I think my manager may sense that I'm in my final days at the large governmental tax organization I work for. I won't tell you what it is (though I've told you before), but for simplicity, I'll refer to my employer as LIFE-SUCKING SPIRIT CRUSHER (or LSSC for short).
She senses it. She's got to.
I'm thinking that she may think I'm faking my injury and accompanying illness. Perhaps she thinks I'm taking advantage of my health insurance to its fullest before I quit. Damn, she's more perceptive than I thought. It's a pretty good health plan; I'll be sad to see it go.
Perhaps its the quality of my work. Think of Quality of Work on the Y-axis of a graph, and Time on the X-axis. As X increases, Y decreases. And it's not really a gradual thing. Pretty noticeable.
Mayhaps she's seen me pretend to hang myself in the miniblinds. I do this regularly for the amusement of my coworkers. But when nobody is around and I try it...it is not just for amusement.
I also regularly wonder aimlessly around the office. I feel that if I do this with papers in my hand, and stop to COPY those papers in the copy machine at least once, I'll look like I'm working. Sometimes I find candy on people's desks. If it's good, I eat it. If it's not, I present it to my coworkers as small gifts--to make them think I'm thinking of them. This goes back to my instinct as the primitive hunter-gatherer.
Sometimes I stand and watch out the window as traffic drives by. I think, "Wow, I could be standing in the middle of that highway. Instead, I'm standing here looking out at the highway I wish I was standing in the middle of." Zen.
But oh well. If I can make it to July 22nd, that's a Friday. On that Sunday, I go to Hawaii. I fuck around for a week, then come back and I'm on call for jury duty.
Sixteen days to what I'm hoping is an extended period without work. I'm not expecting to do the usual things to get me out of jury duty (such as in Curb Your Enthusiasm when Larry David is asked if he can think of any reason why he shouldn't serve on the jury and he answers, "Um, your honor, the defense appears to be a Negro."). I'll do my civic duty. Naturally, I'll do it on the taxpayer's dime.
For Hawaii, a lovely friend of mine has OFFERED to drive me all the way down to John Wayne Airport WAY out in Orange County (about an hour or so drive). On a Sunday morning. How will I make it up to her? A bread pudding? I love bread pudding. I must make her at least one. And steak. Who doesn't like steak? I could definitely bring her some nice Hawaiian coffee (the pure shit) and some chocolate covered mac nuts and coffee beans. And Roscoe's House of Chicken 'n Waffles. Mmmmm. Roscoe's...That is too nice of her. At first, I couldn't get over the guilt of the thought of her driving back the hour by herself...boring, long drive sans Ryan to entertain.
But hopefully the Roscoe's will make up for it. Roscoe's is the best.
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
Mele Kalikimotherfucker Means 'Merry Fucking Christmas, Gizzwad'
I'm thinking about moving to Hawaii. No, I'm not even kidding. I'm talking about the Kona region on the west side of the Big Island.
A friend of my family owns a candy company in Hawaii. He makes chocolate covered macadamia nuts and coffee beans. Attached to his business is an apartment. The dude that's living there is leaving. He and my father talked about this, and then my father called me and said, "Hey, you might be able to score that apartment."
I called the friend, and we discussed. He sort of groaned and said, "It's really boring here, Ryan. You'll get bored. It's an island for Chrissake." But I want to write--I need to be bored to write, right? So he said, "Before you decide to move here, come out and check it out. See if this is a place you'd want to live."
I just booked a flight on Aloha Air for the 24th to the 30th of July. It's pretty exciting. I haven't had an actual vacation where I actually packed my bags and went somewhere out-of-the-ordinary since I was about 12. Sure, I went on trips, but no vacations.
Jesus. What am I getting myself into? It took so long to make friends, and I'm considering leaving everything to fuck around for 6-12 months. Considering. Bad idea? Good idea?
How can I leave, though? There are engaged women that need my help planning their weddings! There are people who may want me to watch their dog while they're out of town! There are people who need me to...Okay, I guess nobody really needs me.
But free rent and utilities in a small apartment in Hawaii. There's other costs involved. I'd have to ship my car over and that's $2,000 round-trip. In America, we have to provide our own health insurance if our employer doesn't do it for us; that's about $100 a month. Car insurance would be about $110 a month for Hawaii (I checked). Groceries would probably run around $250 per month (more expensive than on the mainland). Incidentals about another $250. So far, I'm in the hole about $710 per month. Hmm. I guess I could swing that with a part-time job. I never foresaw the difficulties of trying to pull together $710 a month in grad school; I thought my days of part-time employment were over.
Maybe I'll just come back and decide to stay in sunny California. I don't know.
Things that make you go, "Hmmmmmm..."
I'll make my decision on my vacation, I guess. But...should I stay or should I go? Shit. I just moved here a year ago, and am already thinking of moving again. I hadn't even thought about moving until I found out about this apartment.
Things that make you go, "Hmmmmmm..."
Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm...
A friend of my family owns a candy company in Hawaii. He makes chocolate covered macadamia nuts and coffee beans. Attached to his business is an apartment. The dude that's living there is leaving. He and my father talked about this, and then my father called me and said, "Hey, you might be able to score that apartment."
I called the friend, and we discussed. He sort of groaned and said, "It's really boring here, Ryan. You'll get bored. It's an island for Chrissake." But I want to write--I need to be bored to write, right? So he said, "Before you decide to move here, come out and check it out. See if this is a place you'd want to live."
I just booked a flight on Aloha Air for the 24th to the 30th of July. It's pretty exciting. I haven't had an actual vacation where I actually packed my bags and went somewhere out-of-the-ordinary since I was about 12. Sure, I went on trips, but no vacations.
Jesus. What am I getting myself into? It took so long to make friends, and I'm considering leaving everything to fuck around for 6-12 months. Considering. Bad idea? Good idea?
How can I leave, though? There are engaged women that need my help planning their weddings! There are people who may want me to watch their dog while they're out of town! There are people who need me to...Okay, I guess nobody really needs me.
But free rent and utilities in a small apartment in Hawaii. There's other costs involved. I'd have to ship my car over and that's $2,000 round-trip. In America, we have to provide our own health insurance if our employer doesn't do it for us; that's about $100 a month. Car insurance would be about $110 a month for Hawaii (I checked). Groceries would probably run around $250 per month (more expensive than on the mainland). Incidentals about another $250. So far, I'm in the hole about $710 per month. Hmm. I guess I could swing that with a part-time job. I never foresaw the difficulties of trying to pull together $710 a month in grad school; I thought my days of part-time employment were over.
Maybe I'll just come back and decide to stay in sunny California. I don't know.
Things that make you go, "Hmmmmmm..."
I'll make my decision on my vacation, I guess. But...should I stay or should I go? Shit. I just moved here a year ago, and am already thinking of moving again. I hadn't even thought about moving until I found out about this apartment.
Things that make you go, "Hmmmmmm..."
Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm...
Monday, June 27, 2005
Magnetic Resonance Impotence AND A CONTEST!
Yeah, all those magnetic fields around the gonad region (or "cock area" in scientific speak) probably will ensure that:
1) I won't have kids, or
2) They'll be retarded, or
3) They'll run for public office.
Basically, nothing good.
About 45 minutes I sat like a sandwich in between these huge magnets. "Don't move when you hear it knocking." Okay. That must be the devil trying to get out. Better pretend nobody's home. It basically sounded like I was laying under a car listening to it running. That's not bad. I just thought, "Okay, I'll pretend I'm in my driveway laying under the car listening to it run for 45 minutes...But why would I be doing that?"
And it's hard to remain completely still. Most of the time, I was trying to remember something he'd said. He said something like, "Don't move your ??? because it can move your spine." I couldn't move my spine, because this was what the MRI was for. Okay. No problem. But as soon as he'd said it, I was like, "Wait...what? Don't move my what? Shit, I forgot." I tried not breathing, but I knew that wouldn't last for 45 minutes. Besides, I don't think he'd said, "Don't more your lungs." Wrists? Buttocks?
I noticed he asked if I was having pain in my buttocks before we started (an oft-asked question when your back is fucked up). Buttocks. Not butt. Not ass. Buttocks. I imagine how threatening I'd sound if I told someone I was going to kick their buttocks. "I'm going to kick your MOTHERFUCKIN' buttocks, asshole!"
Imagine if we referred to our doctors in slang, too. Instead of, "I'm going to my OBGYN," it'd be, "I'm going to my cunt doctor. He's the best."
Or, instead of visiting the proctologist, you'd say, "I'm going to visit the assman."
Chiropractor? "I've got an appointment with my med school drop-out."
BLOCKED!
I blocked that person always making the wierd comments on my blog on myspace. It was kind of strange. I talked to her perhaps once--maybe twice--in college, and here she's posting all over my blog. I was subscribed to her blog, too, and she'd update it no less than 8 times per day (no exaggeration). Every time it updated, myspace would send an email saying that she updated. So I'd get excited that I'd have a shitload of email, but then I'd see eight of ten emails were from myspace telling me she updated her blog eight fuckin times. Jesus.
CONTEST
This is a contest contest. You get to choose the next contest. If you win, I'll send you an autographed copy of my book. Well, it's not really MY book--I'm going to grab a random book off my shelf (preferably one I've already read and didn't like), sign it, and send it to you. Add it to your collection of shit that you're probably going to throw away. So, just tell me what kind of contest I should have, and you'll win the contest if it's cool.
1) I won't have kids, or
2) They'll be retarded, or
3) They'll run for public office.
Basically, nothing good.
About 45 minutes I sat like a sandwich in between these huge magnets. "Don't move when you hear it knocking." Okay. That must be the devil trying to get out. Better pretend nobody's home. It basically sounded like I was laying under a car listening to it running. That's not bad. I just thought, "Okay, I'll pretend I'm in my driveway laying under the car listening to it run for 45 minutes...But why would I be doing that?"
And it's hard to remain completely still. Most of the time, I was trying to remember something he'd said. He said something like, "Don't move your ??? because it can move your spine." I couldn't move my spine, because this was what the MRI was for. Okay. No problem. But as soon as he'd said it, I was like, "Wait...what? Don't move my what? Shit, I forgot." I tried not breathing, but I knew that wouldn't last for 45 minutes. Besides, I don't think he'd said, "Don't more your lungs." Wrists? Buttocks?
I noticed he asked if I was having pain in my buttocks before we started (an oft-asked question when your back is fucked up). Buttocks. Not butt. Not ass. Buttocks. I imagine how threatening I'd sound if I told someone I was going to kick their buttocks. "I'm going to kick your MOTHERFUCKIN' buttocks, asshole!"
Imagine if we referred to our doctors in slang, too. Instead of, "I'm going to my OBGYN," it'd be, "I'm going to my cunt doctor. He's the best."
Or, instead of visiting the proctologist, you'd say, "I'm going to visit the assman."
Chiropractor? "I've got an appointment with my med school drop-out."
BLOCKED!
I blocked that person always making the wierd comments on my blog on myspace. It was kind of strange. I talked to her perhaps once--maybe twice--in college, and here she's posting all over my blog. I was subscribed to her blog, too, and she'd update it no less than 8 times per day (no exaggeration). Every time it updated, myspace would send an email saying that she updated. So I'd get excited that I'd have a shitload of email, but then I'd see eight of ten emails were from myspace telling me she updated her blog eight fuckin times. Jesus.
CONTEST
This is a contest contest. You get to choose the next contest. If you win, I'll send you an autographed copy of my book. Well, it's not really MY book--I'm going to grab a random book off my shelf (preferably one I've already read and didn't like), sign it, and send it to you. Add it to your collection of shit that you're probably going to throw away. So, just tell me what kind of contest I should have, and you'll win the contest if it's cool.
Sunday, June 26, 2005
No. You don't even understand.
I am exhausted. I shouldn't even be writing this. Because I'm exhausted.
But I thought that maybe I'd write something interesting because of it.
Nope. Same old shit, but I'm just tireder. And 'tireder' is not even a word. Damn, I'm pathetic.
I went to a family gathering today in Castaic. What made it better was that it wasn't MY family, but a friend's. Perhaps it was odd that she invited me, and odder that I accepted. I went, and it was quite lovely. I had fun. However, I was always introduced in a pretty lousy manner--maximal shock value, minimal likelihood of them saying, "Hey, that's cool!"
My friend could have introduced me in any of the following ways, and it WOULD have been acceptable:
1) "This is Ryan. He's a writer."
2) "This is Ryan. He works for the government."
3) "This is Ryan. He's unemployed." (a bit of a lie, but so what?)
4) "This is Ryan. He's just a nice freakin' guy."
5) "This is Ryan."
Instead, it was always, "This is Ryan. He works for the IRS." Ah, crap. And I'd talk to them for a minute and they'd start to think, "Okay, maybe I won't hate him." Then my friend would add, "He's in collections. He knocks on people's doors." Ahhh, for Pete's sake.
It tends to put people on their guard.
Meanwhile, I lost $20 playing Texas Hold 'Em while I was there. Goddamnit. That's almost a week's grocery money. That's at least 200 packages of Ramen noodles.
But I thought that maybe I'd write something interesting because of it.
Nope. Same old shit, but I'm just tireder. And 'tireder' is not even a word. Damn, I'm pathetic.
I went to a family gathering today in Castaic. What made it better was that it wasn't MY family, but a friend's. Perhaps it was odd that she invited me, and odder that I accepted. I went, and it was quite lovely. I had fun. However, I was always introduced in a pretty lousy manner--maximal shock value, minimal likelihood of them saying, "Hey, that's cool!"
My friend could have introduced me in any of the following ways, and it WOULD have been acceptable:
1) "This is Ryan. He's a writer."
2) "This is Ryan. He works for the government."
3) "This is Ryan. He's unemployed." (a bit of a lie, but so what?)
4) "This is Ryan. He's just a nice freakin' guy."
5) "This is Ryan."
Instead, it was always, "This is Ryan. He works for the IRS." Ah, crap. And I'd talk to them for a minute and they'd start to think, "Okay, maybe I won't hate him." Then my friend would add, "He's in collections. He knocks on people's doors." Ahhh, for Pete's sake.
It tends to put people on their guard.
Meanwhile, I lost $20 playing Texas Hold 'Em while I was there. Goddamnit. That's almost a week's grocery money. That's at least 200 packages of Ramen noodles.
Thursday, June 23, 2005
This Old Bitch at the Doctor's Office
Another doctor, and more waiting. Another doctor's office, and more forms forms forms. Doctor says, "Time for more x-rays." Go to x-ray place, get MORE x-rays.
There were some attractive women in the physical therapy office today. One even smiled at me--repeatedly. BUT it's a physical therapy office. They may think I'm a cripple. And who wants a cripple?
To make it seem that I was just fine, I tried to make it look like I'd simply escorted someone else. Hurriedly, I looked around the office and saw this old woman with a cane trying to walk up to the counter. Fast--I grabbed her by the arm to help her forward.
She did panic a little. She got this look on her face and tried pulling away from me. The girl that smiled at me--well, the smile was starting to falter. "DAMN IT," I thought. "I've got to make it look like I'm helping her!" I gently shook the old woman to try quieting her down.
Here, she began shouting at me in Armenian. I don't know Armenian, so I tried responding in Spanish. I don't really know Spanish, so I could really only yell out the couple of words I know, "Los pantalones! Los pantalones!" She kept yelling, and I yelled, "Por Espanol, prima dos!"
Unfortunately, the attractive girl knew Spanish AND Armenian. She asked why the woman was telling me to take my hands off of her, and I was telling her to press two? I said my grandma was insane, and tried convincing the woman that my grandma only THOUGHT she knew Armenian, but was only faking.
This did not work.
She didn't smile at me after that.
There were some attractive women in the physical therapy office today. One even smiled at me--repeatedly. BUT it's a physical therapy office. They may think I'm a cripple. And who wants a cripple?
To make it seem that I was just fine, I tried to make it look like I'd simply escorted someone else. Hurriedly, I looked around the office and saw this old woman with a cane trying to walk up to the counter. Fast--I grabbed her by the arm to help her forward.
She did panic a little. She got this look on her face and tried pulling away from me. The girl that smiled at me--well, the smile was starting to falter. "DAMN IT," I thought. "I've got to make it look like I'm helping her!" I gently shook the old woman to try quieting her down.
Here, she began shouting at me in Armenian. I don't know Armenian, so I tried responding in Spanish. I don't really know Spanish, so I could really only yell out the couple of words I know, "Los pantalones! Los pantalones!" She kept yelling, and I yelled, "Por Espanol, prima dos!"
Unfortunately, the attractive girl knew Spanish AND Armenian. She asked why the woman was telling me to take my hands off of her, and I was telling her to press two? I said my grandma was insane, and tried convincing the woman that my grandma only THOUGHT she knew Armenian, but was only faking.
This did not work.
She didn't smile at me after that.
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
One of Those Things About Living in California
I had my doctor's appointment on Monday for my back. He wrote me a prescription for three weeks of physical therapy at three sessions per week.
I called the physical therapy group to set my appointment today. The woman said, "Okay, you'll be meeting with Dr. Hoodahay tomorrow at 1:30."
"Okay. And this Dr. Hoodahay does the physical therapy?"
"No, he makes the determination if you need physical therapy." Wait a second here.
"But...I thought the doctor that referred me already made that determination." There was a long pause. "Why am I seeing a second doctor?"
"Well, he makes the determination."
"But what was the point of the first doctor," I asked.
This time, another long pause. "He was an actor."
"What?"
"An actor. He wasn't a real doctor. He only makes referrals."
"But why?"
The woman asked if I was new to Southern California, and I said I was (relatively). She put me on hold and connected me to a woman who I assumed was her supervisor. "A lot of the medical professionals you meet are actors," she explained. "In California, there are a lot of out-of-work actors, but a shortage of doctors. To reduce waits for doctors and to improve medical care, a lot of offices started hiring actors to take the place of the doctors. These actors see you, make a very general diagnosis, and then, if necessary they make a referral."
This seemed odd to me. "But my insurance company sent me to this doctor!" I said. "They told me to go and he'd fix my back."
"The insurance companies pay for these actors. It costs far less to compensate actors than to pay actual doctors. And everyone's happy--less out of work actors, less waiting for our valued customers."
I guess it made enough sense at this point. I thought about it. As I thought about it, that x-ray machine did seem to resemble a xerox machine a little too much. "Oh...So 1:30 tomorrow?"
"Yeah."
"Buh-bye."
I called the physical therapy group to set my appointment today. The woman said, "Okay, you'll be meeting with Dr. Hoodahay tomorrow at 1:30."
"Okay. And this Dr. Hoodahay does the physical therapy?"
"No, he makes the determination if you need physical therapy." Wait a second here.
"But...I thought the doctor that referred me already made that determination." There was a long pause. "Why am I seeing a second doctor?"
"Well, he makes the determination."
"But what was the point of the first doctor," I asked.
This time, another long pause. "He was an actor."
"What?"
"An actor. He wasn't a real doctor. He only makes referrals."
"But why?"
The woman asked if I was new to Southern California, and I said I was (relatively). She put me on hold and connected me to a woman who I assumed was her supervisor. "A lot of the medical professionals you meet are actors," she explained. "In California, there are a lot of out-of-work actors, but a shortage of doctors. To reduce waits for doctors and to improve medical care, a lot of offices started hiring actors to take the place of the doctors. These actors see you, make a very general diagnosis, and then, if necessary they make a referral."
This seemed odd to me. "But my insurance company sent me to this doctor!" I said. "They told me to go and he'd fix my back."
"The insurance companies pay for these actors. It costs far less to compensate actors than to pay actual doctors. And everyone's happy--less out of work actors, less waiting for our valued customers."
I guess it made enough sense at this point. I thought about it. As I thought about it, that x-ray machine did seem to resemble a xerox machine a little too much. "Oh...So 1:30 tomorrow?"
"Yeah."
"Buh-bye."
Transportation Aberration
I rode on a Segway today. Really, what is this but a wheelchair for people with working legs? I can't see the point. Maybe in 50 years, the country will transport itself on Segways everywhere (or the descendent of the Segway), but for now, they don't make sense.
I was surprised that my friend had brought his Segway to where we were. However, he said it was too far to walk, but too short to ride a bike or drive. So I said, "Your house and my house are equidistant from here. And I walked." Hmmm. Ryan 1, Segway 0.
My big question is this: When are they going to get Segways in the projects? When are we going to start seeing Segway drive-bys? And I haven't seen any dropped Segway low-riders.
I tried it out. Fascinating how it works. They say it's idiot proof, but I'm quite sure I could seriously injure myself. I should have consumed more liquor and given it another try, too. He wouldn't let me go crazy with it. I asked if he took it off any sweet jumps, but he said he hadn't. I'm positive I could permanently injure myself on a Segway--something even more likely to happen than if I were to just walk. Ryan 2, Segway 0.
How can you pick up women on a Segway? There's only room for one, so this is difficult in both the literal and figurative sense. Maybe she'll ride on the handlebars. And if she's a techie nerd geek, she'd probably like that. Hmm. And I'm not going to carry around some bitch on my shoulders. Okay, advantage goes to Segway. Ryan 2, Segway 1.
I want to see a TV show like Knight Rider (starring David Hasselhoff), but with a talking Segway. And it should shoot laser beams out the front and fly and talk to the driver. Yeah. I guess it does have entertainment potential. But I have more. I win. Ryan 3, Segway 1.
I was surprised that my friend had brought his Segway to where we were. However, he said it was too far to walk, but too short to ride a bike or drive. So I said, "Your house and my house are equidistant from here. And I walked." Hmmm. Ryan 1, Segway 0.
My big question is this: When are they going to get Segways in the projects? When are we going to start seeing Segway drive-bys? And I haven't seen any dropped Segway low-riders.
I tried it out. Fascinating how it works. They say it's idiot proof, but I'm quite sure I could seriously injure myself. I should have consumed more liquor and given it another try, too. He wouldn't let me go crazy with it. I asked if he took it off any sweet jumps, but he said he hadn't. I'm positive I could permanently injure myself on a Segway--something even more likely to happen than if I were to just walk. Ryan 2, Segway 0.
How can you pick up women on a Segway? There's only room for one, so this is difficult in both the literal and figurative sense. Maybe she'll ride on the handlebars. And if she's a techie nerd geek, she'd probably like that. Hmm. And I'm not going to carry around some bitch on my shoulders. Okay, advantage goes to Segway. Ryan 2, Segway 1.
I want to see a TV show like Knight Rider (starring David Hasselhoff), but with a talking Segway. And it should shoot laser beams out the front and fly and talk to the driver. Yeah. I guess it does have entertainment potential. But I have more. I win. Ryan 3, Segway 1.
Monday, June 20, 2005
I'll Make a Hung Jury
Achtung!
I got my official Summons for Jury Service from Los Angeles Superior Court in the mail. I get to fulfill my civic duty, though I understand the chances of me actually getting picked for a jury are minimal. All well. We can only do our best to get picked. I've been thinking up things I should shout out at random with a hickish accent in the courtroom:
* "I can make farm animal noises! Name anything, and I'll do it!"
* "I done gone found me a hamster in my underpants this mornin'."
* "That big black guy in handcuffs turns me on."
* "He couldn't have committed murder! He's white! His lawyer did it, because he's obviously a Mexican!"
I went to the doctor and got some x-rays done, today. Everything looked relatively normal, and the doctor wants me to do physical therapy three days a week for three weeks. Awwww, man. I wanted surgery--a quick fix. Damn it.
I really miss going to my kickboxing classes. This sucks. Instead of kickboxing, today, I did laundry. How fulfilling.
I got my official Summons for Jury Service from Los Angeles Superior Court in the mail. I get to fulfill my civic duty, though I understand the chances of me actually getting picked for a jury are minimal. All well. We can only do our best to get picked. I've been thinking up things I should shout out at random with a hickish accent in the courtroom:
* "I can make farm animal noises! Name anything, and I'll do it!"
* "I done gone found me a hamster in my underpants this mornin'."
* "That big black guy in handcuffs turns me on."
* "He couldn't have committed murder! He's white! His lawyer did it, because he's obviously a Mexican!"
I went to the doctor and got some x-rays done, today. Everything looked relatively normal, and the doctor wants me to do physical therapy three days a week for three weeks. Awwww, man. I wanted surgery--a quick fix. Damn it.
I really miss going to my kickboxing classes. This sucks. Instead of kickboxing, today, I did laundry. How fulfilling.
Sunday, June 19, 2005
Think of Passover
Help me figure this one out.
Tomorrow is Monday. I have a phobia of work. My intense hatred of my job has turned into a full-blown phobia. When I hear the phones ring at the office, I get really anxious. Maybe if I start crawling under my desk and singing to myself, they'll take my phone away. That would be so awesome.
I called in on Friday. What's that mean? That means work's going to suck tomorrow. At least I get to leave early for my doctor's appointment. What's THAT mean? That means I'll have even more work to do when I go back into the office on Tuesday. And it'll suck even worse.
July 26th. This is the day I put in my two weeks notice. Let's sit around the seder dish and talk about dayenu, shall we?
And it is decided.
IF my job was wicked awesome, I was paid lots of money, and there were hot bitches everywhere in the office, it would have been sufficient.
IF my job was wicked awesome, I was paid okay, and maybe there weren't hot bitches but at least some attractive girls walking around the office, it would have been sufficient.
IF my job was boring, I was paid very well, and there were maybe a few pieces of eye candy walking around, it would have been sufficient.
IF my job was neat, I was paid poorly, and there were some women walking around my office with 'good personalities', it would have been sufficient.
IF my job was okay, I was paid enough, and it was a complete sausage fest, it would have been sufficient.
Dayenu, motherfucker. Now eat your fuckin' matzoh.
I find that a computer could just as easily do my job at a far lower cost to the United States government, and thus the taxpayer. I monkey holding a carrot and a large stick could probably replace me and do a better job: the stick to beat the people who refuse to pay, and the carrot because he might get hungry. But wouldn't that be cool?
"The Internal Revenue Service has laid off 5,000 employees and hired a team of untrained, angry monkeys with sticks and carrots (because they might get hungry later) to replace them." Oh, we can only hope. We started with the Whitehouse, though; I guess we have to work our way down to the low-level government functionary.
Yeah, that's right. I'm saying Bush is a monkey. Deal with it.
Tomorrow is Monday. I have a phobia of work. My intense hatred of my job has turned into a full-blown phobia. When I hear the phones ring at the office, I get really anxious. Maybe if I start crawling under my desk and singing to myself, they'll take my phone away. That would be so awesome.
I called in on Friday. What's that mean? That means work's going to suck tomorrow. At least I get to leave early for my doctor's appointment. What's THAT mean? That means I'll have even more work to do when I go back into the office on Tuesday. And it'll suck even worse.
July 26th. This is the day I put in my two weeks notice. Let's sit around the seder dish and talk about dayenu, shall we?
And it is decided.
IF my job was wicked awesome, I was paid lots of money, and there were hot bitches everywhere in the office, it would have been sufficient.
IF my job was wicked awesome, I was paid okay, and maybe there weren't hot bitches but at least some attractive girls walking around the office, it would have been sufficient.
IF my job was boring, I was paid very well, and there were maybe a few pieces of eye candy walking around, it would have been sufficient.
IF my job was neat, I was paid poorly, and there were some women walking around my office with 'good personalities', it would have been sufficient.
IF my job was okay, I was paid enough, and it was a complete sausage fest, it would have been sufficient.
Dayenu, motherfucker. Now eat your fuckin' matzoh.
I find that a computer could just as easily do my job at a far lower cost to the United States government, and thus the taxpayer. I monkey holding a carrot and a large stick could probably replace me and do a better job: the stick to beat the people who refuse to pay, and the carrot because he might get hungry. But wouldn't that be cool?
"The Internal Revenue Service has laid off 5,000 employees and hired a team of untrained, angry monkeys with sticks and carrots (because they might get hungry later) to replace them." Oh, we can only hope. We started with the Whitehouse, though; I guess we have to work our way down to the low-level government functionary.
Yeah, that's right. I'm saying Bush is a monkey. Deal with it.
My Motherfucking Kidney
My right kidney hurts sooooo bad. It hurts hurts hurts!!!!
I thought it was my back. Could it be my back AND kidney?
Ow ow ow!!
I thought it was my back. Could it be my back AND kidney?
Ow ow ow!!
Saturday, June 18, 2005
Tell Them You're a Cripple
Last night was a lovely evening. I made dinner for a couple of friends, Bernicia and Tabernacle. I made an old family recipe--perhaps of Yiddish descent, but I'm not sure. And by family recipe, not my family. The recipe was handed down by my grandmother, but my father says she got the recipe from her next-door neighbor.
We ate. And after, Tabernacle went off to hang out with one of her friends, and Bernicia and I went to Mi Piace.
There, we ran into Adam and his posse, as well as several hot lay-deez from my gym. Bernicia wanted to dance, but I couldn't dance much because of my back. I bought a six dollar bottle of water (imported from Norway, and in a neat looking bottle) and hung out.
To refresh you, I coughed. This threw my back out. My back goes out about every six months. Last time I threw it out by walking up the staircase to my apartment. I was in so much pain I could hardly crawl through my door. Before that, I threw it out by sneezing; I could hardly walk for three days. The back problem stems from stupidity at 17 and a car accident at 21.
So back to Mi Piace. I'm sitting there in the chair watching Bernicia dance. How exciting is this? This girl loves to dance--to any music, at any time. She shakes her booty, and gets mad if you don't watch. Well, I went ahead and watched for her. Then she spread the word that I had hurt myself and couldn't dance. I didn't know what she said, but she was talking to these other really hot girls from my gym, and then pointing to me. The next thing I know, one by one, they're dancing right in front of me, waving their be-hinds in my face and doing some right naughty things. One did unmentionable, fun-to-watch naughty things. Another laid on top of me and continued dancing as I sat in the chair. A couple more did many very fascinating, fun things. This was all quite enjoyable. A guy sitting next to me watched in awe with his friends, and then asked, "Is it your birthday, man?"
"No, man. They just like me."
And to think that Adam had just left perhaps ten minutes before with his cousin and her friends...He missed quite a lovely show.
Excitement
I sat with Bernicia for awhile drinking my expensive water. Then this woman walks in and starts yelling at Bernicia. She tells Bernicia, "Andy's my boyfriend. I'm Malta. I'm his girlfriend. Do you like Andy? Because we're getting married, and he's..." Here, I couldn't hear what she was saying.
Bernicia was a bit shocked at this. Andy is a chef. Dude has two Freightliner catering trucks, but that's besides the point right now. Andy's girlfriend was there. She'd followed Andy to Mi Piace, where she'd assumed he was going to hook up with Bernicia. But I was sitting there talking to her. Malta continued yapping to Bernicia, and demanded she go outside. She wanted Bernicia, Andy, and her to 'talk.'
So I went outside with Bernicia and put a protective arm around her. This seemed to throw Malta a curveball. Malta was rambling about how Andy was going to marry her, and what right did Bernicia have...then she noticed my arm around Bernicia.
"Is that your date?" the bitch demanded.
"This is my...friend," Bernicia said. I need to teach Bernicia some lying skills.
Here, Malta paused, then I guess she realized she'd gone too far. "Well, you need to come down here. We need to confront this RIGHT NOW." And there was poor Andy sitting in his car with his head in his hands--ostensibly from embarassment.
So we went back into the club and pretended that that hadn't just happened. At the end of the night, Bernicia said she was afraid they'd be waiting for us. So we again walked with our arms around each other to give the appearance of a happy couple. I talked about wedding plans, and nice things I was planning on buying her. Things really wealthy couples do (not a broke government employee).
We seemed to be in the clear. However, as we approached an alley by the parking garage, I said, "Oh my God...I think they'll be waiting in the alley." I was sort of kidding, but also felt a strange premonition.
We got to the alley, AND...nobody was there. But then a car pulled up, and Malta was yelling at us. She said she followed Andy because she wanted to see how much of a jerk he is, and who he's cheating on her with, etc. Crazy bitch stuff. Unfortunately, Bernicia tried reasoning with her like a rational human being.
Malta was obviously not rational--past hysterical, tear-streaked, possibly drunk. There was a very embarassed-looking girl in her front passenger seat trying to appear that she wasn't there.
I kept telling Bernicia, "Don't waste your time. We need to go. She's nuts. She won't listen." Bernicia kept talking. So I interrupted (you can call it the arrival of Mr. Bullshit).
Mr. Bullshit (that was me) said, "Listen, she and I (I said pointing to Bernicia) have trust. We trust each other. I trust what she does, and she trusts what I do. I don't have to follow her around. You're wasting your time out here."
Malta, fast to pick up on the earlier 'friend' comment said, "She's just your friend."
"What goes on between us is none of your business." I'd never acted this well in high school. I'd always been prone to stage fright, and once blacked-out and almost fainted awaiting my next scene in Romeo and Juliet. But here, I was relaxed--realistic. It was my best acting performance ever. Malta seemed royally confused at this point. I asked the embarassed girl if she felt safe, or if she wanted a ride. She said she was fine.
Bernicia tried talking a little more to her, but I told her, "She's nuts, dude. You're wasting your breath. Let's just go." And we left.
Malta didn't follow us after that. Perhaps because we went into the parking garage, and that shit costs five dollars.
We ate. And after, Tabernacle went off to hang out with one of her friends, and Bernicia and I went to Mi Piace.
There, we ran into Adam and his posse, as well as several hot lay-deez from my gym. Bernicia wanted to dance, but I couldn't dance much because of my back. I bought a six dollar bottle of water (imported from Norway, and in a neat looking bottle) and hung out.
To refresh you, I coughed. This threw my back out. My back goes out about every six months. Last time I threw it out by walking up the staircase to my apartment. I was in so much pain I could hardly crawl through my door. Before that, I threw it out by sneezing; I could hardly walk for three days. The back problem stems from stupidity at 17 and a car accident at 21.
So back to Mi Piace. I'm sitting there in the chair watching Bernicia dance. How exciting is this? This girl loves to dance--to any music, at any time. She shakes her booty, and gets mad if you don't watch. Well, I went ahead and watched for her. Then she spread the word that I had hurt myself and couldn't dance. I didn't know what she said, but she was talking to these other really hot girls from my gym, and then pointing to me. The next thing I know, one by one, they're dancing right in front of me, waving their be-hinds in my face and doing some right naughty things. One did unmentionable, fun-to-watch naughty things. Another laid on top of me and continued dancing as I sat in the chair. A couple more did many very fascinating, fun things. This was all quite enjoyable. A guy sitting next to me watched in awe with his friends, and then asked, "Is it your birthday, man?"
"No, man. They just like me."
And to think that Adam had just left perhaps ten minutes before with his cousin and her friends...He missed quite a lovely show.
Excitement
I sat with Bernicia for awhile drinking my expensive water. Then this woman walks in and starts yelling at Bernicia. She tells Bernicia, "Andy's my boyfriend. I'm Malta. I'm his girlfriend. Do you like Andy? Because we're getting married, and he's..." Here, I couldn't hear what she was saying.
Bernicia was a bit shocked at this. Andy is a chef. Dude has two Freightliner catering trucks, but that's besides the point right now. Andy's girlfriend was there. She'd followed Andy to Mi Piace, where she'd assumed he was going to hook up with Bernicia. But I was sitting there talking to her. Malta continued yapping to Bernicia, and demanded she go outside. She wanted Bernicia, Andy, and her to 'talk.'
So I went outside with Bernicia and put a protective arm around her. This seemed to throw Malta a curveball. Malta was rambling about how Andy was going to marry her, and what right did Bernicia have...then she noticed my arm around Bernicia.
"Is that your date?" the bitch demanded.
"This is my...friend," Bernicia said. I need to teach Bernicia some lying skills.
Here, Malta paused, then I guess she realized she'd gone too far. "Well, you need to come down here. We need to confront this RIGHT NOW." And there was poor Andy sitting in his car with his head in his hands--ostensibly from embarassment.
So we went back into the club and pretended that that hadn't just happened. At the end of the night, Bernicia said she was afraid they'd be waiting for us. So we again walked with our arms around each other to give the appearance of a happy couple. I talked about wedding plans, and nice things I was planning on buying her. Things really wealthy couples do (not a broke government employee).
We seemed to be in the clear. However, as we approached an alley by the parking garage, I said, "Oh my God...I think they'll be waiting in the alley." I was sort of kidding, but also felt a strange premonition.
We got to the alley, AND...nobody was there. But then a car pulled up, and Malta was yelling at us. She said she followed Andy because she wanted to see how much of a jerk he is, and who he's cheating on her with, etc. Crazy bitch stuff. Unfortunately, Bernicia tried reasoning with her like a rational human being.
Malta was obviously not rational--past hysterical, tear-streaked, possibly drunk. There was a very embarassed-looking girl in her front passenger seat trying to appear that she wasn't there.
I kept telling Bernicia, "Don't waste your time. We need to go. She's nuts. She won't listen." Bernicia kept talking. So I interrupted (you can call it the arrival of Mr. Bullshit).
Mr. Bullshit (that was me) said, "Listen, she and I (I said pointing to Bernicia) have trust. We trust each other. I trust what she does, and she trusts what I do. I don't have to follow her around. You're wasting your time out here."
Malta, fast to pick up on the earlier 'friend' comment said, "She's just your friend."
"What goes on between us is none of your business." I'd never acted this well in high school. I'd always been prone to stage fright, and once blacked-out and almost fainted awaiting my next scene in Romeo and Juliet. But here, I was relaxed--realistic. It was my best acting performance ever. Malta seemed royally confused at this point. I asked the embarassed girl if she felt safe, or if she wanted a ride. She said she was fine.
Bernicia tried talking a little more to her, but I told her, "She's nuts, dude. You're wasting your breath. Let's just go." And we left.
Malta didn't follow us after that. Perhaps because we went into the parking garage, and that shit costs five dollars.
Friday, June 17, 2005
Another Sick Day
I stayed home sick today, again. I caught up on my mental anguish. You know, I just don't spend enough time to myself thinking, "Jesus fucking Christ, how could life get any worse?"
Of course, I also read and watched part of a movie.
I cleaned up part of my apartment for some guests tonight. As much as I clean this apartment, it still screams, "SLOBBY FUCKING BACHELOR." That's a lie, though. Obviously, there's no "FUCKING" going on here. This is a Fuck-Free zone right now. It's sort of like the former No Fly Zones in Iraq, but, instead of planes, it's women.
And instead of the international community patrolling the No Fly Zone (led by the Americans), it's a conspiracy of women everywhere who have bonded together and have all decided, "No sex for that asshole." Who is leading this international sisterhood of women? Who is the leader in enforcement?
Right now, the Republic of Ryan is surviving these sexual sanctions, but barely. We've got an oil for sex program. However, this has proved a complete failure, as there is no space for an oil derrick in my apartment. I remember approaching ChevronTexaco about this:
ME: "Can you build a derrick in my apartment, and then construct a pipeline leading to Long Beach (since it's probably the closest port)?"
CHEVRONTEXACO: "How big is your apartment?"
ME: "550 square feet."
CHEVRONTEXACO: "Yeah, of course--Wait. Are you...Ryan, of the Republic of Ryan?"
ME: "Uh...No?"
CHEVRONTEXACO: "There's sexual sanctions against you. We can't do business in your apartment. The International Conspiracy of Women has imposed strict sanctions against you."
I got the same treatment from BP-Amoco, too. Assholes.
I did build my underground network of tunnels to hide my WMDs (well, my menorah, leftover Chanuka candles, and mezuzah) in case the Republicans attack.
My Other Blog
Check out these wierd-ass fucking comments on my other blog. This one girl keeps putting these really strange comments. I need someone else's take on these. I'm wondering if they're supposed to be entertaining and funny, rude, or just plain stupid. I don't get it. Please help. If you read some of the comments on my profile and in response to most blog posts, you'll see these responses that just seem rather...bizarre.
Enjoy, bitches!
Of course, I also read and watched part of a movie.
I cleaned up part of my apartment for some guests tonight. As much as I clean this apartment, it still screams, "SLOBBY FUCKING BACHELOR." That's a lie, though. Obviously, there's no "FUCKING" going on here. This is a Fuck-Free zone right now. It's sort of like the former No Fly Zones in Iraq, but, instead of planes, it's women.
And instead of the international community patrolling the No Fly Zone (led by the Americans), it's a conspiracy of women everywhere who have bonded together and have all decided, "No sex for that asshole." Who is leading this international sisterhood of women? Who is the leader in enforcement?
Right now, the Republic of Ryan is surviving these sexual sanctions, but barely. We've got an oil for sex program. However, this has proved a complete failure, as there is no space for an oil derrick in my apartment. I remember approaching ChevronTexaco about this:
ME: "Can you build a derrick in my apartment, and then construct a pipeline leading to Long Beach (since it's probably the closest port)?"
CHEVRONTEXACO: "How big is your apartment?"
ME: "550 square feet."
CHEVRONTEXACO: "Yeah, of course--Wait. Are you...Ryan, of the Republic of Ryan?"
ME: "Uh...No?"
CHEVRONTEXACO: "There's sexual sanctions against you. We can't do business in your apartment. The International Conspiracy of Women has imposed strict sanctions against you."
I got the same treatment from BP-Amoco, too. Assholes.
I did build my underground network of tunnels to hide my WMDs (well, my menorah, leftover Chanuka candles, and mezuzah) in case the Republicans attack.
My Other Blog
Check out these wierd-ass fucking comments on my other blog. This one girl keeps putting these really strange comments. I need someone else's take on these. I'm wondering if they're supposed to be entertaining and funny, rude, or just plain stupid. I don't get it. Please help. If you read some of the comments on my profile and in response to most blog posts, you'll see these responses that just seem rather...bizarre.
Enjoy, bitches!
Thursday, June 16, 2005
EARTHQUAKE UPDATE
From deep within the rubble of today's earthquake, we're slowly trying to rebuild. I've moved all my perishables into a cooler and have started drinking the water out of the toilet.
Strange, since there's nothing wrong with the fridge or the toilet. I've started fashioning clothing out of saran wrap and tin foil. There's nothing wrong with my clothes, but I'm just preparing for the Big One.
I was on the highway when it happened. I didn't even know for another hour that I'd survived a mag 5.1 earthquake.
Damn.
Strange, since there's nothing wrong with the fridge or the toilet. I've started fashioning clothing out of saran wrap and tin foil. There's nothing wrong with my clothes, but I'm just preparing for the Big One.
I was on the highway when it happened. I didn't even know for another hour that I'd survived a mag 5.1 earthquake.
Damn.
Why I'll Be Dead by June 27th
I'm falling apart. Everything's going to shit, and my immune system is about to go on vacation.
Monday, I was feeling a little queezy and didn't go to work. I felt I got better, but I got a slight cough.
The cough seems to have turned into a full blown flu. Runny nose, aching all over, and the slight cough turned into major, body-wracking hacks.
Some of you know I have a chronic back problem. So one of these coughs threw my back out yesterday. I could still walk, though, and function quite normally. Basically, the full pain hadn't set in yet--like when you stub your toe, but the pain doesn't hit for awhile. So why not go to the gym? I went to the gym and started doing the body-sculpting class. Halfway through, things didn't seem to be going so well down in the lumbar area. I left.
At this point, I now have the beginnings of a flu and my back is basically out. But other than that, I've still got my health.
I called a friend, whose name we'll say is Tabernacle. She was about to go walk her dog and wanted to see if I wanted to meet for a cup of coffee. Off I went to see her and meet her dog--Pablo. Pablo's a big Goddamn bulldog. Lots of energy. Very muscular. These dogs--they don't seem to like it when you fuck with them.
LATER:
"OW!"
"What?"
"Nothing. I think...Yeah, I think he bit me."
And in fact, there really was no doubt. Pablo had in fact bit me. He bit my finger, and indeed almost bit it right off had I not realized, 'Wait a second...He doesn't seem to be playing.' Blood didn't SPURT out so much as it wouldn't stop. C'est la vie. She swears her dog's shots are up to date. And the blood HAS started to stop (though this happened about 20 hours ago). Of course, this is all due to my own retardation. I guess it's kind of fun to tease dogs until they try to bite off your fucking digits.
At the rate I'm falling apart, I figure I'll be completely dead by June 27th. But I won't mind, because I predict I'll fall into a coma around the 21st.
The Gaming Gang
I was walking to the grocery store today (though I really shouldn't walk or carry heavy items like frozen chicken). At the end of the street (near Colorado and Sierra Madre) is a gaming shop. No not video games; we're talking D&D, Magic, and other wierd shit like that. And these gamers hang out there pretty much 24-7. I've walked by and looked in the window at 2 AM and there's always people there playing. Always.
Today, I walked by them as they hung out in the parking lot behind the store, apparently taking a gaming break. They drank cokes and talked animatedly about gaming. One of them had what looked like what was supposed to be a representation of a light saber. After the grocery store, I was walking back to my apartment and I walked by these people. The guy with the light saber appeared to be doing some 'mad moves' in the parking lot, and the other gamers watched him with a mixture of delight and envy. He swung that plastic flourescent bar around like a man who'd watched Star Wars enough times to KNOW. This guy was obviously their...dare I say?...hero. They must have felt this guy really knew his shit with the light saber. He could have gotten any bitch (there was only one I saw) in that parking lot. To them, perhaps he was the closest thing to a Jedi they had.
But outside that parking lot, it was a different story. He was just some tool swinging around a plastic light saber.
Isn't that tragically poetic?
Monday, I was feeling a little queezy and didn't go to work. I felt I got better, but I got a slight cough.
The cough seems to have turned into a full blown flu. Runny nose, aching all over, and the slight cough turned into major, body-wracking hacks.
Some of you know I have a chronic back problem. So one of these coughs threw my back out yesterday. I could still walk, though, and function quite normally. Basically, the full pain hadn't set in yet--like when you stub your toe, but the pain doesn't hit for awhile. So why not go to the gym? I went to the gym and started doing the body-sculpting class. Halfway through, things didn't seem to be going so well down in the lumbar area. I left.
At this point, I now have the beginnings of a flu and my back is basically out. But other than that, I've still got my health.
I called a friend, whose name we'll say is Tabernacle. She was about to go walk her dog and wanted to see if I wanted to meet for a cup of coffee. Off I went to see her and meet her dog--Pablo. Pablo's a big Goddamn bulldog. Lots of energy. Very muscular. These dogs--they don't seem to like it when you fuck with them.
LATER:
"OW!"
"What?"
"Nothing. I think...Yeah, I think he bit me."
And in fact, there really was no doubt. Pablo had in fact bit me. He bit my finger, and indeed almost bit it right off had I not realized, 'Wait a second...He doesn't seem to be playing.' Blood didn't SPURT out so much as it wouldn't stop. C'est la vie. She swears her dog's shots are up to date. And the blood HAS started to stop (though this happened about 20 hours ago). Of course, this is all due to my own retardation. I guess it's kind of fun to tease dogs until they try to bite off your fucking digits.
At the rate I'm falling apart, I figure I'll be completely dead by June 27th. But I won't mind, because I predict I'll fall into a coma around the 21st.
The Gaming Gang
I was walking to the grocery store today (though I really shouldn't walk or carry heavy items like frozen chicken). At the end of the street (near Colorado and Sierra Madre) is a gaming shop. No not video games; we're talking D&D, Magic, and other wierd shit like that. And these gamers hang out there pretty much 24-7. I've walked by and looked in the window at 2 AM and there's always people there playing. Always.
Today, I walked by them as they hung out in the parking lot behind the store, apparently taking a gaming break. They drank cokes and talked animatedly about gaming. One of them had what looked like what was supposed to be a representation of a light saber. After the grocery store, I was walking back to my apartment and I walked by these people. The guy with the light saber appeared to be doing some 'mad moves' in the parking lot, and the other gamers watched him with a mixture of delight and envy. He swung that plastic flourescent bar around like a man who'd watched Star Wars enough times to KNOW. This guy was obviously their...dare I say?...hero. They must have felt this guy really knew his shit with the light saber. He could have gotten any bitch (there was only one I saw) in that parking lot. To them, perhaps he was the closest thing to a Jedi they had.
But outside that parking lot, it was a different story. He was just some tool swinging around a plastic light saber.
Isn't that tragically poetic?
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
Adams Aplenty
I had a discussion with a senior coworker today. We discussed what dinosaurs would probably taste like.
Would it be "the other other white meat," or no? I said it'd probably resemble and taste like chicken, since birds are directly descended from dinosaurs. Ostrich, though--would not the T-Rex perhaps taste like ostrich?
Ostrich does not taste like chicken, though. It's more like ground beef. And they're herbivores, whilst the T-Rex is carniverous.
This left us wondering. I'm hoping the next big discovery is a completely in-tact, perfectly preserved dinosaur. I suppose we'll have to go looking in Antarctica to find the perfect sample, since elsewhere the meat would probably have broken down. If we could find a dinosaur, we could cut off a large slab, bring out the grill, and have a little barbeque. We agreed that this would be a fun thing to try. And naturally, there'll be so much meat left over we'd have enough for plenty of scientific observation and experimentation, as well as another barbeque.
I implore you to find this perfectly preserved frozen dinosaur. And don't look in your grocery store. Grocery stores won't have it. You may have to go to a place like Whole Foods or something.
Would it be "the other other white meat," or no? I said it'd probably resemble and taste like chicken, since birds are directly descended from dinosaurs. Ostrich, though--would not the T-Rex perhaps taste like ostrich?
Ostrich does not taste like chicken, though. It's more like ground beef. And they're herbivores, whilst the T-Rex is carniverous.
This left us wondering. I'm hoping the next big discovery is a completely in-tact, perfectly preserved dinosaur. I suppose we'll have to go looking in Antarctica to find the perfect sample, since elsewhere the meat would probably have broken down. If we could find a dinosaur, we could cut off a large slab, bring out the grill, and have a little barbeque. We agreed that this would be a fun thing to try. And naturally, there'll be so much meat left over we'd have enough for plenty of scientific observation and experimentation, as well as another barbeque.
I implore you to find this perfectly preserved frozen dinosaur. And don't look in your grocery store. Grocery stores won't have it. You may have to go to a place like Whole Foods or something.
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
Big Baller Wants to See the Bitches
I'm a rock star, and I really want to go to this lingerie party.
I have these new friends from the gym. They're cool, and they're hot. And one of them is throwing a lingerie party.
I said, "Great, what time should I be there?"
"No, no, no. You can't go. You're a guy."
"It's okay," I assured them. "I only want to watch."
When they described this party, it kind of sounded hot at first. A bunch of hot women sitting around in their hottest lingerie (underwear is utilitarian; lingerie is hot). Come on. And it's going to be catered by a chef. Like, a real chef--not just some guy who says he knows how to cook but is solely there to see something titillating and skintil--er, I mean scintillating.
"And then, the stripper arrives at 12," my friend said.
This sounded pretty cool. Until I realized I was a retard. "No way! A stripper?! That's awes...Wait a minute. Do you mean a male stripper?"
It stopped being hot right about here. But I said I could most definitely stay until 12, and then I'll just leave when the male stripper gets there so I can be out of the way. They said that this was fine--and would actually be better for me not to show up, and then I'll completely be out of the way.
I said, "No, no. You won't even know I'm there. I'll bring some books, maybe a couple of magazines. So that when your hot friends come in, I'll check their clothes in at the-"
"You'll check their clothes? What do you mean?"
"Oh," I said, "They'll strip down and I'll take their clothes for them. You won't even know I'm there. I'll just be reading for most of the evening. Can I bring a camera?"
And then they go prancing around at the gym handing out invitations to hot--and some not-so-hot--girls and they don't even give me one. Jesus fucking Christ.
I had to break out the big guns at this point. "Yeah, I'm having a video game party. You're not invited, so don't even ask. When we're playing my Playstation at my big party--and we're talking the CLASSIC Playstation--and eating our catered dinner of frozen Tombstone pizzas, you'll be sitting at home bored and alone. Because you're not invited."
I was aiming for a tit-for-tat, here. A sort of, "Okay, you come to my lingerie party if I can go to your sweet video gaming party."
Nope. Didn't happen. Goddamn it.
I met the chef catering it. Seemed pretty cool. He lives on my street and has a couple of these big fucking Freightliner catering trucks--like nothing I've ever seen (though I've only seen pictures). We'll see how cool he is--we'll see if he can sneak me in, perhaps inside an especially large creme brulee.
I have these new friends from the gym. They're cool, and they're hot. And one of them is throwing a lingerie party.
I said, "Great, what time should I be there?"
"No, no, no. You can't go. You're a guy."
"It's okay," I assured them. "I only want to watch."
When they described this party, it kind of sounded hot at first. A bunch of hot women sitting around in their hottest lingerie (underwear is utilitarian; lingerie is hot). Come on. And it's going to be catered by a chef. Like, a real chef--not just some guy who says he knows how to cook but is solely there to see something titillating and skintil--er, I mean scintillating.
"And then, the stripper arrives at 12," my friend said.
This sounded pretty cool. Until I realized I was a retard. "No way! A stripper?! That's awes...Wait a minute. Do you mean a male stripper?"
It stopped being hot right about here. But I said I could most definitely stay until 12, and then I'll just leave when the male stripper gets there so I can be out of the way. They said that this was fine--and would actually be better for me not to show up, and then I'll completely be out of the way.
I said, "No, no. You won't even know I'm there. I'll bring some books, maybe a couple of magazines. So that when your hot friends come in, I'll check their clothes in at the-"
"You'll check their clothes? What do you mean?"
"Oh," I said, "They'll strip down and I'll take their clothes for them. You won't even know I'm there. I'll just be reading for most of the evening. Can I bring a camera?"
And then they go prancing around at the gym handing out invitations to hot--and some not-so-hot--girls and they don't even give me one. Jesus fucking Christ.
I had to break out the big guns at this point. "Yeah, I'm having a video game party. You're not invited, so don't even ask. When we're playing my Playstation at my big party--and we're talking the CLASSIC Playstation--and eating our catered dinner of frozen Tombstone pizzas, you'll be sitting at home bored and alone. Because you're not invited."
I was aiming for a tit-for-tat, here. A sort of, "Okay, you come to my lingerie party if I can go to your sweet video gaming party."
Nope. Didn't happen. Goddamn it.
I met the chef catering it. Seemed pretty cool. He lives on my street and has a couple of these big fucking Freightliner catering trucks--like nothing I've ever seen (though I've only seen pictures). We'll see how cool he is--we'll see if he can sneak me in, perhaps inside an especially large creme brulee.
Sunday, June 12, 2005
Starting a Band
I've been talking to my neighbor for awhile about starting a band. And by awhile, I mean I mentioned it today in passing, and he said, "Yeah. Okay."
"I'll write the lyrics and sing. You write the music and play the guitar."
"All right. I've got recording equipment in my apartment. You want to see it?"
"Nah, I've got to get my groceries in the fridge." We'd just gotten back from Trader Joe's where he went with to watch me buy groceries. "I'm serious, though. I want to start this band."
"Me, too," he said.
So we're going to start a band. I tried writing out some lyrics. I've never written any lyrics to any songs. I assume writing lyrics is like writing poetry. I've never written good poetry. Besides, most songs aren't written in rhyming couplets. I do best when writing in rhyming couplets. But rhyming couplets typically make bad poetry.
Maybe I could write a few haikus and turn those into songs? I have no idea.
Not that I've ever sung, either. Jay plays the guitar, but I don't sing. He's one of the best guitar players I've heard. I assume I'd sing about as well as any guy who doesn't sing. I probably sing as well as I dance.
This is why our strong points will have to be our:
1) lyrics
2) guitar,
3) band name, and
4) sweet outfits.
Possible band names:
Kitchen Sink
Medinski and Jigsaw (I'll be Medinski; he'll be Jigsaw. Why? Don't know)
Organ Harvesters (I have a friend that's an organ harvester)
Swamp Coolers (I just got one of these for my apartment)
The Afterschool Specials (sounds cool)
Exit Only (cause we're straight, but fully in support of gay rights)
Yield to Oncoming Traffic
The Cornish Hens
Do the Chickens Have Large Talons?
I Fucked Your Mom and Now It Hurts to Pee
2Jew4U (though Jay is Catholic)
False Advertising (honesty is the best policy)
I Love [sell this space to a company for a lot of money] Products! ($$$)
The Republican Party (we'll steal our shows from all other bands)
Civil Rights For All (nobody will listen to us or buy our CDs)
"I'll write the lyrics and sing. You write the music and play the guitar."
"All right. I've got recording equipment in my apartment. You want to see it?"
"Nah, I've got to get my groceries in the fridge." We'd just gotten back from Trader Joe's where he went with to watch me buy groceries. "I'm serious, though. I want to start this band."
"Me, too," he said.
So we're going to start a band. I tried writing out some lyrics. I've never written any lyrics to any songs. I assume writing lyrics is like writing poetry. I've never written good poetry. Besides, most songs aren't written in rhyming couplets. I do best when writing in rhyming couplets. But rhyming couplets typically make bad poetry.
Maybe I could write a few haikus and turn those into songs? I have no idea.
Not that I've ever sung, either. Jay plays the guitar, but I don't sing. He's one of the best guitar players I've heard. I assume I'd sing about as well as any guy who doesn't sing. I probably sing as well as I dance.
This is why our strong points will have to be our:
1) lyrics
2) guitar,
3) band name, and
4) sweet outfits.
Possible band names:
Kitchen Sink
Medinski and Jigsaw (I'll be Medinski; he'll be Jigsaw. Why? Don't know)
Organ Harvesters (I have a friend that's an organ harvester)
Swamp Coolers (I just got one of these for my apartment)
The Afterschool Specials (sounds cool)
Exit Only (cause we're straight, but fully in support of gay rights)
Yield to Oncoming Traffic
The Cornish Hens
Do the Chickens Have Large Talons?
I Fucked Your Mom and Now It Hurts to Pee
2Jew4U (though Jay is Catholic)
False Advertising (honesty is the best policy)
I Love [sell this space to a company for a lot of money] Products! ($$$)
The Republican Party (we'll steal our shows from all other bands)
Civil Rights For All (nobody will listen to us or buy our CDs)
Saturday, June 11, 2005
Subtitle Implants
You want to talk about good ideas?
You want to talk about brilliance?
Let's first talk about the inspiration for my excellent idea. Then I will share the idea.
INSPIRATION
I went to a beautiful wedding today in Azusa. Everything was near-perfect--the weather, the trees, the food. However, I had one problem: the language barrier.
The entire wedding was in Spanish. All the jokes? Spanish. The really moving, dramatic parts? Spanish. I asked my friend to translate the wedding for me. She is Korean, and has a degree in Spanish. At several points, I asked, "What did they just say?"
"I don't know," she'd say.
At the end of the ceremony, the priest said something, and I recognized the words 'photos' and 'por favor.' My friend volunteered the following: "I believe he just said that the wedding party is going to take some pictures, and thanks for coming." Hmmm...I have a degree in creative writing, and I somehow picked that up in the two words I understood.
IDEA
Americans enjoy foreign films, but don't like to learn new languages. I believe a device could be implanted in your retina so that when a foreign person speaks, you'll see the translation right below them. And if multiple people are speaking at once, word bubbles will appear so it'll be like you're reading a comic book. This idea is so brilliant. I am so original.
Another use would be like in Annie Hall. You could have these implants translate the subtext of every conversation. After a bad date, you could REALLY tell how bad it went. You'd see that "Yeah, hey, let's do this again sometime," really means, "I hope you try to eat some shards of glass." And the translation for, "Listen, I don't think we have a lot in common, so I don't think it's wise that we see each other anymore," would appear as, "I want you so bad."
Brilliant.
You want to talk about brilliance?
Let's first talk about the inspiration for my excellent idea. Then I will share the idea.
INSPIRATION
I went to a beautiful wedding today in Azusa. Everything was near-perfect--the weather, the trees, the food. However, I had one problem: the language barrier.
The entire wedding was in Spanish. All the jokes? Spanish. The really moving, dramatic parts? Spanish. I asked my friend to translate the wedding for me. She is Korean, and has a degree in Spanish. At several points, I asked, "What did they just say?"
"I don't know," she'd say.
At the end of the ceremony, the priest said something, and I recognized the words 'photos' and 'por favor.' My friend volunteered the following: "I believe he just said that the wedding party is going to take some pictures, and thanks for coming." Hmmm...I have a degree in creative writing, and I somehow picked that up in the two words I understood.
IDEA
Americans enjoy foreign films, but don't like to learn new languages. I believe a device could be implanted in your retina so that when a foreign person speaks, you'll see the translation right below them. And if multiple people are speaking at once, word bubbles will appear so it'll be like you're reading a comic book. This idea is so brilliant. I am so original.
Another use would be like in Annie Hall. You could have these implants translate the subtext of every conversation. After a bad date, you could REALLY tell how bad it went. You'd see that "Yeah, hey, let's do this again sometime," really means, "I hope you try to eat some shards of glass." And the translation for, "Listen, I don't think we have a lot in common, so I don't think it's wise that we see each other anymore," would appear as, "I want you so bad."
Brilliant.
Butt-Fucked at General Motors
A Different Kind of Post
Today, I write about my worries of our economy. It'll probably be more dull than usual. But it's MY blog, so read it anyway.
Our economy is falling apart. The shit is hitting the fan.
General Motors has introduced relatively massive across-the-board discounts on all their vehicles (touted as Employee Discounts for the General Public!). At first, I was excited. After all, the Saab 9-2X is now wicked cheap since it's marked down from $27,000 to $19,500. It's a Subaru Impreza WRX, but the reduced Saab price makes it cheaper than a used Subaru. Hot damn. A 227 horsepower, 5-speed, all-wheel drive sportwagon?
If you know me, you know I love wagons. They're so unassuming...
But then I got worried.
Rewind to last month, GM and Ford's outstanding bonds were reduced to junk status (below investment grade). This only happens when there's a high chance of default on coupon payments. And then, to save money, last week they said they were laying off 25,000 people. 25,000 tax-paying, mortgage-holding people.
Now, they're massively discounting. What is this? Should I be excited to have the opportunity get a massively discounted vehicle?
Think of massive corporate failures dotting American history, and nothing really compares to the failure of the world's largest automobile company, right? Chrysler, Enron, and Continental Illinois all got huge amounts of money. Chrysler is owned by the Germans, Enron is gone, and Continental Illinois disappeared.
Continental Illinois, by the way, was the eleventh largest bank in the United States, and was considered as "too big to fail."
In the grand scheme of things, none of these vehicles is discounted. 25,000 jobs lost in the making of these vehicles, one of the largest companies in the world a major default risk, and discounting through factory subsidies to lower prices.
And also, basic economics says that the prices are dropping to stoke demand, but won't it cause panic (ie. Continental Illionois)?. This means that most or all GM vehicle prices will conceivably drop--both in the new and used market. Won't all other car company's prices drop as well?
And then from there, everything seems like it will end up in the shitter. Especially when GM starts asking the government for money to pay its bills. And since GM has sooo many employees, owns and operates so many factories, and affects sooo many industries (suppliers, suppliers' suppliers, utilities, etc.), the taxpayers will be put into the position where they'll have no choice BUT to dump their money in if they don't want the economy to collapse tomorrow.
Meanwhile, I'm going to go to a wedding. It's not mine, so I'm still single.
Single, bitches! YEAH!
Today, I write about my worries of our economy. It'll probably be more dull than usual. But it's MY blog, so read it anyway.
Our economy is falling apart. The shit is hitting the fan.
General Motors has introduced relatively massive across-the-board discounts on all their vehicles (touted as Employee Discounts for the General Public!). At first, I was excited. After all, the Saab 9-2X is now wicked cheap since it's marked down from $27,000 to $19,500. It's a Subaru Impreza WRX, but the reduced Saab price makes it cheaper than a used Subaru. Hot damn. A 227 horsepower, 5-speed, all-wheel drive sportwagon?
If you know me, you know I love wagons. They're so unassuming...
But then I got worried.
Rewind to last month, GM and Ford's outstanding bonds were reduced to junk status (below investment grade). This only happens when there's a high chance of default on coupon payments. And then, to save money, last week they said they were laying off 25,000 people. 25,000 tax-paying, mortgage-holding people.
Now, they're massively discounting. What is this? Should I be excited to have the opportunity get a massively discounted vehicle?
Think of massive corporate failures dotting American history, and nothing really compares to the failure of the world's largest automobile company, right? Chrysler, Enron, and Continental Illinois all got huge amounts of money. Chrysler is owned by the Germans, Enron is gone, and Continental Illinois disappeared.
Continental Illinois, by the way, was the eleventh largest bank in the United States, and was considered as "too big to fail."
In the grand scheme of things, none of these vehicles is discounted. 25,000 jobs lost in the making of these vehicles, one of the largest companies in the world a major default risk, and discounting through factory subsidies to lower prices.
And also, basic economics says that the prices are dropping to stoke demand, but won't it cause panic (ie. Continental Illionois)?. This means that most or all GM vehicle prices will conceivably drop--both in the new and used market. Won't all other car company's prices drop as well?
And then from there, everything seems like it will end up in the shitter. Especially when GM starts asking the government for money to pay its bills. And since GM has sooo many employees, owns and operates so many factories, and affects sooo many industries (suppliers, suppliers' suppliers, utilities, etc.), the taxpayers will be put into the position where they'll have no choice BUT to dump their money in if they don't want the economy to collapse tomorrow.
Meanwhile, I'm going to go to a wedding. It's not mine, so I'm still single.
Single, bitches! YEAH!
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