Hi, my name is…you know, it’s still not important. Anyway, I have a confession to make. I hate clowns. I don’t just hate clowns, I fucking hate clowns. We had a clown week in an online game I play, and I temporarily quit in protest. I have since walked it off. “Why hate clowns?” you ask. Here’s why:
Yeah. I think I'm skipping that birthday party.
There’s no end to the reasons to hate clowns. Even their phobia instills fear: Coulrophobia. It’s pronounced how it’s spelled. It sounds like it should be a fear of Cholera. (We should naturally fear Cholera as we do clowns. Cholera sneaks into your bowels and kills you, as do clowns.) I don’t want to be around clowns, I don’t want to visit the circus and I sure as hell don’t want any clown related items in the house. You never know when something like this may happen:
You know you’d get that thing outta there too. I take issue with the definition of Coulrophobia. It’s described as an “irrational fear” of clowns. There’s no such thing. Clowns are scary. They’re especially frightening for children. Think of how all that make up, crazy ass hair and freak show outfits must affect a child. You may as well just let them watch Lady Gaga or Christina Aguilera. Between the batshit outfits and 13 extra pounds of makeup, it would be hard to discern between them and a clown troupe. Just never let your children watch this:
It's a klassic. I watched this as a child and I swear I didn't sleep for a week.
That was a klassic. Poltergeist featured a scene in which an evil clown doll terrorizes a small child. I believe this probably happens in real life. This scene scared the shit out of me as a child, and has stuck with me as an adult. Apparently I’m not the only one. There are almost a thousand sites dedicated to Coulrophobia, including this one:
http://www.scary-clowns.co.cc/coulrophobia.htm
Yes, an entire site made for satiating all of your scary clown needs. I hate it. Yet strangely, I can’t bring myself to look away. I hate it. I really hate it.
My parents eventually gave up on trying to take me to a circus. Between the clowns and the sheer trauma of seeing people beat elephants with cattle prods I was fucked up for life. It wasn’t a matter of me being neurotic or overly sensitive, it was a matter of clowns being scary and assholes beating the hell out of an animal that by all rights should have squashed them flat. About the only thing worse than a clown is: MIME. I hate that filthy, filthy four letter word. Fuck has nothing on it. It shall never be mentioned again here.
Sometimes those creepy clowns actually get theirs. Scary Movie 2 was a particularly lame comedy that had little if any redeeming value. However, there was one scene which I totally got into. It’s this one. Couldn’t happen to a better doll.
As I sit here typing away, the delightful sound of clickety-clack of metal hitting metal in the dryer keeps me company. I’m thrilled, because that random clacking means I’ve just hit the laundry lottery. I sure hope it’s a quarter this time. I’m not the only person who’s broke in America. Seems that unless you’re a CEO at a major bank or an entertainer these days, you’re shaking the sofa cushions and scraping the gutters for spare change. Not to worry, an inordinate amount of lenders are just waiting to come to your assistance.
I received a brilliant offer from Quick Click Loans in the mail last week. Quick Click loans is an online payday loan service. Now, if they’re totally on line, it sort begs the question of why they send out junk mail via the US Postal Service, but I digress. The thing is, I have a loan offer, and they’re going to give me a loan for up to $3500 based on my winning smile and ability to not fart in public. (I think those are the qualifications, but I really can’t tell. Harvard lawyers don’t understand payday loan and credit card offers.)
BUT. (Somebody’s big but is always in the way.) The big but here is the one condition they actually spelled out in the offer. The annual percentage rate (APR) is 96%. No, you didn’t read that wrong, the APR is almost 100%. Sadly, I’m learning that 100% APR is a good deal for payday lenders. Payday lenders demand anywhere from 36% to 400% APR on their loans. Basically, you’ll need a loan in order to pay off your loan. Shit, and here I was thinking that usury and loan sharking were somehow illegal in this country.
It turns out that Congress essentially got rid of all usury laws in the US at the end of the Clinton administration. That opened the door to unbridled greed from the banking industry (that and the repeal of Glass-Steagall, lest we forget). Now anyone can be a loan shark under the guise payday lending. A lot of these services only exist online. This makes me wonder, how do they shake someone down in cyber space? I don’t know, maybe they send the hit man to your physical address by UPS or parcel post or something so he can break your legs. I wouldn’t sign for that package if I were you.
We laughed about that interest rate. After all, who wants to pay 100% of their loan every month? It seems insane at first. However, I’m sure that there are plenty of people who don’t read the fine print or live with an assurance that they will pay that bad boy off before Mean Uncle Leroy comes to collect. It’s a scary thought. Here’s something scarier. Want to know about everything that’s wrong with this country and its blind, asinine worship of the free market/capitalist system? Watch this clip:
Let’s pick it apart bit by bit. There is no government sponsored/single payer health care system in America that covers working people. NONE. Most employers do not need to provide health benefits to employees working under full time. Full time is usually 40 hours per week here in America, but the thing is, if you work 39 hours, you’re not eligible for any benefits. An employer with a conscience (ha ha) can offer it, but the odds are you don’t have coverage. What happens if there’s a law passed to make 35 hours/week full time? Why, you make sure all your employees don’t work past 34 hours. It’s just that simple, and happens in every state. What happens if you, or in the video, your child gets sick? Well, you do your best to beg, borrow and steal the money to treat an illness. Where does the money come from? Funny you should ask.
Americans have seen no real increase in wages since around 1970. No, you didn’t read that wrong. Sure, salaries have gone up, but so has the cost of living. Unfortunately the cost of living has far outpaced that of salaries, employees now pay the lion’s share of overpriced health insurance (if they even qualify) and the cost of housing skyrocketed to the stratosphere. Combine that with mass layoffs, no job re-training, student loans where applicable and needing to take in at least two, preferably three paychecks to make ends meet and we have the perfect shitstorm of financial ruin. Throw in a health crisis for any family member and the only thing left to do is pull the shroud over your finances and wait for the coroner to arrive. The payday lender appears to be offering a lifeboat in the middle of the shitstorm. What they’re really offering is an easy path to bankruptcy.
The bailout is for the BANKS, not you, dumbass. Now sign yourself over to the slave holders at the bank and prepare to work until you die.
Six states have banned payday lending outright. Other states want to impose a 36% APR limit on them. Payday lender lobbyists have taken out a motherfucking shitload of money to fight this. Since America considers corporations people, and people can donate as much money as they want to political campaigns, don’t expect politicians to do anything about loan sharking any time soon. Payday lenders have bled the American poor and minority communities dry, and now don’t need to answer to anyone.
This brings us full circle on why nothing works in America anymore. Banks and special interests own the politicians, who answer to them. No public funding of campaigns ensures average Americans don’t have a voice. No cops on the beat makes sure corporations always win. They don’t need to pay a living wage, benefits or taxes. You and your family have no health insurance. One illness makes you broke, which means you’ll turn anywhere to get money for food, which means you’re back in the hands of the corporations at the cost of 36% to 400% interest. Gee, what’s wrong with this picture? I can see it, too bad the rest of the people in this country can’t. Now, if I were rich, would I hate the poor too? Certainly. But since I’m never in the 10% of the population that controls 80% of the wealth, the question is irrelevant to me.
I’m sure Warren Buffet, Bill Gates and Scrooge McDuck are in that tiny little green portion.
So, I laugh at the 96% interest rate. It’s one luxury I can afford right now. However, if anyone is in the position where this might not sound so bad, I strongly suggest you consider doing hand jobs for money before you sign your life away. No, it’s not legal, but it’s more ethical than usury. That’s something to take to the bank. Here’s some more cheeriness about the death of the middle class. It won’t make your day brighter, but hopefully it will make everyone think about how damn rigged the system has become.
Ummm, I see you forgot to clean the windshield there. Could be worse, could the the shit of a 1000 seagulls.
I have another Bay Area mystery for you all. Every morning last week I beheld a magickal sight while walking the dog. It was there for approximately four days, blessing the eyes with yet another chance to simply speculate.
What you see next to this paragraph is a van. Not just any van, no, this van seemed to attract a lot of flowers. Single red roses, little stuffed toys, perfume and even lingerie adorn this special van. My apologies for the crap angles, but I’m sure whoever this is wouldn’t appreciate me putting their plate up on the Internet.
This van remained parked in the same space every day collecting trinkets and clutter. Eventually, the dumping died down and all that was left was eerie silence and flowers drying in the sun. There was also a little bitty tiger on the windshield. And here we are, left to sigh wistfully and speculate. My mind has come up with three distinct possibilities. Here’s scenario number 1:
Baby ain't taking the bait. Careful backing up, that one thing is glass!
Baby is going to be so surprised when she sees what I set up for her. She’s going to come to the van in the morning, maybe not aware of how much love there is in the world, see all the flowers and Bada-Bing! Instant getting laid powder. Wait, I forgot. Is she going to be at that electronics show in Vegas this week or next week? Shit. I may have put all that shit out there for nothing. I hope the neighbor kids don’t steal the bears.
Scenario #2:
Nothing says "I'm sorry" like lingerie lightly coated in asphalt and cigarette ash.
I’m sorry. I’m really, really, really REALLY sorry. I am so sorry I’m going to cover your van in presents and hope like hell it counts for something. Surprised? If it makes you feel better the process of removing my foot from my mouth hurt just as much as your feelings. *sniff*
Scenario #3 (The one I think is most likely after watching this unfold all week with no words or actors.)
I hope this bottle is safe to use as a butt plug, because something tells me if she ever sees you again, she's going to shove it clean up your ass.
Apology NOT accepted. You can take your dick out of that ho, shove it up your ass and go fuck yourself, you motherfucking douchetard. How stupid do you think I am? Fuck you, fuck the horse you rode in on and fuck the ugly ass horse that rode yo’ momma to make you. If I ever see you around here again, so help me God, I am going to take these flowers and shove them right up your ass. Now, take your shit and get outta here because I don’t want it. And don’t you leave that shit on my front porch, I’ll just take it back that hoopity ass van you drive and dump it there.
Love is fleeting and fragile.
So what is the truth? I don’t know. You don’t know. And eventually the van, flowers and gifts disappeared. Whether the owner of the van took them, the neighborhood kids poached them or the landscapers tossed them I’ll never know. It’s just another peaceful day in the neighborhood.
Found: One very sad bear/dog thing laying on the sidewalk. Owner can pick it up at his/her own risk.
I’m back after a long hiatus, and it’s that magical time when I wonder why I ever came back. I’m on Facebook, and every time I log in, like clockwork, a list of all friends available for chat appears on the screen. I don’t have a problem with the list, it’s just that some times I have a problem with who is on that list.
Now, before I hear all kinds of crap about why I hate my friends and why don’t I just dump them and/or get the hell off Facebook, let me explain. You know that family member, high-maintenance friend or neighbor you like, but just don’t feel like talking to? Well, they pepper that friends list too. You know, the person knocks on the door, and even though you’ve been in the living room watching television for the past three hours, you quickly hit the mute button, turn off the lights and slide down on the couch so your head isn’t visible. It’s not that you hate that person, you just don’t feel like talking to them at the moment.
Yes, this happens in virtual reality too. You know, I have some people that it’s nice to talk every once in a while, but I don’t care about the intimate details of their personal lives 24/7/365. Some people I have to be in the mood to talk to. Others haven’t talked to me in so long their assumptions about who I am and what my life is about really, really, REALLY don’t apply anymore. Yet, here the person is, talking to me like we’re still in seventh grade and I really give a shit about who they gossip to in study hall about so and so’s boyfriend. There’s really no polite way to say, “You know, I really couldn’t give a shit, and if your life is so damn small you’re still acting like you’re in that small town high school, I feel sorry for you.” Nope. There’s no polite way to handle that.
Then there’s the worst: the chat box equivalent of the drunk dialer. I have a couple of those on my list, and the only interest I have in talking to them is to hear what kind of off the wall, completely unrelated to reality bullshit they have the sudden urge to queef out as though it was deep philosophy. Here’s an example:
“Hey, do you remember when we used to be in that study hall, Jane Doe? Remember? It’s like when there were people smoking outside the school but there were leg warmers there as well.”
Now, if you’re saying, “What the fuck?” Imagine how I feel. I think I mentioned something about not getting my car fixed and this was the response I got. “WTF?” doesn’t even cover my bewilderment. To this day, neither one of us knows what the hell she was talking about.
Nowadays I find myself logged off or invisible more often. It’s the equivalent of turning off the lights and TV and hoping they don’t see me through the window. Strange as this may sound, some days I don’t feel like talking to anyone. Other days I see people I might want to talk with, but I log off anyway because I don’t want to deal with the others. I’m sure I’m that annoying person to others. Thankfully, nobody has brought it up. However, it always hangs there in front of me before I even open a chat window. Am I that idiot nobody feels like talking to? I don’t know, but it always gives me pause for thought.
I’m not a big CaCa fan, but I think this one applies here. Hopefully I’ll stay off chat, get off my ass, stay out of the fucking doctor’s office and get more work done around here. In the mean time, enjoy the gratuitous T&A. I know you do, you know you do and I know that you know. Now, hang up that phone because nobody wants to hear that shit.
It’s rare that I receive any sort of constructive, non-spam comment here, but if I do, it has to do with one thing: What’s my Twitter account. Twitter account? Did you just ask me about a Twitter account? I don’t have one. I won’t have one. I don’t Twit, you twats.
You want to know what I think about Twitter? Here, I’ll let my man Lewis lay it down for you. (I’ve been told that I am the female version of Lewis Black. I always say, “Thank you.”)
Really, you’re life isn’t that damn important. Look, unless you’re saving the world or doing some immense act of public good, I really couldn’t give a shit about what you do all day. Buy your shoes, eat your lunch, go to the movie, take a dump; just shut the fuck up about it. I don’t care, and I’m sure that if you asked around, neither does anyone else.
Oh, I see. I’m the bad guy on this one. Your friends are so damn loyal they really do care if you’re in line at Starbucks getting a decaf, skinny, low-foam, sugar-free, slightly shaken, never stirred, blessed by a Taoist priest, perfectly centered pumpkin pie spice latte. (It took me just as much time to pull that out of my ass as it did for you to drink it, trust me.) Your friends are so devoid of responsibility and entertainment that they are hanging on every update, every drop, every detail of your overly elaborate coffee experience. They are riveted. Every last person in your friends list can’t wait for “Idiotic Latte: The Sequel.” Yes, I know, I’ve heard that before.
Actually, they’re quite pretty in a “Holy Christ, can I just get a cup of coffee around here” kind of way.
So, you’re going to twat whether we want to hear it or not. Fair enough. Here’s a list of bullshit things your friends and innocent bystanders really don’t want to hear about (no, really).
1. The game. You fancy yourself a sports caster. You really love the game. You think everyone wants to hear your report and subsequent commentary: “Well, the Bumblehoot Dicktards are down 3 to the Stinkypants. All McDingleberry has to do is get the run/goal/ball to the end zone and the game is ours. Go Dicktards!” Nobody gives a fuck. If we want to know what’s going on in the game, we’ll turn on the TV.
2. What you’re eating. “Et 2 corndogs w xtra pckle @ Weenie World. ROTFLMAO.” Really? Is it that funny? We don’t care, and please don’t bother to post pictures unless that corndog is in a majorette outfit twirling a flaming baton.
3. You’re standing in line. “Stnding in line @ theatre. U no Im not gay but luv me sum Twishite.” Who cares? There are probably 50 others in line with you. Fortunately the vast majority of those people aren’t so self-absorbed that they actually think it’s worth telling the world about. If they’re lucky, they anticipated standing next to a tard like you and brought a hip flask full of the magical coping solution.
4. A jumble of random letters that appear to be some sort of acronym. “U said ROHTNR and I r ggyirns. WTF? Ur not ZNBUR? ROTFLMAO!!! NO. That pseudo sentence didn’t make sense in any world. You haven’t made up your own language that only you and those cool enough to know you understand. You’re talking gibberish like a crackhead 2 minutes after the last hit. Stop it.
5. ANY BODILY FUNCTION. Do not talk about this. EVER. Just don’t. No matter how fascinating it is to you, the rest of the world doesn’t really need to behold a statement like: “Look! There’s Legos in my poop!”
Wait. You did what? Okay, I take a portion of that back. If you eat Legos and shit out a perfectly sculpted building or a helicopter or something, I definitely need to see it. That’s something worth twatting about.
Damn that’s impressive. I hope you remembered to wipe.
I live in the city, and I make no apologies for this. I don’t think I need to remind the rest of you urbanites that you’ll see just about anything in larger cities. I live in a town home that’s conveniently located in a complex between the railroad track and some industrial warehouses. One of the warehouses is either a supplier of bouncy houses or they rent them out directly. I don’t know which, I never asked. Every Wednesday morning like clockwork I go outside my house to walk the dog and am confronted by one or more fully inflated bouncy houses peeking over the complex wall. They keep these poor bouncy houses confined in a lot surrounded by barbed wire so they can’t escape. Anybody trying to hoist one over the wall is doomed to bodily injury or a useless, uninflatable bouncy house riddled with holes. It’s difficult to see, but click on the image and it will increase in size enough so you can see them.
This picture is lousy because it's a cell phone picture. There's 3 or 4 bouncy houses going for a trial run.
That picture shows an unusual morning in that a whopping 4 of them were out for a test drive. If I didn’t have the dog with me I would have popped by and offered to bounce in them for free just to check it out. One of the problems with being an adult is that other, more respectable adults frown upon you if you indulge in a bit of jumping. Aerobics and idiotic stripper/ho workouts are okay. Raiding the kids’ bouncy house and jumping up and down is supposed to be beneath your dignity.
See? That is just the pinnacle of dignity, composure and lack of desire to recapture the supposed glory of your youth. In many cases it’s also a total unfamiliarity with modern architecture and the concept of a “stud” or support beam. It may be a tool issue as well, but let’s not judge, shall we? All I’m saying is that nobody should look askance at me when I wax enthusiastic about climbing in the gigantic polyurethane nightmare and giving it a go rather than standing outside “keeping an eye on things.” Keep the pole, you wannabe ho’s, I’m diving in. Now, all I have to do is convince the neighbors to let me do it for free.
I'm going to use your busted ass stripper pole to vault clean over the barbed wire and raid the bouncy houses. Now THAT'S a fitness plan.
I’m tired and busy, but I can’t leave you abandoned again. Here’s some Engrish sightings from my every day life. I hope you enjoy them. I’m going to do some math now (Gawd forbid), but I’ll hopefully back with something insightful later this week. (Or snarky and profound at the very least.)
Workplace Engrish sighting:
We're having someone over this month.
Furniture store Engrish sighting:
We're close on Monday. We won't be quite there yet, so you'll probably need to wait until Tuesday or Wednesday.
It’s time to answer the great question plaguing mankind for centuries: What’s for dinner?
Unfortunately this is NOT happening in my fridge right now.
My greatest ambivalence in life is the fact that I both love and hate to cook. I’m an excellent cook if I must say so myself, and yes, it took more years of practice than I care to think about. However, I have those days when fatigue and arthritis make me even steer clear of Ore Ida French fries because putting them on a tray and attempting to stick it in the oven is just too much like cooking to be bothered with.
Ahhh, now that’s more like it. Liquid lunch. Now if I can only get one of those gorgeous young gay boys to mix it for me. (I’m all about the visuals today.)
Sometimes even I have to break down and cook, however. The first task is to get supplied. I love living in NorCal because I have dozens of grocery stores ranging from the wholly American mundane (Lucky’s, Safeway, Raley’s, etc.) to stores specific to different nationalities and regions. I love Asian and Indian supermarkets. The food is fresher, cheaper and you can always count on amusing somebody by being the only white person in there. I’m not joking; I almost made some poor woman choke on a dumpling at Ranch 99 because I happened to be white in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’m really sorry about that. I just wanted to pat her on the shoulder and tell her not to adjust the television set because I really am white. Unfortunately I think she misinterpreted my presence there as an invasion of sorts.
This is exactly how I look to the innocent people in Asian grocery stores and restaurants. They find my presence…unsettling.
Anyway, I love the variety of products you just can’t get in American supermarkets. The problem is, I don’t even know what some of it is, let alone how to make it into dinner. Of course, there’s always the situation that arises where I knowexactlywhat I’m looking at, and through nothing other than cultural bias, wouldn’t touch it with a ten foot pole. So, come with me through the busy streets of Oakland and let’s go shopping. Oh, just a word of warning. The crosswalk signals don’t appear that often; but when they do, it’s a total five-way free-for-all of shuffling bodies. Mind your step, and put that damn gun down. What did I tell you about that?
Good thing they put that sign in Mandarin. There’s no way of telling where we’d end up otherwise.
Now, traditionally Western born and raised individuals shy away from these:
Peking duck, definitely on the menu.
They’re very good, and I’d put them on my menu any day. You don’t have to eat the head. Nice thing about smoked duck is that is comes already cooked. You just heat up some vegetables and Bob’s your uncle, or possibly Vu’s your uncle in this case. Just stop saying “ick” and try it some time. I’m pretty open-minded when it comes to food, but there’s even things I’ll avoid. Take this for example:
No, your eyes are NOT playing tricks on you. That’s pig uterus. I’m not sure if you’re supposed to eat it or use it to predict the future. I personally predict I’m skipping this and going to McDonald’s.
Here’s another tender, tasty morsel for you. Oh, who the hell am I kidding? These are tough, gristly, boney and just downright unappetizing.
Hell no. Not steamed, not fried, not smothered in chocolate and gummi bears. NO.
What’s a delicacy here is someone else’s Welfare rations. Take scad, for example.
This is scad, aka, galong gong. I had a friend that was really offended because they put this on a restaurant menu.
You see, this is the only food the poor in the Philippines can afford to eat. It’s essentially Food Stamp fish. The effect is the same as if I took an American to a high-end restaurant and found Chef Boyardee Beef n’ Macaroni on the menu. Yes, that bad. But the fish itself is quite good salted, if you must know.
Here’s another delicacy that I’m trying to avoid:
Yes, what they say is true about using everything except the squeal. I’ll pass.
I have some reservations about eating a pig’s nose. I’m not sure what it is, but I think it’s because I’ve been to pig farms and I know that most likely that nose spent the majority of its time buried in a mixture of shit and mud. Not my idea of flavor enhancement. Maybe I’ll just go for the bacon and eggs instead…
Ummm, maybe not those particular eggs.
These would be century eggs, Pidan or 100 years eggs but for the fact that this is modern times and they were probably artificially aged in about two weeks. (Chemistry is fun!) Don’t believe me? Click on that last sentence to find out how. I take no responsibility for any food poisoning that results.
Okay…checking the grocery list here…oh, pick up some Idako, if you will.
NO. These are NOT baby octopus. These octopuses are fully grown and smoked to perfection. I like Idako, thank you very much.
People are thrifty in other countries. They have retained the art and skill of using the parts the rest of us throw out. Take oxtail, for one. I love oxtail stew and make it myself. I think the rest of America would do their best to convince themselves that it wasn’t a cow’s tail and then order a burger instead. I still need to learn how to make kama. There are all types, and I have to confess that the jaw meat of a fish really is the softest, most succulent tastiest part.
Take your pick: hamachi, salmon, mackerel…the possibilities are endless. They also make incredible fish stock.
Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m just about full up. Time for dessert. Let’s see what we have here…
Hello, panda. Christ I hope that doesn’t contain actual pandas. That label is simultaneously amusing and disturbing.
Like I always say, I think I’ll pass on dessert, I’m drinking. Let’s see what there is to put in this glass.
Either this is the Asian version of absinthe or something got lost in translation. Well, try anything once. Bottoms up.
As the green fairy takes us back home you should ponder what you’re having for dinner tonight. Before you make a harsh judgment about another’s choices or turn your nose up at pig snout and Idako, think long and hard about the things you ate today. Better yet, click here and see for yourself. Yeah, I’d rethink that whole frozen dinner thing too.
Well, it’s just about that time. The professional movers are coming on Saturday, and so I may not be able to chat with you for some time. In the mean time, I’m scrambling to get the remnants of my life packed and on the road. I’m not moving far this time, so there’s no great pressure to get everything packed right now. I can take some time. I’m at the end, so I’m running out of boxes.
But why are all the boxes gone? I don’t really own that much crap, do I?
I could always unpack something that already resides at the new place, but that would take some effort, and I don’t have any to spare right now. It’s almost kind of depressing walking through this place right now. Now, the place is still a total shithole, but it’s taking on that strange, hollow sound that reverberates around an empty building. We’re definitely getting down to the wire.
I own way too many books. They’re chemistry and physics books, so they are numerous and extremely large. At least I saved some random mover a pain in the back.
Moving is not without its hazards. For one thing, you can’t find the forks and plates for about a week, and are forced to use sporks stolen from local restaurants as a last resort.
Spork! For those of you tuning in who don’t know what I’m talking about.
Bruising is a big issue. When you move, you end up looking like you jumped out of a moving vehicle and tried to hit the ground running. I have bruises everywhere right now. No, you can’t see all of them; this isn’t that kind of blog. But I’ll share the oddest with you:
These are my actual toes. It was a rushed self-pedi, so I beg your forgiveness on that one.
See the purple mark? Seriously, who besides me can bruise a toe?
That’s my toes. The faint red mark you see on the second toe is a bruise. It’s interesting to note that I was wearing steel caps for the bulk of the move. Lesson learned. No matter how damn uncomfortable those bitches are, do not take them off.EVER. Now I’m down one toe. I also have a bruise on my hip right next to a festering spider bite. I guess I’m just naturally sweet with a tendency to bump the old love handles. Where does that term come from? I sure as hell don’t love them.
Thor! is not helping. Not in the least.
My cats love the move. There are lots of boxes to play in and papers to mess up. They think this is the greatest toy I’ve ever gotten them. Unfortunately they’re just not helping. They claim the packing tape keeps getting stuck on their fur. I think they’re just being lazy.
You know it’s time to leave when the booze selection has slimmed down.
There’s slim pickins here. Maybe we should just haul ass outta here and go somewhere where there’s some actual booze.
There’s no point in sticking around when there’s only some cheap margarita mix, no tequila and about a quarter ounce of four-year-old rum. I say we blow this taco stand and go somewhere with a better selection, like, Safeway. I bet they also have some un-smashed pretzels to have with the tequila too. I have to send somebody else in as a scab, though. I’ve been kicked out of too many grocery stores for starting spontaneous parties in the snack aisle. I’m pretty sure they would frown upon me fondling their beer section.
The problem is; I can’t get my nightly medicine at home anymore. I decided to forgo alcohol poisoning and pack my wine collection. I moved it myself. Look, the wine is just like the comic books. You can’t trust just anyone or some random day laborer to move that shit and not dip in. Man, there just has to be something worth digging into somewhere around here. Let me look…
Aaahhh. Our most recent Pinot Noir Rosé. Thank God people who were smart enough to hide their hooch in the toilet tank raised me right.
I have to take this special moment in time to salute those sweet, sweet tears of heaven, alcohol. Now, I know I just lost those of you who are teetotalers out there. That’s okay, you’re fucking lame at parties and I don’t want to talk to you anyway. (See Jim Jeffries for reference, although, good luck getting that clip, it seems to have disappeared from the Internet.) I want you to meet my friend, crutch and sometimes late night companion during bouts of pain and insomnia, vodka:
This makes me drool even more than red velvet cake. Now that's saying something.
I spent most of my youth raising two raging alcoholics, and I always wondered what would bring people to this point. Now that I’m older, I know. Sometimes the stack of bills and the vagaries of life become too much and you need a mental vacation. Of course, being the politically correct person I am, that doesn’t excuse this behavior. I’m just saying that I see the need for it. That doesn’t take any of the joy out of drinking, though. This takes the joy out of drinking:
Holy Shit. Don’t just stand there, somebody get a straw and suck that shit up. Waste not, want not. I want to beat that bitch down on general principle. I could use a Mad Dog 20/20 just about now. Seriously, though, I never realized how much of my life revolved around alcohol until I had about 15 minutes and a well-chilled shot of Chopin to think about it. At least I still can think about it. I haven’t had the cops stop me and have this happen.
Yeah, that’s pretty bad. I grew up in a family of alcoholics. I swear I’d never fall victim to this. That was before adulthood, a table stacked with bills and constant pain from autoimmune disease. I’m not trying to excuse aberrant behavior. I am simply stuck in a bizarre cycle of alcohol. Let’s take my job, for instance. I work at a winery. I worked so hard to get a master’s in chemistry. I currently work in a winery. Hmmm. I work in a job in which it is not unusual for my boss to approach me with a glass of something at ten in the morning and ask me what I think of it. Eye opener, anyone? Before anybody has the bright idea to accuse us of being constantly drunk on the job, I need to point out the Catch-22 of any brewery job. You are expected to be able to drink unspecified amounts of alcohol at all hours of the day and night and remain totally sober. No kidding. Try it some time, it’s no easy task. I have to sample wine and port throughout day and remain sober enough to calculate how much SO2 or flavoring or anything else I need to add to barrels on the spot. I can’t politely decline to do chemistry because I’m drunk (as you do). Trust me, when you work at a winery, you just can’t get away with bullshit like this:
Oh, Holy Christ, I wish I could get on board that train. It looks kind of fun. (Right up to the point of severe bruising of course.) That would be the ultimate day job: “Professional Drunk.” I’m sure some people qualify, but most people can’t pull that shit off on work days or week days. Therefore, you need to rest up during the week and catch up on your drinking on the weekends. You’re all professionals at this. I know, I can see you, even through this monitor. I see you or a reasonable facsimile of you. You look good, by the way, but you’d probably look better if we pour another round of Nectar of the Gods. Every weekend I work in our tasting room I see my fair share of the jovial, impaired and straight up shitfaced. If I’m lucky, the tasting room looks like a J-Kwon masterpiece.
I don’t want anybody to demonize alcohol. After all, half the human race wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for the power of this beautiful, sacred, downright seductive elixir. I know you don’t believe me, so I want you to tune in for just a little bit longer and I’ll prove it to you. If you’re male, I’m going to share the secret of pro-creation with you. (Fuck you, fundamentalists. This is how babies are made. Deal with it, or let Darwin wipe the globe with your asses.)
Ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce you to the Mojito?
Now, pay attention, because this is my award winning recipe and I will NOT repeat it. This is the Mojito. It is not some strange, exotic drink, and it’s simple to make. You don’t need some bullshit mix that costs $15 and you need no special skills in the kitchen. It starts with a little cookery, but I don’t want you to panic. You don’t need to be Martha to pull this shit off with style. Let’s start with the basics:
Simple Syrup
Ingredients:
1 cup sugar
1 cup water
Boil one cup of water in the microwave. Use the stove if you’re technologically challenged. Add the boiling water to the cup of sugar. Stir. Place in a glass canning jar or (when cooled) Rubbermaid container of your choice in the fridge. It will keep until approximately Doomsday. (This is quite useful to make a variety of cocktails.)
Mojito Recipe (for one, scale up accordingly)
1/2 lime
9 large mint leaves or 15 small ones (it must be fresh, don’t try to work around this)
2 shots of light Rum (Bacardi or other top shelf is preferable. Use a cheap one and you could end up with a drink that tastes like floor cleaner, or worse yet, won’t get you laid because she’s puking her guts out from a cheap liquor hangover. I know best, take my advice.)
1 T. of simple syrup
7-UP or Sprite (If you’re desperate, use tonic water, do NOT use tonic with quinine. You’re not trying to cure malaria here. Do NOT use Slice or generic, it just tastes fucking weird.)
1. Put ice in a cocktail shaker. If you don’t have one, buy one, they’re cheap. But seriously, you can use an old anti-freeze container; just make sure it’s clean. Tear up the fresh mint leaves and put them in. Yes, they must be fresh. If you live in an area where you can’t get fresh mint leaves, move. Use a muddler, meat tenderizer or small blunt object to crush the leaves on the ice. This is the crucial part: crush the leaves until the ice is green. Don’t use an assload of ice; use about 8 cubes more or less. Just make sure you crush the leaves until the ice has a green tinge to it.
2. Add 1 T. (about ½ jigger) of simple syrup to the mix.
3. Cut the ends off the lime. Cut the lime in half lengthwise. Cut one half lengthwise again. Squeeze the two lime quarters into the ice mixture. Drop the spent quarters in the cocktail shaker.
4. Mull the lime quarters, leaves and simple syrup a bit. It doesn’t have to be long, just enough to work every last precious drop of juice from that bitch ass lime and its rinds.
5. Add 2 shots of white rum.
6. Shake.
7. Use a strainer to pour the mix into an 8 or 12 ounce glass filled ¾ of the way with ice. Bits of pulp and leaves will escape into your drink. That’s a good thing. It’s not a Mojito without leaves and pulp.
8. Top off with 7-UP (Caffeine. Never had it, never will. It does have the power to render a human unconscious after a few of these bad boys, though, so be warned.) OR Sprite. See note about tonic, tonic + quinine or generic shit. It just doesn’t work.
9. Garnish with mint leaves and a straw. You know what? You’re not the fucking Olive Garden or Chili’s here. Just put that shit in a glass, stick a straw in it if you want and give it to whomever (preferably you). If somebody wants garnish, they can just stick one of your kid’s Army guys in there. You’re not here to impress, you’re here to get your guests shitfaced and/or get yourself laid.
Oh, sweet tears of heaven. Yes, I love the Mojito. I also love top-shelf vodka chilled and served straight up. It must be top-shelf. It must be ice cold. Don’t believe me? Well, this isn’t college anymore, don’t drink like some punk bitch trying to get a degree. Drink your vodka straight and chilled, never over ice. You’ll thank me. TOP SHELF ONLY. You’ll never touch plastic bottle or Smirnoff again. Just don’t drink too much; you’ll end up like this asshole:
I am so off the subject now; I don’t even remember what I was talking about. That’s the beauty and magic of alcohol. It’s been getting people laid for centuries. I hate to say this, but without the magic of alcohol, half of us wouldn’t be here. If you’re a teetotaler or some kind of jacked up fundamentalist, getting laid is quite the challenge. I look at it this way, though. If you don’t drink, there’s more for the rest of us. If you can’t get laid, well, that’s more for the rest of us as well. Just don’t ever try to pair a teetotaler with a hard core drinker. It really doesn’t work. One is off simulating sex with most common household appliances and the other is stuck with Coca-cola and wondering if they’re really going to be all they cracked themselves up to be. Try as you might, non-drinker, you can only fool the other person for so long. Eventually they’re going sober up and realize the score.
Hopefully they won’t have a serious case of buyer’s remorse. The good thing is the drunk can write the whole incident off as a bit of inebriated high spirits. Unfortunately the teetotaler can’t. This can’t be good for the psyche. Gee, now that I think about it, no wonder therapy bills are so high in this country.
Alcoholism or any of the following exits instead. It’s up to you.
Look, I make no apologies for my appallingly lax attitude toward vice. See, it could be worse. You could have no alcohol at all. Then you’d be stuck surfing Russian Internet porn.
Christ, no wonder those people choke down enough vodka to drown a horse. Probst!
NO. That pseudo sentence didn’t make sense in any world. You haven’t made up your own language that only you and those cool enough to know you understand. You’re talking gibberish like a crackhead 2 minutes after the last hit. Stop it.
