So, Erin wants a new coat, you know, for when the weather gets cold. Like it is now. It’s supposed to be one of those “down-water-resistant-I-ski-on-the-weekend” type coats. Personally, I don’t know why she’s even bothering since she makes fun of my “George Castanza Coat”. For those of you who were possibly in a coma or Amish during the 90’s, the “George Castanza Coat” also known as “The Puffy Coat” is the greatest piece of winter wear ever invented. I mean, it’s gore-tex, after all.
Anyway, I love my coat. It’s big and it’s puffy and it keeps me warm. When I’m going through my “What am I looking for in a coat?” checklist, it pretty much fits the bill. I went out and got my coat the old fashioned way: I drove down to the department store, searched through a few billion racks until I found a coat that would satisfy my needs (sadly, it didn’t satisfy ALL of my “keep me warm in the winter” needs, but that’s neither here nor there) and also didn’t cost roughly the same as the GDP of a third world country. I got my coat, paid in cash, and left one satisfied customer.
Erin, on the other hand, is going about things in a slightly more high-tech manner. Currently, she’s looking at coats/jackets on-line and making comments while I’m pretending to pay attention, though, I’m pretty sure she’s figured out that I usually tune out at times like this and think about who to start and sit on my fantasy football team or the next Carolina game. You know, things of high importance.
Anyway, as I pretend to pay attention to Erin’s quest for the perfect winter coat I can’t help but think, “isn’t it amazing how technology has let us streamline our lives to the point where we can have minimal human contact in just about everything we do?” It’s GREAT! Let’s face it, people suck, and the less we have to do with each other, the better off we’ll be. Good riddance, I say! It’s like the credit card commercials where everyone’s so in tune with each other that they move in theatrical harmony as they pay for their whatever-they’re-buyings with the electronic swipey card (not the actual name, but I’m sure it’s pretty close). Well, in these commercials there’s always one loser (probably the type of person who didn’t watch Seinfeld) who tries to pay with cash. This is when everything goes to pot. The music screeches to a halt, random items tumble and topple, in short, paying with cash leads to the onset of Revelations. So, as Erin surfs from website to website looking for that special something to keep her warm during the cold, cold, winter months, I can’t help but smile. I smile because I know one thing that she doesn’t: no matter what her coat looks like or how warm it keeps her I will make fun of it and call it her George Castanza Coat. God bless technology.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Sunday, November 4, 2007
Only 49%???
It's been a while since I put up one of these things, so I guess I should do this dang thang. You know, to ensure that I make quota or whatever it is that keeps this site running. Plus my reader has been really bummed that I haven't posted anything in a while.
So what's the haps? Other than the fact that my job is killing me. Slowly, but surely... and enjoying every minute of it... the only new thing in my life is that I will soon be paying mortgage instead of rent soon. Yeah, who knew? THAT was unexpected! Holla! Excuse me, I misspelled that. Hola! That one was for all my South American peeps. Represent!
Anyway, the whole getting a house and renovating a house has led me to find out, nee - discover, a few things about myself. Things that I find slightly alarming, but I am not ashamed to admit them.
1. I secretly want to be an interior decorator. And have been buying magazines that confirm this.
2. You know that really annoying Ikea commercial? The one where the girl sings, "Be brave not beige. Build a rainbow palace not an oatmeal cage!" While her living room tries to become a walk-in bag of Skittles? Well, not literally, but I'm pretty sure they managed to fit in every color visable to the human eye, and if you look close enough, even a few that aren't. Erin hates this commercial and changes the channel every time it comes on. But me, I secretly like it. Don't tell her.
3. The thought of being able to run laundry and get shit done in my own home and NOT having to wait in line for a washer or dryer at the laundry mat gives me a bit of a chubby.
4. While I will have a gas range of some kind, I'm REALLY looking forward to barbecuing every meal on my back patio. And trust me, when I say every meal I mean EVERY MEAL. If breakfast is a bowl of cereal you can bet your sweet ass that I'm gonna figure out a way to bbq or grill it.
5. I'm a bit on the fence about this one, but I figure you can't have a home without cable, right? So the thought of cable puts a smile on my face. And it'll make Erin happy since I'm sure she thinks I live in the stone age. Or I'm Amish. And I am neither of those things, though I do really, really enjoy stones.
And on an unrelated note, I now have a new tv show on dvd that makes me feel all happy in my happy place for those times when I'm not feeling so jolly. Sorry Scrubs, but you have officially been replaced by The Office. Over the past two weekends I've watched seasons 1-3 and it's the bomb like Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Office marathons are way better than weekly installations. Jeez, I've wasted a lot of time writing this silly lil' thing. Maybe if I had more time for procrastination I could write more. We should set the clocks back every weekend. That would be sweet.
So what's the haps? Other than the fact that my job is killing me. Slowly, but surely... and enjoying every minute of it... the only new thing in my life is that I will soon be paying mortgage instead of rent soon. Yeah, who knew? THAT was unexpected! Holla! Excuse me, I misspelled that. Hola! That one was for all my South American peeps. Represent!
Anyway, the whole getting a house and renovating a house has led me to find out, nee - discover, a few things about myself. Things that I find slightly alarming, but I am not ashamed to admit them.
1. I secretly want to be an interior decorator. And have been buying magazines that confirm this.
2. You know that really annoying Ikea commercial? The one where the girl sings, "Be brave not beige. Build a rainbow palace not an oatmeal cage!" While her living room tries to become a walk-in bag of Skittles? Well, not literally, but I'm pretty sure they managed to fit in every color visable to the human eye, and if you look close enough, even a few that aren't. Erin hates this commercial and changes the channel every time it comes on. But me, I secretly like it. Don't tell her.
3. The thought of being able to run laundry and get shit done in my own home and NOT having to wait in line for a washer or dryer at the laundry mat gives me a bit of a chubby.
4. While I will have a gas range of some kind, I'm REALLY looking forward to barbecuing every meal on my back patio. And trust me, when I say every meal I mean EVERY MEAL. If breakfast is a bowl of cereal you can bet your sweet ass that I'm gonna figure out a way to bbq or grill it.
5. I'm a bit on the fence about this one, but I figure you can't have a home without cable, right? So the thought of cable puts a smile on my face. And it'll make Erin happy since I'm sure she thinks I live in the stone age. Or I'm Amish. And I am neither of those things, though I do really, really enjoy stones.
And on an unrelated note, I now have a new tv show on dvd that makes me feel all happy in my happy place for those times when I'm not feeling so jolly. Sorry Scrubs, but you have officially been replaced by The Office. Over the past two weekends I've watched seasons 1-3 and it's the bomb like Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Office marathons are way better than weekly installations. Jeez, I've wasted a lot of time writing this silly lil' thing. Maybe if I had more time for procrastination I could write more. We should set the clocks back every weekend. That would be sweet.
Friday, September 28, 2007
Isn't It Ironic?
Hey, Erin, this one's for you. I hope you enjoy my proper use of the word IRONIC.
So last weekend I bought a new watch because the digital display on my old one stopped working and I need it to time the kids in class (and the workers in the sweat shop I have recently invested in). This week for reasons unknown to me, the alarm started going off on the old watch at 5:15AM everyday like... clockwork (rim shot, please). Usually, this doesn't bother me, but the last few days I've gotten very little sleep and so it drove me a little crazy today. (I know, you're probably thinking why didn't you just throw the watch away, idiot???). Well, clearly I didn't just throw the watch away because I'M AN IDIOT. So, like I was saying, haven't been getting much sleep lately, so I was super annoyed when the alarm went off today. I grabbed the watch and threw it across the room. It continued to beep, but now I could detect a sinister, mocking undertone in the beeping. This led me to grab the watch and put it in a choke hold of Homer Simpson proportions. In doing so I pushed all the buttons on the damn thing at once. There was one final beep (which I assumed to be the watches version of Hell's wind staff) and then thinking I had won, I placed the watch down. A few minutes later I noticed that the digital display on the watch was working again and all it took was for me to buy a new watch and then treat the old one like a red headed step child. Isn't that ironic? Don't ya think? A little too ironic. Who would have thought? It figures... It's like rayyyyyyyyyyyyyy yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnnnnn on your wedding day.
So last weekend I bought a new watch because the digital display on my old one stopped working and I need it to time the kids in class (and the workers in the sweat shop I have recently invested in). This week for reasons unknown to me, the alarm started going off on the old watch at 5:15AM everyday like... clockwork (rim shot, please). Usually, this doesn't bother me, but the last few days I've gotten very little sleep and so it drove me a little crazy today. (I know, you're probably thinking why didn't you just throw the watch away, idiot???). Well, clearly I didn't just throw the watch away because I'M AN IDIOT. So, like I was saying, haven't been getting much sleep lately, so I was super annoyed when the alarm went off today. I grabbed the watch and threw it across the room. It continued to beep, but now I could detect a sinister, mocking undertone in the beeping. This led me to grab the watch and put it in a choke hold of Homer Simpson proportions. In doing so I pushed all the buttons on the damn thing at once. There was one final beep (which I assumed to be the watches version of Hell's wind staff) and then thinking I had won, I placed the watch down. A few minutes later I noticed that the digital display on the watch was working again and all it took was for me to buy a new watch and then treat the old one like a red headed step child. Isn't that ironic? Don't ya think? A little too ironic. Who would have thought? It figures... It's like rayyyyyyyyyyyyyy yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnnnnn on your wedding day.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
PSA for all my lady friends.
Alright ladies, let's stop beating around the bush. I mean, I'm as big a fan of women going au naturale as the next guy. It's your body, YOU do what you want to do. Ya know, you wanna experiment with drugs, go right ahead. You wanna put it on display and slide up and down a pole? Heck, who am I to tell you otherwise? You don't feel like shaving your legs, I'm OK with that. Hell, you can even let chia pets sprout out of your arm. I'm. OK. With. That. But the line's gotta be drawn somewhere and much like the good Captain Picard said oh so long ago, "The line must be drawn HE-YAH!" Extreme facial hair.
If you've seen me recently or not so recently, you know I'm a bit on the scruffy side. Luckily I'm a guy and I can look as bummy as I want and that's ok. This is America: home of the double Whopper and the double standard. But let's not delve into the deep dark depths of the abyss which is Achan. Not just yet. Oh, no, we still have an ever mounting army of fuzzy faced females we gotta put to bed before we even THINK about climbing aboard the Achan train. Over the past two days I have seen 3 woman with more facial hair than me. This ratio would be unacceptable even to the French.
The first wolf lady I encountered on my way home from dropping a friend off way the fuck off in Norristown. Sorry. You're gonna have to ignore the tone on that last one, it's just that when you drive for like a bagillion miles and it's rush hour and hot, the last thing you want to see is the wolf woman on your trip. I approached the toll and honestly thought I would howl and ask her if she happened to have ever seen or maybe even starred in a lil' 80s flick by the name of Teen Wolf. Instead I kind of gave/tossed my buck twenty-five at here as I drove through. I didn't really feel like sticking around as I had no silver bullets and she looked semi-underfed.
Fuzzy faced female number two I ran into on the way into work today. There were some people doing last minute cleaning and I must say, I might actually give her a pass since the staff spent the first five minutes of the day trying to decide whether or not she was actually a she. We decided to go the democratic route and the majority ruled: female. After which it was unanimously decided that she was one hairy faced female.
The last leg of my odyssey took place on the El on my way home. There was a lady who got on the train (and this one I knew right away to be a lady because she had, like, triple M breast that she was carrying around in a basket because someone told her that bras were out of style. Anyway, this lady was wearing a Dr. J shirt. Maybe you've seen the picture: he's smiling and facing the camera with one hand placed contemplatively on his chin. In this particular flick, the good doctor is sporting a fresh goatee. I looked from the shirt to the lady's face to the shirt and back again before concluding that she must be the world's biggest Julius Erving fan or had been on the losing end of the world's worst bet. Said lady was rockin' (yeah, we're bring 'rockin' back, them other slang words better watch their backs) the exact same style of facial hair as Dr. J. I tried to avoid staring, but of course, as with any good train wreck I kept glancing, which caused her to think I was interested, which caused me to get off two stops early and walk home.
OK. I'm bored of this silly little thing now. Plus the rant's basically over. And it's Thursday, so there's good TV on NBC again. Weird, huh? Seacrest OUT!
If you've seen me recently or not so recently, you know I'm a bit on the scruffy side. Luckily I'm a guy and I can look as bummy as I want and that's ok. This is America: home of the double Whopper and the double standard. But let's not delve into the deep dark depths of the abyss which is Achan. Not just yet. Oh, no, we still have an ever mounting army of fuzzy faced females we gotta put to bed before we even THINK about climbing aboard the Achan train. Over the past two days I have seen 3 woman with more facial hair than me. This ratio would be unacceptable even to the French.
The first wolf lady I encountered on my way home from dropping a friend off way the fuck off in Norristown. Sorry. You're gonna have to ignore the tone on that last one, it's just that when you drive for like a bagillion miles and it's rush hour and hot, the last thing you want to see is the wolf woman on your trip. I approached the toll and honestly thought I would howl and ask her if she happened to have ever seen or maybe even starred in a lil' 80s flick by the name of Teen Wolf. Instead I kind of gave/tossed my buck twenty-five at here as I drove through. I didn't really feel like sticking around as I had no silver bullets and she looked semi-underfed.
Fuzzy faced female number two I ran into on the way into work today. There were some people doing last minute cleaning and I must say, I might actually give her a pass since the staff spent the first five minutes of the day trying to decide whether or not she was actually a she. We decided to go the democratic route and the majority ruled: female. After which it was unanimously decided that she was one hairy faced female.
The last leg of my odyssey took place on the El on my way home. There was a lady who got on the train (and this one I knew right away to be a lady because she had, like, triple M breast that she was carrying around in a basket because someone told her that bras were out of style. Anyway, this lady was wearing a Dr. J shirt. Maybe you've seen the picture: he's smiling and facing the camera with one hand placed contemplatively on his chin. In this particular flick, the good doctor is sporting a fresh goatee. I looked from the shirt to the lady's face to the shirt and back again before concluding that she must be the world's biggest Julius Erving fan or had been on the losing end of the world's worst bet. Said lady was rockin' (yeah, we're bring 'rockin' back, them other slang words better watch their backs) the exact same style of facial hair as Dr. J. I tried to avoid staring, but of course, as with any good train wreck I kept glancing, which caused her to think I was interested, which caused me to get off two stops early and walk home.
OK. I'm bored of this silly little thing now. Plus the rant's basically over. And it's Thursday, so there's good TV on NBC again. Weird, huh? Seacrest OUT!
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Super Bowl, Tecmo Style
This morning I woke up and had a crazy, cracked out urge to play some football. That's right. Football. N. F. L. Not the pansy-shamnsy stuff they play in Europe and like, um, 90% of the world. I'm talking about REAL football, as only the Americans and Tecmo can do. Now, I know there are some out there who are wondering WTF I'm talking about. But, if you're a child of the 90's there's no way you could NOT remember Tecmo Super Bowl. Matter of fact you'd have to have been a total vegetable throughout the 90's to not know what I'm talking about. Or Amish. If you're Amish you might have missed it. But then again, if you're Amish, chances are pretty good you're not reading this anyway. What with your backwardness and all. Silly Amish.
Anyway, I played Tecmo Super Bowl online for like an hour and you know what? I'm ranking it right up there with the best season of Madden in terms of fun factor. I mean, don't get me wrong, I love technology. Hell, I keep hoping I find a girl whose parents were crazy enough to name her Technology just so I could fall in love with her, get married, and have an army of nerds. I'd go around telling people how much I love Technology and I'd keep pictures in my wallet to show them all the great technology I possess. Then there'd be times when we'd be on the outs, and I'd be all like, FUCK TECHNOLOGY!!! I fucking HATE Technology. But, you know, eventually I'd get over it and we'd be a happy couple again... but I digress. Anywayyyyyyyyyyyyy.
Super Tecmo Bowl. One of the greatest of all time. And I bet everyone remembers the best part about this game. That's right: Bo Jackson. Way before Jack Bauer and Robo Vick, there was Bo Jackson. The man was a monster. Nee, he wasn't even a man. He was a god in 8-bit black and white and would rain down fear in the hearts of all those who lined up against him. With the help of Bo I was able to post a 56-0 win in a game I haven't played in years. For those of you that never got a chance to check out the brilliance that was Tecmo Bo, here's a little something to remind you of how deprived your childhoods were:
Greatest Touchdown EVER
Yeah. Now that's what I call football. Long live Super Techmo Bowl. Long live Techmo Bo Jackson.
Anyway, I played Tecmo Super Bowl online for like an hour and you know what? I'm ranking it right up there with the best season of Madden in terms of fun factor. I mean, don't get me wrong, I love technology. Hell, I keep hoping I find a girl whose parents were crazy enough to name her Technology just so I could fall in love with her, get married, and have an army of nerds. I'd go around telling people how much I love Technology and I'd keep pictures in my wallet to show them all the great technology I possess. Then there'd be times when we'd be on the outs, and I'd be all like, FUCK TECHNOLOGY!!! I fucking HATE Technology. But, you know, eventually I'd get over it and we'd be a happy couple again... but I digress. Anywayyyyyyyyyyyyy.
Super Tecmo Bowl. One of the greatest of all time. And I bet everyone remembers the best part about this game. That's right: Bo Jackson. Way before Jack Bauer and Robo Vick, there was Bo Jackson. The man was a monster. Nee, he wasn't even a man. He was a god in 8-bit black and white and would rain down fear in the hearts of all those who lined up against him. With the help of Bo I was able to post a 56-0 win in a game I haven't played in years. For those of you that never got a chance to check out the brilliance that was Tecmo Bo, here's a little something to remind you of how deprived your childhoods were:
Greatest Touchdown EVER
Yeah. Now that's what I call football. Long live Super Techmo Bowl. Long live Techmo Bo Jackson.
Thursday, July 5, 2007
Happy (belated) birthday, America
Sigh.
You know things have been a bit iffy when you start a monologue with a sigh. That's hardly a good sign. That's the way the near death/dying hero or heroine starts their final, well written and carefully crafted words in any death scene worth it's salt. I, however, lacking a team of writers or a really creative editor to tell me how to not make my writing suck (or to at least make it suck as little as possible) begin with a sigh simply because that's how I feel at the moment.
It's July 5, 2007. America just celebrated her 231st birthday and, is it just me or is she starting to show her age? A few days before the big 2-3-1 our president decides to commute the sentence of Scooter Libby, who up to this point was the only tangible evidence of this administration holding themselves accountable for any wrong doing of anything. Ever. Now, I have two problems with that. The first is that no grown man should go by the nickname "Scooter". Especially if you're expected to hold a position of power. You know what, fuck that, name one profession where if you found out the person you just hired was named Scooter you wouldn't immediately check all his references before conducting your search for his replacement. The only grown people who should be aloud to refer to themselves and have other refer to them as Scooter work for Vespa. That should be a law. Scooter. That ranks up there with grown ups who never drop the "ie" or "y" endings from their names. There are exceptions, but not many.
The other thing that bothers me is that on September 30, 2003 George Walker had this to say, and I quote,
"If there is a leak out of my administration, I want to know who it is. And if the person has violated the law, the person will be taken care of."
I guess he meant taken care of in the old boys club "I'll scratch your back if you scratch mine" sort of way. But then I was never much for political science, so what do I know?
Also, the 4th of July got rained out in Philly and all along the east coast. I guess it was only fitting, right? Maybe it was just America weeping. I prefer the image of America peeing on the Constitution and burning the Magna Carter. But, like I said, she's getting old. I guess most of the fight has gone out of the old girl, so the rebel imagery probably doesn't hold anymore, now does it?
But I digress. What I really wanted to do was share one of my new favorite poems. It's by a guy named Brian Dykstra. He seems like a solid cat, at least from what I gleamed from googling him. Who knows, maybe we'll hit it off and I'll ask him to be my myspace buddy. If you like stalking as much as I do you can start at his official website
www.briandykstra.net
The name of this poem is Pushing Bush, and it goes a little something like dis:
I wish to push Bush on his tush.
George Walker,
Not much of a talker.
Raised in his cushy nest in Texas.
Earning nothing; discerning less than.
His mess with Texas distress
Concerning our yearning for returning this country to peace
And earning some relief from his intelligence spurning.
He’s just another Bush we’d be better off burning.
I wish to push Bush on his tush
And beat on Rumsfeld like drums on a battle field
Of which he prattles and wields nonsensical deals
Of unarmored vehicles from the comfort of home
Where he answers to nicknames like “Rummy,”
Proving once and for all that his chummy
President boss and his white house of whores isn’t the first and last dummy.
I wish to push Bush on his tush
And stir in the sleaze of Condoleeza,
Our dreaded in over her head
Secretary of fake.
So that with this burning Bush, it might be twice as nice
To stir in a spicy side of hot, sizzling Rice.
I wish to push Bush with a knife
In a rainy day drained with Dicky Cheney
Who can’t wrap his brain around what it’s like to be a detainee.
So Geneva gets the stick
While the troops get sick
Of dreading beheadings.
It’s sick how quick these tricky oil men fancy themselves slick
When the truth is everybody knows that Cheney’s a dick.
When push comes to shove Bush is too dumb to love
Let’s stop saying he isn’t stupid. Everybody, enough:
He believes in Santa Claus.
“If I’m the right kinda Christian I’ll get better stuff.”
I wish to push Bush on his duff.
No, that’s not it.
I’d like to slap him senseless with a Crawford caught bass.
Give him a transfusion of at least second-class.
Explain the relationship between critical and mass,
Blur the one between crude oil and gas.
Ponder if there exist even one test he can pass.
Choke him to death on his own Texas sass.
In short: I’d love to shove Bush up his ass.
Well, there it is I hope everyone had an enjoyable 4th of July.
You know things have been a bit iffy when you start a monologue with a sigh. That's hardly a good sign. That's the way the near death/dying hero or heroine starts their final, well written and carefully crafted words in any death scene worth it's salt. I, however, lacking a team of writers or a really creative editor to tell me how to not make my writing suck (or to at least make it suck as little as possible) begin with a sigh simply because that's how I feel at the moment.
It's July 5, 2007. America just celebrated her 231st birthday and, is it just me or is she starting to show her age? A few days before the big 2-3-1 our president decides to commute the sentence of Scooter Libby, who up to this point was the only tangible evidence of this administration holding themselves accountable for any wrong doing of anything. Ever. Now, I have two problems with that. The first is that no grown man should go by the nickname "Scooter". Especially if you're expected to hold a position of power. You know what, fuck that, name one profession where if you found out the person you just hired was named Scooter you wouldn't immediately check all his references before conducting your search for his replacement. The only grown people who should be aloud to refer to themselves and have other refer to them as Scooter work for Vespa. That should be a law. Scooter. That ranks up there with grown ups who never drop the "ie" or "y" endings from their names. There are exceptions, but not many.
The other thing that bothers me is that on September 30, 2003 George Walker had this to say, and I quote,
"If there is a leak out of my administration, I want to know who it is. And if the person has violated the law, the person will be taken care of."
I guess he meant taken care of in the old boys club "I'll scratch your back if you scratch mine" sort of way. But then I was never much for political science, so what do I know?
Also, the 4th of July got rained out in Philly and all along the east coast. I guess it was only fitting, right? Maybe it was just America weeping. I prefer the image of America peeing on the Constitution and burning the Magna Carter. But, like I said, she's getting old. I guess most of the fight has gone out of the old girl, so the rebel imagery probably doesn't hold anymore, now does it?
But I digress. What I really wanted to do was share one of my new favorite poems. It's by a guy named Brian Dykstra. He seems like a solid cat, at least from what I gleamed from googling him. Who knows, maybe we'll hit it off and I'll ask him to be my myspace buddy. If you like stalking as much as I do you can start at his official website
www.briandykstra.net
The name of this poem is Pushing Bush, and it goes a little something like dis:
I wish to push Bush on his tush.
George Walker,
Not much of a talker.
Raised in his cushy nest in Texas.
Earning nothing; discerning less than.
His mess with Texas distress
Concerning our yearning for returning this country to peace
And earning some relief from his intelligence spurning.
He’s just another Bush we’d be better off burning.
I wish to push Bush on his tush
And beat on Rumsfeld like drums on a battle field
Of which he prattles and wields nonsensical deals
Of unarmored vehicles from the comfort of home
Where he answers to nicknames like “Rummy,”
Proving once and for all that his chummy
President boss and his white house of whores isn’t the first and last dummy.
I wish to push Bush on his tush
And stir in the sleaze of Condoleeza,
Our dreaded in over her head
Secretary of fake.
So that with this burning Bush, it might be twice as nice
To stir in a spicy side of hot, sizzling Rice.
I wish to push Bush with a knife
In a rainy day drained with Dicky Cheney
Who can’t wrap his brain around what it’s like to be a detainee.
So Geneva gets the stick
While the troops get sick
Of dreading beheadings.
It’s sick how quick these tricky oil men fancy themselves slick
When the truth is everybody knows that Cheney’s a dick.
When push comes to shove Bush is too dumb to love
Let’s stop saying he isn’t stupid. Everybody, enough:
He believes in Santa Claus.
“If I’m the right kinda Christian I’ll get better stuff.”
I wish to push Bush on his duff.
No, that’s not it.
I’d like to slap him senseless with a Crawford caught bass.
Give him a transfusion of at least second-class.
Explain the relationship between critical and mass,
Blur the one between crude oil and gas.
Ponder if there exist even one test he can pass.
Choke him to death on his own Texas sass.
In short: I’d love to shove Bush up his ass.
Well, there it is I hope everyone had an enjoyable 4th of July.
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
New Cell Phone Rings
So, we're just chillin' in the office when Konrad's new phone begans to ring. Not such a big deal as there are no kids around and we're all just pretending to work anyway. I mean, it's the end of the year for Pete's sakes. What, you want us to EARN our paychecks? Ha! I think not. Besides, it ain't like we do a lot of work anyway. I'm just kidding. We work like African immigrants fresh off the boat. Anyway, apparently Konrad doesn't know how to do anything with his new phone so we all have to be subjected to crazy random rings.
That's when I get my Great Idea. Yeah, it's such a fantabulous idea that it gets it's own name. My Great Idea. It's like family or something. "You know what?" I ask the room. After about thirty seconds of random guessing (it was sort of a rhetorical question, be tee double you) I unleash my Great Idea upon the rest of the 3-1-2.
"I'm gonna invent a cell phone ring that's just a person sneezing or coughing. That way instead of people getting pissed and telling you to shut it the fuck off, all they're gonna do is look at you and say 'God bless you.'" We took a quick vote and decided that this was, in fact, a Great Idea. I had even made plans to tender my resignation so I could devote all of my free time to making this happen. Little did I know that my hopes and dreams would gonna come crashing down harder than a meth addicted mom at the Betty Ford Center. That analagy made WAY more sense in my head than it did once I actually got it out of my head.
"Check this out," Konrad says to no one in particular. He then proceeds to play what sounds like a cross between a baby great white shark choking on a smaller, less menacing animal and a chainsaw. It turns out somebody already invented the cough/sneeze ringtone. I mean, they already invented it if you happen to sound like a 107 year old woman with emphasima when you cough. Which I don't. But if grandma's looking for an inconspicuous ringtone for her telegraph machine. Well, it's out there. Anyway, good thing I didn't resign. I guess I'll just keep teaching till a stroke of genius comes along. Or till a stroke comes along... whichever comes first.
That's when I get my Great Idea. Yeah, it's such a fantabulous idea that it gets it's own name. My Great Idea. It's like family or something. "You know what?" I ask the room. After about thirty seconds of random guessing (it was sort of a rhetorical question, be tee double you) I unleash my Great Idea upon the rest of the 3-1-2.
"I'm gonna invent a cell phone ring that's just a person sneezing or coughing. That way instead of people getting pissed and telling you to shut it the fuck off, all they're gonna do is look at you and say 'God bless you.'" We took a quick vote and decided that this was, in fact, a Great Idea. I had even made plans to tender my resignation so I could devote all of my free time to making this happen. Little did I know that my hopes and dreams would gonna come crashing down harder than a meth addicted mom at the Betty Ford Center. That analagy made WAY more sense in my head than it did once I actually got it out of my head.
"Check this out," Konrad says to no one in particular. He then proceeds to play what sounds like a cross between a baby great white shark choking on a smaller, less menacing animal and a chainsaw. It turns out somebody already invented the cough/sneeze ringtone. I mean, they already invented it if you happen to sound like a 107 year old woman with emphasima when you cough. Which I don't. But if grandma's looking for an inconspicuous ringtone for her telegraph machine. Well, it's out there. Anyway, good thing I didn't resign. I guess I'll just keep teaching till a stroke of genius comes along. Or till a stroke comes along... whichever comes first.
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