Witt and Wisdom

Just Posting This Could KILL ME

Every year about this time, I break out a couple of long, tube-shaped floor space heaters to pick up the slack when the furnace gets tired.  I leave these heaters on almost full time, in defiance of their affect of Mother Earth, because I honestly could not care less what happens to the Earth in the next 50 years.  I DO, however, care very much about my ice cube toes. 

I have grown suspicious of the heaters over time.  I'm not entirely sure they're properly grounded.  I ASSUME they are, because they're on the ground, but I admit I'm not totally clear on the concept.  The thing is, when they're on, I collect an obscene amount of static electricity.  I become a walking Tesla coil.  I'm fucking Peter Petrelli, without the oiled chest.

This becomes slightly inconvenient when every time I sit at one of the four computers that are surrounding the heaters, one billion volts of electricity pass through me and the streetlight outside dims.  It's probably not very safe, but what am I gonna do, unplug the heaters?  They're WAY OVER THERE.  I've just chosen to wear a mouth guard and try not to shit my pants.  It's a life. 

Hell, you're not even listening anymore - you've got Peter Petrelli on the brain, you filthy bastard.

Um. Duh.

Dear National Highway Traffic Safety Administration and Virginia Tech Transportation Institute,

Get to working on flying cars, cars that run on poop and awesome teleportation devices that make that weeEEEEEOOOOOOOOP sound and STOP DOING STUDIES ON SHIT THAT EVERYONE ALREADY KNOWS!  Jesus Christ.  Next, you'll tell me that I have road rage issues at the guy who drives 35 in the fast lane with his blinker on.  Turn your slide rule on something productive nerdlinger.

Never Surrender

I cleaned out my closet this past weekend.

Literally.

Figuratively, it's a whole different story.

There is something wound through my DNA that doesn't allow me to get rid of certain clothing, primarily sentimentally valuable t-shirts.  Think of it as Cling Theory.  This has long been considered to be a "guy thing" - one of those unexplainable phenomena that precludes us from letting go.  It happens with girlfriends, cars, grudges and hair.  And, for me, old tees.

Cling Theory.  It explains why I've had this shirt for something like 20 years.

Hello Mr. Monitor. You're Pretty.

The first pain pills my doctor put me on were total bullshit.  I'm pretty sure they were just ground up Sugar Smacks.  I told him he could do better.

So he gave me Vicodin.  Not bad.  The problem is, it doesn't really stop the pain, it just kinda makes me not care about it.

Today, for some unknown reason, the pain has jumped up and slapped me in the face with its dick.  Pain is quite rude that way. 

I called my doctor up and said, "I know I sound like a total crackhead, but I've gotta get something more for this pain."

He responded by sending me to a specialist who told me that my ribs aren't broken, but could very well be "cracked".  Dude, whatever.  The whole time, I was doing a Vinnie Barbarino impression in my head - gimmedrugs... gimmiedrugs... gimmedrugs. (If anyone remembers this reference, I'll be amazed)

Point is - he gave me an anti-inflammatory (the friggin' Clay Aiken of drugs) and some muscle relaxants.

Everything is allllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllright now.  Look what I can do with my hands, man.  Can you see that?  It's like, whoooooooooa.  It...It's like I can't feel anything, but I'm feeling everything, ya know?  Dude, I love you, man.  Seriously.  You're the best.  We should hang out more.

The Study Of Relaycast Dominion Transmutation In Our Ecosystem

Many of you are saying, "My heavens, CW certainly has taken a long time to post something today.  He most assuredly has some weighty issues of global import which must be addressed before he can pander to our needs."

Right you are, dear reader.  There are matters that may be beyond the reach of your meager brainstem that need great care, thought and experimentation.  I am the man for these tasks.  For you, and for the good of humanity itself, I have devoted the better part of this day to the analysis of the unknown and unseen:  Atmospheric based communication controlled through electromagnetic current (probably). 

I speak, of course, of the test flight of my brother's $10 remote controlled helicopter inside his living room and the inaugural journey of my $10 remote 4X4 Hummer into the Georgian outback.  God bless Closeout Warehouse Center of Georgia and GOD BLESS THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA!!

Do You Think?

Do you think that it will serve you
To rage and scream and yell?
Do you think that it will calm you
When your voice has gone to hell?
Do you think that you can change things
As the world begins to seethe?
Do you think that anger saves you
After those that loved you leave?

Man, what the hell was that?  I just started typing and there it was.  Bizarre.  I know, I’m basically the worst poet ever.  Never been good at it.  I’ve always envied those that were.  Not to mention that this particular poem seems to be against rage and anger, which is absolutely not my philosophy.  I’m all for rage!  Love the rage!  Also, there seems to be some hint of a religious undertone there, which is nearly laughable.  I mean, I just made a joke about Jesus and Mother Teresa going to Vegas yesterday; religious, I am not. 

Wait.  Do you suppose that God is speaking through my pagan mouth in order to reach the masses?  NICE TRY, BUTTMUNCH!  WE AIN’T BUYIN’ WHAT YER SELLING OVER HERE!!  TAKE THAT SALVATION SHIT SOMEWHERE ELSE!! YOU'LL NEVER GET ME TO SLFDJJLFJFF…sfljfsfsf…

God is great.  I am misguided.  Never listen to me agaiS

>>>

NOT SO FAST THERE GOD!! NOBODY INTERRUPTS THIS BLOG!!  YOU THINK YOU’RE SO GREAT JUST BECAUSE YOU ALLEGEDLY CREATED TREES AND THE SUN AND SHIT!  WELL, BIG FUCyrocdfyhs…

Also, my son, I created boobies.

…

The man makes a good point.  I still don’t believe in him, but I will take back the buttmunch comment.  BUT DON’T PUSH YOUR LUCK, MOTHERFueresesesfdf…

Go in peace, my children.

DAMMIT!

Rockin' Like Dokken

In order to provide you thankless hogsmokers a little entertainment value, I actually attempted to take a note here and there during my hiatus to remind me of some of the funnier and, well, noteworthy moments.  It seemed like a really good idea at the time.  The problem is that sleeping in the sun with SPF 4 Deep Tanning "Oil" also seemed like a good idea.  So you can see that my faculties may have been slightly impaired.

I am looking at the notes right now and I see some evidence of a negative effect from the eight beers, four vodka/7's and three shots that I imbibed.  From what I have been able to decipher, "Waahddun chakge ro shorke, caz bady I'n a mast" may translate to the Prince lyric, "Wouldn't change a stroke, cuz baby I'm the most."  You can't really see it now, but believe me, that shit is funny.  I do recall saying something like, "Prince is a goddamned genius.  You kids today have no fucking clue.  Music today sucks.  No innovators.  Who is innovative today? NO.  BODY.  NOW GET ME A FUCKING DRINK!"  Seriously, how can you argue with that kind of rock-solid platform?  Especially the "get me a fucking drink" part.  At one point, one of the twenty-somethings that was hanging out with us said, "What about Dave Mathews?"  I just shook my head and felt 80 years old.  Whippersnappers. 

Next in my notes are the words Get oFF -> 23 pestions in ove nigt stand.  I mean, really, this shit is GOLD.  Funny like a motherfucker.  Not sure why the Prince fixation.  Not even really a big fan.  I may have been drugged.

To cap the somewhat legible portion of the notes are two lines:

Mothy Crue - Live wire!
Def Lefend - Rocket

So yeah, you can see that it was non-stop laughter and shitty 80's music.  You young people are staring at the page right now thinking, "That poor, pathetic fuck.  I hope I die before I get like that."

I'm telling you right now, in ten years, you punk-ass bitches are gonna be sitting on a balcony overlooking a beach somewhere saying, "That goddamned R. Kelly was the shit.  Today's artists just can't compare."

Rainy Days and Tuesdays

On this rainy Atlanta day, my mind drifts to morose thoughts.  The following things never fail to make me sad:

Fat people in clown pants.
Ugly people with unfortunate haircuts.
Old dogs barking at trees.
Women wearing pants that fit like sausage casings.
Opaque white pants that show a clear outline of the underwear.  And one cheek of the underwear is riding high.  And the underwear has flowers.  And it’s a dude.
Unfunny people laughing too long at their own jokes.
Morbidly obese people in compact cars.
Christina Aguilera.
Stupid people misusing words.
Parents trying to make their kids cooler than they were.  And failing miserably.
Guys that don’t get the hint.
Reality dating shows of any kind.
Personal ads.
People that think they’re in on the joke, when, in fact, they are the joke.
Skinny vegans.
Fat vegans.
Vegans.
People that hork up their left lung just before lighting up another cigarette.
Kids cartoons.
Bare midriffs on tubby teenage girls.
Punk rock that isn’t.
Vertical stripes on a horizontal body.
Old people with gas.
Bitter women in their sexual prime.
Silly glasses on a pretty face.
“Honk If You Love Jesus” bumper stickers.
Old people at bus stops.
Fat feet in strappy shoes.
Cute girls talking about bowel movements.
Cats that fall off of things and then wonder what in the hell just happened.
Old, fat lead singers from hair bands.

Ah, so much sadness, so little punching.

Sigh.

Mad About Me

I haven't written anything decent in about 2 months now and it's pissin' me off.  When am I gonna become famous, so I can get some lackeys to take care of the annoyances in my day, allowing me to devote more time to writing?  Seriously, you people are not helping me out at all. To recap, I need you to either:

A) Make me famous
B) Become my lackey

GET GOING ALREADY!!

In Remembrance of My Weekend

I had a most excellent drunken weekend.  And, contrary to plan, I didn’t spend all weekend indoors playing video games and watching DVD’s.

Friday night was a night of relaxation and mental prep for the weekend ahead. By which I mean I played the aforementioned video games.  Berate my geekdom if you must, but until you have hijacked a car in Vice City, circa 1986, while Yankee Rose plays in the background, you cannot cast stones.  It's amazingly pleasing.

Saturday we woke late and decided to spend some time in the fantastic Georgia weather.  I washed The Passat in the 80-degree magnificence and she was grateful.   There is little as satisfying as seeing your car go from grimy, rain-battered gray haze to bright and polished Colorado Red.  It brought a tear.  I was careful not to “wax” all over the hood.

Immediately after applying the finishing touches to my precious, I showered and got ready to engage on a Saturday afternoon drunkfest at a friends house.  Big party.  Much booze, burgers and dogs.  Also drunken horseshoes, which only sounds dangerous because it is.  For the record, horseshoes is nothing at all like pool; you do not get better the more you have to drink.  Or at least I don’t.  Probably an inner-ear thing.

One More Thing I Can Do Without

So, I’ve had food poisoning several times before and in case you are looking to take it up as some sort of “Extreme Sport”, I’d have to advise against it.  If my colon were a symphony of the body, the main performance over the last two days would’ve been a glorious concerto in 250 movements.  The “Thai Seafood Surprise In Ebola Sauce” has morphed into some sort of evil entity, eager to be released again into the world.  I have never before experienced food that seems to have a genuine grudge against my lower intestinal tract.  I am curious to know how the colon/Thai food rift began, but I am only hearing my colon’s end of the story.  Believe me, he is screaming non-stop about it.

My point is that I’m back at work and, frankly, I do not need any external influences to make me “queasy”.  However, when I went to the fountain to get a drink of clear, delicious, safe, life-giving water, I was forced to contemplate something that has bothered me for a while.  Perhaps some of you zany engineering types can assist me in understanding this one:  Why, when I am getting a drink of water from the fountain outside of a restroom, does the water pressure fall when someone in the restroom flushes?  Why, in the name of all that is holy, are those two sets of pipes in any way related?  I want to at least have the illusion that there is a single pipe for my water that’s linked from a pure, natural, Colorado spring directly to the water fountain, only to be slowed by some sort of quadruple-filter distillation process.  I don’t need to be happily sucking in water, only to hear the whhooooosssssh sound on the other side of the door as the water dips below the reach of my eager lips. 

Someone place a call to the Brita people about this; it is completely unacceptable.

Blowout

Home sick today with food poisoning.  I blame the "Thai Seafood Surprise" that I had over the weekend.  It feels like my intestines are being yanked and pulled in a manner similar to one of those long balloons that clowns form into poodles and monkeys.  I fucking hate clowns for exactly this reason.

There has been a bit of a shake-up in the blog world lately and I need to rejigger all of my links.  I'm dropping a couple of sites for various reasons.  There are a few of you out there that I know are frequent readers that I have failed to link thus far.  Today is your opportunity.  Please email me through the link below in order to get into my updated blogroll.  It's easy for you and easy for me.  Mostly for me.

I hope to be up to full speed tomorrow.  Until then, I will be drinking vodka martinis in hopes of killing the bacteria in my system. 

To Sleep; Perchance to Dream

Weekend long.  Weekend fun.  Am tired.

I began the pre-celebration of my 32nd year on Thursday night by seeing the 10:15 p.m. showing of Matrix Reloaded.  I wore my special soil-resistant, chub-allowing khakis.  Without going into detail, I will say that I was impressed on a number of levels.  My immediate first reaction was that it isn’t as good as the first movie, but now I am rethinking that, because I’ve seen the first one about 20 billion times, so I am far more invested in it.  I think that the more I see Reloaded, the more pleased I will become.  I am ready for the DVD now, please.

The result of seeing the 10:15 show is that I didn’t get to bed until around 1:30.  This is not good.  My body needs a good ten hours of sleep to be fully functional.  I usually get about seven.  Seven hours allow me to be partially functional, while also giving me that angry, vindictive edge that makes me so very huggable.  Thursday night, I got six hours of sleep.  For the record, six hours of sleep puts me in a bad place.  With six hours, I tend to not only hold contempt for humanity in general (as with seven hours of sleep), but I begin to hold intensely fierce grudges against inanimate objects, such as my hair.  Or the phone. Or my zipper.  Or the lawnmower.  It isn’t healthy, to be sure, but if you had my tired eyes, you would be able to see that they are all conspiring against me.  It is perfectly rational to slap at my own head in an effort to punish my hair for being unruly.  It is not outside the norm to yell at the phone, “Oh, I HEAR you ringing!! I’m COMING, you MOTHERFUCKER!!”  There is no shame in standing in your bathroom, both hands locked on the zipper nubbin, screaming, “What is your problem, you sonovabitch?! Zip already!! You’ve got two jobs in life! Up.  Down. Don’t make me come down there!!”  It is psychologically acceptable to mutter under your breath to a lawnmower, “I’ll push you right down into that ditch and leave you for dead, I swear to God, you boisterous piece of shit.  Do not test me.”

So I was in a bit of a mood on Friday.

Do Or Do Not Do

Five more days until I turn 32. 

In my weeklong effort to try to convey the wisdom of my years, I thought it might be a good idea to share the secrets for a healthy and successful love life, as I know them.

I’ve found a good pick-up line to be:  “Excuse me, I know this is crazy, but I’ll be mad at myself tomorrow if I don’t at least come over here to tell you that your eyes are probably the most beautiful that I’ve ever seen.  You don’t even need to say anything; I just wanted you to know.”

On the other hand, a bad pick-up line is:  “You don’t look like a fuckin’ prude like the rest of the bitches here. Ever had your ankles hooked around the headrest of a ’91 Camaro?”

When looking to “close the deal” at the end of the night, a good effort may be:  “I’d love to spend the night with you, even if it’s just to wake up next to you in the morning.”

Conversely, one may not be as successful with: “If you ain’t humpin’ my kielbasa in ten minutes, I’m gonna go jerk off."

Detached

There is no doubt about it, I have fabulous earlobes. 

Muh.  Thur.  Fuuh.  Huk.  That is one hot-ass lobe.  Don't try to deny it, you transparent, jealous bitch.

And you know why they're so fine?  Because they're detached.  It is a proven fact that people with detached lobes are, on average, 78.9% sexier than those with attached lobes (Scientific Journal of American Scientific Facts and Global Scientific Science, August 2002).  In the article, Dr. Heinrich Von Guttersnatch concluded that people with attached lobes (or "Lobers") are significantly less sexually competent and have a greater risk of having ugly children.  Also, he said, Lobers are hung like squirrels. 

So don't even try to argue with science.   

Dammit - I am so goddamn hot!

Hello? It’s For You…

I’m getting pretty goddamn sick of these TV ads for all of the shit that cell phones can do now.  Get over yourselves.  It’s a phone.  The following features are required:

Buttons to dial. 
Place where noise goes in. 
Place where noise comes out. 
Done. 

But no.  Now phones are Portable Media Stations.

“Look, Becky!!  I took a pixilated picture of my vulva and I’m gonna send it to Jimmy so that he knows how much I wuuuv him!”

“Hey Tiffany!  Text message me the results of your herpes test!  I can hardly wait!”

“Amber!! Guess what?  I got the new ring tone!! Now everybody can know what an annoying twat I am, cuz 50 Cent plays every time someone calls!  What?  I know!  I am such a cockgobbler!”

“Holy fucktarts Biff!  You need to get this new phone with Voice Activated Dialing!  All I have to do is shout the name of my ex-girlfriend into the phone about 50 times and eventually it recognizes my voice and dials for me!!  What?  Yeah, it would be easier to just dial the number myself, but I can’t count past six!”

“Trevor, check this shit out!  I just got the new hands-free device!  Doesn’t it make me look like a pretentious fuck who actually has people to talk to!?  The best part is, I can now use my free hand to give you a reach around!”

How about applying some of this technology to more important parts of our daily lives?  I, for one, am looking for a customizable ring tone to play from my penis during climax.  Primarily, I want the start of You Give Love A Bad Name by Bon Jovi, which begins:

Shot through the heart
And you’re to blame
Darlin’ you give love
A bad name. 

That’d fucking rock.  Hard.

I’d download tons of Cocktones* to my “hard drive” in a hurry if this technology was available.   

C’mon Nokia.  Get with the fuckin’ program.

*I’m totally trademarking this, so don’t even think about stealing my fucking idea.

Family Ties

When I was about eleven or twelve years old, my mom decided to assemble the thousands of photos of our family memories into four massive albums.  There were so many hazy recollections that crystallized upon seeing a single photo, that it was nearly overwhelming.  I loved looking through the piles, because, generally, family photos capture happiness.  I had a very rich, fun and amusing upbringing, with a sister that is seven years my senior and a brother that is a year younger than her.  So, for those of you out there that are social scientists, yes, I was a “happy accident”.  But I never felt like it.  Well, almost never.   

As my mom was organizing and filing the immense collection of pictures, I remember looking through some of the old, grainy color photos, trying to resurrect the moments in my mind. 

There…was the picture of me, wadded up in a mammoth old tractor tire, as my sister and brother rolled me around.

There…was the photo of the three of us all dressed up, performing a newscast skit for my parents in our family room.

There…were the snapshots of every first day school for all three of us, from kindergarten forward. 

There…was…

“Hey mom, what’s this a picture of?” I inquired.

Moody Blues

There is a quote in Say Anything... where Lloyd Dobler asks his sister in exasperation, "How hard is it to decide to be in a good mood, and then just be in a good mood?"

It's always been my belief that Lloyd (or Cameron Crowe) was right on point there.  I think that people tend to wallow a bit too much in their own self-pity.  Long ago, I adopted Lloyd's statement as a personal philosophy.

This week, I've been guilty of a little wallowing.  And it pisses me off, frankly.  My posts this week have pretty much been for shit and I owe you slugs better, by God! 

The truth of the matter is that regardless of how bad work gets, I have an amazing wife, unbelievably caring friends, there-for-me-no-matter-what family and a fridge full of sissy-drinks. 

So now, today, at this moment, I've decided to be in a good mood.

This involves me taking off my pants, so you may want to avert your eyes.

Hello Dumbass!

Though I’ve spoken of it before, I fear that the formerly rock-solid ability to suffer fools gladly has now completely dissolved from my personality. 

I have always taken great pains to develop my brown-sugary sweet distain for people in private.  Outwardly, I had a real knack for giving my undivided attention, no matter the Yokelisms that spouted from moronic mouths. 

I was in retail for around six years in high school and college.  I was known for my congeniality and kindness in dealing with the general public.  I won all sorts of Employee of the Month awards, based upon letter after letter of praise.  Customer Service was second nature.  I was a walking, talking ad for the perfect employee.

At some point though, and I’m not sure when, the switch was flipped.  The patience waned.  The contempt built.

And here I sit, wondering whether or not I can handle my job anymore, based on my inability to tolerate stupidity.  Reason tells me that idiots are everywhere; there is no escape.  There is no job that will allow me to hide from their never-ending, pointless stories or inexplicable hairdos.  There is no safe haven from the faraway, blank, uncomprehending expressions in the eyes.  There is no refuge from statements including “supposably” and the unbearable second-grade level emails.  There is no shelter for the drivers that appear to be legally blind.  There is no sanctuary from the 18 items in the 10-items-or-less checkout.

So, I propose that it’s time for those of us that know the difference between “there”, “they’re” and “their” to rise up!  Let us overpower our dimwitted oppressors!  Let us break free of these shackles! 

I hereby authorize you all to flick anyone on the forehead that says or does anything moronic from this point forward, in perpetuity.  If you get flicked more than five times in a day, you must go stand in a corner, away from people and sharp objects.  Just hum quietly to yourself.  Try not to drool.  If you get flicked more than 50 times in a week, you are not allowed to leave your house without a Sponsor.

Good luck to you.    

Mothman Prophesy

Last night I had a dream that a moth got stuck in my throat.  In the dream, I gagged and choked and hacked.  The moth came out in a gooey glob.  So here are my questions:

If I was hacking like a madman in my sleep, was I gagging in real life too?
Does this dream mean I'm gay?
Why is the cat all wet?

Issues

When I started MSN this morning and the woman said, "Good Morning!", I said, "Fuck off".

Shut up, bitch.  I'll let you know when it's a good morning.

Blunt Force Trauma

There is overwhelming evidence that I have issues.  It's quite difficult to say what, precisely, has screwed me up the most in life.  Here is a list of ten candidates:

1. Dancing to Wham! in middle school.  Just listening to Wake Me Up Before You, GoGo is the closest I have come to having a homosexual experience.
2. That one time in college that I was looking for a buzz on a Sunday night and everyone was too lazy to go get alcohol, so I took roughly 16,000mg of Ibuprofen.  Any swelling that I may have had, subsided.
3. Viewing every episode of Joe Millionaire.  Who knew that prostitution could be dumbed down?
4. That other time in college where I ran out of Seagrams for my 7&7’s, so I substituted Robitussin. See, college teaches adaptability.  And my sinuses were cleared all up.
5. Sitting through Batman Returns in its entirety.  Joel Schumacher should be killed for some of the atrocities that he has put on film.
6. That other, other time in college where I drank that shot that my friend invented that was composed of Mad Dog 20/20 and low-grade Scotch.  He called it The Mad Scotsman.  I was blind for about thirty minutes. 
7. Having sex to Rod Stewart in the back of my Chevy Cavalier in high school.  Seriously.  To Downtown Train.  There is no amount of therapy in the world, people.
8. The time I line danced with WWII War Veterans to Ice, Ice, Baby at that hotel bar in Des Moines.
9. The night of that Halloween Party when I was so “tipsy” that I bit several beer cans in half causing some attractive gashes in my lips and hands.  I was asked to leave.  Some people are so rude.
10. The morning that I woke up after a night of hard livin’ to discover the words, “I like small boys” and “Entry In The Rear” scrawled on my body with permanent marker. 

Hmmm…looking back, I just can’t seem to find anything that links these things together.  Well, except for alcohol.  But I’m sure that’s unrelated. 

I Need Medication

I just got physically violent with my icemaker for not dispensing ice fast enough for my liking. 

But you see how the freezer was asking for it, yes? 

Always. Taunting.  Me.

 

Ya Learn Something New Every Night

I found out that my gym bag impersonates my cat in the middle of the night.  Even if nobody sees you, there is no way to recover a cool swagger after petting a gym bag.