle. Perusing the menorah candles and wondering why the kosher ones cost more. Anyway...
I was happily pondering the produce and pinching the peppers when I spy this smoking caliente little Mexican baby-daddy over by the nopalitos and was immediately smitten. He was gorgeous!!! He was swarthy, furry and built like a brick banos. Hell, he had eyes I would have sold secrets to the Russians for! SERIOUS papilito!!! Needless to say, I stalked him throughout the entire store. But I digress...
I finished off my shopping list in the pop section and was mindlessly grabbing 2-litres of Diet Pepsi off of the top shelf and tossing them into the cart when two of them decided to give up the ghost, so to speak. All of a sudden hairline cracks broke open on them and they start squirting out pop like a race horse that hasn't peed in three days. Geyser-esque is the term that comes to mind. Well, I yanked the damned things out of my cart before they could soak everything. OK, so now what, I thought to myself. There I stood, a bottle of Pepsi in each hand as they both sprayed out in opposite directions. What do I do next? Why, go brain dead, of course. I just stood there in the middle of the aisle, spinning in a circle like Blanche Hudson locked in the attic as I silently prayed for some sort of absolution to this cluster fuck. Before I realized what I had done I had not only managed to completely cover a toddler in the cart behind me with Pepsi but everything in that cart and his mother as well. I'm dripping with Pepsi. Both of our carts are dripping with Pepsi. Both sides of the aisle are dripping with Pepsi. A cascade of Pepsi is dripping off of the shelves. I'm standing in a puddle of Pepsi. The mother has a look on her face like she just found a turd in her purse. As Pepsi drips off of her nose. And then I take a look at the toddler. He's about half way into one of those 45-second inhales that can only result in one of those glass shattering shrieks that only a toddler is capable of making. You know that sound I mean. The one that starts out merely cruel and unusual and instantly shoots up to a frequency that only dogs can hear. I gotta tell ya, that little dude did his age group proud. Holy shit, the sound that came out of that little fucker was mind boggling!!! Oops, my bad...
I had no choice but to exercise my only option at that point. I dropped the now pretty much empty bottles onto the floor and sloshed my way over to the nearest check-out lane for some assistance. The clerk looks up and sees me standing there, dripping with Pepsi, and her mouth drops open. Trying to make the best of a soggy situation I just looked at her casually and said "You might want to call for maintenance, I think you're in need of a wet spill clean up in Aisle W." She grabbed the intercom phone with one hand and gave me a roll of paper towels with the other. "Thank you," I said, "I'm sure that the mother over there with the turd in her purse is going to want to dry off her kid before he hardens." And then I started giggling. And Pepsi came out of my nose. What can I say? Pretty, pretty princess...
Now, just to get some closure on this nightmare I decided to check out at the aisle with the clerk that had called for the clean up. If for no other reason that to give her back what was left of her roll of paper towels. All of about 3 sheets worth. All of which were brown, wet and sticky. But at least they were sugar free and decaffeinated. She was less than amused. Especially since she needed to dry off everything in my cart before she could run it over the scanner. And of course, I'm still kind of dripping Pepsi. As I was loading my car I started attracting insects from as far away as the airport. By the time I finally got my trunk all loaded up I looked like a two week old fly strip from Indonesia, for chris'sakes!!! I swear, a couple of more flies and I could have been airborne.
It's enough to put me off of shopping. Well, maybe not...
So, today I decided to go out grocery shopping at my favorite store, Woodman's. What can I say, you just gotta love a grocery store that's big enough to park a 747-800 in. I got lost in Woodman's once. They had to send out a search party with dogs to find me. They eventually located me in the ethnic aisle. Perusing the menorah candles and wondering why the kosher ones cost more. Anyway...
I was happily pondering the produce and pinching the peppers when I spy this smoking caliente little Mexican baby-daddy over by the nopalitos and was immediately smitten. He was gorgeous!!! He was swarthy, furry and built like a brick banos. Hell, he had eyes I would have sold secrets to the Russians for! SERIOUS papilito!!! Needless to say, I stalked him throughout the entire store. But I digress...
I finished off my shopping list in the pop section and was mindlessly grabbing 2-litres of Diet Pepsi off of the top shelf and tossing them into the cart when two of them decided to give up the ghost, so to speak. All of a sudden hairline cracks broke open on them and they start squirting out pop like a race horse that hasn't peed in three days. Geyser-esque is the term that comes to mind. Well, I yanked the damned things out of my cart before they could soak everything. OK, so now what, I thought to myself. There I stood, a bottle of Pepsi in each hand as they both sprayed out in opposite directions. What do I do next? Why, go brain dead, of course. I just stood there in the middle of the aisle, spinning in a circle like Blanche Hudson locked in the attic as I silently prayed for some sort of absolution to this cluster fuck. Before I realized what I had done I had not only managed to completely cover a toddler in the cart behind me with Pepsi but everything in that cart and his mother as well. I'm dripping with Pepsi. Both of our carts are dripping with Pepsi. Both sides of the aisle are dripping with Pepsi. A cascade of Pepsi is dripping off of the shelves. I'm standing in a puddle of Pepsi. The mother has a look on her face like she just found a turd in her purse. As Pepsi drips off of her nose. And then I take a look at the toddler. He's about half way into one of those 45-second inhales that can only result in one of those glass shattering shrieks that only a toddler is capable of making. You know that sound I mean. The one that starts out merely cruel and unusual and instantly shoots up to a frequency that only dogs can hear. I gotta tell ya, that little dude did his age group proud. Holy shit, the sound that came out of that little fucker was mind boggling!!! Oops, my bad...
I had no choice but to exercise my only option at that point. I dropped the now pretty much empty bottles onto the floor and sloshed my way over to the nearest check-out lane for some assistance. The clerk looks up and sees me standing there, dripping with Pepsi, and her mouth drops open. Trying to make the best of a soggy situation I just looked at her casually and said "You might want to call for maintenance, I think you're in need of a wet spill clean up in Aisle W." She grabbed the intercom phone with one hand and gave me a roll of paper towels with the other. "Thank you," I said, "I'm sure that the mother over there with the turd in her purse is going to want to dry off her kid before he hardens." And then I started giggling. And Pepsi came out of my nose. What can I say? Pretty, pretty princess...
Now, just to get some closure on this nightmare I decided to check out at the aisle with the clerk that had called for the clean up. If for no other reason that to give her back what was left of her roll of paper towels. All of about 3 sheets worth. All of which were brown, wet and sticky. But at least they were sugar free and decaffeinated. She was less than amused. Especially since she needed to dry off everything in my cart before she could run it over the scanner. And of course, I'm still kind of dripping Pepsi. As I was loading my car I started attracting insects from as far away as the airport. By the time I finally got my trunk all loaded up I looked like a two week old fly strip from Indonesia, for chris'sakes!!! I swear, a couple of more flies and I could have been airborne.
It's enough to put me off of shopping. Well, maybe not...
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
I SWEAR TO gOD, I'D RATHER GO CURTAIN SHOPPING WITH A MONKEY!!!
OK, I admit it, there are some things that I am just no damned good at. Waiting in line is one of them. In my mind waiting in line is a complete bloody waste of my time. And a serious threat to the health and well-being of any poor soul unfortunate enough to be ahead of me in said line. I have about a half a nano-second worth of patience on a good day but if you make me stand in line all bets are off. My fuse is about as short as a handful of fireworks in the pocket of a drunk in a trailer park.
My first experience with standing in line was in kindergarten at milk break time. Not a pleasant experience. Who the fuck thought it was a good idea to make 5-year olds queue up for milk??? Milk!!! What the hell was up with that??? I felt like I was trapped in some unholy pre-school Auschwitz!!! I was so pissed off I just wanted to kick that nun right in the nuts!!! And the lunch line wasn't much better. I just saw no sense to be made to stand in line for 5 minutes for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a couple of squares of hospital jello and half a bloody apple. And then to be forced to say grace to give "thanks" for that feast was the final insult. By that point the Wonder bread had dried out, the jello had congealed and the apple had turned a rather muddy shade of brown. And I'm supposed to be thankful???
I remember standing in line to get my drivers license. By the time I got to the counter they had actually changed the design of the application. I remember standing in line to get my state I.D. card on my 18th birthday. By the time I actually left the building I was 19, had a mustache and looked nothing like the picture. Don't even ask about the time I went in to pay my first speeding ticket. By the time it was all over blood had been shed and the Feds had actually raised the speed limit back up to 65 mph. I wanted to go back in and see if I couldn't get a refund grandfathered in somehow but I knew that by the time I finally managed to make it to the counter I would be using a walker and cars would actually be able to fly.
To this day things have not improved. If you are in front of me in line you will hear me groan, you will hear me grunt my disapproval, you will hear that "sound from the back of the cave noise" that I am famous for. Hell, you may even get spit on. I do not care how long the line is nor do I care how many people are in front of you. You are in front of me. YOU are holding ME up. ME!!! That is all that matters...
Only one thing riles me more that standing in line. That is when someone becomes my own personal human tope. Ah, yes, a tope. It's a wonderful Spanish word that is pronounced "toe-pay". It means speed bump. Or, as I like to translate it, "Hey, you mind-numbing turd, are you seriously going to plant your ass right there if front of me???". Today while grocery shopping I was tope'd at every turn. With reckless abandon, if you will. I was forced to give one shopper my cell phone number so she could call me when she was done squeezing ALL of the avacados. I was forced to ask another shopper who left all of her crap piled in the scale so she could start a conversation on her cell phone if she would mind if I used HER scale to weigh my apples. I graciously tossed 3 cans of imported white asparagus into the cart of the bitch that was blocking my access to my favorite brand of horse radish while she read the label on a bottle of French's yellow mustard like it was something on the NY Times best seller list. But I truly hit my stride when I got tope'd in tuna. Did you know that I can belch at will like a longshoreman? Not only that but I can follow it up with that noise that sounds like I'm getting ready to cough up a lugey the size and shape of Cuba. What can I say, it all boils down to one thing: MOVE!!!
Now, where did I put that monkey???
My first experience with standing in line was in kindergarten at milk break time. Not a pleasant experience. Who the fuck thought it was a good idea to make 5-year olds queue up for milk??? Milk!!! What the hell was up with that??? I felt like I was trapped in some unholy pre-school Auschwitz!!! I was so pissed off I just wanted to kick that nun right in the nuts!!! And the lunch line wasn't much better. I just saw no sense to be made to stand in line for 5 minutes for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a couple of squares of hospital jello and half a bloody apple. And then to be forced to say grace to give "thanks" for that feast was the final insult. By that point the Wonder bread had dried out, the jello had congealed and the apple had turned a rather muddy shade of brown. And I'm supposed to be thankful???
I remember standing in line to get my drivers license. By the time I got to the counter they had actually changed the design of the application. I remember standing in line to get my state I.D. card on my 18th birthday. By the time I actually left the building I was 19, had a mustache and looked nothing like the picture. Don't even ask about the time I went in to pay my first speeding ticket. By the time it was all over blood had been shed and the Feds had actually raised the speed limit back up to 65 mph. I wanted to go back in and see if I couldn't get a refund grandfathered in somehow but I knew that by the time I finally managed to make it to the counter I would be using a walker and cars would actually be able to fly.
To this day things have not improved. If you are in front of me in line you will hear me groan, you will hear me grunt my disapproval, you will hear that "sound from the back of the cave noise" that I am famous for. Hell, you may even get spit on. I do not care how long the line is nor do I care how many people are in front of you. You are in front of me. YOU are holding ME up. ME!!! That is all that matters...
Only one thing riles me more that standing in line. That is when someone becomes my own personal human tope. Ah, yes, a tope. It's a wonderful Spanish word that is pronounced "toe-pay". It means speed bump. Or, as I like to translate it, "Hey, you mind-numbing turd, are you seriously going to plant your ass right there if front of me???". Today while grocery shopping I was tope'd at every turn. With reckless abandon, if you will. I was forced to give one shopper my cell phone number so she could call me when she was done squeezing ALL of the avacados. I was forced to ask another shopper who left all of her crap piled in the scale so she could start a conversation on her cell phone if she would mind if I used HER scale to weigh my apples. I graciously tossed 3 cans of imported white asparagus into the cart of the bitch that was blocking my access to my favorite brand of horse radish while she read the label on a bottle of French's yellow mustard like it was something on the NY Times best seller list. But I truly hit my stride when I got tope'd in tuna. Did you know that I can belch at will like a longshoreman? Not only that but I can follow it up with that noise that sounds like I'm getting ready to cough up a lugey the size and shape of Cuba. What can I say, it all boils down to one thing: MOVE!!!
Now, where did I put that monkey???
Saturday, February 4, 2012
GENTLEMEN, I HAVE TAKEN A BRIDE AND HER NAME IS HYPOGLYCEMIA...
OK, is it just me or does hypoglycemia sound like the name of some ancient Roman Goddess??? Of say, stupidity. Or self inflicted injury. Or perhaps something akin to brain death. But I digress...
So, picture this: 7:15AM this morning, me bounding (shuffling) out of bed to go pee. Now picture my last half a nano-second of consciousness as I go "Hey, I'm kind of dizzy." Then picture me flat on my back, half in the bathroom and half in the hall way, covered in blood (as well as the doorway, the wall and the carpet), completely incoherent, slightly convulsing, frothing at the mouth a bit with Sea Squirt kneeling over me going "Oh, shit! You're gonna need stitches." Oh, yeah.... add on buck naked and still peeing. About the only thing this scenario was missing was a WalMart shopping bag, a bit of "chew" and a couple of missing teeth. Needless to say it was NOT a pretty sight. As I have oft times said, if you're gonna hit the pavement like a turd from a tall cow's ass at least have the good sense to do it with a bit of style and grace. Did I hit the pavement? Hell, yes. Did I do it with any sense of style and grace what so ever? Hell, no!!!
Sea Squirt finally managed to get me pseudo upright (I admire his courage) and I saw myself in the mirror. I'm bleeding profusely from several head wounds, I'm missing a patch of skin on my right elbow big enough to reupholster a cantaloupe with, my eyes don't match, I'm sweating like a glass of ice tea in August and I'm the color of a piece of typing paper. And I'm not only mumbling but I'm actually asking him who I am. Again, not pretty. And then he asks me "Are you OK?"
It's 7:17 AM, I'm covered in blood and my own urine, I've taken out a towel rack, I've knocked a picture of a Mexican drag queen off the wall, I look like the wrong end of a bludgeoning in an alley in Hanoi and you're telling me that I'm going to need stitches. WHAT THE BLOODY FUCK KIND OF A SHITHEAD QUESTION IS THAT???? No, honey, all is right with world. BTW, when you're done getting me my cup of coffee would you mind calling 911???
Oh, just fuck me to tears...
About 20 minutes later I finally stopped bleeding. Well, sort of. I'd managed to bleed through two towels, the front of me, the side of me, the back of me, a puddle under my ass was well on it's way to coagulating and I had a blood clot in my hair about the size of an avocado. I was well down the road to dehydration and starting to crave popsicles. And vodka. As well as Vicodin. Not necessarily in that order either.
Somehow, Sea Squirt was able to get a cup of coffee, half a dozen cookies and a cheese Danish into me so I was at least regaining my ability to communicate in complete sentences (kind of) again. After he counted my teeth and checked to see that my pupils were both of matching size he asked me what had happened. As I recall, my response was something to effect of "Grynispsle mo mo este mui mucho mas. Duarte.". At this point that still makes no sense to me but apparently at the time it at least let Sea Squirt know that I was still in there somewhere.
I spent the rest of the day in a bathrobe and bandaids (fuck that stitches shit, I'm a butch little motherfucker!!!) never wandering far from popsicles, vodka and the "occasional" non-prescription prescribed narcotic pain killer (what can I say, Pablo Escobar ain't got nothing on me!!!). Hypoglycemia sucks rocks!!! Especially for a sugar junkie like me. I've been this way my whole life. I was officially diagnosed with it in 1988 when I had an "episode" (I HATE that term) while I was sitting in a doctor's office and actually melted and flowed off of the exam table and puddled onto the floor like yesterdays gravy. A gallon of IV-push glucose later I was fine. I freaked the shit out of that doctor.
What can I say, I have the pancreas a diabetic would sell their soul for. I'm considering subdividing mine and selling it off in lots on eBay to the highest bidders. What ya got dude? Time shares? T-bills?? Blue chips??? How about a watch wiz a beautiful Swiss movement????
So, picture this: 7:15AM this morning, me bounding (shuffling) out of bed to go pee. Now picture my last half a nano-second of consciousness as I go "Hey, I'm kind of dizzy." Then picture me flat on my back, half in the bathroom and half in the hall way, covered in blood (as well as the doorway, the wall and the carpet), completely incoherent, slightly convulsing, frothing at the mouth a bit with Sea Squirt kneeling over me going "Oh, shit! You're gonna need stitches." Oh, yeah.... add on buck naked and still peeing. About the only thing this scenario was missing was a WalMart shopping bag, a bit of "chew" and a couple of missing teeth. Needless to say it was NOT a pretty sight. As I have oft times said, if you're gonna hit the pavement like a turd from a tall cow's ass at least have the good sense to do it with a bit of style and grace. Did I hit the pavement? Hell, yes. Did I do it with any sense of style and grace what so ever? Hell, no!!!
Sea Squirt finally managed to get me pseudo upright (I admire his courage) and I saw myself in the mirror. I'm bleeding profusely from several head wounds, I'm missing a patch of skin on my right elbow big enough to reupholster a cantaloupe with, my eyes don't match, I'm sweating like a glass of ice tea in August and I'm the color of a piece of typing paper. And I'm not only mumbling but I'm actually asking him who I am. Again, not pretty. And then he asks me "Are you OK?"
It's 7:17 AM, I'm covered in blood and my own urine, I've taken out a towel rack, I've knocked a picture of a Mexican drag queen off the wall, I look like the wrong end of a bludgeoning in an alley in Hanoi and you're telling me that I'm going to need stitches. WHAT THE BLOODY FUCK KIND OF A SHITHEAD QUESTION IS THAT???? No, honey, all is right with world. BTW, when you're done getting me my cup of coffee would you mind calling 911???
Oh, just fuck me to tears...
About 20 minutes later I finally stopped bleeding. Well, sort of. I'd managed to bleed through two towels, the front of me, the side of me, the back of me, a puddle under my ass was well on it's way to coagulating and I had a blood clot in my hair about the size of an avocado. I was well down the road to dehydration and starting to crave popsicles. And vodka. As well as Vicodin. Not necessarily in that order either.
Somehow, Sea Squirt was able to get a cup of coffee, half a dozen cookies and a cheese Danish into me so I was at least regaining my ability to communicate in complete sentences (kind of) again. After he counted my teeth and checked to see that my pupils were both of matching size he asked me what had happened. As I recall, my response was something to effect of "Grynispsle mo mo este mui mucho mas. Duarte.". At this point that still makes no sense to me but apparently at the time it at least let Sea Squirt know that I was still in there somewhere.
I spent the rest of the day in a bathrobe and bandaids (fuck that stitches shit, I'm a butch little motherfucker!!!) never wandering far from popsicles, vodka and the "occasional" non-prescription prescribed narcotic pain killer (what can I say, Pablo Escobar ain't got nothing on me!!!). Hypoglycemia sucks rocks!!! Especially for a sugar junkie like me. I've been this way my whole life. I was officially diagnosed with it in 1988 when I had an "episode" (I HATE that term) while I was sitting in a doctor's office and actually melted and flowed off of the exam table and puddled onto the floor like yesterdays gravy. A gallon of IV-push glucose later I was fine. I freaked the shit out of that doctor.
What can I say, I have the pancreas a diabetic would sell their soul for. I'm considering subdividing mine and selling it off in lots on eBay to the highest bidders. What ya got dude? Time shares? T-bills?? Blue chips??? How about a watch wiz a beautiful Swiss movement????
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