Your eyes aren’t playing tricks on you, unless of course you’re already three sheets to the wind. This demon has four eyes. Now, for those of you tuning in from an English speaking country, or somewhere in the Western Hemisphere, I need to point out that in Eastern religions demons aren’t necessarily a bad thing. They can be either good or evil depending on their actions and intentions. Demon is a generic term for any supernatural being. We tend to not be so lucky in the Western world. Our demons and dragons generally do NOT bode well for us. That having been said, my focus right now is not on the odd looking dude on the front of that bottle. My focus is on what’s in the bottle.
You see, this is Onigoroshi Sake. Onigoroshi is a brand name; I’m not sure which particular variety is in this bottle. I guess I could attempt to read what little English is there, but it hardly seems worth it. No, I’m focusing on the overall purpose of this bottle. You see, this bottle of sake is the “Demon Slayer.” At first I wondered how sake could end up being the demon slayer. Then I realized that sake, like all alcoholic beverages, kills a lot of demons.
Except for that bastard. Seriously, he’s taking full advantage of being immortal and completely incomprehensible. Douchebag.
No, I’m talking about the demons that alcohol can kill. I always joke about how alcohol is the sacred tears of heaven. I wish it wasn’t. On a side note, why can’t cake, pie and ice cream be the things that ease awkward conversations, kill pain and make you forget that you have an asshole landlord? They would be completely omnipotent if they could do that AND have no calories. Damn that cake.
Fuck you, you useless, calorie-laden bastard. Can’t you at least have some anesthetic quality?
I think about the demon haunted world often. No, you’re absolutely right. I’m not a religious person and don’t think about demons in the traditional religious sense. However, every day I’m confronted by various demons. The demons tell me that I’m not smart or talented enough to compose an intelligent thesis. The demons in the media that tell me I’m not thin enough, beautiful enough or young enough to be of worth to society. The demons of regret, fear and self-doubt plague those hours of insomnia at night. These are the real demons. We should fear them. These are the true destroyers.
Yes, this is what the interior of your mind looks like. The only thing that’s missing is your greatest fear painted right on the front there.
There’s nothing like a full bottle of the demon slayer to shut that shit right up. It also helps with the pain of severe arthritis, which is more than you can say for ibuprofen or Tylenol. What’s in the bottle kills the demons lurking in your mind. This is absolutely true. You lose brain cells with each binge drinking episode you engage in. Lose enough and you won’t remember a damn thing. Drink long enough and you end up in rehab or the Alzheimer’s ward. Of course, if you lose just enough brain cells the doubt just slips away quietly in the night. That’s the problem. Right now I don’t have doubts so much as the overwhelming feeling there is too much work to be done between the lab and the move.
Ever have a day where you just feel like that? Well, try it for over 20 years then call me.
I’ll be relying on the demon slayer from time to time. There’s over a liter and a half in there, so it could take a while. That’s fine; I’m in this for the long haul. Not the actual move really, that’s just a few blocks away. No, I’m talking about finishing my lab notes, writing up a thesis, moving my house, re-folding an unknown protein, testing the results, getting my family through yet another medical crisis, playing full-time aunt and babysitter and taking the time out to walk the dog twice a day.
This little bastard can pretty much take care of himself, except for the box. I wonder if it’s possible to teach him how to use the toilet.
Thank whoever’s out there for small favors. Cats are pretty much self-sufficient. I just have to throw some food at them and hope for the best. They’re pretty grateful little bastards. They even bought me a present at the liquor store the other day thanks to their fake ID’s. Now, I know what you’re thinking, because I’m curious too. Who the hell sells a cat a fake ID? I don’t know, but I need to hook up with that bitch. In the mean time, let me take a look at this…
Now that’s just wrong, man.
I guess it was one of those, “I bought it for you, but if you don’t like it, I’ll gladly keep it,” kind of things. Damn cats. Hey, furbags, hand your old lady that big bottle over there. I need a little demon slayer to wash the taste of that shit out. Cheers!
Those of you checking from outside the U.S. are probably wondering why I just wrote Fubp, and if it’s some clever Twitter acronym. Unfortunately, it’s not. I just wanted to take some time out of my schedule to give a big “Have a nice day and fuck you very much” to our good friends at British Petroleum. Never in the history of environmental disasters has one company shown such ignorance, incompetence and sheer disregard for life. This thing makes Exxon Valdez look like a little Crisco smear on the kitchen counter. Here, while I go try to find something funny to say, check out the live cam of the estimated 20,000 + barrels PER DAY of oil gushing into the Gulf of Mexico as I write this.
I’d have something to say about all this, but I’m just not that fucking funny. I wish I was. You know what, these people are. Here’s something a little more upbeat, but sadly 100 percent completely accurate:
Yes, we citizens can’t pull our shit together, and we can’t seem to put anyone in office who isn’t in the pocket of the Corporatocracy and big oil. That poor judge, I mean, what else could he do but protect his financial self-interest. At least he makes no apologies for being a crooked, self-serving son of a bitch. Then, there’s this asshole:
Rep. Joe Barton. Fuck you in the neck sideways you big oil ass-kissing douchetard. And thanks to all the dicktards in Texas who voted for you. I hope you all choke tar balls and die a miserable fucking death.
No, I’m not apologizing for that. The man is an unmitigated asshole and the people who voted for him are fucking retarded. That’s it. If you don’t buy that argument, here’s somebody who didn’t vote for him, and suffers at the hands of him and the rest of the big oil ass kissers:
You know, shitbags like Lardass Limbaugh and Savage say that this is a conspiracy wreaked by the environmentalists. I personally think it’s a secret plot by pelicans to get free baths. They look like they’re having fun.
Yeah, this looks like it’s going to correct itself. Nature has a brilliant way of doing that. Just a little rain shower, that’ll do the trick.
I think what’s most troubling about this is that we just don’t know how this will effect us. Because BP uses methods to stop the spill that haven’t worked since the 1960’s, there’s no saying when they will stop the spill. They have thus far refused any help from experts who have valid ideas on stopping it. This is an oil volcano, and I don’t think a bunch of bullshit tactics involving golf balls will do the trick.
Now, I know there are some retarded idiots reading this who have stopped picking their noses long enough to bitch about how I’m a tree-hugging hippie who’s making a mountain out of a mole hill. I guess I’m a little too sensitive when it comes to essentially wiping out at least two endangered species and destroying the livelihood of thousands. Sue me. Better yet, sue BP. That is if you’re not too busy crying over the little 20 billion dollar “shake down” these criminals must endure.
There are others out there saying, “I don’t need to worry about that; it’s down there. It doesn’t mean anything to those of us here (pick the “here” of your choice).” Let me show you something, lest you think that the ugliest show on earth isn’t coming to a theater near you.
$16.99 per pound. If you can’t read it, it’s oysters harvested in the U.S.
See that? Oysters aren’t cheap under the best of circumstances. The price is creeping up slowly as the domestic industry draws its last breaths. But that’s okay, right, there’s still plenty to go around to the few of us who want them, right? We just pay higher prices, because that’s the free market system, right? Right?
This bin would normally be full this time of year. Notice something missing, like, oysters, maybe?
This is the tip of the iceberg. Restaurants are pulling oysters from the menu. Grocery stores don’t stock them and make no promises on when they’re going to get more. Oh, wait, here’s some:
See, I’m all wrong about this. Oh, wait; does that say farm-raised? We’re saved! Who gives a shit if we destroy the ecosystem, we can just put some in fish tanks at Petsmart.
It’s not that simple. I wish it was. We will pay for this shit for years. I don’t want you to take my word for it. I want you to look up what happened to the fishing industry in Alaska after the Exxon Valdez incident, or ask those of us in San Francisco what happened to the beaches and crabbing industry when a paltry 58,000 gallons leaked in the Cosco Busan accident in 2007. We’re still reaping the benefits of that one. Thanks, oil industry. Thanks, Americans who refuse to get out of their SUVs and Humvees. Thanks for keeping big oil’s dick firmly up your asses, politicians. Thanks for all the people who say now is NOT the time to re-think energy policy. Thanks, parents, grandparents and people who didn’t learn during the oil crisis in the 1970’s. Thanks for willful ignorance. Hopefully our kids will do better, that is if there’s anything left for them to preserve.
Grab ‘em while you still can, lady. If it’s up to us; they certainly won’t last.
As I get ready to depart this exquisite model of WTF architecture, I’d like to take some time to look back on just how jacked up this house really is. I can’t cover it all in one entry; we all don’t have six hours. So, I’d like to focus on this fabulous dream kitchen my landlord left me.
Welcome to my home. What? You didn’t think this was some random home in rural Kansas, did you? How silly.
That’s okay, just get out your machete and make your way to the front door. But you really need to be careful. I don’t want you to fall in the sinkhole on your way here, okay? My renters’ insurance doesn’t cover random acts of stupidity on behalf of the landlord.
The best way to handle a deep hole which can ensnare visitors is to stick a cinder block in it. It sure beats actually filling it.
I have a designer kitchen. No, really. The designer just happened to be drunk as hell and completely insane. He was also on a bit of meth and possibly Thorazine at the time. Anyway, I’m going to show you the two sides of my kitchen, and I want to know if anyone else can spot what’s wrong with these two pictures. Here’s picture number one:
These are lemons I stole from neighbor’s tree. Well, I should say my former neighbor. He lost his home to foreclosure a while back.
Here’s picture number two:
Here’s where I house the microwave that’s not properly grounded. Since I’ve been here I’ve lost my ice maker and nearly fried my microwave. The landlord keeps reassuring me that the electric is “brand new.”
Spot it yet? I’ll let you think about it for a while. In the mean time, you’ve all met the unfinished atrocity that passes for a breakfast bar in this den of ruin:
Nope. No hope of a counter top in sight. It doesn’t matter, I’m outta here anyway.
My dear landlord was supposed to top this bad boy off with a nice, black granite counter top over 2 years ago. I’m sure it would have gone just smashingly with the counters pictured above? Oh, did you notice it yet? Go ahead; take one more look if you haven’t.
No, your eyes are NOT playing tricks on you. The counters are different. There are only two countertops in this kitchen, and they do not match. Not even close. No, the supposed contractor landlord MacGuyvered an entire kitchen out of remnants from Home Depot and faulty wiring. I just wish I could be here to see the looks on the prospective tenants’ faces when they see this shit. I should tape it and put it on YouTube. Of course, their reactions to the counters (or lack thereof) may not be as priceless as their reaction to this:
Nothing says “house proud” like exposed plywood and aluminum tape!
This is the stove hood. It took over a year of complaining, a month of withholding rent and a threat to call the housing code people to get it installed. Fat lot of good that did. Now I have a faulty hood that drips grease, doesn’t really pull up smoke and looks swell with its exposed wood and aluminum tape. Here’s the close up, because I want you all to chuckle yourselves to sleep tonight.
It screams Martha. Don’t you wish you had one of these?
I’m walking around on slightly used linoleum. Does anybody in his or her right mind use linoleum anymore? I would take a picture of it, but the effect is this: it looks like I never ever, ever, EVERcleaned the floor in two years. It’s scuffed, scratched, has permanent dirt ground in and looks like it should have been retired six years ago. Who remodels the kitchen and puts beat-up, shit linoleum scavenged from a house built in 1967 in it? Seriously? Just because the shop calls it retro doesn’t make it valuable or worth looking at. At least the shitty linoleum looks better than the failed backsplash.
What the fuck is this? When did my yard become “Ugly Tile Storage Depot”?
This is tile. It’s swamp green tile. Nobody, not even the landlord, seems to know where this was supposed to go. Was it the bathroom? The missing backsplash? The floor to Crackhead Contractors Secret Headquarters? We don’t know. The landlord doesn’t know. He does know one thing: he will not remove it. No, this is where his unfinished projects come to die. The one exception to this is the unfinished project which is my upstairs bathroom. He never actually sealed the grout on the shower, and now we effectively can’t use it. He insists we can. No, I don’t want to live with mold slowly devouring another room in this hovel until I escape. In the mean time, anybody want to help me clean off this “workbench”? I think if I just get some of this stuff off of here, the landlord might get the hint that he should finish some projects before the new tenants become another statistic in the mental asylum.
I have no words. Maybe the purifying power of fire would work.
My house hunting expedition continues. Wish me luck. While I’m awaiting application approvals, maybe I’ll just go wash the delicates. Now, where did that laundry sink go?
We do our laundry in the driveway cum trash heap beside the house, as you do.
The house hunting process allows me into many a greasy interior of people’s lives. Most of the time I see houses that are unoccupied, but occasionally I hit pay dirt and get to see a person’s actual house. People have either packed efficiently or have much less stuff than me. Maybe I should have a yard sale. I noticed that there’s always one place left that nobody thinks to pack before the space invaders come to look at the home. The medicine cabinet.
A world of wonders await inside.
Yes, I look in people’s medicine cabinets. The difference between me with my insatiable curiosity and you with your self-righteous yet hypocritical indignation is that unlike you, I admit to looking in the medicine cabinet. We’ve all done it. You can learn a lot about a person with a quick rummage through the old personal pharmacy.
Now, there are some things we expect to find in the medicine cabinet. These things can be dismissed out of hand. That is, unless you only date people who use Glide dental floss and you just happen to open up the golden box of opportunity and find some generic shit cooling its heels in there. In that case, your relationship is doomed. If you have a Glide floss, Colgate, Speed Stick, Oil of Olay thing working for you, don’t hold back. It’s clear your intended is a cheap ass at best; a complete loser with no sense of taste, dignity or personal hygiene at worst.
Is that generic? You cheap piece of shit. I am so outta here. It’s obvious this person won’t be picking up the tab any time soon.
I love to find actual medicines in the medicine cabinets. I read every label carefully, noting the contents of the bottle and the dose. The actual dose doesn’t say much about the individual other than they weigh ten pounds more than they claim to. It’s the quantity that counts. I look at the date and the quantity in the bottle and do a little fast head math. Try it some time when you’re sober (this isn’t a good trick to pull at parties). You can tell immediately who’s taking more than the recommended dose.
You only take one per night. Really, I’m sure you do. Mmmm hmm.
Medicine cabinets are portals to alternate dimensions, namely the dimensions inside people’s minds. It’s no trouble spotting a mental straight jacket or appetite for a long, strange trip.
That’s a Zoloft parody, in case you missed it. Happy pills– keeping Americans complacent and voting Republican since 2000.
Here’s another greasy little favorite find:
I’m sure you just have a little cold. A little cold that takes about 9 tablets to cure.
Wow, check that shit out. That bed is actually pink. Say, is that cookies I smell in the background?
What? Huh? Oh, yeah, I’m back now. What a long, strange trip it’s been. You know, I think I actually got rid of that persistent cough I’ve been having. Now that I’m sobered up, let’s see what else is in here…
What the hell is that doing in here? Shouldn’t that be next to the bed? Seriously, people, pull it together before I have to come over there and tell you how to do your job.
I know what makes you uncomfortable about a total stranger checking out your medicine cabinet. It’s the same thing that makes me a little paranoid and jittery. (Of course, that effect could just be the remains of 9 tablets of Triple C running through the system.) It’s the fact that the sneaky bastard riffling through your personal effects may just bump into something embarrassing.
Ooohhhh, so that’s why you never get laid. I’d bail if I saw somebody pull that shit out of their wallet as well.
No, I’m just kidding. Ain’t no shame in it as long as you put safety first. Although, truth be told, I would seriously question your mental stability. No, the embarrassing shit I’m talking about looks something like this:
No. I have no idea how that got in here. I think somebody must have broken in and left it there.
This leads me to a little story that’s not completely off the subject, but not exactly about exploring the vast reaches of your medicine cabinet. This is about the medicine cabinet we had in the house when I was a child. We had two medicine cabinets, and we tried to keep my father out of both. Unfortunately, we weren’t around 24 hours and day, and it’s kind of an insult to lock a man out of his own medicine cabinet. Anyway, the cabinet contained all the remedies you could possibly need to eliminate embarrassing skin conditions. It also contained the Preparation H. One day my father went into the bathroom late at night, opened the medicine cabinet and took out the first metal tube he encountered. He never looked at the label and proceeded to squeeze out that magical droplet and apply it to his forehead and chin. He noticed it smelled strange. He looked at the label as a little afterthought. Instead of the Clearasil he expected to find was the tube of Preparation H. Now, I don’t know to this day why he never looked at the label or if hemorrhoid cream cures acne. I do know that his bungles in the medicine cabinet were a regular occurrence.
I grew up in a house where people consumed vodka like water. Many a night involved me not even bothering to sneak into the house because I knew my parents were more shitfaced than I was. It was just a matter of not getting so drunk I tripped over the person passed out in the middle of the kitchen. One night I accidentally roused my father from a beer-induced coma. He decided to go to bed, but stopped off at the bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth first. He washed his face. He reached into the medicine cabinet and removed the first metal tube he encountered. He proceeded to load up his toothbrush and brush his teeth. He stops half way through and says, “This toothpaste tastes like shit. Tell your mother to never buy this shit again.” I remember thinking that is probably true, considering that it may have been up somebody’s ass. I just agreed with him.
That night I learned the true value of sobriety and rehabilitation. I didn’t take a drink for years following that incident. I also hope that kind jackassery isn’t genetic. I think I’d rather end up with hypertrichosis.
Where was I? Oh, the medicine cabinet. I don’t have anything else of relevance to say about this subject, so I’ll leave you with a cheery song to sing. Remember, follow the recommended dose, and if you have an erection that lasts longer than four hours, insert your own joke here.
I know what you’re thinking as you read that title. I would probably think the exact same thing if I wasn’t the person writing this.
Nope, I’m not talking about those guys. It is a pretty cool song, though, you must admit. Klassic one-hit wonder there. No, I’m talking about this little space hog:
He only looks cute up to the point where he tries to eat you. The kitten thinks of nothing but murder all day.
This is my cat Thor!. Believe it or not, that was not a hiccup in punctuation. His name is Thor! Don’t you wish you had a punctuation mark as part of your name too? Sure you do. It’s an instant conversation starter.
Thor! Kitten of Thunder
Oh, yes, he’s quite the looker. I got him at the pound when he was all of four months old and approximately one-half pound. Now he’s about 18 pounds—that ain’t no itty bitty kitty. I wouldn’t mind so much, but he’s a bed hog. Oh, yes, that furry little bastard decided that he needs the lion’s share of a king size bed. He insists on taking up his half of the middle, the sides, the foot and any place you want to move during the night. He likes to cuddle. I’m not just saying that in the overly-attached crazy cat lady way. The little fucker has to keep his body pressed up against you at all times. He takes it rather personally if you want to move during the night. He has no sense of humor about this, and will gladly dig in his claws if he feels you’re moving out of turn (which is all the time, according to him).
He's laying right on top of her. I need to point out that she literally weighs half of what he does.
See that? It’s not just me; it’s everyone in the house. He likes having somebody to spoon with. The dog doesn’t like it, but she will put up with it as long as I’m around. If I leave, she immediately departs from his radius. This cat is a class “A” space invader.
Not a space invader in the classic sense of the term.
It wasn’t so bad having him around and occasionally sleeping on top of me when he was a baby. It’s bad now. I’m talking about having a furry little space hog that weighs 18 pounds muscling his way around the bed at night. Sometimes he leaves just long enough to get a snack and come back. (Yes, I’m aware that I probably over feed him.) Try having 18 pounds stomping across your stomach in the middle of the night or snuggling in on top of your back. I can get winded from just laying still. I can’t explain to the chiropractor why my back is constantly messed up. But that’s not the only thing. Thor! likes to sleep on the pillows from time to time. It can be a person’s worse nightmare to wake up with a cat ass two inches from your face. Scratch ‘n sniff, everybody.
Now you're just insulting me, cat.
He takes up approximately ¾ of the bed when he wants. I think he sticks out his tongue and extends his tail just to add insult to injury. When you can’t move, or wake up to cat ass wafting through your nostrils only to roll over and get a face full of hair as you work your way across the pillow, the night becomes way too fucking long. Oh well, at least I can live with the knowledge that it will all be over at 5:30 a.m., when a scene similar to this occurs like clockwork:
I’ve thought long and hard about what makes a truly great leader. I thought about the person’s ability to solve problems, maintain calm during an emergency, inspire others and have true empathy (*GASP*) for others. Then I thought, “Fuck it. These things don’t have a damn thing to do with a person’s ability to lead. Well, at the very least, they don’t have anything to do with being elected.” That’s right; it’s time to face the sick, sad truth. When it comes to leadership, qualifications are all in the hair. Check this out:
Ioseb Besarionis dze Jughashvili, but you knew that already.
This is Josef Stalin. He was a murdering asshole and ruled the newly hatched Soviet empire with an iron fist for over three decades. He killed a quarter of his country’s population and still managed to send the Nazis packing in WWII. This crazy ass son of a bitch kept a piece of Hitler’s skull on his desk to use as a fucking paperweight. Rumor has it he also had tertiary phase syphilis tucked in behind his third testicle. But that’s not what we’re looking at here. We’re checking out that fabulous ‘do. Go ahead, scroll back up and peruse that photo at your leisure. Lick the screen if you have to. That, my friends, is the hair of authority.
Lest you think I’m just blowing smoke up your asses, I want to take you on a quick photo tour of the Hair of Authority. (HOA from now on. No dues on this type of HOA, just lots of Aqua Net.) If you don’t believe me that this is THE hairstyle to have, check out St. Ronnie:
The best years a president will NEVER remember.
St. Ronnie was one of the shittiest governors the state of California has ever seen, barring Schwarzenegger. However, people loved him, canonized him and gleefully overlooked the fact that he ruled the country while Alzheimer’s slowly devoured his brain and his jelly beans. His secret? Hair of Authority, of course. People notice the HOA and respond accordingly. This isn’t an American thing. It’s an obsessive attraction that has swept the globe. Take Ronald Reagan’s partner in crime, Margaret Thatcher.
The only thing she was never conservative about was her over-zealous use of Final Net.
Even Indira Ghandi caught the HOA wave in her heyday:
She’s catching on to how to really make India a world power.
If you’re on a quest for power, or would just like to be a dictator in your down time, you could always be ordained supreme leader of a country when you’re four years old. If you didn’t get that title or a pony for your fourth birthday, you can always change your hair. It worked for our Dear Leader, Kim Jong-il.
I think he needs some of that spray shine stuff. Not quite up to world leader standards yet, but in his defense, he does live in an isolated Third-World country.
I want to introduce you to a local celebrity who’s a total famewhore. He’s on the quest for political greatness, notoriety and the presidency. I know he’s going to make it. Just look at that hair:
San Francisco mayor Gavin Newsom. Look over your shoulders, conservatives, he’s aiming a lighter at your shitty tresses.
Look at that. They all have the same hair. I just look at that and think that if these men and women were “ordinary” we would all be dismissing them with a thought such as, “What kind of Eddie Munster shit is happening with that hair? Was there a sale on Dippity Do at the dollar store or some shit?” You know you would, provided you’re old enough. If you’re a kiddie, take a look at my man, Eddie Munster.
Look at that hair at the risk of being moved to tears. That is some hair for the ages.
I think we can all come to the conclusion that if you want to be taken seriously in the political arena, you gotta get out your VO5, gel, and a comb and pompadour the hell out of that mess on top of your head. This is not negotiable. It worked for these men, it worked for Elvis, and it will work for you. Don’t just stand there, jog over to this link and check that shit out. I’ll wait. Here’s a picture of Johnny Cash sporting one of the most fucking-over-the-top awesomest pompadours ever.
Get the hair down first, then you can dress in all black. You don’t want to end up looking ridiculous, do you?
Hair plays a vital part in politics. In fact, it became apparent that at least one California senate candidate plans to run on the “Don’t vote for the bitch with the whack hair” platform. Ironically, this shit is coming from a woman who just got out of chemotherapy. Like we don’t notice that the shitty carpet on your head is some road kill you scraped off the 405, Carly Fiorina.
Sadly, some people are not destined for political greatness. I mean, look at this shit:
Billy Ray Cyrus. Don’t tell his achy-breaky heart that his hair spells out a life in the service industry.
This man will never become president. It’s not just because his daughter is a talentless skank. It’s because the man walked into the barber shop and asked the poor man to do every single jacked up thing imaginable to his hair. Frosted tips? Yes! Mullet? Check! Cum on top of the “party in front” to cement it in place? Certainly! Yes, Mr. Barber, just fuck up my hair in every way humanly possible. Seriously, I want to look like that drunken asshole that falls off the bleachers while trying to catch a free t-shirt from the t-shirt cannon at a NASCAR rally.
This is another man that will never become president:
No, really, it looks perfectly natural. The part is just perfect.
See what’s wrong with that picture? Of course you do, the man’s glasses could pick up cable. I bet he’s watching free pay per view on his laptop thanks to those things. Coke bottles aside, I bet he could do with a really good pompadour. This hair thing is so serious; it can lead an entire nation to think differently about…everything. Take a look at the UK, for example.
This just has to go. Nobody can respect that much grey. Pssst, Tony? Yeah, it’s called ‘Just for Men.’
The UK needed an upgrade. Dear God, they finally got one. It took some bargaining, a coalition government and a lot of gel. Here’s the new British Prime Minister, uh, well, nobody seems to know this guy’s name, but just look at that fantastic hair:
I just want to shine a flash light on that to see if I can see my reflection.
Upgrade!Candidates, be forewarned. Well–gelled is well-armed. If you don’t get that shit slicked back properly, the terrorists win. No, I don’t know what the hell that means, but I mean it.
I need to take some valuable time here to share the news of the weird with you. Yesterday I was sleeping snug and safe in my bed when the cat stuck his ass right in my face. Man, I love my cat. While I was trying desperately to sneeze that trauma out of my nose, I turned on the TV. I heard the actual headline:
“Jesus Statue Burns Down in Act of God.”
Now, whoever wrote this is the greatest genius that ever lived, or the most confused and religiously distressed individual to miss a dose of his or her medication. But you have to admit, that story is just fucking hilarious. If you have no idea what I’m talking about, I’m talking about this atrocity parked in front of the Solid Rock Church in Ohio:
Praise the Lord and take the crack pipe out of the hands of that sculptor. Then mass rehabilitation for the committee who thought this was the least bit inspirational.
This sculpture, and I use that term in the loosest way possible, was constructed from foam and wire and basically floated above the viewing pond. I think sculpture is a loose term here, but “foam atrocity” might offend some of my gentler readers. It burned the retinas of the local residents who came up with all sorts of creative names for it like “Big Butter Jesus” and “Touchdown Jesus.” I’m sure they meant it in the most gentle, Christ-like way possible. Anyway, the damn thing is just fugly, and the Almighty himself seconded that emotion with death from above.
Yes, God smote his own son’s portrait from above. Oh, the irony. That song from Alanis Morissette? Yeah, that just points out some unfortunate incidents. This story is just downright fucking ironic. I keep seeing the same 11 second clip over and over, and now I’m going to share it with you. It’s not because I don’t love you, quite the opposite, really. I love you, and I want you to be forewarned about what happens when you insult God using umbamugafugly statuary.
*Big sigh* — Even the cross is gone. Well shut my mouth wide open, it appears that God has it in for somebody. If I was the person who made that, I’d move into a shack with a copper roof. If you’re like me, you’re really conflicted about faith right now. (Well, actually, those of you who really know me know I’m not, but I’m going there with rest of my gentle readers so I don’t seem unsympathetic.) On the one hand, maybe this is proof that God exists and hates the way we humans depict him. On the other hand, maybe this is just more sinister proof that there is no God and that random acts of weather can profane the most sacred (and creepily ugly) of objects. I’ll leave the decision up to you; I’m not in the mood to open that big can of swarming maggots today.
Maybe all those Muslims have a point. Maybe we should avoid trying to depict a divinity. I mean, what if we are all terribly, horribly wrong, and we’re pissing off somebody we really don’t want to mess with. I have to point out, though, that it’s worth noting how attached we are to our personal concept of deity. I think if there is a Jesus out there somewhere, and he truly is omnipotent, he would make himself look exactly like this:
I am dead serious about this. Who could resist? Everybody loves kittens except for assholes, and who wants those people in heaven anyway?
Well, I’m going to put my copper hat on and head off for the afternoon. Here’s a klassic just to keep you in the spirit of things.
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:
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)
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.
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!
I know I haven’t actually secured a new place yet, but I can dream, can’t I? In the mean time, I’ve decided to start packing. I became quite the packing expert over the past couple of decades, and I know that there’s no point in putting it off. It’s gotten to the point where my friends always ask for my help with packing and moving. I am the packing virtuoso. Unlike a “professional” company, I give a shit whether my friends’ things break. I don’t load trucks anymore. I can no longer lift ridiculously heavy boxes, but I am a GOD at packing boxes and trucks to maximize space and increase loading/unloading efficiency. I thank all those years of playing Tetris. Sometimes I think, hey, if this chemistry thing doesn’t work out, there’s always a career in the service industry waiting for me.
Yep. I couldn’t have said it better myself. So unprofessional.
Have you ever noticed the strange shit that turns up in your house when it comes time to move? Oh, no, that stuff wasn’t there before, you and I both know that. If it was, you would have gotten rid of it by now. I’m going through all my possessions wondering if it’s time to have a craigslist.org yard sale. I know it’s time to have a craigslist yard sale. Let’s face it; houses aren’t getting any bigger, and I have way too much stuff. Whenever I look around this old shack, I get the feeling that I should have started throwing stuff out ages ago. I mean, take a look at this:
Where the hell did this come from? A Polynesian whore house? Seriously, who was drunk when they bought this shit?
That’s okay; I’ll just leave that in the house. After all the shit I’ve had to deal with in this place including a half-assed kitchen, no ventilation, a dead front lawn, a toxic waste dump and mushrooms growing from the baseboards, I think my landlord deserves this. Of course, there are always some things I wouldn’t dream of leaving behind. For one thing, there’s my wine cellar.
Who’s the damn alcoholic in this place? Because, well, they have some fucking good taste, that’s all I can say.
I’m not moving it. I’m not joking about this. The week before I move, you can all come to my house for the biggest fucking party EVER, and we’re drinking all of it.I will not move this again. The movers hate it, and I just can’t stand the thought of letting it all go to waste.
When I move, there’s always the question of what food to keep and what to toss. I think the refrigerator becomes some sort of vast wasteland or ubliet where everyone secretly hopes somebody else will take care of it. The frozen chicken nuggets and French fries can stay. So can the condiments. Everything else, well, there’s no time like the present to get a culinary fresh start.
This is what my refrigerator looks like on the average day, as does yours.
What? What is that I see in there? Is that some Pabst Blue Ribbon? Shit. Somebody better get that shit out of here before I go nuts. I don’t know who bought that, but they are totally fired. It’s micro brew or nothing in this house, and I don’t touch anything in a metal can. Whoever put that in there is going to be paying a significantly higher portion of the rent once we get to the new place. They say you can’t put a value on taste. I just did, so there.
Now, I mentioned before that I am a packing virtuoso. No, I am the Grand High Mistress of All Packing. I am a packing demi-god, and if you have to move in the near future, I think you should probably make an offering to me. Offer me enough money, booze, or other objects of value, and I might even help you. In the mean time, I’m on my own over here. Sometimes I have the occasional friend offer to help me pack. It’s not that they feel charitable, it’s just that they’re curious about what exactly I’m hiding in all those drawers. I’m not saying. However, I need to point out that I never ask my family to help me pack.
I think I'll just pack that in the box marked: Do NOT open under ANY circumstance.
You know that box/drawer/bag/shelf in the closet that you don’t want just anyone to look at, let alone pack? Yeah, well, I have a few of those. I don’t judge and neither should you. Let’s just say that I can’t sell it at a yard sale, and I want it disposed of in the unlikely event of my untimely demise. It’s the box you don’t want your parents to find, and your friends will probably look at you in an entirely different light if they just happen to stumble upon it in their efforts to help.
Just…leave that there. We’ll pack it as a 'bulk' item.
I have some mundane things that I just can’t leave behind or part with. I mean, for one thing, this economy sucks, and nobody has the money to pay for what it’s worth. I won’t even think of parting with these:
The lighting sucks, it was an awkward time of day. This is what I like to call, “Why my friends never help me move.”
They have to go. However, there are many, many things that are not welcome. They either end up in the trash, or at Goodwill, or on craigslist. You can’t take everything with you, particularly when there’s no room for it on the receiving end. (There is always room for long boxes; I can shed a roommate or two.)
Sorry, bro, but you’re just going to have to stay behind. It’s not like you pay rent, after all.
Some things are better left behind. The landlord can keep the faulty smoke detectors and the cat puke stains on the carpet. I have everything else covered. Now, if I could only remember where I hid those bongs. After all, the movers won’t touch some things at all. The other “unique” items in my house are fair game, and I have much work to be fun keeping the day laborers from licking the merchandise.
So, to save myself a bit of sanity, and perhaps get into a home worth inhabiting, I’ve decided to move. Here’s the problem. So many people have lost their homes in California that I’m now competing for living space. A few years back, during the land grab, nobody wanted to rent. It was actually possible to find a home, sign a lease and move in one month. No kidding, I’ve done it every year for the past few years. Now I’m having no such luck. Back when everybody qualified for a loan, it was easy to pick and choose your locale and features when renting. Not anymore. Now there’s stiff competition for available rental space, and my magical ninja powers have no effect on my competitors. So, I decided to search early in order to avoid being rushed when the notice of sheriff’s sale appears on the door.
All the warning you get. If you’re lucky, you live in a state where the bank must give you 90 days notice rather than just find yourself padlocked and on the street.
I’m house hunting again, and I want to point out that the California real estate market is cut-throat and strangely attuned to the taste of those who live here. I don’t think anybody else in their right mind in America would be willing to pay $2500/month for approximately 900 square feet of living space. Well, maybe in Manhattan, but that’s about it. If you’re wondering how much 900 square feet of living space is; it’s not much. Picture a house so small the cockroaches are hunchbacked and the shih-tzu can barely stretch out. You and your significant other can’t sleep in the same bed because you can’t have a bed big enough to accommodate the both of you.
That should be just big enough, provided you don’t want to move. That color scheme is just *Fabulous*! by the way.
You have to be careful when looking for housing in Northern California. The real estate agents speak their own language, and the ads on www.craigslist.org and other sites are in code. Don’t panic if you’re not used to this. I’ve been doing this for almost a decade, and I can translate the gibberish for you. Let’s start with location.
Real estate is all about location, location, location. Just be wary of any property advertised in Norcal that claims to be on a “sizable lot.” Anything over .000001 acre and it’s worth investigating to see if it’s a Superfund site.
Those signs don’t mean that it’s okay to plant flowers. In fact, you may just want to put on your lead panties before entering the house.
“Cute,” “Quaint,” “Adorable,” and “Cozy.” This means “smaller than the roach motel” in Norcal real estate speak. The house or apartment will be small, REALLY small, as in, “I hope you want to live in the cabinet under the stairs like Harry Potter” small. If you want to rent this property, be prepared to give up a few luxuries, like a TV with a visible screen and your sofa. No kidding, the one house we rented required us to give up most of the living room furniture at the time. Couchless living: not very Martha (Stewart), but I’m sure it will catch on in some circles.
Well, you have to look at the positives. I’m sure the shadows being cast by those houses probably keep it nice and cool in the summer!
“Fixer-upper,” “Needs TLC,” “Needs work,” “Handyman’s dream,” “Willing to adjust rent for those who want to do some work.” The place is a shithole. I’m not joking about this. Chances are really good that it will collapse around you. The kitchen and/or bathroom may be non-functional and you may just fall through the floor at any moment. The roof probably leaks, and the shithead landlord wants at least one coat of paint out of you. You won’t be able to choose the paint, and it becomes obvious that the landlord has no taste in interior design whatsoever. You may as well just install a leopard print rug, disco ball and velvet Elvis while you’re at it—Klassy!
It just needs a little love and “sweat equity.”
Another type of house you want to avoid is the “unique” house. Any feature described as “unique” should be avoided at all costs. Unique covers anything from bad plumbing to faulty appliances, to doors that don’t open to a bum living in the basement.
Unique, newly constructed garage. Perfect for one car or storage.
“Classic layout,” “Unique interior design,” “Victorian styling.” A drunk designed the layout. Of course it could just mean that somebody built the house in the early 1900’s and didn’t have a concept of modern architecture. The current landlord left the design alone sans remodeling because s/he wanted to capture the quaint feel of days gone by. Then again, you may just have to deal with random fuckery the landlord won’t fix because that would require him/her to pull a dollar bill out of his/her ass and deal with the actual problem.
Yeah, it’s quaint alright. Just…don’t take a deep breath, you’ll be fine. Now that’s what we call a classic layout.
Value added features. Kitchen is unique with plenty of storage and accessories.
I’m still looking. I’m avoiding all those unique properties, though. I’m also avoiding new construction, because that’s the type of house that usually ends up in foreclosure. I don’t really want to get stuck in an apartment, because there’s no telling who is going to end up above and below you. The problem with houses is that they are generally owned by private landlords, who tend to be going belly up these days. Who knows what’s going to happen. In the mean time, I’m keeping my eyes peeled for that notice. You never know when it’s going to turn up. And if worse comes to worst, I’ll try squatting in a freshly foreclosed home, just…not something that’s “quaint, unique and classic.”