Friday, July 29, 2005

a made man

Yesterday, as I’m sure you’re all painfully aware, I did not post. I had gotten into this annoying habit of posting something weekdaily. I even had a couple of multiple post days. Contrary to popular belief, this blog is not written by some super-smart, funny and indefatigable computer program of my design. No, not at all. It’s written by a person who has to pound away at the keyboard for hours on end crafting each post. Most of the time I have to of be typing like 40 words per minute – honest. Every day I’m risking carpal tunnel for you. I hope you appreciate it.

At any rate, being freed from the crushing expectations of mediocrity, I slept for a few hours and then watched multiple episodes of Season 4 of The Simpsons (including the classic Whacking Day episode). And then I went to a bar and had some beers. It was a completely average and uneventful night in my life until I was rudely ignored by an old friend.

I saw said "old friend" walking from the bar to the patio as I was doing the reverse. "Oh," I thought, "it's Crystal." We were about 15 feet away from each other as I was just about to open my mouth to say “hi” and perhaps start a (short – I promise) conversation when she did the, “oh-my-the-stars-are-pretty-tonight” look-away move. I was nonplussed as I had not done a "ouch-I-have-a-crick-in-my-neck" look in return. I was instead left looking doe-eyed into the middle distance of the bar. How embarrassing.

Previously I would have called us "chat-for-a-few-minutes" friends. And that's not a lot to ask. Really. I’m not particularly awkward to talk to. I always keep it general. "Hey, what have you been up to? Still in school ["deadbeat" implied]? How’s the husband?" etc. I don’t roll up all like, "Hey, it’s been awhile, ever had herpes?" or "Huh, you haven’t changed your hairstyle yet," or "Remeber when my buddy totally used you for sex in high school and I was left to pick up the pieces and be emotionally supportive even though you wouldn't give me any. That was awesome." That's fine; look away. Whatever. I don’t like everybody; everybody doesn’t like me.

That’s fine Crystal. You sit in your freaking tower, high and mighty, with your wanna-be rock star husband who needs a hair cut and a job with benefits. Go ahead and judge me unworthy of your time. But don’t you ever forget that I have a blog. And that blog is read by tens of people and if those same people ever see you on the street and for some reason they know who you are - may God have mercy on your soul. They might seem nice and sensible and leave funny comments, but they’re mean and they have sharp nails and teeth and are jaded most of the time and they can be killer sarcastic. I've seen them make people cry in horror and insultedness. If you see them coming, you'd better run and hide my friend because when you fuck with me, you fuck with the people who read my blog. And if I haven't made it clear: they are wicked surly!

Crystal, Crystal, what a ridiculous pseudonym I've made up for you. That's what you get for ignoring me.

file under: baseball/hatred of/Blake, Casey

Anybody else hate Casey Blake? Maybe I should clarify. I don’t HATE Casey Blake the man. I’m sure he’s a nice guy and buys his wife flowers and doesn’t beat his kids or kick his dog and – don’t get me wrong – these are admirable qualities. But I hate Casey Blake the idea: the idea that Casey Blake should be on a major league baseball team; the idea that Casey Blake can discern a ball from a strike; the idea that Casey starts every day so he can strike out 2 to 3 times AND on the season has more Ks than hits (72 and 70 respectively) and the idea that I'm supposed to be "ok" with it (where you define "ok" as me yelling "You suck!" every time I see him on-sreen.) Yet if Casey ONLY struck out, at least he’d be making one out at a time. Casey, however, has the unfortunate skill of making the most outs possible per at-bat. If there is a man on first, hello double play! (I’m sure he’s hard at work honing his hitting-into-triple-play-skills.)

While his offensive skills leave much to be desired, he seems to be a defensive innovator of some kind. Most of the greats fielded their positions with the ball in front of them. I always thought this was inherently advantageous. Casey thinks that unbecoming for a modern player. He often lets the ball get past him, thereby lulling his opponents into a false sense of his suckiness and deceiving them into hitting him the ball frequently. Where will they be when they make that mistake in their next at-bat? That's right - first base, NOT second. And not only that, but as he wildly chases the ball down, he's giving the ladies a chance to check out his exquisite can. And what is baseball, if not entertainment?

God bless and keep Casey Blake, but God, bless and keep him on the bench.

Wednesday, July 27, 2005


  • An outside work, work cookout I was supposed to attend Saturday was postponed in favor of a more available weekend. Which led to this exchange:

    me: I hope, in my grief, I don't drive off a bridge on the way home. Somebody hide the scissors.
    she: It's all right. Since the cookout was postponed, it'll be at Julie's house instead of Bill's. Julie said we could have the bonfire and she has the big backyard and the bar.
    me: She has a bar? She doesn't strike me as the type.
    she: Not a bar, a barn.
    me: A barn? What do I care about a barn? Wait. Is the barn filled with booze?

  • Also at work today I was told this, "I have to forward you something. It will make you feel kinda not bad." It worked! I still feel kinda not bad - kinda.

thought . . .

If I ever have a son, I think I'll name him Blah-ger because he'll be like me, but probably not as fun.

Tuesday, July 26, 2005


I'm not saying I get pushed around easily, but those who know me best call me "shopping cart." (Both for that and my ability to hold massive quantities of produce.) The social awkwardness that accompanies any recent Tom Cruise interaction makes me cringe - even second-hand. So when confronted with those who confront me, I tend to waffle like a Belgium and give into whatever their demand. I should also not, this tendency to captilulate is inversely proportional to my familiarity with the confronter. I'm now realizing it took me a whole paragraph to admit that I'm a sissy.

At any rate, yesterday at lunch I was eligible for a free sub from Charley's Grilled Sub Restaurant/Stand. Hell, I'd earned it. Seven card punches = 1 free sub. I went up to the counter and ordered, all the while trying to hand over my punch-riddled card. Angry Annie somehow ignored my extended, card-bearing hand and rang me up. She then said, "$6.79 please." I kind of gave her a sheepish look and puppy-dog whined at my card. She spotted my card and said, "Oh, when were you going to tell me you had a full card?". I gasped. How could I be such a jerk! It would take like 3 key presses to fix my order! As the flood of embarrassment swept over me, I was unable to comprehend that AA had executed a brilliant psychological maneuver. She had placed me (unjustly I might add) on the defensive. She might as well have asked me when I stopped beating theMonica. "Uh, it's ok, I can use it some other time." "You can use it some other time?" She said, probably feeling guilty. "Yah. It's not a problem.

In the end, it all worked out. I'm now the proud owner of two Charley's cards.

thanks god

A few weeks ago I was, once again, SMAO (sweating my ass off) due to the sweltering heat. So I decided to move my mattress into my living room. You see, dear friends, my bedroom is without conditioned air. Under normal circumstances (any summer beside the hottest summer in the history of mankind) this isn't a problem as the cooler night air along with a fan are sufficient for a comfortable night's sleep. These days the night air is "cooling" to 80 degrees. While sleeping under such conditions would be an effective weight loss program, the sweat-soddened mattress would surely reach critical mass and crash through my unsuspecting neighbor's ceiling.

As you've already guessed, the living room is air conditioned. Staying in my living room with the air conditioner running incessantly has an adverse effect on my electric bill. It went from around 20 dollars to 52 dollars . . . then God created a power generation consortium from which to reap massive profits off the peoples he had created a few days before. God looked and saw that his consortium was good. The eighth day.

Monday, July 25, 2005

makin' the medicine go down

Last week and this, some kind of sugar fairy has been flying into my office and leaving delectible treats: one dozen Krispy Kreme doughnuts, boxes of mini- powdered and chocolate covered doughnuts, some weird ass pecan pie type deal which is filled with a pecany-pecan penetrated philling (I don't know why I do it) and various other sugary treats. Why? I'm not sure. I think some of my co-workers did something good this week or last or had to work late or something and they were celebrating and sharing the celebration with us. As you know by now, the underlying theme of this blog is that I'm lazy so you can guess I have expended 0 time or energy in pursuing the source of these Caligulian confections.

A co-worker and I were discussing the treats. He's in good shape while I, if shirtless and in a chef's hat, would surely be mobbed and poked by children and be forced to sign autographs as, "P. Doughboy." Despite our physical differences, we both agreed that the presence of the snacks, while delicious, were somewhat of a problem because, hey, we don't want to gain like 50 pounds this week. That's when inspiration struck:

me: My new strategy is to eat all the food so it's not there to tempt me any longer.
he: That's a good strategy.
me: It's genius!

Today I've consumed 9,350 calories which includes 2,400 grams of sugar. I'm confident I can top that tomorrow.

Friday, July 22, 2005

Look-Alike Contest Winners: Celebrities in Nature Edition

Welcome once again to Look-Alike Contest Winners. I have other of these spread out through the blog, but I'm too lazy to get the links right now. Enough of that, on to the winners . . .

Mary Kate Olsen and a walking stick. Poor girl. Her sis weighs like 4 ounces more and no one gives her any trouble.

You know, for a long time, Richard Gere was the most talented rat in all of Hollywood. Damn you Stuart Little!

Paris Hilton, Penelope Cruz and a seagull. I think the seagull is kind of pissed off that I'm making the comparison.

Lara Flynn-Boyle, Nicole Ritchie and Lindsay Lohan heard there was an opening as Grateful Dead mascots.

(Ladies of Hollywood - Please eat a sandwich - like once a day.)

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Thursday, July 21, 2005

giving back to the community

Last Sunday I was involved in a volunteer effort that I could get behind. I donated my time to work the beer garden at the Taste of Tremont food and music street fair festival gigante. My duties included distribution of beer and non-alcoholic beverages and getting myself drunk. You see, my standard for charity work has always been: must be for the improvement of the community, must be a noble endeavor and must yield me free booze. It wasn't until last week that I was finally able to find an organization willing to let me help people while, more importantly, helping myself.

Other charities simply fall short. Sure I could help that old lady knit a sweater, but will she give me a purple hooter when we're done? (Wait, that sounds really bad.) I might be able to help build that habitat for that homeless person, but if they were out panhandling like they were supposed to be, I'd be taking a deep slug off a can of Steel Reserve right now. Also, children in the burn unit aren't old enough to buy liquor, right?

You ask, is it bad for a volunteer to be drinking? If two people coming to the beer tent and saying, "Two Canadiens," and me saying, "You're two Canadians? Well what do you want to drink?" and them staring at me blankly for 30 seconds is bad, then I guess, maybe I should have avoided the libations.

So you see, I'm severely limited in the amount of time I can give to a charitable organization. I readily donate money, but to get that all important "me time", you're going to have to make with the alcohol.

Wednesday, July 20, 2005

hell hath no fury like a dork scorned

A few months ago, I bought a laptop from CompUsa. Why? Not really sure. So far its most useful function has been watching movies in airports, but for whatever reason I thought it would be a good idea. I already had a desktop, but I felt all lonely in my bedroom, slaving away on the blog for days and days on-end without the company and background noise a television provides. And from the ad in the paper, it looked like a good deal . . . AFTER rebates. The devil, as they say, is in getting your fucking rebate money!

Upon receipt of the laptop, I also receipted about 72 pieces of documentation. I got a receipt, a rebate receipt, a shipping invoice, the most recent Dilbert cartoon and a watercolor of me buying the thing. All that was fine and good. I presumably had everything necessary to get my money.

After my purchase, I got my craft supplies out and started cutting, copying, editing, getting everything ready for sending into the rebate center. I sent in a bunch of stuff and a couple weeks later I got an email saying my rebate submission had been received. Then I got a message saying I hadn't sent something in that I was supposed to, a sales receipt. I called CompUSA and the girl explained to me (rather rudely, I might add) which part of the sales portfolio I got that I had yet to send in.

I sent what any person would assume was a sales receipt. We went back and forth forever and I even faxed it in again. Finally the customer "service" email guy, Mel, determined that the thing they gave me that looked and acted like a receipt wasn't actually a receipt at all. Instead it was some other thing that had a total on it and was otherwise masquerading as a reciept. I was also informed that I would have to travel BACK to CompUSA to get this "real receipt." Well, I was not pleased with this piece of information and sent the following message to Mel:

This is completely ridiculous. So you're telling me the receipt that COMPUSA gives me is invalid for a rebate from COMPUSA???? How about you guys coordinate your operations SO I GET THE RECEIPT I NEED TO GET THE REBATE? Or is the point of this whole charade to frustrate me to the point that I say, "Screw it. Dealing with this stupidity isn’t worth the ulcers."? Why is this rebate based on my ability to do paperwork, rather than whether or not I actually purchased the machine? How is it that my receipt doesn’t "prove" that I made the purchase that I'm applying for? Where, praytell, did I acquire all the other documentation? Is it all clever forgery? If so, why didn't I forge the alleged "missing" receipt so that I could finally end this nuisance to myself? Is it because I enjoy this tomfoolery? It couldn't be that as I am not enjoying this. I am actually rather bothered by your reluctance to release the rebate when it is perfectly obvious by any reasonable or fair standard that I did in fact purchase the product in question.

I initially sent the freaking invoice for the computer with requisite copies of model numbers. I sent a bunch of labels from the box, the rebate receipt, my name, address, email, and whatever other information you wanted. Is there any doubt that I purchased the machine? Should I have taken a photo at the point of sale with me in a "thumbs-up" posture as I signed my sales receipt? Oh wait, that’s not a receipt, my bad, it’s just some random piece of paper that says I spent 1100 dollars on something completely unrelated at COMPUSA on that very same day as I bought a rebate-eligible laptop. Would you also like a DNA sample? Maybe there is some residual genetic material in the store at COMPUSA pertaining to this transaction. Maybe I could FEDEX the salesperson that sold me the computer to your address and he can personally testify to the validity of my claim. Perhaps I could stage a play at your location in which I recreate the circumstances of the activity and reenact my purchase of the laptop complete with sound effects and the ACTUAL credit card I used to make the purchase.

Your company's conduct in this matter is reprehensible. I’m sure everyone is just "doing their job", but the system is crooked and deeply flawed. You're no better than a gang of 30's style grifters. BUT, in the interest of not driving myself insane, I suppose I will traverse the distance (out of my way, mind you) to obtain this mythical lord of the receipts, which is better in every way than the receipt I now possess.

Mel never wrote back. It hurts Mel. It hurts bad.

Tuesday, July 19, 2005

Open Memo Department

TO: All Celebrities
RE: when out and about

I know you're very important, probably the most important and talented person in all of Hollywood, but how about the next time something super-whacky and weird happens you consider the fact that things aren't exactly what they seem. Perhaps, you aren't really being framed for shoplifting by some overbearing clerk, maybe you're being tricked by that evil genius, Ashton Kutcher. Yes, you may be in the midst of being PUNK'D. (I'm not exactly sure why "E" wasn't good enough for Ashton, jerk.)

In the very least, when in doubt keep shouting, "I can't believe I'm being PUNK'D!" Most likely you're short-circuiting another glorious Ashton moment. Worst case scenario, you're not being PUNK'D and everyone will assume you're all coked out - which you probably are anyway.

Monday, July 18, 2005

note taking

Something I once wrote down: "That was the other girl with the really big head." I think it was potential dialogue. But I failed to note whatever hilarious scene I had constructed to contain that comment. I know people with big heads are inherently kind of funny, but I'm not sure it's a slam dunk on its own like that.

What I'm saying is take thorough notes people. Don't let this happen to you.

Open Memo Department

TO: Roger
FROM: Your beige suit
RE: the weekend

Had a good time this weekend at the wedding. I think the ladies were liking how super-hot we were looking. I have to say I could have done without the vinaigrette you spilled all over me, but, hey, at least it wasn't vomit. I look forward to partying with you next year!


p.s. Would it kill you to lose 8 to 12 pounds?

thought . . .

On maturing:
Over the weekend, I watched the Indians drop four straight to the White Sox and yelled "fuck" only once.

Sunday, July 17, 2005


guy1: Did you go out with that girl again?
guy2: No. I wasn't really into her and she did this annoying thing with her mouth.
guy1: Talking?

Friday, July 15, 2005

Happy Birthday Roger-Bloger!

It was a year ago today that I posted my mission statement. I would say I've remained true to it, up until yesterday when I started posting out of a sense of moral responsibility and indigestion.

Also one year ago today, due to poor strategy, I wrote the best post satire I'm capable of about Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen. It wasn't timed well as at that time only theMonica and I were readers of the blog. But they always say, write even when no one's looking - or is that dancing?

I got my first comment four months later from some dude fishing for links. I imagine he randomnly found the blog; tried to get into my good graceds with flattery (good strategy); then wanted me to link to his site about college basketball. Well, Yoni, I'm lazy and, save March Madness, I couldn't care less about college basketball. Besides, he didn't really read my blog and if he's not here suffering every day like the rest of us, he doesn't deserve a link. It's a shame he was my first comment. It's like losing your virginity to your second cousin. Sure it was fun, but it's still wrong. (First cousins are for flipper babies.)

Months later I got my first REAL comment. And now here or no where still reads the blog! Joe, also still reading, first commented here. After these comments, I started to feel the crushing pressure of 3-person readership. I honestly wasn't expecting anyone to read this blog, let alone comment, let alone them being strangers. So I'm glad I've been able to keep you coming back for so long (in internet years). I can only attribute my retention of your attention (all of you) to my own good luck and your ability to surf the web at work. Seriously, you must have sweet cube locations. Mine sucks. Everyone can see me typing this post right now. That's why I don't usually post at work. That and the mind crippling guilt. Anyway, thanks for reading and I appreciate all the comments.

Going through the archives, this is probably my favorite post. Maybe because I hate Michael Jackson so much. By the by, feel free to peruse the archives, if you haven't. Not that you need my permission, I'm just saying there's some good stuff there - plenty of crap too. (But it's still better than the stuff I started writing after I sold out.) And there's not a whole lot of it as my standards were MUCH higher then and I didn't post nearly as often or nearly as much about hoboes. Go ahead. I'll wait . . .

In less sanguine news, according to the National Network for Child Care, my baby is not up to snuff. The site says at this point in its development my blog should be doing a number of things it's incapable of. It does not: dance or bounce to music, say da-da (it hurts blog, it really does), clap hands or wave bye (prompted or otherwise), my blog is grossly underweight and refuses to place objects inside one another. On the plus side, my blog is able to pay attention to conversation and it does like to watch itself in the mirror.

All-in-all, I think my blog is going to be all right. Thanks for reading and many happy returns.

Thursday, July 14, 2005

Adventures in Spam Email Senders VI

Hello from the bowels of my yahoo email account! I'm here to explore actual sender names from the hundreds of spam email messages I (and I'm sure you) receive every week. I swear, these are actual spam email "senders". (Previous Editions here: i,ii,iii,iv,v.)

Nice L. HangoverNeveer met one of these. Is that what happens when you get drunk using a screwy straw?
Motorcycling U. YodelsThis is the second leading case of motorcycle accidents. Please folks, don't yodel and ride.
Oddball K. HunchbackedI would say most oddballs (myself excluded) are hunchbacked and ALL hunchbacks are oddballs. Even the hunchback that rejected me in college. (I didn't notice at first, but it got really pronounced once I figured out I wasn't going to score.)
Veryromanticguy2001Begat inloveguy2002, begat heartbrokenguy2003, begat youcanshovethatrestrainingorderguy2004, begat coldanddeadinsideguy2005.
RogerIt's only a hobby. I swear.


Just some incoherent randomness . . .
  • Nothing brings out the crackheads like a free hot dog. Downtown today there was a listener lunch hosted by a local radio station. They come down and broadcast (some sweet 80's hits in this case) and give away a lunch. It's usually a hot dog, bag of chips, Coke Zero, nothing spectacular, but hey, free dummy. A co-worker and I were enjoying our food, standing and chatting. A third guy, we'll call him, interruptingHobo stood next to us as if he were part of our conversation. Now if he had tried to interject, on topic, in our conversation, he had a shiny nickel coming his way, but no, he simply shook the cup. I was content to ignore him, but my co-worker acknowledged his presence. Predictably, he asked for change as if the cup shaking weren't demonstrative enough. Now, it takes brass balls to panhandle at a FREE lunch event. I mean, WTF? You're basically admitting you're buying booze. We all know that's what they do with the money, but wasn't it pleasant when they at least pretended to be nourishing themselves? Oh how I long for the old days. I'm all, "Dude, free hot dog - go nuts." He says, "Do you know what hot dogs are made of?" Guess you gotta have standards. I actually didn't get a chance to say anything to him before some security guy moved him about 3 feet down the street. Then, not 2 minutes later, gandhiHobo sat down next to use. He was Indian looking, long white beard, shirtless, sitting Indian style and not at all resisting smelling like ass. We were just down wind of gandhiHobo and my food was still digesting; goodbye gandhiHobo fighting oppression must be dirty work.
  • WTF? Through some evil which shall not speak its name, I saw an episode of this show. I'm convinced the whole damn thing is scripted as none of the banter between hosts and judges (the remaining members of INXS) seemed genuine. Dave Navarro functioned as some sort of liaison to the band. He kept intimating to the contestants that the newly formed INXS would be performing in front of 100,000 people as the old INXS once did. Uh, sure you little rock munchkin, you. Shouldn't you be hosting the auditions for the lollipop guild? At any rate, this guy is sweet.
  • I caught an episode of Real World Austin. I don't watch a whole lot of the tube outside of the Indians (Go Tribe!) and other sporting events plus I have significant Netflix obligations. Regardless, it's standard MTV fare, but Wes freaked me out. There's something deeply wrong with him. We all agree? Good.

That's all I got for today. I'll try to get mugged or something tomorrow so you're not so bored.

Wednesday, July 13, 2005

Can you hear me now?

It's a bad sign, but a good weekend, when you have to query two different people with, "Really? What did I say?" Yet another reason why I don't own a cellphone. (The other option, stop drinking, is too ridiculous to even entertain.) Unfortunately my friends own cellphones making me susceptible to the few seconds of uncertainty after posing my twice-uttered question and determining if the asked is pissed. This tension, amongst other things, makes me think a cellphone isn't for me. The deepest, darkest secret of the MC blog is out. Its proprietor is technologically challenged.

It wasn't so long ago that saying, "Are they talking to each other?" when two cellphone owners were within eyeshot (why not?) of each other was a hilarious joke enjoyed by all your friends. Now I suppose the converse is true. If you eye two people NOT talking on cellphones, you may wonder aloud, "Why AREN'T they talking to each other?" probably nobody would laugh unless you had just enjoyed this post together, but now we're dealing in impossibilities.

In college, I was part of a team presentation about long-distance communication. I was slated with giving the condensed history of. I proposed that the first means of communicating over any distance was to yell. "HEY DEAD OX! SCORE!" Much time passed yielding only the relay of messages by human interaction - smoke signals, semaphore, etc. It wasn't until the telegraph wire that effective long-distance communication was developed. Morse asked, "What hath God wrought?" And after around 30 more years, Alexander Graham Bell said, "Mr. Watson, come here. I want you." Designating not only the invention of the telephone, but also making the first obscene phone call. Cell phone technology was tested in police cars are early as the 1940s. But was severely limited in range and reliability. The 80s gave us giant boxy carphones and finally, the 90s yielded the rise of the cellphone.

At first, only important people got them, doctors, lawyers and the like. This was fine and understandable to me, but gradually a shift came and people who fancied themselves important began to get cellphones. And the next thing I knew, I was the only one without one. All that time I have yet to be convinced that I actually need one. (Other than the scenario in which I'm about to be hacked to death my some psychopath who has already cut my landline.)

I'm not immune to the cellphone's charms. It is an effective, cheap means of communication. It's invaluable in an accident or some other danger (see last paragraph). It's handy. It makes planning social outings a whole lot easier. And it is ubiquitous. I mean, who doesn't have one? Well, I don't, but everyone else does, so I'll happily leach off you whenever I need to make a drunken phone call.

(Note: Hat tip to New York Moments. Her post on drunk blogging got me thinking about this. Assuming you liked it. If not, see her to voice your complaints because I couldn't have thought of this on my own. Thanks to my keyboard for getting me writing about it.)

Tuesday, July 12, 2005


I don't often link to outside articles (the temptation would be too great for you to leave and never come back), but earlier today I read something of particular personal interest. I have often wondered about cat lovers. I don't sit around and stress over it or anything, but it's kind of strange to me that people adore an animal that couldn't care less about them. Life is about mutuality, eh? Besides, you couldn't train a cat to get you a beer, they're not big enough for monkeys to ride and really, if your house is burning down, they're not going to bother to scratch your face and wake you up. I guess such selfishness is attractive to some. But then I read something disturbing. Are cat lovers attracted to that fierce feline independent streak or is it that THEIR CATS ARE CONTROLLING THEIR MINDS?!

p.s. Someone inform RS3.


Around the office:

"She is . . . she is STILL stupid."

Well then you shouldn't be so surprised that she didn't get any smarter.

Monday, July 11, 2005

Netflix: Hero

Hero = ((Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon - the novelty) + Inigo Montoya revenge factor)/87 extended fight sequences

I like my Jet Li flying sword stab move as much as the next guy, but the incessant flying and sometimes funny facial expressions in some of the scenes were giggle inducing. Tee Hee.

thought . . .

On being male:
80% of our function in life is carrying shit. Get used to it.

Saturday, July 09, 2005

thought . . .

When you're watching an "aspiring actor" being interviewed and he says he's "pursuing the craft" it's a pretty safe bet that he's unemployed.

Pub Crawl: West Park

This pretty much sums the whole thing up:

Say hello to my little friend!

His name is Darby McTooleO'CornedBeefMcDarby. And boy, was he wasted. He turns to me and asks, "Roger, do you know how to work the pole?" I say, "You GOT to know how to work the pole." Darby smiled, "Could you show me?" "For you Darby, I'd do anything." He was a quick study that Darby. And then we drank a keg of Guinness, stabbed each other in the throat and threw up on a cop.

Anywho, that is me, the taller one. I'm not bald. It looks like I am, but I'm rockin' the buzz right now and my hair is translucent. It's amazing how defensive a guy will get if he looks bald. I'M NOT BALD! Am I? Oh jesus, what am I gonna do? Fortunately, I'm sure theMonica would do the Locks of Love thing for me. Oh, like cancer kids are the only ones deserving of a new set of hair. Whatever.

Thursday, July 07, 2005


Today's edition features real life smartass comments I made! (Or at least the paraphrasization of smartass comments I made or some variation thereof.)

girl1: We've named all our cars for some stupid reason or other.
guy1: I can't think of any other kind of reason for naming a car.
guy1: We've been dating for a while now so it's different I'm not going out looking for people to meet.
guy2: That's the best part of being single, the flirting.
guy1: You mean it's not the rejection or bitter lonliness?
guy2: Nope, nor the deflated sense of self-worth. Gotta be the flirting and the nachos. Always more nachos when you're single.

now for something completely different

Last week, after more than holding my own in a "Simon Says" contest, I took in my yearly allowance of fireworks. I didn't ingest them orally, rather I watched from afar as they lit-up the sky like so many neon 80's spandex shorts. I'm notorious for my dislike of fireworks. Not that I hate them. I don't consider myself "above" fireworks. (I'll spare you the bad joke I perfectly set myself up for.) But, honestly, I don't understand the widespread fascination. People actually get EXCITED to go see fireworks. To me, that's like getting in your car in eager anticipation of all the cool billboards that await you. Fireworks have been around for 2000 years and really, there's not much new going on. To my mind, see one set, seen 'em all. Let me know when they've invented something different and cool like the flag in fireworks or a portrait of Abraham Lincoln - something. Instead it's the same old thing. Colored fire lighting up the sky in circular patterns.

And then you've got your amazed masses. Amazed at what, I'm not sure, but boy do you hear the "ooohs and aaahs". What are we thinking here people? "Wow! Red fireworks! That was totally unexpected! And now blue? You've got to be kidding me. And hey, that one made a white flash with a really loud noise. This is insane! When will the innovations stop?" Sure, if you've never seen fireworks before, they'd blow your fucking mind, but we all have, so keep it in your pants.

Maybe its turning 29, but I don't suffer fireworks gladly anymore.

Wednesday, July 06, 2005

Of course I want fries with that!

Today at lunch a friend offered crispy, delicious french fries to another friend and me. We accepted. As she went to distribute the fries in a judicious manner, the fry cup tipped over spilling its splendid contents on the public, possibly disease-riddled table. Fry friend and I, acting on instinct, scurried quickly to scoop the fries from the table and place them on the safety of my food tray. We then ripped voraciously into the most-likely virally-infested fry pile, tearing asunder the holiest of Idahoian treats. Shame reddened my face; salt residue settled in my hair; I was such a disgusting pig. Thanks for the fries, friend. Let me know when I get my dignity back.

Tuesday, July 05, 2005

a man's guide to engagement

A good friend of mine was engaged over the holiday weekend. Congratulations and all that, but that's not my aim here. My friend is about to endeavor on an experience for which he is wholly unprepared. How do I know? Well, although I've never been married, I have been engaged. (In astronomical terms it's called a "near miss".) I know full well what he is about to experience. The following is advice I would have liked after I stupidly proposed:
  1. Ask now. Never will you be in better graces with your future bride than the 2-4 weeks after you pop the question. Nothing butters the ladies up more than receiving a ridiculously overpriced piece of jewelry. If you need her to work on your car, or you want to ask her to have your bachelor party in Vegas with the boys, or you need to tell her you've got VD, do it soon. It's all downhill from here.
  2. Always remember: NOBODY cares what you think. Solicited opinions are ignored; unsolicited opions are met with sneers and annoyance. Really, what do you know about the emotional implications of napkin color?
  3. If you must run your mouth about something, pick one thing. (Keeping in mind #2.) Constant harping on a single issue may yield results. However, do not make it a contest of wills. Women have a very distinct idea of what they want their wedding to be and will not hesitate to switch to a more accommodating groom. Besides, who really cares what type of petals the flower girl(s) have?
  4. Even though nothing you think, say or do will have much of an effect on the festivities, it's important that you show up for all the planning activities. It's the cruelest of all fates. If you don't participate, you don't love your bride-to-be, and somehow, "Why should I go? It's not like you're going to listen to what I have to say and besides, I don't even care" doesn't really help the cause. Just shut-up, get in the car and drive. Mostly you're there to carry shit and guard against panhandlers and pick-pockets. Cake bakers have notoriously sticky fingers. (Oh, you'll never read the blog again? I dare you!)
  5. Don't have plans for your bachelor party - at least, publicly-declared plans. You might as well get yelled at AFTER you've done something stupid. Why add on before and during yelling?
  6. Everything will be 600% more expensive than it should be. But "this is your day" and hopefully it's her parents' money.
  7. Registering for gifts - call in sick that day.
  8. Invite as many far-away friends and relatives as you can think of. They probably won't show and you'll get a gift from someone not stuffing their piehole on your dime all night.
  9. Remember #3, about distinct idea for how their wedding should be? When you're talking her dress, just hand over your wallet and get out of the way.

Of course, this is all anecdotal. Your results may vary.

Friday, July 01, 2005

Happy 4th!

Happy 4th of July to all my American friends and everybody else . . . I guess. I didn't know if I'd be able to post this on the actual 4th of July, because futureRoger has demonstrated that he is COMPLETELY unreliable. It's sad really. I had so much hope for him. So, if it's the 1st or the 5th, just get all patriotic like it's the 4th and make this run smoothly for everyone. All right? All right.

I am of the opinion that to the detriment of our fine nation the 4th has become a celebration of hot dogs and colored explosives, when really we should be celebrating our 229-year detachment from the teat and fist of British rule. In the spirit of trying to recapture what the day is really all about, here is a list of activities in which you should partake, rather than stuffing your face with sausages and oohing and ahhhing at fireworks:
  • Burn “Fat George” in effigy (I’m talking King George III).
  • Watch Benny Hill and boo vigorously every time he’s eyeballing a woman. (Note: this will require 30 minutes of non-stop booing.)
  • Make a British friend and then anonymously send him tubes of toothpaste.
  • Try to break the unholy alliance forged between the Rolling Stones and the devil.
  • Flip over the next mini-Cooper you see and kick it repeatedly.
  • Reenact the Battle of Lexington and Concord. (Sounds easy, but trust me, you’ll be doing most of it yourself.)
  • Stop the charade that is James Bond.
  • Picket PBS to get them to stop playing all those ridiculously bad British comedies. There are plenty of crappy American shows for our tax dollars to subsidize. If not, I’ll make some.
  • Never say, “Bollocks!” or “bloody ‘ell!” However, you may refer to others as “guv’nor” especially if you're a chimney sweep.
  • Make the Buckingham guards laugh. (Incidentally, are the guards allowed to react if you steal their hats or shoot them?)
I’m sure you can think of dozens more things to do this Monday. (Anymore than 10 and you’re way better than me.) So, when you celebrate your freedom, remember that way back in 1776 it took brass balls to declare yourself free of the British empire. (And by the way, don't blow off your hand setting off fireworks.)

on the range

I'm wearing Old Spice, Original Scent deodorant. I feel like I should be out wrasslin' and ropin' cattle. Yee-fuckin'-haw! Or out on a horse, stoic, smoking a cigarrette with a slight tilt in my head, brim of my hat bent to cover my eyes, pondering the impending drive to Kansas City. "That's right my bovine friends. KC. And when I get hungry, one of you is barbecue. I'm just sayin', that's how cowboys roll."


Girl describing someone's dad to another person:

"He's tall and sometimes wears t-shirts."