Monday, September 22, 2014

If Life Was a Car

If life was a car, I'd trade mine in. Maybe get an upgrade. I can't exactly afford another one, but I'd get a loan. What? My loan request was denied? Well, what if I leased a new life? DENIED!?! That can't be. Let me see that credit report. 
It's pretty depressing that this is probably the best representation of the
thing that will be towing my boring life away at the end. Credit

But that K-Mart never sent me a bill, that delinquency is a lie, I returned those 20 pool noodles, they never kept the shape of my sandals or felt like hugging Marlon Brando when taped together. And look, look right there, default on my Blockbuster account? How can I default on an account to a place that doesn't exist anymore? You want to check on my Woolworth's account next? 

Okay, okay, forget trade-in value? How about this, how much will you offer me for my current life? Go ahead, pull the LifeFax on it. This life has great mileage, only took it out every-other-weekend and...Whoa, what do you mean there's damage from persistent submersion? What does that even mean, my life has never been caught in a flood? 

OOoooOOoooh. I didn't realize that using too much fuel could negatively affect the inner-workings of my life. I mean, it is what powers my life, so how was I to know that using too much of it would cause the converter to short out? What if I got a new converter from a junk-yard? There's a waiting period for those? I can probably get to the top of the list, after all, I'm the proprietor of a mildly unpopular blog.
Because Lightening McQueen is NOT on drugs, that's why he has that grin. Sure thing. Credit
Of course there are rust spots, it's not like I've ever cleaned this life. Don't look in the trunk, that's super...Sorry, I was trying to tell you how gross it is in there. The glove compartment is pretty clean, nothing has been in there...Except, I forgot I left a rancid bologna sandwich in there. That part of my life probably smells something awful.

Credit..and holy crap, get your poo together, man.
Yes, I do know that my particular model does not have the best resale value, that people are giving it away for pennies on the dollar, but I've made some modifications. Look here, my life has brand new rims and some dice hanging from the mirror which I will throw in at no cost because I sewed them to the roof lining. 

Aww crap, those modifications reduce the value? Is this one of those old GI Joe toy situations where if I kept my life in its original packaging that it would be worth more? Damn.

Okay, fine, for my life I will accept a rusty Slinky and a cassette tape of your middle-aged brother's jazz-fusion band. Fine, shake on it.

Ha ha, sucker, I win! 

Friday, September 19, 2014

For Grandma Max

Rest in Peace Grandma Max.
Grandma Max, my last grandmother, died this week. Please do not say any variation of "sorry for your loss." Grandma Max(ine) was not into anything cliche like that. 
Not Grandma Max, but damn close. I think this granny clit-slapped Rick Ross, and regardless of whether that is true or not, she deserves at least a gobbler tickle. Credit
Maxine was an amazing woman. The fact that she and her late husband Burt managed to never make me feel like an outsider to the family despite being a step-child, a new edition as part of a third marriage, is a staggering feat worthy of praise at minimum on par with the praise heaped on children who win spelling bees. That sounds like an insult, but think about how much adults faun over spelling bee winners, or even how much praise is fire-hosed upon kids who lose in the third round, then triple that, that's the praise Maxine deserves. 

Max was able to be a badass without having to be overt. She just was. This lady
would have been embarrassed by being in the presence of Max. Credit
She was warm and welcoming to me and my spouse right from the outset. Every time we saw her, which was usually Christmas, she was legitimately interested in my life, or at the very least, made me feel like that. That is a rare quality in a person. Hopefully I can live up to that example.

At the very least, she gave birth to and raised the one person clever and caring and special enough to be a legitimate father figure and brilliant enough to raise me. I would call him "Dad" but the one time I did, he said, "Don't ever call me that." (It was because I was being a little jerk, trying to get money out of him.)

I'll miss you, Grandma Max. You were one-of-a-kind, hilarious (whether intentional or not), loving, and blunt in a way that could be mistaken for gruff.

Credit
She was exceptional and deserves better than cliched notions of faux-sympathy. Instead of "sorry for your blah blah blah", if you are inclined to comment, please give Maxine some sort of unique send off, even and especially if it would confound her. She was great at chalking things up to "well, that generation." So let's try something different like, "a thousand grumpy cats for Max" or some sort of photoshopped nonsense or Ryan Gosling shirtless, I think she'd like that, or some strange non sequitur that she'd be absolutely bewildered by but dismiss in the most polite-yet-condescending way imaginable. 

I'll miss you Maxine. And the biggest of hugs to those she left behind. 

Wednesday, September 17, 2014

It's Still Better Than Ikea

There is a furniture store I drove by today with, given the current world issues, has probably the most unfortunate name since Ayds Diet Candy. This furniture and flooring store is unfortunately named "Issis." Considering the President of the United States in concert with a number of Middle Eastern nations has ordered "death from above" for all things "ISIS," I'd say that's bad P.R. for this family-run furniture store. 
Source

For those somehow unaware, ISIS is the evolving acronym (probably the only thing that's evolved about them) for a Sunni group unsupportably murdering and raping their way around Syria and Iraq in the name of a bastardized version of Islam (From the outset, if you're going to comment, please curb the anti-Islam talk. Oh, really, you think Islam is a religion of hate? Are you truly afraid of Kareem Abdul Jabbar, Dave Chappelle or Muhammed Ali? Yeah. your argument is invalid and not welcome here.).

I need furniture, but how can I explain I'm getting my furniture from Issis? Do I have to drag out the "s" sound, "no, no, I got my funiture from I-ssssssssssssis." That's not going to work. Even if I say the full name, "Issis and Sons," that just sounds worse, like I'm buying furniture from an extremist beheading group's next-of-kin. 
That's so cute, ISIS and sons are allegedly adept at not just shooting, but reloading and cleaning. The family that kills together thrills together. Image Source
"Wow, where'd you get this new entertainment console?"
"All of this, everything you see, I got it from Issis. Yeah, they were having a real blowout sale. Yeah, Issis and their sons (no daughters, but we all know what that is) are really great craftsmen. CraftsMEN."
No, I'm not talking about ISIS from Archer. Credit
"Uh...you're proud of getting your furniture from ISIS? Or is it ISIL?"
"No, it's definitely Issis. And heck yeah I'm proud, we got these at cutthroat prices."

Is there any way they can just weather the storm of phonetically sharing the name of what is the current most notorious terrorist organization on the planet? Can they maybe use it to their advantage? 

"We at Issis and Sons are not murderous cult members with delusions of zealotry-driven world domination. We just want to takeover the competition. Bring in any competitors price and we will cut off the head of the price by at least 10%! Once you get a single piece of Issis furniture in your home, Issis will begin invading the rest of your home. That is how much you'll like our furniture and/or flooring! We are declaring a jihad on high prices! Our prices and craftsmanship will convert you or die trying. Visit Issis and Sons today, or we will visit you."
If I'm going to treat them this rough, the least I can do is give them a free ad...well, the least I could do is not write a full post comparing them to a terrorist organization, but that certainly wasn't going to happen. 
Yeah, I don't think it'll work either. Maybe they should start commenting on every online news story, "THEY CHANGED THEIR NAME TO ISIL WITH AN L" and hope that the media picks up on that and stops calling them ISIS? I understand that "Issis" is probably someone's name, but there were probably a lot of people named Adolf before 1939, not so much now. This is that family's opportunity to change their name to something cool like FistShark DangerPorn. No matter what, going to the Issis furniture store is still better than going to Ikea, anything is better than going to Ikea.

Monday, September 15, 2014

Butt Darts and Defining Taints

As I mentioned in my last post, I went to my brother-in-law's wedding the weekend before last. It was beautiful. Filled with emotional expressions of love, poetry, song, tears of joy, and ridiculous dancing. But among all all the beauty and joyous celebration, there is one moment that stood out: butt darts. 
Not the wedding I went to, but holy hell, I wish it was. Credit
I met a lot of new family, some I'll probably never see again, yet, they left an indelible mark. At a pre-wedding family picnic one of the elder aunts initiated a game, an unspeakable (yet, here I go) game that could only be brought on by copious amounts of alcohol supped in the daylight. This woman in her 50's started a game called "butt darts". 

Credit
It's a game you can play on your own. All you need is a large-ish coin and a cup. Participants place the coin betwixt their buttocks, shuffle toward a cup that was placed on the ground, position one's buttocks over the cup, and release the coin into the cup. Don't worry, all clothes remain on, no familial nudity, unless that's your spin on the game, everybody has their own home-rules regarding Monopoly and Scrabble, Butt Darts isn't exempt from home-rules. I watched as my brother-in-law played, my in-law's in-laws played. One after another, putting a quarter up in their wedgie, duck walked over to a cup and released their gluteus clench in an attempt to get the coin into the cup. You may have seen Two Girls One Cup, I've seen "Dozens of In-Laws, One Cup".

Throughout the numerous people playing the game, not once did I see what happened to the coin. Were people using the same coin? Did people stuff the coin back into their pocket to mingle with their keys and other coins? I don't know. 

Of course I couldn't let this go without jovial mockery, I called it "jacked-up piggy bank" (though I employed the most favored of profanity rather than "jacked-up") and said that my family plays "taint tiddlywinks".  That last comment left my father-in-law to ask, "What's a taint?" I have never been handed a gift quite as wonderful as being able to explain in graphic detail what a taint is to my father-in-law. 
For those unaware, a taint is the oasis between bits-and-butthole, or, as I described it to my father-in-law, "you know, the gooch, the perineum, that fleshy area between your ballsack and your anus, you know, the sweaty part, 'cause there taint nothin' there." T'was a glorious day.  Oh, yeah, and the whole marriage thing was great, but seriously, what can top butt darts and describing a taint to one's in-law? If you have a wedding, at minimum there must be butt darts. Dinner and dancing just doesn't cut it anymore. 

Friday, September 12, 2014

Notes From the Periphery of Sanity

With full recognition that nobody cares except me, I declare that I have been absent from my tiny, dark, disturbing, surrealistic, twisted, exceptionally brilliant-yet-tragically-ignored corner of the internet for the last week. Initially this was for a great reason, I was traveling for my brother-in-law's wedding.
Ever wonder what I look like? That drunken blur in the center is me. Not really, but close enough.

Upon my return, I'm champing (or has that saying evolved into "chomping"?) at the bit to leave snarky remarks on your blogs and create unedited nonsense on my own gutter-dwelling self-indulgent online pseudo-diary. Yet I cannot. Instead of indulging my fetish (What, you didn't recognize blogging as a masturbatory exercise?) I am wrestling with a deep seeded desire to return to normal sleep patterns.

External circumstances have forced me to brawl with my general need for slumber (which I have been denied for the past few days for various reasons), and fail. I write this under an oppressive cloud of a desperate need for a full night of sleep. 

As much as I want to relay stories from my travel time, like spending two hours tucked hip-to-thigh smothered beneath a blanket of globular flesh whilst the baby behind us decided to mess its diapey pre-take-off, I cannot because my sleep deprivation is causing me to hallucinate. Currently, I'm being attacked by cherubs wearing those weird Eyes Wide Shut sex party masks. 
Where do they get the robes and elaborate hats? That's a lot of wardrobe just to get your naughty on. 
I would complain about neutered airline gate agents abusing their nominal power and work out my excess travel-rage, but my acute exhaustion has me wondering if the words I'm typing are actually 3-D or if this is more of an immersive world experience. 

My sleep-addled mind is blindly grasping in the dark, seeking relief for my mania. The elusive mistress of slumber taunts me like the well-dressed gremlins having a fancy dinner party in my bedroom. 
I'll be back...provided I can sleep in, that's all I ask, one sleep uninterrupted by an alarm, the drunken sleep of the damned, maybe a nap. I'll settle for day dreaming.

Wednesday, September 3, 2014

Gimme That Candy, Stupid Baby

"Like taking candy from a baby."
We've all heard that expression created by some deviant sociopath who dreamed of making babies cry.  The meaning is convey how easy something would be, but originally, it was meant to convey how difficult a task would be. And of course it would be difficult.
Image Source

First, you have to distract the parent, which is fairly easy, just ask, "Do you watch Game of Thrones" and that'll get the person talking and lost in that world of Westeros whether they watch the show or not. If they watch the show they will be caught in a mobius strip of  "that was crazy how..." and "can you believe they..." If they haven't watched the show, they'll be equally passionate about, "oh my god, I wish people would shut up about that dumb pornographic Lord of the Rings fan fiction."

Once you have the parent distracted, you have to devise a method to separate baby from candy. I've tried--uh, hypothetically, of course--a winch method, a Rube Goldberg device to dazzle that baby, a rope-and-pulley, blow dart, dressing up as beloved children's show characters (you'd be surprised how difficult it is to NOT get shot by a taser when you saddle up to a child whilst dressed like Mister Rogers--it's the sweater), a myriad of methods to separate baby from candy.

Of all the methods attempted--by other people whom have no affiliation with me, I assure you--the most effective has to be the "tickle-and-yank". The grip a baby has on anything is twenty-times the pressure your average fixed-base mechanical bench vice clamp has, but if you tickle that baby, their grip will be loosened like a political pundit's grip on reality.

With the candy liberated from the child, you must now make your escape. Naturally, the infant is going to cry like someone without the capability of speech attempting to articulate an injustice. If you can, fart, and tell the parent it smells like baby made a boom-boom in its diapey. If that's not possible, try spilling coffee on the baby (it'll heal, they're durable); or scream, "I just realized there is no god," and run away; or once the baby starts wailing, tell the parent, "Awww, it looks like you have to fulfill your obligation as a socially irresponsible over-populator, byeeeeeee;" or just walk away because the parent will still be rambling on about the red wedding or some other sword-and-dragon nerdery.

If this seems like way too much thought put into taking candy away from a baby, in causing a baby distress by separating it from a beloved piece of sugary treat, ask yourself, "why would any parent give a baby a piece of candy?" Stealing candy from a baby is the only responsible thing you can do. Giving candy to a baby is tantamount to child abuse. That baby will be diabetic before it says its first word. Aside from that, most candy is a choking hazard. At the very least, a baby's tastebuds aren't developed enough to appreciate chocolate or crystalized sugar, all they know is mashed carrots and boob juice.
Yeah, babies are foodies.
If you see a baby with candy, you owe it to yourself, to the future generations, to society at large, and to that baby to take that candy out if its chubby little fingers. Thank you.

Wednesday, August 27, 2014

Summer is Dead, Time For An Irish Wake

In the area I live, the end of August signals the true end of Summer. Kids are forced back into school by billy club waving truant officers (if any of you have ever met or even have a second-hand anecdote about a truant officer, please tell me in the comments, because these are mythical beings to me, unicorns of a mythic New York when kids would play with a hoop and a stick). 

Though this time also means my commute is back to regular clogging (everyone gets out and dances stiffly in uncomfortable wooden shoes at regular intervals. It takes a long time to get to work, but the opportunity to marvel at ultra-stiff sub-waist white-people dancing is unique, so I can't complain.), there's nothing quite as rewarding as seeing the defeated faces of children who have just had their freedom to spend all day indoors playing video games paired down to only the four hours after they get home.

This momentous annual event (a prelude to Autumn, the truly greatest season of all), is best represented in song. So, if you will, please indulge my celebration of parental freedom in song:

Ding dong Summer is dead
Get out of the sun, your skin is red
Ding dong, your Summer is deeeeaaaad!

Wake up your sleepy head
I don't care if your eyes are bloodshot, completely red,
Ding dong, your Summer is dead!

It has gone where evil goes
down below where the equator flows
Summer truly really bloooooowwwwsss.
Sing it high, sing it low, Summer is dead, so yous knows.

(Then there's some back-and-forth with various characters)

Principal: As principal of this school most foul, I welcome thee most heartily.
Barrister: We still must dispose of Summer's carcass summarily.
Principal: Morally, ethically
Barrister: Spiritually, verily.
Coroner: As coroner I certainly do prefer do confer my diagnosis summarily, that Summer is not merely dead, it's really most sincerely dead.
Those little people were way too excited about accidental homicide. Tyrant or not, who breaks into song when someone dies?
All:
Ding dong, Summer is dead
Drag into the street Summer's limp head
Bash it in until Summer is all red
Ding dong, Summer is really really dead.

Ding dong, Summer is dead
This took a dark twist, and went bloody instead
The rhyme scheme changed, but there's many varieties of bread
Ding dong forget everything that was just said.

Hi ho, it's off we go,
Hi ho, hi ho, stop looking at me like that, bro,
Hi ho, hi ho, what happened to this flow?

Bleep bloop, Summer is dead
This has devolved, I've lost the thread.
Ding dong, I might've gone off my meds

Ping pong, it's time I fled
No more gloating and mocking children's dread
Ding dong, away we go
This song got goofy, this I know
Summer is truly dead!

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