Times Online Archives!

July 10, 2008

Recently, Times Online launched an archives section ranging from 1785 until 1985. I’m a history geek and I find this absolutely fucking fascinating. Think, for a second, of all the things you could look up. The emergence of submarines (u-boats), the discovery of penicillin, the flight of man — god damn, everything. Being this is my blog, however, I’ve found a few choice entries for you, fair reader. Enjoy. Or don’t.

Vampires! Why by golly. So they make us look like fools, do they? Here are a couple sad tales from France, including dung and an overdose:

And then we have this. Forget vampires, we got Bonnie & Clyde:

This isn’t even a scratch on the surface, and allah knows I’ll be clawing into this stuff for a long time now. The first mention of this, the first mention of that. Anything you can think of that relates to modern society is probably mentioned here somewhere. And it’s worth reading. Because as we all know, say it along with me kids, history — repeats — itself. Good job. Now if only Opium were still accepted. Search for the Opium Commission. Those English did not fuck around with their scag.

This is one example of how to use the internet for good, rather than evil. The following two games are probably the best use of Flash, ever.


Yes -- I am Satan, fighting Jesus, on Noah's Ark. 
He summoned fish from the ocean so as to bludgeon me. He's crafty, 
that Jesus.

From the Adult Swim dudes:

1. Bible Fight
2. 5 minutes to kill (yourself)


May 23, 2007

Everyone has their own addictions. It’s simple and it’s true. One addiction we all have in common is sex. Most of us, anyway.

I’ve often wondered what the interest is in reproducing; what makes the human race keep on going — aside from the obvious orgasmic qualities involved in sex? What else is there? Why do some parents obsess and devote so much time to their children, why do they make their children their lives?

Well, I finally found out. I’m not bright enough to just imagine, mind you, it took the creation of a child of my own.

I can tell you all that I know:


I look at her and I can’t stop looking. She is truly beautiful.

I know that she relies, mainly, on me and her mother for support. We gave her life and we must sustain that life as long as we can. She depends on us, truly. She is a beautiful, helpless little being.

Instinct. I don’t know where instinct started, but it did. It was long ago, that’s all I know, back when men probably just clubbed the shit out of women to mate with them. This was only confirmed by my mother’s revelation that, when nursing women hear a baby cry in public, their breasts leak milk automatically. Did you know this, men? I did not. But everything, in the end, is instinct. We’re all human, however, so we get to enjoy it. That’s one thing I have learned about life, after 23 years and many bottles of prescription pills. You have to enjoy the experience of life itself. The ups, the downs, and especially the god damn UPS. Kendall would agree. You’re ALIVE. You feel, what else is there? Life.

And lastly, the thing I truly love about being a father is that, I always have something to look forward to. I look forward to every second I have with this little girl who knows nothing about this new, fucked up world. I want to teach her and I want to make her into what I think is a good human being. I want to introduce her to all kinds of music. I want to show her classic movies and eat pop corn with her. I want to hold her in my arms and know that she is truly a part of me and someone that I love (because try as I might, I will always love the woman that bore my child). In the end, it’s hard to explain, and I sound like one soft son of a bitch, but nothing matters more than family. That’s what I’ve been taught by my parents and it’s all I know. Instinct… I can’t deny you any more.


April 19, 2007

I some how ended up on Fox News tonight while watching tv, and I was treated to a few minutes of some show called Red Eye. The hosts were talking about Cho Seung-Hui, the kid who committed the shootings at Virginia Tech, and about the videos and pictures he had sent in to NBC. Talk about disgusting. Not Seung-Hui, but the people on the show. The hosts were taking shots at him, ridiculing him, comparing his voice to that of Napoleon Dynamite’s. Really professional, really mature. They went on to off-handedly call him “nuts” and “psycho”, claiming that his writings shouldn’t even be acknowledged, as they’re just ramblings of some worthless lunatic. They said he should be “shamed out of existence”. Like turning the other cheek is going to solve everything.

That type of of ignorance and complete insensitivity is what has lead people like Seung-Hui to to lash out violently, rather than seek out legitimate help from those who care.

Instead of deriding him on national TV (ironically, like a bunch of school bullies), why don’t you think about what caused him to do what he did, to analyze who he was and what happened to him, find out what horrible event in his life damaged him so badly that he felt compelled to exact revenge on more than thirty random people? What made him who he was? More importantly, why wasn’t he receiving adequate help?

He was a human being with problems that needed to be addressed. There’s no excuse for killing innocent people, but mental illness makes him just as much of a victim as everyone else.

Again, I think it reflects upon our society these days. They say that empathy is what makes you human; caring for others, putting yourself in their shoes. It seems that Seung-Hui lost his capacity to empathize, and the same goes for the sad shits out there like the people on Fox. A little compassion somewhere along the line might have stopped all of this from happening. You never know.

What I do know is that if things don’t change, things like this are going to become even more commonplace than they already are. If only I had that much faith left in humanity…

Orleans, One, One, O Seven

January 14, 2007

I feel it my duty to report on New Orleans, albeit several weeks late.


What I did:
– Drink (sorry, I let you fellahs down)

– Not have dirty, STD riddled sex (sorry, I let you fellahs down)

– Attempt, at least once, to carve my way through the wall of humans ever-present at any given moment (I failed)

– Drink the most expensive shot of liquor from the most expensive plastic cup (johnnie red, economy, economy)

– Lose partial hearing to an 80’s cover band whilst fighting the urge to grab random asses in the crowd that was overwhelming and asphyxiating me, if only to carve a little space for myself (Come on feel the noiz)

– Witness someone disrobe for beads (It was a man, and he was urinating. He produced a great Arc De piss, but received no beads. I yelled “Holy FUCK!” like a real tourist)

– Stare out into New Orleans from my hotel window for nearly an hour, downing copious amounts of free tea for caffeine (my happiest moment there. little fireworks in the distance…)

– Watch an incredible, and incredibly short fireworks display in Jackson Square, in the midst of many other drunks (pretty impressive)

– Pee in a constantly wavering port-o-potty surrounded by thousands of people (I have no idea how I ended up in the “piss line”. A strange man opened the door on me as I was fastening my belt. He apologized. People took turns. How a city retains its toilet etiquette under such circumstances, I’ll never fucking know.)

– Witness a little devastation on my way in (Depressing, until the alcohol)

– Witness a little hope from people who shouldn’t have it (I asked a store clerk if things were getting back to normal. His response, in tattered English, was “Yes. We’ll recover.”)

Information overload. At any given moment, at any given glance, I saw something that I would normally take home and explain to my family on any given day. Any one event could define your day in its out-and-out weirdness, but there were just about sixty every sixty seconds. Everything was a little absurd (if you bothered to look around) and there was so much of it, so many silly red faces, that my brain overloaded and gave in to instinct. The near-midget transvestite casually grocery shopping, the drunken bums begging each other for “the booze”, the street kids’ dance, the street men singing their own little songs, the Police in cruisers watching porn, the idiotic tourists such as myself making their own little scenes. I liked it.

I didn’t get too drunk, except in the hotel room. And I had a good New Years.



My bottle of absinthe finally arrived in the mail yesterday — the real deal, not the cheap, gimmicky “absinth” crap. It cost me an arm and a leg, but I can’t really complain. I got it in 9 days from France, complete with replica glass and spoon.

I chose a bottle of Lemercier Amer 72%. It’s not the highest quality stuff, but like they say, you crawl before you walk. Or, I suppose, in the case of liquor, you crawl before you walk… and then begin crawling again.

Despite the fact that I had an empty stomach and had to go to work in an hour, I ripped the box open and poured a glass. Self control has never been my forte.

lemercier0.jpg lemercier1.jpg lemercier2.jpg lemercier11.jpg lemecier10.jpg
Vive la France!

Results? Work sucked pretty bad, as would be expected after ingesting a glass of 140 proof booze (apparently, the granola bar I stuffed in my mouth before heading out didn’t do a great job of soaking anything up). Actually, I was feeling OK until my supervisor called to ask if I would come in early and take a “10 key certification test”. That’s what we call “buzz kill”. Didn’t put me in a great mood for the rest of the day.

The next night I figured I should cut my losses and really try the stuff on, considering the expense. What’s an absinthe drunk like?

Absinthe’s not going to make you trip out hawd coh nigga — after all, it’s basically just liquor with some herbs thrown into it, none of which are related to THC or any such nonsense. It does produce a different sort of drunk, though, just like tequila can produce a different drunk than whiskey or wine or beer.

Whether or not it’s the herbs, the distillation process, the tiny amount of thujone, I don’t think anybody knows. I can say that, normally, after drinking half a bottle of 140-proof liquor I would be shitfaced. One would think that I’d be singing Queen songs to my cats in tight leather pants, followed up with some premium drunk dialing and a hangover the likes of which would make Arnold Schwarzenegger cry like a woman. IT’S NOT A TUMAH!

It wasn’t really anything like that. I was intoxicated, but I could operate. It brought on the rush of alcohol, the euphoria, but without the disorientation and stupidity that so often comes with it. I drink so I don’t have to think. “First I think too much, then I drink too much” – my little motto. I was finally happy doing both last night. Now there’s motivation to attend college…

Oh, and the taste. How silly of me. The taste is really unique, definitely a lot more enjoyable than the taste of any other liquor I’ve ever had. It’s almost like a candy on the tongue, even when there’s little or no sugar added. There was also a spicey aftertaste to it, almost peppery. Combine all of that with the burning-flesh sensation of strong alcohol and you have something special. No wonder the French fell for it. My only question is how they continued to pronunciate things like Montpellier with numb tongues.

The smell. Mmm. My first whiff of absinthe was sort of like my first whiff of pussy, both of them equally exciting. Think along the lines of black licorice. I’ve never been a fan of licorice, especially not black licorice, but I do love the smell and taste of this stuff. It is truly unique.

The visuals: almost forgot the best part. Even without sugar, absinthe turns a murky white when water is added, often with a greenish hue, depending on what color the absinthe was before you added water. It’s what is known as the “louche”. My absinthe wasn’t a deep green in the first place, so I ended up with what looked like a yellow-tinted glass of watered down milk. (They also make blanche absinthes which are simply colorless — but that doesn’t sound as entertaining to me. It’s the green fairy, after all…)

The slow process of dripping water is actually part of the fun — it’s almost hypnotizing watching the curls make their way to the surface. This louche effect is caused by the oils from the plants and herbs present in absinthe, one of the things that makes it so unique. And at the end of the show, you get to drink it. That’s my kind of beverage.

It was only after more than half a bottle that I learned how to serve it properly, though, so that was a little bit of a let down, considering the price. The whole “sugar cube preparation” was a bit too sweet, and after a few drinks my stomach started to hurt. I ditched the cubes or tried cutting them in half, but that didn’t really help much. I started sipping the Lemercier straight and making wonderful faces like someone was prodding my balls with a hot poker. Burnt a little. Nope, not gonna work. After reading around I found that sugar wasn’t necessary, it’s all preference, so I decided to just try it watered down. Success.

Lesson learned. A couple of ice cubes in some water, a slow drip, and you’re good. Sit back and watch the swirls of green and yellow turn into a glass of milky white heaven.

Fun facts:

Absinthe is legal to possess in the U.S., it’s just illegal to import or brew.

– Thujone/Wormwood has absolutely no link to THC. Check it out for yourself.

It’s not likely that you’re going to cut off your beautiful little ears or paint a Starry Night. There’s a big myth that thujone, the primary active ingredient in Wormwood (which is featured in absinthe in small amounts), will get you high. This is false. Thujone is poisonous in large amounts, and that’s about it. Some people do feel effects other than a simple buzz or drunk from absinthe, but who knows from what or if it is even real. Read: “Some researchers have now hypothesised that the reputed ‘secondary effects’ of absinthe have nothing directly to do with thujone at all – if they in fact exist at all, they may be caused by the interaction of some of the other constituent herbs ( fenchone in fennel, pinocamphonethe in hyssop, and the anethole in anise, have all been shown to cause epileptiform convulsions in laboratory animals when administered in very large doses). Source.

Absinth is not Absinthe. Absinth is a gimmick liquor made in Eastern Europe, sold to gullible teenagers who think they’re going to get high from a high thujone content. It’s going to taste like shit and do nothing for you.

– Put away the Zippo, you brilliant cunt. There is nothing about the preparation of absinthe that requires an open flame. When you light sugar cubes on fire, or set the absinthe on fire like these shitheads, you’re simply jerking off the old myth that it’s going to get you high and that there’s something to be unlocked with a flame. It’s liquor. It isn’t heroin. You’re not shooting up. You’re just making 80 dollar liquor taste like burnt asshole.

– Abinsthe was banned because of a foolish doctor in the early 20th century who thought that it was was ruining French society. The wineries in France, who were noticing losses in sales thanks to absinthe, quickly agreed with his claims that the green fairy was in fact a devil, stealing men’s souls. The doctor, one Valentin Magnan, proved his point about absinthe by giving a bunch of thujone to a mouse, subsequently killing it. He then claimed that it was the thujone in absinthe that was causing all of the supposed trouble. If you want to blame someone for the insane price or the fact that it is still illegal in the US, blame that guy.

There’s some other useful info at the La Fee Vert FAQ and at the Wormwood Society. Check-check it a-one time!

Dear Gulf Coast drivers,

December 7, 2006

I cannot help that you were born in Bumfuckvillenowhere, grew up with little-to-no manners and do not correctly know how to drive, but I’m willing to attempt to help you out a little.

Firstly, when it comes to legality, pedestrians have the right of way. Period. This includes stop signs. If you see me at a stop sign, STOP, and don’t bitch because someone else is out walking to work and getting some exercise while you’re on your way home with a sack full of Krystal’s to watch NASCAR. There is no rush. Dale Earnhardt will still be there when you get home.

Shit. My mistake. Well, Petty will still be there, anyway. The point is, you stop. You don’t collect 200 dollars, you don’t pass Go, you Stop and Wait. It’s OK to take things slow now and then.

When you see a pedestrian walking towards you down the road, you slow down or move over to the left if there is no oncoming traffic — some times both! What you don’t do is drive 15 MPH over the speed limit a foot away from the pedestrian (ME, ASSHOLE!), especially when said pedestrian is traversing terrain lined with downed tree branches, sand, and weeds because there are no side walks in the pit stop shit hole town you both inhabitate.

Understand this: the one time I trip and fall into your hideous little Rice Rocket, I can promise you that I will leave more than a small dent in its trim. Your car will be totalled and your life will be ruined because you’ll have nothing else to do on Sundays when you could be riding around town pretending to be an O.G. with Young Jeezy blasting from those pimped out speakers of yours. Just stay at home and pretend you’re cool by smokin’ that Mexican dirt weed you’ve got stashed away, and do us all some good.

My Christmas wish is that the two idiots who passed me on the road today some how collide with each other this weekend, killing each other instantly, otherwise, they’re going to kill someone else out of stupidity. I actually took the driver’s test here in Florida last month (and passed) and can attest to the fact that you don’t truly have to know how to handle a vehicle to drive legally. You don’t have to know what to do in any given situation while careening down the road at 75MPH in a huge metallic behemoth, you just have to know how to park and do an un-timed 3-point-turn.

But they’re out there anyway, enmasse.

Russian roulette, every day, on your way… to work. Have fun.

As for the manners, I’ll give you a hint there, too. When you’re at a restaurant and are given utensils wrapped in a napkin, place the napkin on your lap. It’ll make you look sahfistacayted,


O Glorious Birthday,

November 26, 2006

It has come to pass that on January 1st 2007, I will be partying (vomitting) somewhere in New Orleans, Louisiana. This has been approved and sponsored by my older sister who I doth love very much.

Seriously though, New Orleans! Yeah, so it’s been devastated and robbed of its very soul — that doesn’t mean there isn’t crazy stuff going on! And the French Quarter is still there. And maybe some absinthe. Sweet, sweet absinthe, how I will find you. I will FIND YOU.

I have strayed from the topic. This post today is to come up with some things to do. We’ll be staying at a very nice hotel and I’m sure we’ll drink and visit the French Quarter, which will be an experience unto itself (finally I shall walk in the footsteps of Ignatius J. Reilly), and no doubt just being there will be enough, but I ask you, my dear readers, the throngs of you, do you have any ideas?

Please comment, cause there’s gotta be something to do down there that I haven’t thought of. ASIDE FROM DISROBING AND REQUESTING BEADS. AND COLLECTING AN STD. Those two have been judged and deemed unworthy of the cause. Even though I would get some king sized beads and some king sized crabs. Always #1 baby.

Gift Certificates

October 28, 2006

Does anyone honestly like to receive gift certificates for Christmas or their Birthday? Sure, it’s the thought that counts, and of course you like having something to spend, but when you think about it, isn’t it just sort of like giving somebody money with a contractual obligation to shop at one specific store? That’s fucked up to me. It’s almost as quick and easy as cash: go to the ATM or to Target, put it in an envelope, send it, and they both buy you whatever you want. But from different stores. The difference is that when someone asks you what you want for Christmas, it’s so much easier to say “oh just get me a gift card from Wal-Mart” instead of “Oh, just give me cash so I can buy drugs and booze and porn.”

You know it’s true. You heathen.

I have my own style when it comes to gifts: I either give them or I don’t. It’s either worth the effort or it isn’t, so come your next birthday when you receive jack shit from me, it’s probably because I couldn’t think of anything you didn’t already have. So hey, you’re set and ready to rock. Think of it that way. You’ve got it all, baby, unless I give it to you.

COPS, Okaloosa Style

October 26, 2006

I hereby inform your ass that on November 4th, 8pm / 7pm Central, COPS will air an episode featuring the proud police force of Okaloosa County. I actually heard about this via a MySpace bulletin, which is also worthy of note, historically, because it’s doubted that any useful information has ever been received via MySpace bulletin. Anyway, Okaloosa County covers Crestview, Destin, Niceville, Valparaiso and Fort Walton Beach, amongst many other small, shitty, miserable, kill-yourself-if-you-live-there towns, so tune in and get your fill of miserable, depressing crime!

I can’t wait to see who I might possibly know on that episode. An ex-girlfriend (maybe; prostitution), an old co-worker (maybe; crack possession), an old boss (maybe; embezzlement)… who really knows? I’m so excited. Bring it on Okaloosa… bring on the wife beating, bring on the speeding in your shitty pickups, bring it on in all your Flori-bama glory.

I’m waiting, patiently.
To whet your appetite, here’s some stuff from the haggard looking Okaloosa County Sheriff’s Office website:

Top Ten List: Dumb (or Unlucky) Crooks in Okaloosa County

“Dumb Crook” stories are popular. Here are a few from 2004… every one of them from our files at the Okaloosa County Sheriff’s Office:

10-The 23 year old car burglar, caught after a 2:00 AM traffic stop. In plain view on the front seat of his 1998 Nissan was the one item reported stolen ten minutes earlier: a pair of leopard print fur covered handcuffs. (Offense # 04-2636)

9-The 26 year old woman who “keyed” a car at Wal-Mart a few days before Thanksgiving. The prime parking space she coveted, but didn’t get, was directly in view of the security camera. (04-13573)

8- The mom in Destin who grounded her 13-year-old daughter for poor grades. The daughter told the cops her mom sometimes locks herself in her room… and the room smells funny. The mother now has her own trouble in the legal system for marijuana. (04-13564)

7- The 14 year old Crestview girl who went to the kitchen, returned with a knife, and attacked her brother. She told Deputies he and two cousins were laughing too much. (04-15065)

6-The Fort Walton Beach man who took his old vacuum cleaner to a store and traded it in on a newer model. He forgot to remove the pound of marijuana hidden in the old Bissel. (04-1788)

5-The two employees of a pizza restaurant who kidnapped a giant inflatable “Spongebob Squarepants” from Burger King. The other pizzeria employees figured out in a hurry who put Spongebob on their roof. (04-13443)

4-The student from Tennessee who ran naked down a hotel hallway, then urinated on the wall and carpet. He told a Deputy he thought he was in the bathroom at his room… which turned out be at another hotel, four blocks down the road. (04-4698)

3-The 22 year old Crestview man who knew he’d be in trouble if he got caught driving on a suspended license. When he saw blue lights ahead on Highway 90, he made a quick turn onto a side street. In his haste to avoid the Deputy he saw, he crashed into one he hadn’t. (04-14153)

2-The robber who got worse with practice. A 36 year old Fort Walton Beach man tried three holdups within seven hours. The first netted him $50 and a carton of Marlboro Lights. He left the second store empty-handed after the clerk told him she had tripped a silent alarm. He changed his mind about robbing store number three because the clerk, tipped off by an alert citizen, was on the phone with the Sheriff’s Office when he walked in the door. Deputies were waiting for him on his way out. (04-7694)

1-Not the biggest crime… but, perhaps Okaloosa County’s dumbest crook of 2004 is the 17 year old Niceville boy who selected 13 magazines from a store in Destin, then told several employees he would show them how easy it is to steal from their store. They showed him how easy it is to catch a dumb crook. (04-13278)

So refreshing. But seriously, props on the Spongebob heist.

Actress Scarlett Johansson has announced plans to enter the world of music. According to Spin, she plans to release an album of Tom Waits covers called Scarlett Sings Tom Waits.

According to the article, she will be recording her debut through the winter and is eyeing a spring 2007 release via Rhino Records’ Atco label.

Tom Waits will be releasing a 3-CD set via the Anti- imprint on November 21, titled Brawlers, Bawlers and Bastards. A new track was recently debuted from the upcoming collection.


I guess what it comes down to is, when Tom Waits sings “Misery is the river of the world. Everybody row.” with his Satan’s smoker voice, I believe him.

When Scarlett Johansson sings it… well, I’ll probably still believe him, just for all the wrong reasons. Stupid broad needs to stay out of music. Nice tits, though.

Taco Bell, gotta love ’em. My local restaurant is staffed with douchebag-420LOL-pothead kids who some how manage to screw up every single order, and any given time you pull up to the drive-thru, there’s at least one of them sitting behind the dumpster giving the finger to the man by smoking some KIND BUD, YO! Because it isn’t obvious at all what they’re doing. Crestview is home to an intelligent breed, let me tell ya. But I digress.

Is Taco Bell now advocating the addition of a fourth meal to everyone’s diet, composed specifically of …fuckin’ tacos?! Every once and a while I’ll catch one of their commercials on TV about how, if it’s late, what you need to do is head on over to your local Taco Bell and have another meal. At 12am.

Just what the average American needs; not three, but four deep fried, greasy meals. It’s like they’re competing with Olive Garden to see who can make us the fattest. Everything at Olive Garden is “endless” now. First it was the endless breadsticks, now it’s endless pasta. One small step for man, one painstaking step for the morbidly obese.

I’m one to talk, but … I think 3 meals will do you just fine, and if you’re going to eat, it’s probably best not to do it right before going to bed. But whatever.

Enjoy your fourth run to the bathroom when you’re practically shitting yourself thanks to your monster gordita. Think out side the bun, kids.

Blondie, “Call Me”

That’s right, I just quoted Blondie in an online internet blog post. Now to slit my wrists. But not before I declare to the world (three of you) that I now have a cellular telephone. That’s right. No longer will I be able to rage against the eternal machine, no longer will I remain phoneless in a world of annoying ringtones and bad cell phone-wielding drivers. I now own a phone, because I love having more things to worry about. It’s pre-paid, though, so actually… don’t call me any time, on the line. Because I can’t afford it.

I just never thought I’d own one of these pieces of shit, cause I never really wanted one. I don’t like talking on the phone. I don’t see why I’d need to carry one around on me at all times. I don’t like people who need to be on the phone all the time. I don’t see it as a necessity. I don’t see it as being worth the money. And finally, texting is the dumbest fucking thing I’ve ever heard of, considering you’re holding a PHONE IN YOUR HAND and you could CALL SOMEONE AND JUST SAY IT, but I guess it has its uses, so here I am.

All I can say is: I hope I get reception in the old man’s cave of hate and bitter darkness in which I reside. If not, it’s going back to Wal-Mart… if I can psyche myself up to step foot in there again. (It eats a little bit of my heart every time those automatic doors slide open, man. It really does.)

Some times…

August 18, 2006

I hate Johnny Depp.

Reason 1.

Reason 2.

So you’re an actor, and now you get to hang out with my heroes, huh? Well, good thing Bukowski died before your mouth could get around to sucking on his ass. I hate you. Die.

(Ps I love you)

My Burnt Sauconys

August 1, 2006

I sent a white box down the chute to the loaders today… an otherwise completely normal box like all the others we process, albeit a little heavy. It was tattered and dirty, like a group of Mexican children had used it as a soccer ball and then drove a small moped over it or something. The norm. But a couple minutes after sending it down the chute, a strange smell filled the air. I had no idea what it was at first. I looked around but couldn’t figure it out. Was someone cooking? What the hell?

It had kind of a spicey scent to it, but mostly it just smelled like burnt hair. As my colleague Matt would later say, “It smells like my grandma’s perm.” I guess that sums it up.

Eventually they yelled up at me to stop the conveyor belt, and I glanced down to see Matt come walking out of the truck with the box, which was by then seeping a blackish-brown liquid. He placed it below me on a ramp where I throw down these plastic crate things filled with small packages that can’t be sent on the conveyor, like envelopes, etc., and then our supervisor came over to bitch at us because the belt was stopped, and then the terminal manager came out, and then once everyone had seen what all the fuss was about, they all just left and went back to work, with this strange box left sitting there leaking and smelling. Nobody seemed to give a crap about fumes or anything, so I just assumed it was Soy Sauce or some other benign liquid. Hey, it’s happened before. Wine, Soy Sauce, whatever.

So I just stood there on my perch for about an hour, 8 feet or so away from the stuff, inhaling its special scent and that was that. It had also spilled in the truck, so those guys were exposed to it too. I asked them what it was and they said they didn’t know, but they weren’t going to touch it. OK.

Later on that night, we were running late and needed to close the trucks and get the drivers on their way, so I jumped down to sort the small packages. One of the 18 wheeler drivers, this big black guy that sounds like Shaft, was standing there in dismay as we ran around like the circus act we are, screaming at each other and throwing boxes and scanning things and narrowly avoiding the strange liquid that had collected in a large puddle on the floor. He’s always pissed off because we’re always running late, but he’s a pretty cool guy.

Anyway, I was scrambling around in a hurry trying to get everything done so that he could leave and in my haste I snatched an envelope off of the ground without looking at it. It wasn’t anywhere near the puddle, so I had no reason to. Then, as I went to look at the address and scan the barcode, I noticed that my fingers were burning. It’s one of those sensations that puts a quizzical look on your face and makes you sort of stare into the air with your head tilted like, “What exactly is it that am I feeling?” Kind of like a spider crawling on your arm or something. It was a strange burn though; faint at first, and then just genuinely painful.

I looked down and, low and behold, the mysterious brownish liquid was all over my fingers, searing its happy little way underneath my nails. I looked up at the trucker and he just looked back at me with an unimpressed look on his face, like he expected us clowns to do something stupid and die at any moment anyway, and it wasn’t a big surprise that I had a mysterious flesh devouring liquid all over my hands.

I couldn’t tell if I was imagining the burn or what, so I gave it a second.

Yep, definitely burning.
“I don’t know what this is, but it’s burning me.”
Shaft just stared at me.
I left him there to shake his head and I walked over to the bathroom, rinsed it off, and went back to work.

Now, imagine if this was something dangerous that wasn’t supposed to be shipped, or if it was a Hazmat (I didn’t see a damn Hazmat label..) and via a freak accident it had leaked all over the place and now we were sitting there inhaling the fumes from the stuff and burning ourselves with it. What then? What if…let’s say, the box fell onto the puddle of liquid on the floor and splattered all over our faces and got in our eyes and we all ran around screaming bloody murder until we went blind. What then? But nobody said anything and we weren’t blinded, so we just continued on working. Then Matt burnt his leg on the stuff and his hair fell off. Then we laughed about it.

Then, being responsible adults, we got kinda worried.

The whole “eating of flesh” thing piqued our interest, so we decided to check the box out. It was disfigured, but we could make out BUSTER in large red letters, and a description in small print. It read something along the lines of “Turns solids to froth” and “dissolves grease, hair, paper, food, rags and other organic obstructions.”

“Like our flesh!” I shouted excitedly.

We read a little closer. “Handle with extreme caution.” Warped and black. Wonderful!

Here’s what Wikipedia says about industrial drain cleaners:

The fourth and final type are the liquid solutions that contain sulfuric acid, usually in concentrations around 93-95 percent. These can be very hazardous products if misused, and often create intense heat that can cause the water in the drain to boil, creating a violent eruption from the drain. On the other hand, they are the only products that will effectively dissolve paper, rags, sanitary napkins, and similar blockages. Many of these products are intended for professional use by plumbers and janitors, but they are legal to sell to the general public. Whether or not they should be has been the subject of much debate during the last few decades. The U.S. Consumer Product Safety Commission recently decided not to ban these products for general use by the public. Proponents of the ban argued that it was necessary to protect the public from harm, while opponents said it is just a ploy by the plumbing industry to make more money from increased maintenance calls, and would overly burden a responsible homeowner. Now that they will remain legal, consumers should understand that these products are extremely hazardous and should be treated with respect.

All products should always be used with caution, following all directions.

So here we are breathing in sulfuric acid for an hour and then dripping it all over ourselves, and nobody does a god damn thing about it. It was left in the truck to fester until it reaches its destination where THOSE guys will breathe it in, and it was left to fester in the terminal, where it had also managed to destroy some smaller packages ALONG WITH MY SHOE. This is the important part about this post: as I walked out into the parking lot to sit down and wait for my ride, I looked down and noticed I had holes in my Saucony. The liquid had apparently dripped down off of the shelf onto my shoes and had burnt right through so that I could see my sock.

ripsaucony.jpgI’ve always assumed that my Sauconys would be dragged out to sea by the mighty Poseidon himself, as he has tried so many times before, but it seems that their fate would instead be sealed by the god of Corrosive Chemicals instead. I am in mourning. And I have no other shoes for now, so I guess I’ll just have to deal with it.In conclusion, god save us lowely package handlers.

RIP, my beloved Sauconys.


Fuck you.



I logged in to check my bank account on the 24th to find that I had a charge to my card for $9.95 from a KCSOFTLLC COM. It was a POS withdrawal from Rochester, New York. I haven’t spent 9 bucks on anything in the past few days, so it was pretty obvious to me right then and there that something was askew. I contacted my bank about the unauthorized charge and was told I had to fill out an affidavit, which meant I had to take time to run over there today and fill out the paperwork and to put a hold on my card. Now I get to wait two weeks for another card… all of this lest I receive more fraudulent charges to my account. Beautiful! How they got my card info, I don’t know. I’ve never been naive enough to fall for a phishing e-mail, so in all likelihood they simply hacked into Amazon, Paypal, or any other “online merchant” I’ve used my card on, and stole my information. I’ll not be using my debit card for online purchases any more, to say the least (stupid me).

Here’s the interesting part: I did a search for the company name once I saw the charge and came up with all sorts of results on Google, from all sorts of people complaining about the same charge, dating back several years. The charge is so low that credit companies and banks will not go after the people doing this — it just isn’t worth it, so the scammers keep on doing it and they keep on making money.

Then I found something that made me laugh. Seems the Democrats can’t unite to to achieve anything these days, including balancing their checkbooks. One of the Google search results was from a website detailing the Democratic Party expenditures for 2006. It lists all the money they’ve spent and who they’ve purchased things from. Well, guess who is on their bill as well? KCSOFTLLC for $9, and the reason for the charge is “Wire Services On Line Svcs”. Yeah, I bet. On line services. Hey, Senator Kerry! Get your men to check their credit card bills! You’ve been had… and this time it wasn’t the American voters that screwed you. Hee.

Oh, and lay off the sub sandwiches, guys. $283 on Quizno’s and $1,000 at Subway? Truly un-American! Try some cheese burgers and Freedom Fries for once, ya damn commies! (Could be worse; if you look at the Republican expenditures you’ll find very little spent on food. My guess is they just feed their supporters human babies. Poor people’s babies. You heard it here first.)

ALLAHUAKBAR! Is it a good thing or a bad thing that “Chicken lays mystery Allah egg” is one of the “Most Viewed Articles” on Reuters right now? I’m not sure if that’s the best thing I’ve ever heard, or if it’s proof of a significant decline in news media and in our world in general. I’ll go with the first.

ALMATY (Reuters) – A chicken in a Kazakh village has laid an egg with the word “Allah” inscribed on its shell, state media reported Thursday.
“Our mosque confirmed that it says ‘Allah’ in Arabic,” Bites Amantayeva, a farmer from the village of Stepnoi in eastern Kazakhstan, told state news agency Kazinform.
“We’ll keep this egg and we don’t think it’ll go bad.”
The news agency said the egg was laid just after a powerful hail storm hit the village.
Kazakhstan is a large, thinly populated Central Asian state where Sunni Islam is a dominant religion.

And rather than comment on it, I’ll just paste the IM conversation I had with Mark, which was funnier anyway:
drew says:
ALMATY (Reuters) – A chicken in a Kazakh village has laid an egg with the word “Allah” inscribed on its shell, state media reported Thursday.
drew says:
Mark says:
Mark says:
scrambled allah!
drew says:
“We’ll keep this egg and we don’t think it’ll go bad.”
Mark says:
poached allah
drew says:
even allah has an expiration date, folks
drew says:
just make sure theres plenty of cheese and pepper on my allah
Mark says:
allah is shy, when will he come out of his shell?
drew says:
drew says:
agh, got me to choke on that one
drew says:
i was going to name my post about allah “ALLAH UP!”
drew says:
like order up
drew says:
but i don’t think anyone would get that
drew says:
Mark says:
Allah Side Up
Mark says:
Allah High In Cholesterol
drew says:
if you’re trying to gain muscle mass, is it true or false that eating raw allah will bulk you up?
drew says:
i’ve seen people do it

Dear FIFA World Cup players,

You are not being payed 20 mil a year for your acting skills. You are not Pierce Brosnan. When you are fouled, please don’t roll around on the ground dramatically like someone kicked you in the vagina. You look like a bitch and I lose respect for the game and the players each time I see it happen.

People wonder why soccer isn’t as popular in America yet. Well, as much as I respect the game, I can’t sit down to watch a match without throwing my hands in the air and screaming “GROW A PAIR!” at my television. Crying like a child should not be a part of any athletic endeavor. It should not be encouraged. The referee isn’t there to kiss it and make it better.

Flail around on the turf all you want in your “professional football club” games with your locals cheering you on (people who might forgive you for being a weakling), but when you’re at the World Cup playing in front of the world, you could try and act like a man for once. Give it a shot, you may like it! There’s honor, integrity… gritting your teeth in pain rather than spazming like a twat and pretending someone shot you in the leg with a Dirty Harry Magnum. That kinda stuff!

Just get up and play, I promise you’ll be OK. There’s a lollipop waiting for you in the locker room if it doesn’t work out. 😉

I think that’s about it.

Oh, and team USA — fire your players. It’s embarrassing. Really.

Celinda Hines would later drown and be torn apart by Grizzlies. Simultaneously.

I love Oregon Trail.

Not just because it’s useful in airplanes (see below), but, well, it’s a good memory. Most people my age would probably admit to having at least one fond memory of traveling that pixelated trail, the only difference between them and myself being that they’re not still playing the game or writing about it in their blogs. Losers.

It was one of those rainy day games you’d play on the shitty Apple II computers supplied to your elementary school, but it was the best of those games. Screw the Moon Landing or the Multiplication Game with fuzzy monsters or whatever — there were bears and squirrels to be hunted! You’d load that wagon up with 5 of your best friends or some of your family (my dog accompanied me on quite a few trips to Oregon), and you’d do your damndest to keep them all alive. If it didn’t work out, you would mourn over their measled bodies and then continue on down that trail, knowing they were forever looking down on you and ushering you forward into that dream, that dream of OREGON!

Nowadays, I like to fill my wagon with people I hate, feed them meager rations, and then shoot across the wilderness at a grueling pace, throwing everyone into unimaginable peril at every given opportunity. Limbs are broken, snake bites are acquired, and there are drownings. Oh, there are drownings!

It’s all highly therapeutic, of course (or incredibly unhealthy, I’m not sure which). In fact, it would probably be a great game to keep around on your laptop. Load up the Apple II emulator while you’re sitting in the middle row of that cramped 747 and create your own scenario: you’re the leader, “Bastard” is the guy to your left in the window seat hording the arm rest, “Old Hag” is the sleeping grandmother in the aisle seat blocking you from taking a pee, Whore is the flight attendant who cut you off from liquor, “Bitch” is the flight attendant that agreed with her, and “Hellbeast” is the child sitting behind you that won’t stop screaming and kicking your seat.

Jacob Hofsteader would later watch helplessly as
his entire family is scalped and burned alive by indians.

Now watch them DIE. I assure you that a sudden calm and peacefulness will come over you when you learn that “Hellbeast” has drowned in a river fording accident, and that all of your worries will float away down that river with his bloated body. Never will Southwest Airlines have seemed so relaxing.

Fun, fun, fun!

The only problem is when people survive — how are you supposed to vent your frustrations on The Trail if nobody dies from typhoid fever like the stinking shits they are? I guess that’s where the ol’ “vodka in a water bottle” comes in handy. Hey, I didn’t say the game was perfect.

Relavent links:
Oregon Trail Disk Image (courtesy of my bandwidth)
AppleWin Emulator (courtesy of some dude)

“Modern man, a pathetic example of Earth’s organic heritage.”
– Bad Religion

The News says it’s hot. Really, News? You don’t have to tell me that, nor any of the construction workers here in the gulf coast, nor any of my coworkers over at Fed Up. I’d say the buckets of sweat dripping from our dehydrated bodies kinda gave it away. But the thing is:

Earth Hottest It’s Been in 2,000 Years
The Earth is running a slight fever from greenhouse gases, after enjoying relatively stable temperatures for 2,000 years. The National Academy of Sciences, after reconstructing global average surface temperatures for the past two millennia, said Thursday the data are “additional supporting evidence … that human activities are responsible for much of the recent warming.”

I don’t know what to say to that. Wait, I do. WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU THINK WAS GOING TO HAPPEN? I can’t believe there’s even a debate about it. It couldn’t be the 700 million motor vehicles shooting exhaust into the atmosphere, or just the overall pollution caused by our extremely overpopulated societies that’s causing the earth to warm up, could it? That would be crazy. After all, it’s a planet. You can’t hurt a planet. Planets are BIG!



June 6, 2006

Hollywood must burn, for this is the last straw:

The Standard reports that Hong Kong action star Donnie Yen is set to lead in the Hollywood remake of Japanese classic “The Seven Samurai”, alongside George Clooney and Chinese starlet Zhang Ziyi, a film company said.

Why anyone would let these assholes defile one of the best movies ever made with a cheap, trashy remake, I cannot even begin to fathom. This reaks of a pathetic attempt at another “Last Samurai” of sorts, except with Clooney instead of Tom Cruise. Because we all know white American guys are great at playing medieval Japanese samurais. Next up, Bradd Pitt plays an aging Japanese man with cancer in IKIRU!

Speaking of movies, I toured the Crestview theaters today with my friend Gilberto. The theaters don’t take credit cards, so we got to use the ATM. The ATM didn’t work, so we had to run to a gas station. The gas station wouldn’t give us cash back, so we had to go to another gas station across the street. By the time we got into the movies we were sweaty and a little pissed off, but I can’t say that it mattered. Consisting of one trash and popcorn strewn hallway and two or three “theater” rooms with about 30 chairs in each of them, what looked like a whopping 30 inch screen, and a sound system that would rival the hi-fi stereo on your grandmother’s Zenith circa 1972, the Crestview Cinema 3 is a place to behold.

What a catastrophe — and in that way it represents just about everything that is wrong with this town. The ass backward people willing to accept the ass backward hillbilly haunts; it’s all typical. Ah — but this is their den, Drew, and you live in it. Accept your fate.

I think next time I’ll just bring a flask. Maybe I could class the place up a bit by getting really drunk and vomitting on a small child or something.

The point of this, though, is that I went to see X-Men 3 (as if there weren’t enough mutants to cast my eyes upon in this town) and I have to say, man, as a kid who grew up with X-Men comic books and cartoons, these X-Men movies are kinda crappy.

Bet you didn’t see that one coming! You were waiting for a glowing movie review, because that’s what I do on my website. I talk about how nice things are!

My big complaint about sci-fi movies is that there are no rules whatsoever. And I’m curious as to why people choose to hype the X-men movies when there are so many flaws. I’ll forgive the flaws in the comic book, cause that’s a fucking comic book, but these are movies and that means new scripts. So, for instance:

Why does every mutant have an incredibly useful power? What if someone’s only special ability was that they could tell you what time it was without ever needing a watch? I want to see a totally benign mutant.
“Magneto is hurling cars at us! Storm, you send in fog! Wolverine, you attack him with your razor sharp claws! TimeMan… uh, will I make it to my nine o’clock appointment?!”
“Provided you aren’t killed by a flying Suburban, I estimate you might even be early enough to stop by Starbucks for a Frappucino!”
“That would be cutting it close.”

Or better yet, a mutant whose only power is that he can open soup cans. Imagine Xavier trying to reassure that douchebag when he shows up at the mansion looking for support, and all he can do with his telekinetic powers is “open shit up”. He couldn’t really convert to the dark side either, because nobody there would want him. He’d be left to mope around Xavier’s School For Gifted Youngsters all day opening cans of Chunky Soup for people with his brain.
“Anybody seen the can opener? It’s time for some Spaghettios!”
“Why don’t you just go ask Can Opener Boy to open it for you?”
“He always makes such a big deal out of it, though. Last time it was ‘What do I look like to you, a kitchen appliance? And don’t tell me it’s ok! You can shoot lightning out of your god damn fingertips!’ And then he stormed off to his room. Forget that, I’ll just pick one up at Wal-Mart.”
“I need some things too, mind if I come along?”
“That’s cool. Meet me in our super flying jet thing.”

The jet. That technological wonder of a jet that got shot down in the second X-Men movie because it didn’t have any flares to divert the heat-seaking missiles. That one — what the hell is with that thing? The whole ending of that movie was based around their torn up jet, and yet if it wasn’t such a piece of shit, it could have dodged a missile or two and everyone would have been fine. That Rogue chick wouldn’t be buried beneath a billion cubic tons of water and she wouldn’t be a psycho bitch in the third movie.

San Francisco in X3. Would flying across on a trolley or something be asking too much of Magneto? Maybe the reason he decided to rip the ENTIRE GOLDEN GATE BRIDGE out of the middle of the ocean and plow it into the island as a means of transportation was because he was pissed off that a pharmaceutical company turned one of our beloved National Parks into a pill factory. I would be angry, too. I was more upset over the destruction of Alcatraz than I was about the slaughter that took place there.

My last gripe is reserved for the thing that bewildered me the most. Apparently, when someone dies in an X-Men movie, it’s inevitable that they will come back to life. You can’t care about the well being of a character if you know they’re immortal… isn’t that a given? Who cares if they die when at any given moment, they could be resurrected with a flash of light? All it takes is a huge and mysterious explosion that looks like a cross between Christ’s supposed resurrection and aluminum foil in the microwave, and your favorite character is back in the movie, just in time for the sequel! Yay!

I’m waiting for Al Pacino to be cast as Xavier in the next movie. They really could do that, and no one would call their bluff. All they’d have to do is say that Xavier took on the form of an aging Italian with obvious plastic surgery after being blown into little particle bits by Rogue.


People would accept that, too. Cause they’re mutants, man… mutants.

David Hasselhoff is currently filming Knight Rider, the movie, set to be released in 2008.

Wow. All I can do is speculate at this point…

I envision Michael Knight racing around from crime scene to crime scene in his tight leather pants with Reo Speedwagon blasting out of his high quality cassette deck, attempting to save innocent civilians, only to be greeted with unsatisfactory comments like:
“Haha — holy crap. Are you from the 80s or something?”
“Leave me alone, mister. Who are you?”

That would be a good movie. A totally unappreciated superhero.

“Don’t be frightened, I’m here to help.”
“Oh Jesus, look who it is. Nice perm, dude…”
“It’s just naturally curly!”

Then he can turn around and take all of his anger out on KITT with meaninglessly quizzical questions:
“Yes, Michael?”
“You’re a piece of fucking shit, KITT! What’s 204 TIMES 28?”
“5,712, Michael.”
“I’m sorry, Michael.”

Then Michael could burn K.I.T.T. with an iron.
On an entirely unrelated note, here’s James Brown coked to oblivion and, well… he’s James Brown. Papa’s got a wrinkly old bag, but that ain’t stoppin’ Papa!

American Idle

May 22, 2006

People are still going apeshit over American Idol and I don’t understand why. It’s bad enough that the majority of the people voting on the show probably don’t even bother showing up on election day to vote for the president of the United States, but now the local evening news in my area covers the show like it’s actually, you know, news, so I’m going to rant about it like an old man, cause that’s what I do.

1. What the fuck does Simon Cowell know about music? Show me something that snotty British dildo “produced” that was worth a damn. Anybody.

2. Paula Abdul is a host. At least she has a background in music… But then again, that was in the 80s, and her music blows.

3. The contestants are incredibly boring and tasteless. It’s all mindless vocal masturbation, hollow cover songs that are supposed to showcase the singer’s skills when all it does is show how completely unoriginal they are. It’s like they’re all trying to be Michael Bolton or something. Why, god? We already have one. He’s more than enough.

4. Would Johnny Cash have made it on American Idol? I doubt it. Ian MacKaye of Fugazi / Minor Threat? Doubt that. Bob Dylan, with his nasally voice? I doubt that too. I could go on and on with just about anyone who makes good music, really. Michael Jackson would fit in well on American Idol, but he probably wouldn’t make it either, because it looks like someone ran over his face. They wouldn’t air that travesty.

5. Reality TV shows have no basis in reality. Isn’t that enough to make you turn it off? I don’t understand how people can sit there and take it seriously, knowing all the while that they’re being toyed with by a bunch of rich peckerheads in an office somewhere. It’s all about money: what will get the viewers to tune in next time and what will get them emotionally involved so they’ll talk about the show next day at work. If you wonder why your favorite idiot got voted off, that’s why. Just like any television show, it’s planned.

6. American Gladiator was better. If you don’t recall, that was the show where regular Americans would do fierce, padded battle with huge steroid-addled Gladiators. Jousting, the racing of giant hamster balls, deadly rock climbing. Heart. American Gladiator came from the heart. It came from the heart and it came for YOUR heart, and it took it. Because when you saw that shopping mall security guard with a mullet face that pulsing vein of testosterone that was any given Gladiator, male or female, you knew he was trying his god damndest to win. Those contestants thought of nothing but giving every ounce of their soul. And I guarantee you it’s twice the soul any American Idol contestant could ever give. Praise be.


May 10, 2006

When does it stop? Getting your wisdom teeth pulled is supposed to suck, but this was not a part of the deal. This is beyond suck. This is new territory I have discovered. I am the Christopher Columbus of suck. There should be a holiday declared in my name.

The past couple of days my stomach has been spasming in pain; it builds and builds like a crescendo and then I expect an alien to burst out of me, but nothing happens. I eat something and maybe it helps for a little while, but not for long. As consequence, my diet is mainly consisting of delicious and colorful Pepto Bismol, and blood.

Nobody warned me about the stomach thing. I can’t sleep because my stomach hurts, and when my teeth hurt I don’t wanna take pills cause I don’t want my stomach to hurt any more. I got like 2 hours of sleep last night! 2! This is coming from a man who normally needs 10 to operate at full capacity. Tossing, turning, cold sweat. It’s like I have malaria or something. I would seriously rather have just kept the wisdom teeth at this point. Had I known the pain I’d be in, I wouldn’t have shook the hand of my bastard oral surgeon after he wheeled me out to the parking lot, mouth full of gauze. Alas, I was high and knew no better. Now I hate him — I hate him very much.

Really, I’m just confused at this point. It’s been far too long for me to be hurting any more. I shouldn’t have any more blood or weird tastes. I can either call and see if I can get an early appointment or I can hack it out until Friday and see him then… where he’ll probably call me an idiot for “hacking it out”.

Somebody get me a fuckin Tic Tac or something. And a gun. Stat.

I want a new mouth

May 7, 2006

Wisdom teeth are called so because of the wisdom you acquire about pain when you have them taken out. How to handle it, more importantly. I think that finally hit me last night when I was lying in bed and holding my head, trying to focus not on my giant, swollen face or the taste of blood or the incredibly awful stabbing pain in my lower right jaw, but on the comfort of the situation…the blanket’s warmth and how it felt good to lay down since I was exhausted. It’s weird how when you get down to it and you’re in a situation like that, you can separate or channel things in your head. The pain is always there, of course, but there are layers of comfort and agony to sort through and you can make it hurt a little less. A little.

I tried to focus on the “good” and ignore the hurt for about 4 hours or so until I thought it was safe to take another couple of pills and I downed those fuckers as quickly as possible. Lesson learned: pills good, pain bad, thinking happy thoughts doesn’t really work. Try to do something fun with a knife stuck in your jaw and see if you can focus on the “fun”. It doesn’t happen, unless you’re some sort of Zen master or something.

I didn’t sleep much, and when I did, I drooled blood all over my pillow. What fun — every 45 minutes or so I’d wake up to glance at my TV, take a drink of water, and move my face out of the muck. The Mr. Olympia competition came on all through out the early morning hours, but I couldn’t be bothered to reach down, find the remote, and change it in between unconsciousness, so along with the pain and blood and being unable to sleep I was tortured with watching sweaty manbodies pulsate and flex any time I opened my eyes. In high definition. After taking opiates all day, that was a little surreal.

Oddly enough, it’s just one side of my mouth that is giving me utter hell; everything else is minimal in comparison. I actually remember waking up through the anesthesia mid-surgery and clenching my fist to try and fend off the searing pain I felt there, not once, but a couple of times. Crazy. When they were done, the doc said they had “a fun time” removing my lower teeth, and now, a couple days later, I think I know what he meant. He must have had a construction crew there pummeling the side of my mouth with a fucking jackhammer or something. That side of my face is just FUBAR.

Work tomorrow is either going to be impossible or one huge pain in the ass. The last thing I wanna do is go in there and inhale dust all day long, all the while I’m worried about splitting open the sutures or not healing and getting dry socket — dry socket being ten times more painful than what I’m experiencing now, apparently. Fun, fun fun, and all for some teeth that shouldn’t be there anyway…

Well, I’m going to go roll around in misery and pop pills until my stomach lining gives way and I vomit blood now — have a great day!

I love pirates, or at least pirate history, as modern day pirates don’t necessarily strike me as very cool (Come on, gas powered boats and AK-47’s? Poseurs.) and I’m also one of the many straight men out there officially gay for Johnny Depp (butt pirate), so why does the trailer for the new Pirates of the Caribbean movie look like total shit to me? Davey Jones and his crew, of locker fame, are angry and appear to want to kill Captain Sparrow in the next movie, causing all sorts of chaos. Sounds OK, you say to yourself. The catch is that Davey Jones is a walking, talking squid in a pirate outfit and his mates are hammer head sharks and crustaceans or something. See for yourself. “Oooh, ooh, and now,what I want in the next scene, is the squidfaced Davey Jones playing a piano with his tentacles! Ooooh, they’ll love it!” The fuck? Who, why, where…and again, why?

Can’t we just have a movie about real pirates drunkenly attacking each other, boarding merchant ships, shooting Red Coats, destroying things for the sake of destruction, that kind of stuff? That would be just fine. That’s all we need. Think of the original POTC ride in Disneyland when you were a kid. Yeah, that! But with bloodshed! It’s not like the genre is prone to failure, as there aren’t any recent pirate movies out there. All of the classic pirate movies are from years and years ago, like Treasure Island, and they are just that — classics.

I loved the first POTC movie for about the first 30 minutes. Depp is a rum guzzling swashbuckler, yadda yadda, can’t really beat that. But the ghosts and computer graphics came out of nowhere and just ruined my day. I want a gritty, realistic, gore-filled swashbuckler, like Braveheart or Troy but on the high seas. The best I have right now is Master and Commander, and that isn’t about pirates at all, it’s just about boats blowing the shit out of each other in the 1800’s. Somebody somewhere is slacking big time, that’s all I have to say.

Since the movies nowadays are lackluster, every now and again I’ll pick up the book The Buccaneers of America and pick through it for some carnage. It was actually written by a Dutch buccaneer in the 1600’s, and there are some interesting things about their lifestyle in there that I didn’t know about (thanks to Hollywood, who refuses to teach me through the wonder that is the cinema), like how Buccaneers abided by a certain code for divying up captured goods. Those who were injured were compensated for their losses based on the specific injuries they received while attacking ships or towns. A code of honor based solely on whether or not you got a limb hacked off. Yes! From the book itself:

Then came the agreed awards for the wounded, who might have lost a limb or suffered other injuries. They would be compensated as follows: for the loss of a right arm, 600 pieces of eight or six slaves; for a left arm, 500 pieces of eight or five slaves in compensations. The loss of a right leg also brought 500 pieces of eight or five slaves in ceompensation; a left leg, 400 or four slaves; an eye, 100 or one slave, and the same award was made for the loss of a finger. If a man lost the use of an arm, he would get as much as if it had been cut off, and a severe internal injury which meant the victim had to have a pipe inserted in his body would earn him 500 pieces of eight or five slaces in recompense. These amounts having first been withdrawn from the capital, the rest of the prize would be divided into as many portions as men on the ship.

Not to question the pirates, who probably knew what they were doing, but wouldn’t an eye be worth about the same as an arm? You’re telling me if I lost an eye and the guy next to me lost a pinky, we’d get the same amount of slaves? That blows! I suppose they figured that you’d look really cool with an eye patch, so more money wasn’t necessary. Now, you might ask, “What would your average now-fingerless pirate do with all of his money?” Why, he would head into port and waste it all on whores and booze. The next day he would find himself penniless and he would then be forced to raid another ship with his buddies. I wonder if there were any pirates that actually planned for their futures and saved any money to buy a house and some slaves? Probably not. Again, I give you a paragraph from The Buccaneers of America:

For that is the way with these buccaneers — whenever they have got hold of something, they don’t keep it for long. They are busy dicing, whoring, and drinking so long as they have anything to spend. Some of them will get through a good two or three thousand pieces of eight in a day — and the next day not have a shirt to their back. I have seen a man in Jamaica give 500 pieces of eight to a whore, just to see her naked. Yes, and many other impieties.

My own master often used to buy a butt of wine and set it in the middle of the street with the barrel-head knocked in, and stand barring the way. Every passer-by had to drink with him, or he’d have shot them dead with a gun he kept handy. Once he bought a cask of butter and threw the stuff at everyone who came by, bedaubing their clothes or their head, whatever he best could reach.

That’s how cool pirates are. Really fucking cool. Straight gangsta. There should be no debate about this, Hollywood. Peter Jackson, I’m looking at you, dude. If you can drop a billion or whatever on Lord of the Rings and King Kong, you can make a good pirate movie about making strangers drink with you and then pouring butter on them. Get on it.

Since 75% of my posts are about the imbibing of alcohol anyway, I figured I might as well post this link to old Alcoholics Anonymous comic strips from the 60’s for everyone to enjoy. Click here to watch a cartoon housewife hide bottles of liquor behind her couch!


Thanks for the link, Matt

Order Up

April 23, 2006

Just watched Waiting… tonight. Not bad. Haven’t been a huge fan of that Reynolds dude in the past, but he can be funny. I think if you’ve worked in a restaurant or have ever witnessed the things that go on in the back, some of movie is really like déjà vu. The thing I identified with the most, aside from occasionally being a shy pisser, was the kid’s dead-on rant at the end. “So you’re the coolest guy at ShenaniganZ, big fucking deal! That’s like being the smartest person with Down Syndrome!” Exactly. It sums all of it up. The writer won me over with that spiel, because if I was in that movie I would be the guy off camera hating just about everyone else there.

For instance, I was looking at the IMDB message board real quick and noticed someone mentioned that cooks always seem to be on weird, assholey power trips. This is true, at least from my experience. They definitely seemed to think they were above everyone else they were working with, like they were in bed with the managers. Like they were all Tom Cruise in Top Gun or something, afflicted with arrogant pilot syndrome.

There’s a silly hierarchy to everything; the dish crew consisting of losers, 16 year old boys, or someone who has likely been to jail or is going to be, then up a notch to the back-up cooks making side dishes because they aren’t yet ready to wear the big boy “cook” pants, the servers who are all either bitchy old women who scream about tips or young, dramatic, just-graduated kids who are like, SO gonna go out tonight and get high after work anybody wanna come??, then there are the whorish hostesses, and the cooks who giveth and taketh away. The managers don’t count because they’re a fucking joke.

Take your typical high school social structure with the same adolescent crap and just picture it in a kitchen, cause that’s where half of the staff was before work. Gossiping and pettiness, unncessarry drama, the self anointed King Shits, it’s all there. I didn’t go to high school, but I’d say my short stint in the food industry was enough to fill me in on everything I missed. Which was absolutely nothing, and precisely why I didn’t go. I suppose the only way it gets you ready for the dreaded “real world” is the initiation into that special structure which you will actually find everywhere in life, whether it be in the military or the corporate ladder. Someone always gets the shaft, but that’s ok if they’re at the bottom of the rung.

PS – the 5 second rule is in effect during rush, and in effect all the time if you’re just plain lazy. I can’t say I’ve ever seen a cook pick up dropped food, but I wouldn’t doubt it. Who is seriously going to go back and clean a dropped spatula or pan or make the food again when people are literally screaming at you for this or that? God made dirt and dirt don’t hurt, I guess. Besides, nothing really gets cleaned in the dishwasher, it just gets rinsed off (hot water and a little soap doesn’t count to me). Just like cockroaches or hair in food happens and it is very possible someone just plain didn’t wash their hands before starting work or after using the restroom. Everybody knows that.

They also love to cut down on costs by any means at those places, so if there’s something that can be reused that’s already been reheated for a few days, it’s going into some other dish where you hopefully won’t notice the difference.

And don’t leave Church Pamphlets with your tips.

Angsty McAngst signing off —

Jesus Teeth and HD Porn

April 21, 2006

Thanks to our stupid baboon ancestors of many years past, most humans are cursed with “Wisdom Teeth” — or as the devout Christians out there might like to call them — “Jesus Teeth”. These Jesus Teeth are growing in my mouth at an angle which is unhelpful. I don’t have nice teeth as it is, I’m like second in line behind Shane MacGowan for worst teeth ever, so I’ve been told it’s time to get them out. This means being knocked out for an hour while a crew of people hold my mouth agape and then rip into it. Then they’ll sew up my little ouchies and I’ll stumble out the door drooling on myself. A few days of pain, bleeding, and eating soup after having my head hacked into can’t be that bad can it?

There is a bright side to all of this, of course. After the barbaric practice to remove my Jesus Teeth, I will receive a bottle of Percocet. I love how doctors prescribe way more medicine then you need in cases like this. It’s their way of saying “This is gonna suck a lot, dude. Here’s some extra candy to have fun with. Go wild.” Thanks doctor! I think after all is said and done and I’m lying in my room sky high on painkillers several weeks after my mouth has healed, I’ll know that I made the right decision.

In other news, imagine my disappointment tonight when, while flipping around through HIGH DEFINITION programming, I found a show entitled “Taco Eating” … only to discover that it was actually about taco eating. Like, Taco Bell tacos. Not the metaphorical taco. Yeah, I know. Seriously, where is the HD porn hiding? That’s why HD TVs were made, right? For HD porn. So I can see so far into vaginas that I can see koalas eating shrimp on the barbie and Chinamen doing, you know, Chinamen stuff. And yet there’s none to be found. Somebody get on it, stat!

I’m so excited

April 11, 2006

Man, things sure are boring lately. Life just keeps chugging down the line on its own steam and I’m the disinterested passenger in tow. I need something to mix things up… a trip or a new addiction or something. I woke up and tried two cups of coffee to give me a boost and clear my head, but now I’m just disinterested and twitchy.

Suppose finding a second job couldn’t hurt. Maybe I can get another manual labor position where I’m forced to listen to Puerto Rican raggae while things fly past me on a conveyor (shoot me now).

I need some inspiration, that’s all. Something that makes every day worth it.

Speaking of inspiration, I watched a show today about the making of Saved By The Bell and it made me wish those kids were still around to tackle problems and lead the youth of today from their strayed path. So many troubling issues they could take on today, too. Internet predators, MySpace quarrels (“Slater, why am I not in your top 8?”), somebody could break somebody’s iPod accidentally and not tell them about it and then feel guilty and then come clean at the end of the episode…

I wish they were here for me now.

For instance, here’s a clip from an episode where together, through their friendship, they defeat drugs. Jessie is addicted not to coke, not oxycontin, not booze, but yes, you guessed it: caffeine pills. It takes power to shake that caffeine grip. She’s lucky she had the SBTB crew there to do it.