Thursday, June 30, 2005

Ouch of The Day (6/30/05)



I'm all for fair play when it comes to sporting events . . . which I will take extreme measures not to participate in, but that's besides the point. Where was I, oh yes, playing dirty. Sometimes, I truly am tempted to just give up competition as a whole when I witness the extent of someone's desire to win. Take these two fella's. Never would I want to win so much that I would willingly cup another man's balls and shaft and give them a firm squeeze. I guess that's not in my nature. It is also not in my nature to play soccer . . . that whole ball to the face incident took care of that.

Upon further examination of that picture, it appears that the guy doing the squeezing is Vinnie Jones. Of Lock Stock/Snatch (haha, get it) fame. You know, he's such a badass, that this would probably be considered his handshake. A nice tug on the ol' jewels to say hello. So, in retrospect, or hindsight, or whatever backwards logic you want to use, this is perfectly ok. I just hope to never meet Mr Jones in a dark alley. I'm sure he'd say hello . . . and that greeting I am not going to be fond of.

Panic

I was gripped by a sudden realization today, an almost panic attack if you will. You see, it's well past noon, and I hadn't blogged yet. I had actually somewhat forgotten my just recently established blogging ritual. I don't know why I feel the urge to blog every single day . . . and multiple times at that. I guess I'm just a giver. Or maybe I'm just gay for blogging. Well, I'm not sure about that last sentence. I have not determined if the weblog has a masculine personae. I don't want to come to the conclusion that it has a female one, as the wife might get jealous about how much time I put into it. She might cut off my blogging priviledges at home. So far, the less I mention ridiculously embarrassing stuff that happens to her or involving her, the better.

So, yesterday, she was sitting on the porcelain throne we have and . . . haha! No, I'm kidding. She is a pristine being that has no need for defecating or urinating, and never ever ever passes gas. She is perfect, and if you (the reader) say anything about it, I will meet you in an open field for a duel. A gentleman's match where you can chose your weapons . . . flintlock pistols or dueling sabers. And we shall wear frilly shirts, tight pants that only go down to our calves and do a great job of accentuating our packages, and tube socks. Gotta have tube socks. I do this to defend my wife's honor, and so help me God, in that get up . . . I don't know what else I could do to achieve that goal.

Or, I could just have her deck you in the chin and lay you out. She comes from Irish descent, and I personally know she can punch hard. I can show you the bruises if you want. Sometimes, it's like I'm living a reverse Lifetime movie of the week existence. You've seen those made for television movies right? I really have no idea why women like to see other women get beat the shit up and tossed around only to, in the final 5 minutes, kill the abusive man. Does that final sequence make you women feel vindicated? And the poor acting . . . what's up with that?

Wednesday, June 29, 2005

Ouch of the Day (6/29/05)



If the road rash associated with falling off a moving motorcycle isn't enough . . . this guy's about to be crushed by the very same bike he just fell off of. Wow, talk about your bad luck. This is why I don't usually drive anything with less than three wheels. It's very hard to fall off a tricycle . . . err . . . I mean All Terrain Vehicle. Especially when it's decked out with streamers and baseball cards stuck to the wheelspokes. Yeah, I'm still talking about my ATV . . . don't freaking call it a tricycle!

I'm telling my mommie. You're soooo gonna be in trouble.

Getting The Shaft

I wish this post were about elevators, or golf clubs . . . or the purchasing of the seminal 70's blaxploitation classic. No, this morning, I got a phone call from the staffing agency. Let's call them "Asshole Staffing". They got a call this morning from the office in which I work, letting them know that I didn't need to come in today. Free day! Yay . . .well, if it were under normal circumstances, I'd be celebrating, but you see . . . I have absolutely zero days off. No sick days, no vacation time, zilch. Anyone who's worked on "temp" status can feel my pain right now.

A day lost at work essentially translates to a 1/5 loss in revenue for myself this particular week. I had my budget planned perfectly for the next two weeks, taking into account the UNPAID 4th of July holiday (this is certainly un-American) coming up. This really throws a wrench into the inner workings of my finances right now. Hey, know what you could do to help? Click on those damn "crisp ads" and "google" text ads. I need to make up the loss . . one quarter at a time.

The thing that really ticks me off though . . . apart from the loss of money; and there really isn't anything I hate more than losing money, is the way Asshole Staffing behaves towards yours truly. I have been a good little worker bee for them for well over a year. In that span of time, I have taken no more than 3 personal days. Any other absences were either unpaid holidays (Thanksgiving hurt the wallet quite a bit) or days like today, where I get the shaft. And they are so nice when they call about days like this too. It's like they've got this big grin on their stupid monkey faces when they decide to deliver bad news to me. God forbid I were to call in sick or for a personal matter that would keep me from going in that day. Oh no, then the attitude is palpable through the phone receiver. They are short, uncourteous, and a millimeter away from chopping my head off with their verbiage.

I don't understand why they act like this. It's fairly unprofessional if you ask me. Not that I am extermely pissed about it now at around noon-ish when I'm writing this from home. I got to take care of some car related things (wash & oil change), played some Halo 2 to let off some steam, and will most likely be going out for some greek food (I drool for feta cheese) and catch War of the Worlds later before the theaters get too crowded with the "just got out of work" crowds. The day is not a total loss. I also get to spend some quality time with the wife, which is always good. It just chaps my ass when I have to talk to Asshole Staffing. About anything. I just hope I don't get another one of these calls tomorrow morning. There's no way I'm missing two days in a row of work. I'm no workaholic . . . but I am addicted to fattening my bank account.

*Music I listed to while coming up with this entry:
Hurry Up And Wait - Stereophonics
Speed Dial No. 2 - Zero 7
Last Living Souls - Gorillaz
Wake Up - The Arcade Fire
Jonathan Fisk - Spoon
A Million Reasons - Stellastarr
These Days - Nico

Tuesday, June 28, 2005

Disturbing



Noticed this on my google ads (are you clicking on them??), and this seriously sent a chill down my spine. Dick Cheney for president in '08?! What? Are they serious? They want this slimy prick of a man to run the country? I guess if they want to keep their 12 year insurgency battle-strategy . . . he would be the right man for the job. I seriously will migrate north to Canada if the democrats lose the '08 election to this jackassed anti-christ. I don't care if I move to the frenchy area, anything would be better than living in a country run by a Dick.

Ouch of The Day (6/28/05)



Finally, break-dancing and soccer have combined to create the super-sport "Break-Ball". The fun and new innovative sport that will capture the hearts of pop-locking and ball dribbling youths alike.

Wait, that's not a new sport? Why would a guy be doing a spin on his head on the turf of a soccer field then? Something must have gone terribly wrong. I have no idea how he ended up in the position that he is in currently, but that would be something to watch. I've been the subject of "mat burn" (back during my high school wrasslin' days) . . . but never have I felt skin irritation brought on by a healthy rubbin' of grass. I'm thinking it's not pleasant. But hey, drop me a comment if I am wrong . . . which I never am by the way, but don't let that stop you. Never one to discourage conversation . . unless you annoy me.

Punks Engage



Avril Lavigne is reportedly engaged to the lead singer (using the term lightly here) of the "punk" band Sum 41. You can see the ring there on her finger. He must have used his "sell-out" money to buy it. More power to him. I'm still waiting for my undiscovered talent to be marketed to a mass audience. What's this talent? I can't tell you, it's top secret at this moment . . so quit sending me your used panties, the wife is getting pissed.

Anyway, back to Avril and her troll . . yeah, he kinda looks like one huh? You know, the troll dolls with the funky hair. I'm not ragging on him, some people (chemically imbalanced that is) find those things to be "super-cute". I am worried about my wife a little though, as she has a thing for Avril. I don't know why, she normally hates midgets, but this one she took a liking to. On the other hand, I'm kinda happy for Lavigne, since she found a mate that is about the same height as she is . . . and now she won't have to contend with a guy that keeps telling her "Come on baby, you're the right size, you don't even need to kneel down".

Last "Throes"

I don't like to get political (I'd much rather get physical . . ain't that right Olivia Newton John) but after watching the Daily Show last night, I was a bit incensed by the outlook of the Iraq conflict. Here we have the vice president Dick Cheney proclaiming on the Larry King Show that the insurgency was in it's "last throes" . . . only to have the general in charge of the operations making an appearance and saying that the violence has escalated. Then, you have Cheney trying to cover his ass saying that he was minsunderstood. That the last throes could be placid or violent. I don't get that. Why doesn't he just admit that he has his head up his ass? No, wouldn't want honesty in the White House . . . or the off-White House, or wherever the VP resides at.

Then, they show Donald Rumsfeld trying to back up his buddy Dick (if that sounded dirty . . . then good!). He also is trying to work around the definition of "throes" and puts down a timeline of anywhere between 2 - 12 years that these last throes will last. Twelve years!! Two years ago he wasn't sure if the conflict would last "6 days, 6 weeks, even 6 months". Now, he's sure that it's going to last at the most 12 years. Great, way to mishandle that issue. What a giant cluster-fuck this Iraq thing has become. Might as well bomb Iran while we're out there. Let our troops wander into Syria. Why not? We're there for the long run. I just would like to personally slap each and every one of the millions of Americans that helped elect this administration into a second term of office. The GW fluke should have ended in 2004. Now, we're stuck with these bastards 'til 2008.

Not only are they fixing to fuck up the military, sending our loved ones (both my brother and sister are marines) overseas to fight their personal vendettas (Hussein wanted to kill my daddy, I'll show him - GW Bush), but you know they'll be crippling the economy as well. With paying for the protracted war, the mythical privatization of the social security (great . . . you mean, all that money that I paid out to Social Security . . . I'm not going to see when I'm retired . . .oh yeah, you're great), and the tax rebates to the rich (how does this rebate check of $100 benefit me?) are going to leave this country in some sort of deep ruin.

At this rate, Canada is starting to look better and better each day.

S.U.V. Woes

I have been without my car for the past 3 1/2 days now. It's been with the guy working on my clutch. He had originally told me that the job would take about a day, two tops. Great, I could borrow one of the many automobiles that are parked outside of my parents' house. Maybe even my brother's . . . a zippy little Honda. Instead, on Friday, I end up driving my sister's Ford Escape SUV. She's out in Camp Le Jeune in one of the Carolinas. I forget if it's north or south, the fact is . . she's not currently using it.

Initially I was fine with the choice. Then, I started noticing the handling on this behemoth. Now, the Ford Escape is the smallest of the Ford SUV line, their compact choice if you will. Still, coming from driving a Focus, it is quite the change. I noticed decreased turn radiuses, a decline in handling, and the fact that I could not work the clutch like I did on my own car. All in all, it was a pretty shaky ride. Comfortable, but I felt off in that car. So high up, and always wondering if I was going to make the car tip over with a sharp maneouver.

Monday comes around, and the guy assures me that the clutch job will be finished by that night. As usual the wife and I head out to my parents' for Monday night dinner. This is a ritual we dare not pass up, since the home cooking is stupendous. Always something delicious and extremely filling. I still feel like a growing boy when I go there . . except . . . it's not vertical but horizontal growth that I'm putting on. I call the guy after dinner, and he tells me that he's having a hard time finding some sort of a seal that the transmission needs, or else it will leak oil all over the place. He tells me he needs one to two days extra, so he can do the job properly.

Ok, fine, I'll just keep borrowing the Escape and deal with the shitty handling. The only problem is, my mother needs it the next day, but she offers up her Cherokee. There's nothing I can do about the choice. I take it. Before we leave, we are told that it's pretty smelly in there. Apparently, during the winter, she forgot to roll up one of the windows and rain got in . . . the claim is confirmed when we get in to drive home. It smells bad. Woodsy.

If you've ever been camping for an extended period of time or know someone that has and then smelled them or have been smelled upon your return, then you could approximate just what the inside of this vehicle smells like. I'm grateful to have it so that I can go to and from work . . . it's just that the smell is terrible. The only good thing about it is it's automatic transmission, which will ensure a smoother ride while I'm using it. Other than that, the 15 minutes it takes me to get to and from work is going to be almost murder. I hope I can get my car tonight. Yeah, I'm saving 500 bucks on a repair, but it's costing me in other ways.

*Music I listed to while coming up with this entry:
Combat Baby - Metric
Looks Just Like The Sun - Broken Social Scene
Plans - Bloc Party
Let Go - Frou Frou
Michael - Franz Ferdinand
Stray Dog And The Chocolate Shake - Grandaddy
The Past and Pending - The Shins
Staring At The Sun - Simple Kid

Monday, June 27, 2005

King Kong Sighted

For those waiting for Peter Jackson's latest project . . . and were dumb enough to land on my little blog . . . I have to say one thing: "Do you know how to use your Google properly?" For those who just happened upon this and by chance noticed the title of the entry (I'm looking at you Blogexplosion'eers), then you're also in luck. Below is the link for what surely will be ruling the box office come December. I can't wait for this. My frumpy Kiwi void needs to be filled(not in the gay way you pervs). PJ has been absent from my cinematic life for way too long. Click on the link below . . . and I pray for your souls that you have the necessary Quicktime plug-in.

  • King Kong Link
  • Ouch of The Day (6/27/05)



    Can you say concussion? I bet you the guy on the receiving end of that tackle can't. Well, at least anymore. I'm pretty sure he was able to say all sorts of big words, but these days, I'm willing to bet that the extent of his vocabulary is "Me want to go pee-pee/poopy/sleepy". Or anything as complex as that. What you're witnessing is a life changing impact. Just look at that eye, it looks like it's about to pop right out of his socket.

    While we're at this, I'd like to mention that I don't remember much of middle school. Back then, we used to play full contact football minus the pads. I'm wondering if that had any thing to do with that. Me want sleepy now . . .

    Jack Nicholson Loves Dildos



    I have to hand it to ol' Jackie boy, he sure does have brass balls. I guess they complement his black dildo pretty well, and it is a shame that they are not prominently displayed. A shame for the female readers (if there are any) that is. Me, I'd rather Nicholson keep his privates private. I mean, they are called privates for a reason. When I first saw this, I did do a double-take. For a split-second, I thought that was just a well tanned Lara Flynn Boyle dangling from between his legs. I guess it was that look on his face that led me to believe that. If I had Lara Flynn Boyle between my legs I'd have that same scared shitless look as well. Woman looks like she hasn't eaten in decades, and this might lead her to be a "biter". Ouch.

    How Much is that Roadside Assistance?

    As previously reported, the "Dukes of Hazard" movie had been pulled over by legal issues concerning a little copyright issue with the 1975 flick "Moonrunners" that the television show drew it's inspiration from. Well, looks like the movie was able to get a little roadside assistance with that legal matter, and paid out a fat five million dollars to the producer of "Moonrunners" to keep it's August 5th opening date solid. Fans of short shorts and frivolous lawsuits can rejoice now. Justice has been served. Just make sure you take plenty of moist towelettes when you catch this opening weekend, and try to avoid any Pee Wee Herman-esque legal matters.

    Land of The Dead Visited

    Finally got around to catching George A. Romero's latest zombie-fest "Land of The Dead" this past Sunday at the Burbank AMC. After the initial attempt on Friday . . . ahem ahem . . . I was glad to be able to catch a movie that's pretty much been twenty years in the making.

    So, apart from the zombies . . . what's going on with this movie. After the initial credit sequences, we learn that some time ago, the dead and recently deceased had started to rise and attack the living. It's not an isolated incident, and soon most of the world is overrun. Cut back to the present, and we meet a rag-tag group of mercenaries that work for Kaufman (played by Dennis Hopper), the man in charge of Fiddler's Green.

    These guys are led by Riley, who's on his last outing. He's retiring as of that night, and he wants to have an uneventful supply run. The group descends on a small town, raiding the supermarket and the liquor store. Liquor not being an essential, but Cholo (played by John Leguizamo) gets it for its value on the black market, and he also wants to impress Kaufman.

    All Cholo wants in this post-apocalyptic world is have his spot on the luxurious Fiddler's Green building. This is the glowing spire in one of humanity's last bastions, and it comes complete with restaurants, shopping areas, and its very own Enron-esque logo. Cholo has been doing these supply runs for Kaufman, as well as taking care of his "garbage" for almost three years now, and he feels his time has come.

    The band of mercenaries return to the city with their take after losing one of their own to a zombie, Riley and his "idiot" Charlie go off to look for his ride out of town. Cholo goes off to meet with Kaufman to make his proposal for prestigious membership in Fiddler's Green. This is when he realizes that he is not good enough, and never will be good enough in Kaufman's eyes to be a part of that. Cholo manages to escape turning into "garbage" at the hands of Kaufman's goons, and decides to take his team out and steal the "Dead Reckoning" . . . a truly badass tank/truck/missile launching platform. His purpose, to have Kaufman cough up a large amount of dough in exchange for not blowing the crap out of the city.

    Meanwhile, angered by the repeated attacks by the humans, the zombies are starting to mobilize. After years of just stumbling around, they are now led by a former gas attendant only known as "Big Daddy". He leads the zombie horde to the glowing tower he sees in the distant. They are going to take the fight to the aggressors, and they learn how to overcome obstacles. They have become problem solving zombies.

    Riley in the meantime, learns his ride has been taken, tries to figure out what happened to it, and learns Kaufman is behind it, and doesn't want to let him go just yet. He's got another purpose for him, as he sends Riley out to retrieve the "Dead Reckoning" from Cholo. He reluctantly agrees, and with his ol' pal Charlie and hottie Asia Argento (the daughter of horror legend Dario Argento), they head out into the wastes to do Kaufman's dirty work . . . but is that what they truly intend on doing?

    Telling you more about this would mean wandering into spoiler territory. What you can expect from this movie is lots of zombie action, some great set pieces, and a general sense of dread mixed in with some really funny socio-political commentary. It's a bit subtle and played for laughs when it appears, but still relevant. Don't let the box office numbers fool you. When I went to see it, the theater was packed, and it was 4:15 on a Sunday afternoon. I predict this will make it's 15 million budget back by the end of next week, and I hope it does more business after that. The stage is set for at least two sequels to this that Romero is already tentatively talking about. I want my zombie action, and I want it soon. Don't miss out on this. And if you don't think it's a family movie, don't worry, I saw a fair amount of young'uns at the theater. Depending on your point of view, that could either be bad parenting . . . or pretty much the most awesome parenting known to man.

    I know I'll be taking my offspring to watch horror movies when they're three or four . . . much to my wife's future chagrin.

    Saturday, June 25, 2005

    Stood Up

    After more than two years of marriage I was almost certain that getting stood up was pretty much a thing of the past. So I wasn't ready for it when the concept reared it's ugly head last night. As you may remember (and if you don't, scroll down a couple of entries) I was all set to go watch George A. Romero's Land of The Dead last night. So, was it the wife that decided to not show up as she had promised to do so? No, she was right there with me as the showtime came and went and The Sal for some unbeknownst reason decided not to show up.

    Yes, The Sal stood us up. We had decided to all go together to this zombie flick, and as I left work Friday afternoon, I noticed him buying tickets online. I figured that I might as well get that over with so I wouldn't hassle with it later that night. I handed him a twenty and told him to get Heather and I pair while he was doing that. He said sure, and after a little confusion (The Sal - "It's not even playing at that theater man" Me-"Scroll down and look for George A Romero's" The Sal - "oh, there it is"), an agreement was made to meet up at the Paseo Colorado 14 at 10-ish. The show was at 10:10pm, and he assured me that he did this all the time. He showed up minutes prior to the movie, swiped something or other, and went into the theater.

    10:10pm comes along. The wife and I have been waiting for The Sal outside the box office area on the little metal chairs for about half an hour. He is nowhere to be seen. Ordinarily, this wouldn't have been much of a problem for me, but I had given him the ticket money, so I had techinically already paid. 10:11pm comes around and I say "Fuck it", I go to the credit card ticket dispensing machine . . . only to find it's out of commission. In fact, the whole theater's Credit Card/ATM system is down.

    So, you might be saying to yourself "There's usually 10-15 minutes of previews, did you wait for him?" We did, til 10:20, at which time, feeling pissed and thwarted, we could no longer wait for him. If there's something I hate is paying for a movie and missing the first few scenes of a movie. So we left. I don't know if he showed up after. If he did, I hope he got a refund for the extra two tix, because I'll be damned if I don't get my 20 bucks back from him on Monday when I see his ass again.

    The only fortunate thing about missing the movie though . . . validated parking. That, and the DVD zombie marathon that my wife suggested we partake in instead. She's such a trooper. Don't tell anyone, but she says she's starting to enjoy the zombie horror genre.

    *Music I listed to while coming up with this post:
    Guilty Cubicles - Broken Social Scene
    Vegas Two Times - Stereophonics
    Winding Road - Bonnie Somerville
    Hear Me Out - Frou Frou
    30 Century Man - Scott Walker
    I'm Never Bored - The Walkmen
    Against All Odds - The Postal Service
    P45 (5/4) - Gorillaz Vs Space Monkeyz

    Friday, June 24, 2005

    Ouch of The Day (6/24/05)



    I love seeing people getting hit in the face almost as much as I enjoy seeing people getting it in the groin. So, when I came across this little picture, at first, I was ecstatic . . . but then, a repressed memory arose. You see, back in the 2nd grade, during P.E., I was the victim of a soccer ball to the face. It was a very traumatic experience. And, I had been dealing with it with the help of anti-depressants (screw you Tom Cruise! *sobs*) until I eventually had no need for them. Now, the feelings have re-surfaced. If you want to help, leave me a comment. I will be taking PayPal donations to seek psychiatric help. Maybe I can get Brooke Shields' shrink to prescribe me some Paxil.

    And no, this isn't a ploy to extract money from you through pity . . . . or is it? Mwahahahaha . . . .

    Tom Cruise, PhD

    I don't know how is it that actors can get it in their heads that they know more than the medical society. Take Tom Cruise for example. This guy, who was diagnosed with dislexia, pretty much failed at high school, and didn't go through with his initial desire to be a priest, spoke out about anti-depressants on the Today Show on NBC. I didn't watch it, since I work during the day, but I just went through the transcript of the interview . . . and let me tell you, it's pure entertainment.

    Matt Lauer asks Tom about the remarks that he had made concerning Brooke Shields' post-partum depression and the way she used whatever anti-depressant that was prescribed to her to help her deal with it. He is totally against it. He believes psychology/psychiatry is a sham, a pseudo-science, and believes that it "masks the problem". Tom goes on to say that he's studied all these drugs. He doesn't mention which studies he's researched. My money's on the fact that they might have been written by some Scientologist kooks, and that bet would probably be even money in Vegas.

    The thing is, he's so passionate about it. You can read in the link below how he talks over Lauer and just won't listen to reason. His mind is made up. He's Tom Cruise, and he knows better than your doctors. He's done the research. Great. I feel safe now.

  • MSNBC Transcript
  • Land of The Dead

    I can't wait. I'm going to go watch this movie tonight. I don't know how I managed to convince the wife, who is an unabashed wuss when it comes to anything remotely scary, to go to it with me. I'm offering up my arm, and will have plenty of band-aids on hand for the eventual clawing that I will have to endure. But it will be worth it. I have been waiting with great anticipation for the continuation of George A. Romero's zombie opus, and this one seems to be almost as good as Dawn of The Dead was. Not the remake with the fast zombies, but the 70's version.

    And what is it with fast zombies? How the hell did everyone become a sprinter upon the reanimation of their corpses. Sure, they can be somewhat scary, and provide jump scares. But jump scares are the "dime-a-dozen" variety in Hollywood, closely followed by the "blurred figure walking in front of camera as the person in the background turns toward it and barely misses it" scare. I hate that. Not because it scares me, but because it's incredibly cheap and contrived.

    I will most likely provide a review of this during the weekend. I have to say, it will be positive. No, I'm not setting myself for disappointment . . . Romero is just that good when it comes to the genre he helped cement. I recommend you watch it along with the rest of the horror fans this weekend. What other options do you have? Bewitched?? EL OH EL.

    Dukes of Hazzard Opening Pulled Over

    Apparently there has been a court order to delay the opening of the Jessica Simpson star vehicle "The Dukes of Hazzard" due to some copyright issues with another movie called "Moonrunners" that opened in 1975. This was apparently the inspiration for the television show, which is the inspiration for this 2005 release.

    I know you're saying to yourself now "Jessica Simpson star vehicle?? It's starring those other two dudes". Yeah yeah, I know they're there, but they're really irrelevant. Anyone putting down 10 to 13 bucks (times two if they duped their better halves to attend as well) is just paying to see Simpson walking around, bending over, sitting on tables and jumping around in the Daisy Duke short shorts. Never mind that this is being directed by one of the Broken Lizard guys (who did great work on Super Troopers & Club Dread). Below is the link that'll take you to the Superficial website that's got a screen cap of the actual court document. The document that, and I kid you not, states that Jessica Simpson IS extremely hot. That's right, it's now legal. Someone hand Ashlee a paper bag.

  • The Superficial
  • Thursday, June 23, 2005

    Ouch of The Day (6/23/05)



    What a poor dumb-bell . . ha, get it, a weight lifting pun. Oh man, I'm on fire today. Anyway, this poor sap seems to have bitten a little more than he could have ever dreamed to chew. I don't know how lifting heavy things became a sport. There isn't even a ball involved. That's a requirement right? There has to be some sort of round object that you toss/kick/bounce for something to be called a sport. Otherwise, competitive chess could be called a sport. Actually, in recent years, there's been a dilution of the term. How else could you explain the Spelling Bee Nationals popping up on ESPN. I like watching children being driven by the greed of their parents, but don't make it seem like it's a sport. It isn't. They're spelling. It's like a televised homework assignment. Back to this guy though. The one thing he can be grateful of, is that this picture is in black and white. It makes his pain seem a little more artistic.

    Coffee Pot-ty

    The office coffee is a wonderful thing. It really is the only thing that I have come across with that will kick my bowels into high gear. All I need is a cup or two of that black muck and half an hour later, I've lost a couple of pounds worth of excrement. It really is a beautifully effective laxative. Works much faster than if you were popping poopy-inducing pills, and there's never that weak in the knees feeling associated with medicated crapfests.

    I'm just trying to figure out what company provides us with the this veritable ex-lax of coffee. The stuff we brew at home does not have the same effect on me. I can drink (not that I would) seven cups at home and really not feel the urge to redecorate the inside of my toilet with a brown motif.

    I don't want you to think that I am fond of pooping or poop related activities. I am, after all, not German. Shize movies don't float my boat. But you do have to agree with me that a good crap can be a rewarding experience. So, if you've been feeling constipated, feel free to message me. I won't send you a sample of the freshly ground stuff . . . but I'll make sure to drop a log in your honor.

    The Way to Win the War


    You want a quick and speedy resolution to the whole Iraq/Afghanistan fiasco . . that venerable mess-o-potamia. Have the government drop millions of issues of the current GQ magazine with the cover pictured above. One look at Jessica Simpson in that red/white/blue bikini flashing the peace sign . . . and the insurgents would finally understand the "American Way" of life. Seriously, if I were stuck in a spider-hole somewhere in Iraq, and one of my unwashed insurgent pals trotted along with this particular issue, I'd gladly put down my AK-74 assault rifle and just give up to the military occupying my nation . . . just so that I could attend a USO show where "Mrs Chicken of The Sea" is performing at. Then I could enjoy some Buffalo Wings (not made from actual buffalos) with her and embrace capitalism while signing up for multiple credit card applications and changing my name from Ahmed to Andy.

    Wednesday, June 22, 2005

    Ouch of The Day (6/22/05)



    I don't really know where to start with this one. It seriously is very painful looking. If it were me in that situation, I'd just tell them to end it. Put a gun up to my skull and pull the trigger. Even if they successfully removed my face from the wrought iron fence . . . i would still have to live with this hole/scar on the bottom portion of my face/neck. Me, being the incredibly good looking (html://run_sarcasm_generator) would find this to be a fate worse than death itself. It is of interest to note that there is a guy that's about the weld the kid free of his extreme piercing. I just hope he covered his eyes. I would hate to have that protruding from my head and then get a spark in the eye.

    Screw The Trendy Whores



    No, this isn't the Ouch of The Day entry. Although, it is pretty painful to look at. What happened to Courtney Love? I mean, her face has always looked like it had been beaten to a pulp during her pre-Kurt Cobain stripping years, but at least she was keeping the rest of her body in some sort of a fit state. I had heard her ramble on and on about some yoga this, and yoga that. Now, it looks like there's an IV of yogurt permanently attached to her while she's not in the public eye. Which leads to something like this. Wow. It is almost refreshing though, to see Courtney bucking the "barely there" trend that's popular with Hollywood's eliterati. Her Camryn Manheim-iness here is like a big "Fuck You" to that. But, it's still an eyesore. We're going to need more than one paper bag for this one.

    Blog News

    Some recent developments I'd like to point out here regarding this little here dog and pony show. The addition of the "crisp ads" right under the google ads right below the index on the right hand of the page. Click on these, as they seem to provide much more revenue than the google ones. I have no idea why. I had faith in google, but whatever, they're still there, just cause I like the pretty green ads, and they've finally moved from hocking Basset Hound related products to other things of interest.

    Also, added to the link page are a couple of sites of noteworthiness. Jenn's Craft Corner, my sister in law's site. If you need something craft related to decorate your kid's (legitimate or illegitimate) living environs, then check it out. Also added is the link to my ex-roommate's Las Vegas rental properties page. Looks like you can rent a condo right on the strip from her. It's at the Jockey Club, which I've had the pleasure to stay at (the hotel, not her condo) . . and it's right in the middle of the southern portion of the strip. Prime location, check it out. Tell her I sent you her way . . . it might (can't stress the word "might" enough) get you a discount, or a price hike. I don't know.

    Also trying to keep the "Ouch of the Day" a daily feature, except for weekends. I'm not a damn machine. But expect that to make it's painful appearance every weekday. Also trying to incorporate a "Drunk" of the week feature here, which will showcase drunkedness at it's best. I don't want to commit to a daily post about this, so I'm going the weekly route with it. Let me know if you have any other suggestions about content. The comment link is there for a reason. Use it.

    The Culprit

    I don't get how Nicole Richie has been in pictorials for not only Maxim, but Stuff as well . . . well, now that I think about it, since Stuff is Maxim's dumber (and that's saying a lot) sister mag, it's starting to make sense. But, the point is, who finds her to be flogging-the-bishop-worthy? I don't know how exactly it is that she managed to ride the coat tails of her better looking ex-best friend Paris Hilton, but she's here now, and doing damage.

    What damage? What is she the culprit of? Well, as you may have read in an earlier post, she ruined Lindsay Lohan. I guess Nicole had been wanting to lose weight, since she looked like a cow during the first couple of seasons of The Simple Life.



    It wasn't terrible, I guess she just looked like a normal person compared to the rail thin Hilton. Then, she started hitting the coke. Went to rehab, befriended the Lohan, and then got back on the coke apparently. If you don't believe me, check out one of the latest pictures of her.



    Lohan claims that it was diet, exercise, and stress that caused her weight loss. I think being the friend of Richie led to this. So, thank you Nicole. No really, thank you, it's not everyday that one can out stick-figure one of the Hiltons. You deserve a special medal or commendation. We'll just have someone carry it for you though. It doesn't look like your newly improved fragile frame can handle the extra couple of ounces that medal would weigh.

    Clutch Job

    Why is it that automotive repairs cost so much? It feels that with every single little repair or adjustment you need to make to your car that you need to sign away your first born, or give up the proverbial arm and a leg. It really is outrageous. I have this car that needs a new clutch. It's actually needed a new clutch for about 15 thousand miles by now. That's when I noticed the awful grinding noise it made whenever I shifted from 1st to 2nd gear.

    At that time, it was still barely under warranty. So I took it to the dealer to get it looked at. I figured, these guys sold me the car, they should be able to take care of this for me. The guy there was a real prick. I inquired why the clutch had given out so soon . . . it was only about 50 thousand miles. He replies "Oh, I can go through a clutch in 10 thousand". Thanks buddy, what you have told me essentially is that: a)Ford clutches are shit and b) you can't drive for shit. So, he gives me the rough estimate. Parts + labor are going to set me back close to a grand and much to my chagrin, this isn't covered by my warranty. Apparently, I had not opted for a "wear & tear" option when I bought the car. It wasn't even made available to me then, the guy that finalized the details never said anything about it.

    I drove off the dealership, no repair, took it to a garage, see what they would charge. These guys were just a little cheaper, but they still put the estimate at around 800 bucks. I figure, this is as good as it's going to get. But, the great procrastinator that I am, I kept putting it off and putting it off and now we are at this point, 15 thousand miles later. The fortunate thing is that The Sal hooked me up with his clutch guy. He's going to take the job for around 500 - 550 bucks, depending if I have a single or double cam. . . . beats the shit out of me what I got under the hood. But that is way better than the sloppy diarreah piece of crap dealership estimate . . and even better than the slightly more solid piece of crap estimate that garage gave me.

    It's still 500+ bucks though. I could really use that money for something else. But it's going down the automotive drain. Hopefully I can get another 50 thousand miles out this clutch. I'll tell you this though . . . I ain't buying Ford ever again.

    *Music I listed to while coming up with this entry:
    Knock Yourself Out - Jon Brion
    Lola Stars and Stripes - The Stills
    Time to Build - Beastie Boys
    Ego Tripping At The Gates of Hell - The Flaming Lips
    Cinders And Smoke - Iron And Wine
    London Halflife - Metric
    On The Table - A.C. Newman

    Tuesday, June 21, 2005

    Ouch of The Day (6/21/05)



    This is a review of an earlier post. You may remember the woman falling into the trapdoor . . . truly classic. But, I learned my hot-linking lesson, as the link failed due to some unforseen circumstance. Therefore, I have replaced it with this little beauty of a picture. I don't know why people think they can tussle with a bull without getting the horn. Especially when they're wearing thin little tights. Where's the riot gear? The kevlar? A helmet maybe? Not that little bun looking hat that bullfighters use. Ridiculous. I guess this guy got what he deserved. It's a "bull stab guy in the ass" world out there. . . . I would have done the same in if I were a bovine in trouble.

    Lindsay . . . What Happened??

    Remember that little redheaded girl from the Parent Trap remake Disney put out all those years ago. The one that grew up and starred in yet another remake, this time getting into the Jodie Foster Freaky Friday role. Everything was great, she was blossoming into a really pretty girl. Not into one of those stick figure Hollywood types. Pictured below is Lindsay about a year ago.


    And then . . . BAM! She changes. I guess hanging out with cokehead Nicole Ritchie can do that to someone. Maybe the former porker introduced Lohan, who might have wanted to shed a couple of vanity pounds, to her diet of choice. Diet pills and lines of cocaine. I don't see any other way in which a healthy looking woman can go from the pictured above, to the what she looks like below. She claims it's exercise and stress. The truth is, the only way to drop the amount of weight seemingly overnight is to lose a limb to amputation. Maybe that's where her breasts ended up on . . . the chopping block.


    So Lindsay, please, put down the diet pills, pick up a hamburger, and take a bite. You're effectively killing the wet dream of thousands of young boys all around the United States with this self-emaciation. I just hope this isn't Fez's fault.

    Trends in Reality TV

    When did reality TV go wrong. It would seem like there would be a nearly inexhaustible amount of unscripted television out there for producers in Hollywood to make tons of money on. Yet, they seem to have run out of ideas . . . good ones at least. I keep catching promos while channel surfing for things that really make me do a double-take, things that leave me scratching my head wondering "Someone actually pitched that idea to a network exec, and they actually went for it?"

    For an example, we've got this gem on the air called "Dancing With The Stars". This seriously is a show where B-level "stars" pair up with world "renown" ballroom dancers to compete in weekly dance offs. I know, it's ridiculous, and the most shocking thing is it's doing great ratings. People go through their week in anticipation of DWTS (title abrev), When things like this happen, Networks jump on the band wagon, eager to make a mint from advertisers. This is why FOX will be coming out in the fall with something . . . and I kid you not . . . called "Ice-Skating With The Stars" (or something to that effect). Same premise of DWTS, but on ice. At this point in time, if I want to watch any B-level celebs, I'd much rather welcome the return of Celebrity Boxing.

    I can see how the success of one program can lead to copycats. Take your "Nanny 911"/"Supernanny" shows.Then there's "Wifeswap"/Trading Spouses". They're all terrible shows, but now we have them multiplied by a factor of two. It seriously is infuriating when I'm looking for quality scripted televised programming and the channels are clogged with this.

    Although, as bad as the previous shows listed are (or might be), they don't hold a candle to the televised dreck that is "Chaotic; Britney and Kevin" . . or whatever it's called. A show were we are asked during the opening sequence if we can handle Britney Spears' "truth". Yeah, she actually posits this query . . . and then we're subjected to her holding a mini DV cam and going through her day . . which includes (in no particular order): "fooling" the viewer into thinkning that her knees are her boobs, coming to terms with the fact that someone farted in a car, asking her backup dancers what their favorite sexual positions are (only to cut away when the question is turned around on her . . fucking hypocrite), and being interviewed trying to look her best . . . which, these days isn't great. Thank you Kevin Federline. I mean, Britney wasn't a genius, but she at least looked decent enough, now she looks like the trailer trash that she genetically was predetermined to become.

    And then there's the Paris Hilton phenomena. There seriously have been three different seasons of the "Simple Life". They have all been rating successes. I don't know why America likes to watch a slut doing her best to mortify her parents. She says she's playing a character. A (in her words) "Clueless meets Legally Blonde" character. She should fire whatever publicist came up with that, 'cause it's not working. You're not fooling me Hilton. You may be filthy rich, but at least I have the satisfaction of knowing that Walmart is not the wall store. Idiot. And that cokehead Nicole Ritchie . . . don't get me started on her. She broke Lindsey Lohan (more on that later). See, nothing good can come from reality television.

    So, I propose a moratorium on all new reality televised programs. Networks, please start working. Don't just hand a camera to any idiot and slap it on the TV. Actually take the time to come up with something original, insightful, full of suspense, comedy, and drama. That's what America needs. It may want "reality tv", but what it needs is quality. I just hope it doesn't come to "Trading Britney and Kevin's Chaotic Super Nanny 911 with the Stars on Ice". That is the day when I officially turn my television off . . . and it's not coming back on.

    *Music I listened to while coming up with this entry:
    Almost Crimes -Broken Social Scene
    Missing - Beck
    Endgame - Rogue Wave
    The Falls - French Kicks
    Rich - Yeah Yeah Yeahs
    Caramel - Suzanne Vega
    Talking Shit About A Pretty Sunset - Modest Mouse
    I Wonder - The Willowz

    Monday, June 20, 2005

    Confusion

    Can someone, who knows just exactly how these google ads work, let me know what it is that I have to do to maintain the revenue stream. Some days, there are more ad impressions but generate not a single penny compared to days when there are way less impressions. I need an answer. While I may be handy with a keyboard, I have no understanding of this ad phenomena. I just want to know if I'm doing something wrong, if the template is flawed in any way, or if it's just plain ol' broken.

    I don't want you to think that I'm doing this for money. Ok, maybe a little. But I ain't looking to get rich. I just want to know that I am doing it right. That's all. So, anyone that may have tips on how to work this, leave a comment, send an e-mail, think really hard about it. My latent telepathic skills might just kick in and we might be able to communicate over the mindscape.

    Ouch of The Day (6/20/05)



    This is why I don't set foot in a soccer field. Not one of the main reasons, there is a combination of things that come into play. First off, I don't like shorts. Second, I'm not a fan of running non-stop for ninety minutes. Third, this type of thing pictured above happens way too often. Just look at the face on the poor sap. That is pain. The only thing he can be grateful is that it's not a cleat that is grinding into his beanbag. This must be why this sport is so popular around the world. The sadist fans must waiting for this type of thing to happen.

    The State of Islam

    I have to say, that the current state of the Nation of Islam is crazy. Simplistic, maybe, but from what I've been hearing about it, that's all I can come up with. If I were a follower of Islam, I would think long and hard about just what kind of religious fanatics I'm following. At this point in time, it'd be safer to follow the Church of Chucky Cheese than Islam.

    In case you're not in the know, a couple of things have surfaced that have made me doubt the sanity of the ones in charge of running this "nation". First off, they really do believe that the White Man was the end product of a black scientist's experiment gone awry. Seriously, it's funny because it's true. I always knew that the white man was a little frankenstein-ish looking, with their akward dancing moves, general social stiffness and lack of understanding of rythm. That's #1.

    The second thing that has piqued my interest in the Nation of Islam is the fact that they have banned Pokemon. No one who is part of this religion can watch the animated antics of Ash Ketchum and the brightly colored fantasy pokemon. Why? Simple, it's a ploy by the jews to keep them under control of course. No shit. Why didn't I think of that? Yes, the gathering of pokemon in an effort to be the best is interpreted by Islam as the greedy jews who are searching to capture and then use them as slaves. Even Pikachu isn't safe, as they claim that what he actually says is "Pick a Jew". Wow, and I thought them Catholics were crazy.

    So, this goes out to the Nation of Islam . . . . Hey Crazy, quit acting so insane. You're making the rest of us feel a little wary. Quit it will ya. Asalamalakin(sp??) my brotha.

    Saturday, June 18, 2005

    BuMu Defined

    I don't know (or care really) if this term has already been coined by someone else, but I'm claiming it as my own. What is BuMu you say? The Sal offered an interesting guess. Bukkake Under Moving Umbrellas. Interesting The Sal. I will have to keep my umbrella away from you. He is, as usual, wrong. BuMu is actually short for Butt Mucus.

    "Ew, like, what's butt mucus?" says the valley girl in the backrow. Well, it's the end result of diarreah. Most people think that this gastro-intestinal condition only leads to sloppy shit. The kind that burns your brown-eye on the way out. This is partly correct. The thing is, what happens when you don't have any left? When you're shit out of . . . shit? This is when a clear substance starts pouring out of your ass. People who have experienced explosive diarreah will know what I'm talking about. For the four other people out there . . well, consider yourselves lucky.

    Next time you purchase a burrito from a roach-coach, think real and hard about how well it was prepared. Most of those places don't have the handy dandy grading system that most reputable eating establishments have. Yes, the food might be great (usually is), but it might also lead to BuMu. Which, in itself is humorous, if you're not the one going through the BuMu experience.

    I think I'm going to start a line of clothing. Kinda like FuBu, but with a fancy BuMu logo on it. Nothing pretentious, just clothes that fit like they're actually supposed to. It can be a counter-hip-hop movement. The thing is, the whole line would be the same color. A little off-white. Think about it. I need investors. Call me.

    Friday, June 17, 2005

    Ouch of The Day (6/17/05)



    I'm starting to think that track & field is more dangerous than I had previously imagined. With the previous "Ouch" post spotlighting the dumb blond getting plowed (and not in the good way) by that black long jumper, and now this poor fella with the broken shin . . . it's a wonder how the Olympics are still going on. If it were me there, with the dangly lower leg, I would have sued the Olympic Commission for millions of dollars for . . . umm . . . creating an environment prone to cause physical injuries. Now, all I would need is to hire Michael Jackson's attorney (since Johnnie Cochran is in hell right now), and I'm golden. What was his name again? Messe-something-or-other?

    30 Days

    I watched this little program on the FX channel a couple of days ago. I had been waiting for it since I saw a commercial for it and instantly recognized the guy behind the premise. Morgan Spurlock. You may remember his little documentary called "Supersize Me". Great stuff. So I wondered if he could continue pumping out quality viewing material. Glad to say that, yes, he can.

    What is this about though? 30 Days of what? Well, the premise is simple. Someone spends 30 days in the shoes of someone very unlike themselves. For the pilot of the show, Morgan and his fiancee decide to go through making minimum wage together for a month. They start off with a week's pay each (which @ 5.15/hr in the state of Ohio equals out to just over two hundred bucks . . before taxes). They pick Ohio for a reason. Low minimum wage rate, and the fact that this state has suffered thousands of job closings in the past few years.

    The pair manage to get themselves an apartment in a rough part of town. They have no furniture, are not able to give the landlord the security deposit, and promise to pay him later on that month. They head out to find themselves some unskilled labor positions, the fiancee ending up washing dishes at a coffee shop and Morgan turning to a staffing agency that pays him daily. I thought getting a weekly check was frequent, I've never heard of daily checks. It's not much though, his payments don't usually go past the $50/day mark.

    It's fairly interesting to see people try to manage things when they're out of their element. This is true reality. The first episode showcases a side of life which I have been through, but have easily forgotten once getting past that stage. It's does make me think though. How the hell did I manage on just about that much money when I was single and living on my own, and now that I make a fair amount more, I'm barely scraping by? Thank you credit cards. Haha!

    Anyway, the show is entertaining and informative at the same time. Totally unscripted, so you're getting slice of life stuff, but not in the "are you sure that's not a scripted situation" Real World on MTV style. Check it out on the FX channel Wednesdays @ 10pm. If you catch Fox's The Inside @ 9pm before that . . then you've got yourself two hours of solid television entertainment.

    Pop yo' Colla'

    I may be a little late on bashing the "Pop yo' Colla'" trend, but I feel the need to put my 2 cents in. I don't get it. Is it cold where these Colla' popping youths are? If so, why can't they buy a jacket? And where did this originate from? I vaguely remember a hip-hop ditty (am I really that old that I just said "ditty"?) talking, 'cause rappers don't sing, about it. But if so, why is it that white suburbanite teens are embracing the concept? So many questions.

    Anyway, I tried doing this. My wife pointed, then proceeded to laugh at, and finally threatened to never sleep with me again if I kept my collar up. So, I did what every sane man would, and folded my polo shirt's collar to it's pre-determined position. The loss of sex is not worth me popping my collar. I enjoy the first way more than the latter.

    So kids, what's the deal? Are the young girls in your high school enamoured with the look? That's really the only reasonable explanation I'm coming up with. I mean, I would have done anything for chicks back during my middle-high school days. Seriously, if the hotties had asked me to wear a tuttu and fringe socks to school in exchange for a raucous orgy with them . . . I would have done it. No hesitation. So that's got to be why these guys are doing it. If so, then godspeed my young brothers. As the old adage says "You got to do what you got to do".

    Thursday, June 16, 2005

    Shake Shake Shake

    An earthquake just hit Pasadena right now. Don't really know where the epicenter was, but this is the 2nd one that hit the general vicinity (I felt a tremor Sunday morning as well). Anyway, it's always humorous to hear the reactions of people around here, like one of the supervisors screaming frantically "GET UNDER YOUR DESKS! GET UNDER YOUR DESKS!"

    It just made me laugh, since this really didn't feel like a strong one. A tad on the dramatic side. What did she think this was? The Day After Tomorrow? In any case, I did not scurry under my desk like a simpering fool. I sat back on my thousand dollar ergonomic lumbar supporting desk chair, and enjoyed the shake-up. Kinda felt like those massaging chairs in the mall, but all to brief.

    I'm no seismologist, but I've been through a few 'quakes. Growing up on the Pacific Coast of South America, you get used to these things. I'm not saying that they happen every day down there, but seriously, it's no big deal. Now, if I were working in Japan, then I'd be worried. I don't know how those little guys deal with their seismic activity. You get used to it I guess. Which is what I'm advising to the frantic supervisor . . . Get used to it. You'll look like less of a fool if you start acting calmly next time one of these things hit.

    True Story, I Shit You Not

    About four years ago, while dating a friend of my sister's, partying was officially killed for me. It was a very abrupt and somewhat akward situation. What happened? Well, sit tight. If you're currently eating something, I suggest you put it aside for the duration of the story. The details can get a bit on the nauseating side. I'm warning you now.

    Ok, still with us? Great. So as I said, this was four years ago, and dating a girl who's name I have already forgotten. "Merely a footnote in Jaime's long and storied love life" you must be thinking. Actually, I'm just not great with names. Moving on, a gathering had, for lack of better words, gathered at her parents' house. These parents were extremely cool with their daughter's partying habits. Heck, on occassion, they joined in. Never when I was around, but I had heard tall tales of a drunken bearded dad performing crazy and amusing stunts for her friends.

    This particular night, they had turned in pretty early, and there was a group of no more than ten or so people there. The only reason I was there was 'cause I wanted to spend time with my then girlfriend. The night progresses without incident until this asian kid gets a hold of a bottle of Bacardi 151. Think about it, 151 proof rum + asian kid surely would not make a great combination. Someone tried to talk some sense into this guy, but he rationalized it by retelling an account in which he had drank a whole bottle of regular Bacardi rum in the span of a couple of hours. That, plus the fact that this guy was already half-wasted formed an incredible defense against logic. So, we couldn't persuade this guy from grabbing the 1/4 full bottle as he then proceeded to chug straight from the thing like he was a baby sucking on his mama's teat.

    We shook our heads collectively, and left the guy alone. We figured that he would pass out eventually and he'd just have a really excruciating headache the next day. I lose track of him for the next hour or so, while the alcohol in my system makes me just that more gregarious and willing to interact with the party-goers. I'm normally reserved and don't cut loose unless I'm with people that have known me for a long time. But, I'm doing ok at this party. The consumption of alcohol is also having a different effect on me. I have to piss like a russian racehorse. I make my way to the bathroom, and try to open door, but to my surprise, something is blocking it.

    I raise my voice a bit and ask "Hey, anyone in there?". A groan, and then nothing. I wonder who's in there, so I apply a little extra pressure to the the door and it starts opening. I notice that I am pushing someone's feet with the door. I finally get the door open enough so that I can survey the situation. What I see there is something that I really did not expect, and up until that point, had never seen.

    It was the asian kid, kneeled in the "I just vomited position", but it would appear that prior to this, he had been sitting on the porcelain throne as his pants were around his knees. The smell hits my nostrils a second later, as I find out why this guy had his pants around his knees. There is a pool of liquified shit on the floor, and he's kneeling in it. My brain rushes to make sense of what was going on. I come up with the most rational explanation: he had been feeling sick, diarreah pains had made him rush to the toilet, where he sat down, then had the feeling to vomit and decided to do that first. After finishing that, he had intended to sit back down on the toilet, but had passed out instead. This led him, in that position, to crap all over the floor.

    I close the door and rush to my then girlfriend. I say to her "I think there's something you should see" and pull her towards the bathroom. There, she notices her friend, passed out in a pool of his own shit. Looks like this guy had gotten off his kneeled position while I went to fetch her, and now was sitting in his own poop. We hoist up the kid, and get him out to the backporch, where a couple of people start to help him out of his shit covered clothing. At this point, I go into "Best Boyfriend Ever" mode, as I return to the bathroom with plastic bags on my hands and a fresh roll of paper towels . . . and actually clean up the bio-mess. I do this without any nausea (although I should have, I was somewhat intoxicated). If you are ever faced with the task of cleaning up anothers doo-doo, I suggest you don't breath through your nose. That, and pretend it's not actually rectum-chocolate shake. Once you get past the smell and the psychological hurdles, it's really easy.

    So, at this point you might be saying "that was horrible", but it doesn't end there. You see, someone had to be with this guy while he took a shower to clean off the crap that had gotten on him. I didn't volunteer for this without any reservations. Yes, I was reluctant, but I was at this point, extremely sober, and the most logical choice to go in there with this moron. I turned on the shower for him, led him into the tub, pulled the curtain, and sat right outside making sure this idiot didn't slip and conk himself into a coma. After that, I helped him dry off while averting my eyes from his junk. We got him downstairs, lay him down on a couch after we dressed him in some of her dad's shorts and t-shirt. His shitty clothes were bagged and left out on the backporch. She covered him up with a blanket, and this guy went off to sleep.

    But, my job was not over. Someone had to be there to make sure that halfway through the early morning hours, he didn't choke on a fresh batch of vomit. Guess who had the dubious honor. Yeah, if you guessed yours truly, then you get a cookie. I sat there, in an arm-chair next to the couch, reading a magazine and watching over this retard. I'm such a nice guy right? I didn't do it out of concern for him though. I did it because my then girlfriend was tired and wanted to go to sleep, and everyone else that was spending the night also wanted to go to sleep, so that left me as the defacto caretaker of this idiot. I did it. It wasn't fun, but someone had to do it.

    The moral of the story, because there always is one . . . . If you're asian, and think you can handle your liquor, you can't. If I ever see an asian guy/girl pick up a bottle of 151 I will smack it out of their hand and tell him/her this story as a cautionary tale. Oh, and that girlfriend of mine, whatever happened to her you're asking. The bitch broke up with me a couple of weeks later. Something about not being ready for something serious. I had cleaned up shit for this girl, and this is what she tells me. Whatever. Women (except for you honey) are no damn good.

    *Music I listened to while coming up with this entry:
    Jenny - Stellastar
    The Backseat - The Arcade Fire
    Little House of Savages - The Walkmen
    Rebel Rebel - Seu Jorge
    Close Your Eyes - Bebel Gilberto
    Auf Asche - Franz Ferdinand
    Bossa Nova - Shivaree
    Helicopter - Bloc Party
    I Believe in Symmetry - Bright Eyes
    Approaching Pavonis Mons By Balloon - The Flaming Lips
    Don't Go Down - Elliot Smith
    Jacqueline - Franz Ferdinand
    Paul Newman's Eyes - Dogs Die In Hot Cars

    Wednesday, June 15, 2005

    Microbe-phobes

    I don't understand why people think they need to slip into a biohazard suit to go to the bathroom where I work. The bathrooms are constantly cleaned by the cleaning crew (they should be the ones in airtight suits). Despite this, I always notice guys either performing difficult acrobatics to open the door with their feet or wrapping 10 yards of tissue around their hands to avoid contact with the dreaded door handle.

    Have we become such pussies that we cringe at the mere thought that there might be bacteria on the door handle to the bathroom? Seriously though, there is most likely bacteria on the paper ass-gasket you sit on when you're taking a dump. Oh yeah, bacteria is everywhere. It's at your cubicle station, on your clothes, in your stomach breaking down the food you just ate, everywhere! Heck, your epidermis is a feasting ground for microscopic mites who eat away your dead skin.

    All this microbe-phobia is leading to stronger and more resistent bacterial/viral/etc strains. Thank you to all the morons who purchase the "New and Improved" anti-bacterial soaps who can't go on without their hourly hand-washing. Thanks to you hypochondriacs, we're all going to die a more horrible death at the hands (well, whatever bacteria uses to attach itself to us) of these feared organisms.

    But hey, if it makes you feel better, go ahead and gargle with that anti-bacterial concoction of yours. Keep opening doors with your hand wrapped in paper. I'm a man, and I will act accordingly. You clean freaks can all succumb to whatever new mutation is out there for all I care. I'll just shrug off whatever microbial threat comes my way.

    The Samurai Sal

    The Sal is a freaking maniac. Quite the claim you might be thinking right. Well, you would share the same sentiment if you had seen him come to work on monday with four bladed weapons. Yeah, not one . . . two even . . . a menage a trois of blades? Not enough for The Sal. He brought four. Now, you must be thinking "The man needs his pocket knives". And, I would agree with you. The thing is, he came to the office with two samurai swords and two pirate daggers. Arrrr!

    The fact that The Sal is a maniac only affects me marginally though. I'm kinda glad he is, and I feel totally safe within the cloth covered walls of my cubicle. They are so secure. Ha! No, actually, I feel safe due to the fact that, say . . . the aliens were to decide to launch a full on attack (this is after the Zombie Uprising) on the City of Pasadena (aliens . . . start with the courthouse) I could just borrow one of the Katanas and put up some sort of a fight.

    I know, that against ray beams and disintegrator lasers, a sword won't do much. But I'd rather have something than nothing. Plus, the stapler I have in my desk won't be of much help. I give credit to Swingline for making a fine stapling apparatus, but it's not appropriate for killing aliens. No, the sword would grant me an iota of security. At least until we could make it to a National Guard Armory (Glendale, I'm looking at you) so we could raid it for weapons. I would keep the sword though, if only for how completely badass I would look like with an M16A1 with a 40MM M203 granade launcher combo and the sword strapped to my belt. Yeah, I'll give you a few seconds to picture it.

    Now, this is all depending on whether or not the aliens attack. It's your move little green men . . . I've thrown down the gauntlet . . . bring it on.

    *Music I listened to while coming up with this entry:
    Love's Secret - Michael Whalen
    Sweet Religion - Imogen Heap
    Close Your Eyes - The Chemical Brothers
    Sound of Terror - The Von Bondies
    Build That Wall - Aimee Mann
    Neighborhood #3 (Power Out) - The Arcade Fire

    Tuesday, June 14, 2005

    Advertising

    I know, I know. I'm a sell-out. Whatever. I'm shaking my fist at the Man while the other hand is held out letting the loose change fall into it. My editorial integrity is compromised. Blah blah blah. The thing is, if I can get paid for the amount of people that visit my little corner on the internet, then why shouldn't I?

    So, if you look to your right, there will be some google text ads under the "I power Blogger" button. Click on those . . . a lot. Do a "brotha (from a different motha) a solid". Most of the time, the ads are context sensitive, so they will have some sort of bizarre relevance to one of the latest posts. So, when you take a look at that google ad, it might be ads for advertising? Or Brothas from different Mothas. I don't know, it's all random.

    I might be adding more of those throughout the page. Write comments in the comment field if you do/don't like them (the posts or the ads). Whatever. Feedback is feedback. And so, this ends the semi-serious portion of the blog . . . Enjoy.

    Nothing Sadder

    In my lifetime, I don't think I've come across nothing sadder than my dog, Squishy, sneezing. Yes, my dog sneezing is one of the, if not the most, saddest thing I've ever come across. Let me explain. He is a Basset Hound, and just the look on his face when he's fine is sad. You can't help but hunker down and pet his head and try to avoid his licking. Everyone loves that dog. People will say hello to him on the street and not look at me at all and then continue on their merry way. So, that's how he is when he's not gripped by a fit of sneezing. When he does, he smacks his face on the ground every single time.

    Yes, imagine if you smacked your nose on the ground every time you "achoo'd". Heck, if someone flicks my nose I get that "I need to sneeze" feeling. So, I'm guessing so does he, which leads to yet another sneeze, and another. It's a truly viscious cycle. Sometimes, I notice blood on the ground. He gives himself bloody noses. He just can't control the sneezing fits, and being so low to the ground, he can't control his head and where it comes crashing down on. Whenever I can, I'm out there, to hold his head while he's going at it. But I can't be there the whole time. I have work, a wife to attend to (if you know what I mean *wink wink*) and other things that keep me occupied.

    Now, you must be saying: "That's the saddest thing you've seen??". Yeah asshole. It is. Apart from me being extremely attached to my pup (not in a bestialistic way though, perv), I really can't think of anything that I've come across that is sadder. Those commercials with the Ethiopian babies covered in gnats comes to mind, or the wasting away of a loved one by a crippling disease. Those I would assume could be sadder. The thing is, I have not experienced those. My condolensces if you have (I'm guessing not many gnat-covered Ethiopian youths are reading this though).

    The good news is that it has stopped for now. Maybe I could get Sally Struthers to start up an Anti Basset Hound Sneezing charity. You could watch the half hour-long infomercials at 4:30AM after a long night of drinking or partaking in your vice of choice. More people could be informed of this terrible plight. There would be stock-footage of various Bassets in different stages of sneezing to tug at your drunken heartstrings. If anything, it could be a form of sick entertainment for the more perverse. This, of course, is only a pipe dream, as I could never hope to afford feeding Sally Struthers during the shoot of the infomercial. That woman (Sally the Hutt?) is huge. She would consume my refridgerator (appliance and all) in a few seconds, and then diva her way out the gig because I couldn't meet her demand for 30 cases of Ho-Ho's and 20 cases of Devil Dogs.

    For now, the plight of the sneezing Squishy will go unsolved. That is, unless you the reader can make a difference.

    *Music I listened to while coming up with this entry:
    Home is Where You Hang Yourself - Her Space Holiday
    Half the Fun - Snow Patrol
    El Caminos In The West - Grandaddy
    True Mathematics - Ladytron
    Endless Shovel - Rogue Wave
    Just Travelling Through - The Thrills
    Y Control - Yeah Yeah Yeah's
    Under Pressure - Queen w/David Bowie (not the crap covers that came out this year)

    Monday, June 13, 2005

    Full Contact Sleeping

    I don't know if sleeping has ever been more of an adventure for me. I share a bed with my wife (no 50's-style separate twin beds for us). Now, you might be expecting this to be a sex-filled post, since I am sure you noticed the words "full" and "contact" in the title. That's not what I'm going to discuss today (you can start breathing again honey). No, the full contact I'm talking about is the repeated beatings I endure from this shared sleeping arrangement.

    Now, I don't know about you, but when I go to sleep, I'm not fully decked out in protective gear (although, I should start thinking about it). So, I'm pretty vulnerable. Added to the vulnerability is that 99% of the time that I spend in deep slumber, my eyes are closed. So I can't see anything coming my way. This is why I am always surprised when at 3 A.M. I get woken up by a fist to the groin, a slap to the face, an elbow to the spine, or . . . my all time favorite: the elbow to the eye-socket.

    This abuse is compounded (ha, that word's got "pounded" in it, how appropriate) by the fact that my wife is on some sort of Manifest Destiny edict as she is always trying to get to my side of the bed from hers. This, of course, means that I am in her way, and she will stop at nothing to get to where she subconciously wants to be. She doesn't always knock me out of bed though. She is gracious enough to leave me a sliver of real estate on the mattress that's almost enough for someone of my stature to be comfortable in. She's such a sweetheart. :)

    Anyway, why do I put up with this? Well, I love her, and love makes you do crazy things at times. Like getting your balls crushed by an errant knee and then looking at the culprit, who's sleeping peacefully next to you, and instantly putting the pain aside 'cause she looks so damn pretty when she's asleep. Like a kickboxing angel I tell you.

    Sunday, June 12, 2005

    Mr. & Mrs. Smith

    Last night, as most married couples do, the wife and I decided to hit up the movie theater for two hours worth of filmed escapism. What we decided to watch . . . The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants of course. Wait, no, my bad, that's the movie I currently would rather lose my penis to in a wild baboon attack rather than watch. What we plunked down our 20 bucks to watch was the new Brad Pitt/Angelina Jolie flick, and if you're scratching your head trying to figure out just which one that is . . . then you need to pay a little more attention.

    Ok, moving along. Don't worry, that one guy will figure it out and join us at the end of the post eventually. So, what is this movie about you say? Is it about a team of highly experienced motel guests and their adventures on the road forging names in motel ledgers? Not quite. What the titular characters deal with is each other's secret life, the eventual revelation and how it leads to a stronger relationship and overall marital happiness. It just so happens, that their secret lives involve killing people for vast sums of money. They are undercover assasins that have no idea that they married one of their own.

    The film opens during a therapy session. It's been five or six years since John and Jane met each other and tied the knot. Their marriage has hitten a rather rough patch. The honeymoon is clearly over, as the highpoint of their current relationship is Jane adding peas to their nightly dinner recipe. We slowly start to learn about their chosen professions shortly thereafter, as Jane takes a job that requires her to slip into some dominatrix gear (thank you wardrobe guy/gal) and John going out to take out some Irish ruffians. They do this at the same time, and it is clearly apparent that these killers know how to get things done.

    It is during a job that the pair of killers run into each other, while trying to take down the same mark (the geek from the OC). They spot each other, and then proceed to slowly realize what has been living right under their noses. This leads to one of the most inventive forms of marriage counseling, as they both proceed to shoot at and kick the living crap out of each other. But, when it comes down to finishing the job . . . they both can't finish the other off. You see, somewhere down the line, they fell in love with each other but were trying to play it off as the marriage being a cover of sorts. So, they decide to do what every other assassin couple does. They stand up to their own agencies (unclear as to who is paying them . . but Jane's oufit is staffed by all female hotties, nice touch), and end up kicking extreme amounts of ass.

    Their marriags is thusly saved, and everyone (except the people they killed) is happy at the end. Brad and Angelina are really good in this. They exhibit a general sense of chemistry that some would kill to have in their own relationship. No wonder these two decided to become a couple (need a tissue Aniston?) during the shooting of this movie. Also great is Vince Vaughn, playing the best friend to John role. He gets a ton of funny one-liners as an assassin that still lives with this mother because she is the "only woman [he's] ever trusted". Remarkable directing by Doug Lyman. This guy has come a long way since Swingers. The Bourne Identity may have had some issues with following the action (still a great movie, despite the Damon Factor), but this effort of his shows that he is progressing as a director, and this is good news. I look forward to catching more Lyman movies down the line.

    My suggestion. Don't wait for the DVD. Go watch this now. At the very least you can drool over Brad/Angelina (whatever floats your theoretical boat). You will be entertained.

    *Music I listened to while coming up with this entry:
    Satan Gave Me a Taco - Beck
    These Days - Nico
    Sister Surround - Soundtrack of Our Lives
    New Slang - The Shins
    The Dumbing Down of Love - Frou Frou
    A Wolf At The Door - Radiohead

    Saturday, June 11, 2005

    Pride

    It's one of those seven deadly sins. I am well aware of that. I'm sure that there is a nice little comfy spot in Hell (ouch, are those spikes?) awaiting me for all my other sins, so feeling pride really isn't something I'm worried about much. What exactly am I proud of you might asking yourself. I'll tell you. I'm proud of my younger siblings. Why? They're both Marines.

    Now, I'm not brown-nosing or anything here. Although, maybe I should think about it, since the balance of power has shifted, and they could wipe the floor with me if they so desired. You see, they have been conditioned by the United States Military to be trained killers. I can live with that, since they are trained to take out any threat that could potentially ruin our collective way of life. My brother is most likely headed to Iraq within the year, if not sooner. He'll be jumping out of helicopters straight into the heat of battle in a location that I could only dream about spelling correctly, much less pronounce. It scares me. I am grown up enough to admit fear. It's a basic human emotion. Without fear, we wouldn't live past a much younger age than what we do now. But I don't let this fear keep me up at night really. I am confident in his skills as a Marine and I am much more concerned with his lack of civil restraint that he exhibits while interacting with the general populace. But hey, what 20 year old fully knows the meaning of restraint.

    I am less concerned about my sister, who thanks to the conservative government will most likely never see battle. Although, while she was at bootcamp, we were all worried about her, especially my mother "Oh, mai onlee girl . . chee iz mai baybe"(attach spanish accent to this last phrase for it to make sense). But she got through it. She's a tough girl. Personally, I knew she could do it. And the best part is . . . if I ever decide to start up a militant organization of my own (The Anti-Traffic Sons of Liberty of Southern California), she can get me fragmentation granades for a buck fitty a piece. So cheap. Haha!

    It seems that Marines are surrounding me lately though. My sister in law's husband is a Marine. The freaking Sal is an ex-Marine (he calls it inactive duty). Which is good. When the zombies decide to rise up from the grave (and you know they will eventually, they're just biding their time) there will be people around me that can help me deal with the situation. Seriously though, I have fired millions of rounds of live ammunition . . . . in videogames. I have no idea how to load and set an actual assault rifle in real life. But I'm sure they'd assist.

    So my advice for the coming apocalypse. Hang out and befriend members of your country's military. Sure they can be a little gruff and rough & tumble at times. But would you rather be holed up in a defensible position with a bunch of IT guys or a couple of people that are trained for the situation. I don't know about you . . but I intend to keep my brain un-munched.

    Friday, June 10, 2005

    My Day At Court

    Cigarettes are expensive. I'm not talking about the per-pack price (thank god we don't live in New York City), I'm talking about the extra expense that they imposed on me in May. Well, in the cigarettes defense, it was one butt that got me in trouble . . but who's nit-picking. Anyway, on with the story.

    It was a Monday night, after dinner with the family (something the wife an I do almost every week) and she had lit up, and I was partaking with intermittent drags from time to time. It comes to the time when the cig is spent and what do we decide to do? Just like every other time we've smoked in the car (up until that point that is) it goes sailing out the window. It must have been not two seconds later that flashing lights and sirens lit up the 210 underpass. Those rat bastard CHP fucks had nabbed us, and they pulled a fast one on me, since they weren't in the typical police cruiser vehicle. No, this guy was on an SUV (very un-environmentally conscious by the way). He moseys on down, and then asks the question every single law enforcement officer asks "Do you know why I pulled you over?" Of course I do you moron! I should have responded with the question "Do you have to rub it in my face?". But, I didn't. I'm not fond of prison rape. Especially when it's my ass on the line. Just then, my wife chimes in like it's fucking Jeopardy "It was the cigarette right! I knew it!" Thanks honey. *sigh*

    So, I get the ticket, court date, the whole shebang. I show up to court a month or so later in Pasadena, at the specified time and place. The line is as long as my penis is not. 45 minutes I'm in this crazy long line, and I swear I'm 10 people away from the window when a city employee comes out . . and announces "Our system is currently down folks, we don't know when it will be back up, but you can still go to the window and pay the fine". Ok, no problem. 30 minutes pass, and a different guy comes out (4 people away now) and announces "We're sorry to inform, that our cash register is not working. You have up to five days to come in from the date on your summons to take care of the issue". Fantastic I'm thinking to myself. I wasted close to 2 hours (and $7 in parking) waiting to take care of this . . . and now I have to come back.

    So I do, what could I have done. The last thing I want is a bench warrant. I get there extra early, and this time the line is only as long as I would like my schlong to be. Still long, but not incredibly long (I am capable of modesty you know). I get to talking to this guy in line. Typical criminal banter. "What they get you for? The nabbed me for this". He was lucky enough to cross one of those camera'd street lights. The ones that take your picture when you run a red. He had to travel all the way from Palm Springs to Pasadena to take care of the issue. If you're not from around . . . it's a long drive. He gets to the window before me, and has to pay a $361 fine. For running a red. Steep. I get there, check in hand, ready to write off my hard earned money to the City of Pasadena, and the teller looks at my ticket and says "You're a day late". I tell her "I know, your system was down yesterday. I was here ready to take care of it. I'm here now, how much?" She then asks "What time were you here?" Unbelievable. I don't think tougher interrogations are endured by murder suspects. "8:30 AM". Finally she moves on to the resolution. She then informs me, that for tossing a cigarette out the window of my car, I have to see the judge. The guy before me ran a red light and he gets to pay. Now I have to sit in the court room and wait for the judge to sentence me.

    Wonderful. I have to be at work in an hour, and now I have this to deal with. Lucky for me, The Sal was also there (check his blog on my link index) for an unrelated offense. Something about driving without insurance. Entrapment I tell you. This is how they treat a veteran. Pfft. Anyway, we're sitting there, for close to 35 minutes, and then this rickety old man of a judge comes out, and starts handing out verdicts. I get called up, "Your Honor" asks me how do I plead, and since I don't want to drag this out, I of course say "Guilty". One Hundred dollars he tells me. "Go to the window, they'll call your name." The Sal goes up next, and he wasn't quite as lucky. His fine was in the $350-400 range. Crazy. We go out, wait for our names to be called, and then take care of business.

    Throughout this whole ordeal, I had been stressing a bit since I had only loaded 2 hours worth of coins into the meter (in a 2 hour parking spot) and I did not want to get to my car to see a $35 parking ticket. By the time I get to my car, 2 hours and 15 minutes had transpired and I was, at that point in time, damn sure those Pasadena pricks had ticketed my car already. Lo and behold, my windshield is clear of paper of any sort. Haha! Stuck it to the man.

    The moral of the story. Stay out of Pasadena unless you like to just sign over your life savings to an inept local government.

    Tough Fogeys

    I want to know how these old fellows in my gym are getting to be so musclebound. I'm not talking old like late 30's early 40's. I'm talking late 60's early 70's. It's incredible really. These guys have a way better physique than I probably have ever had. The belong in Venice (or Dogtown, if you're a recently time-machined to our present skate-boarder from the 70's) Beach on that ultra-faggy outdoor gym. Then, I look at myself and feel inadequate (but never effiminate). I'm willing to bet any of of these septegenarians can take me on in a bare-knuckle brawl . . . mostly because I believe I fractured a knuckle when I punched a door that was looking at me funny this one time. So I'm not keen on punching anything until I get a full set of X-Rays on these beautiful fists of mine.

    They scare me, but not as much as the old guys at my old gym do. If you've been to the West Hollywood 24Hr Fitness (and if you have, then you know they're not actually open 24hrs/day) then you'll know what I'm talking about. If you've never ventured into West Hollywood in fear of your be-hymen being broken by a gang of well-worked out gay guys (and let's face it . . gay guys are always in the best of shape) then what you're missing out on is elderly, wrinkled asses and ball-sacks in full display in the locker rooms. It's disgusting. I'm not adverse to seeing another naked grown man (don't look forward to it though), but a little common decency would be appreciated. Towels we're invented for a reason. Wrap it around your waist. Don't drape it over your shoulder and walk around with "Ol' Dangly" in full view. I'm sure even the younger homos don't appreciate the unwarranted withered penis flashing as well.

    So, between the buff Fogeys and the naked Fogeys, working out is not on top of my "Things I Want To Do Real Bad" list. Unfortunately, it is on top of my "Things I Have To Do Real Bad" list. Those two are usually opposing forces that meet on the field of battle that I like to call my "Decission Making Process". And, after Braveheart-style combat the Haves usually kill the Wants. Life isn't fair for the Wants.

    Thursday, June 09, 2005

    The Inside (re)View

    Ocassionaly, for shits and giggles, I'm going to go into frustrated reviewer mode, and talk about something I recently watched/listened/endured through. So here it goes, the first ever Jaime review of a television show. In this case, I'll be talking about Fox's new cop drama: The Inside.

    I watched this yesterday, while the wife was hiding in the bedroom because she caught a glimpse of the first scene, in which a recently deceased woman was being inspected by the Violent Crimes Unit division of the FBI. Her hands had been "de-gloved" . . which is just fancy talk for all the meat being removed leaving only the skeleton part. Also, half her face had been peeled off. Yes, this show is dark, and as my wife trembled in the bedroom, I cranked up the volume on the living room TV set so that she could be able to hear the "scary" mood music and screams of the victims. I'm such a bastard sometimes.

    Turns out, the FBI's VCU, led by Peter Coyote's character Webb, had been getting too close to the "killer of the week" fella, and one of their own, after missing some of her lithium dosages, had, in a fit of wild bi-polar craziness (yes, redundant . . fuck off) decided to re-create the killer's work. The VCU guys (and chick) think the killer did it, but it takes the fresh perspective of young FBI analyst Rebecca Locke to really see what's going on. She was requested to replace the fallen teammate by Webb, who has a past history with her. More on that later.

    Rebecca, who's never done field work, is nonetheless, very good at this. She can get into the killer's head. Maybe a little too well. Something happened to this girl in the past, and we soon learn that she was taken as a young child and held (tortured?) by a psychopath for more than a year. Funny thing is, she got away, and came back home by herself. Weird. Webb is convinced that Rebecca has a "gift forged in pain", and is determined to use it to solve crimes. Later on in this pilot episode, we also learn that Webb signed off on Rebecca's psych-evaluation when she was an FBI trainee in Quantico. He knew what had happened to her, and had kept an eye on her for a long time. Biding his time to pull her into his outfit (no, not that kind of outfit . . pervert).

    That's pretty much the premise of the show. Also starring is some guy I've never seen on TV, decent actor though. He plays the moral center of the group. Add the tough guy from Firefly (Jayne) and Wonderfall's lesbian sister character and you've got yourself the main cast. These last two most likely got the gig due to the fact that Tim Minear is one of the driving forces on this show. He was one of the creators on those two programs(as well as Buffy, but I never watched that with the sound up), and this new series on Fox is pretty good. They've ordered 13 episodes. But, if history is doomed to repeat itself, then just like Firefly and Wonderfalls before it, The Inside will be killed by bad time slots, episode order mishandling and Fox will be airing "When Nuns attack Abortion Clinics" in its place by the end of the summer. Should i just give you the $49.95 now for the DVD boxset or do you want to wait FOX?

    I hate you Fox. Don't make me hate you more. You're on thin ice with me.

    Torture

    Why does the gym have to be such a torturous experience. Apart from the physical pain that I endure due to muscle strain and the effects of cigarettes on my lung capacity . . . do I really need to suffer through the music these idiots pipe through the loudspeakers? Seriously, when was the last time you actually heard TLC's "No Scrubs" and said to yourself . . . "Wow, that's a welcome blast from the past." Yeah, never is what I thought as well. It's like these gyms rigged up a microphone to a television that was tuned to VH1's 50 most annoying songs of the 90's. I don't like the show, I don't like the music, and the last thing i want to do while I'm all sweaty and miserable is listen to that crap. It's really messing with my systolic . . not to mention my diastolic. Oh my.

    So, you are saying to yourself, take your iPod with you. Sure, I could do that, but the wife has commandeered it and loaded music that I don't care much for (really, honey . . . System of a Down?) and I just don't want to go through the trouble of skipping through 90% of the music on that thing to get to the 10% that we share a common interest on. I love you honey, but Dr Dre and Snoop Dogg should have stayed in 1993 where they belong.

    Buy yourself a new one then you say. Oh sure, let me dig into the endless supply cash that is my empty wallet. The only reason i'm "blogging" at this point in time is due to the fact that it is a distraction that isn't costing me money. It's on my employers dime, and they could rot in the dark pits of hell for all I care. As long as my collection stats are hunky-dory . . . they won't say a peep.

    So now, after going during my lunch break to work out, I'm headed back there this evening. We'll see what gems they're playing today. Maybe the Presidents of the United States of America's "Peaches" will come on again. I'm at the edge of my seat with anticipation.

    Thank you 24Hr Fitness. Thank you for the migranes.

    NASCAR

    You know, i don't get this NASCAR thing at all. I'm all for racing, I've played a wide range of racing games on my X-Box . . . so that naturally makes me an expert; but this NASCAR thing baffles me. The track is one big oval . . or rounded edged-rectangle. The geometrical shape name escapes me at this point in time, but the important thing is that there are only 4 turns in the race. The hop into their brightly colored cars, slapped with endorsements (my personal favorite . . the Viagra-mobile) and do 500 laps on these race tracks. Is it an endurance thing? Do these guys make a ton of money? And if so, couldn't they afford a decent haircut and moustache trim? The mullet, as cool as it is, was not intended for just anyone. You have to have a certain swagger about you, a je ne sais quoi if you will. Most of these guys lack that. But what they do have is a ton of Coca-Cola money, as everytime i go watch a movie at the local AMC, I am reminded about the existance of this pseudo-sport.

    Stranger even, are the people that pack the stands at these events. The countless mass of NASCAR fans that make it a day to go to the track to watch the dead guy's son race his daddy's car . . or something like that. Or, if they're fans of the Moustached One, then they watch that guy. So there they are, in the blistering heat, wearing their visors and blue-blocker sunglasses, tossing back beers, and watching these cars go round and round (much like this blog post, irony is everywhere) and round, yet i can't discern where they are getting their satisfaction from. It can't be taken seriously really. I mean, Days of Thunder was the last Hollywood movie to come out about the thing. What do NASCAR fans have to look forward to? Herbie Fully Loaded? *shakes head*

    Maybe I'm not white enough (probably due to the fact that I'm not white to begin with) to understand this. It'll be a mystery then. Like polka and pickled herring. Maybe it's the crashes. Man's inherent need to be there to witness a disaster of some sort. I just hope that, when the next big time NASCAR crash happens, that the car is catapulted into the audience. That's worth watching. I'd sit through 397 laps of that boring crap just to see that. If it happens during lap 397-500 . . do me a favor, TiVo it for me.

    Screwed

    All hope is lost. The staffing agency that got me the job I am currently working has killed that. Now, I'm not saying that I am not grateful for the source of income they lined up for me. I enjoy working, earning money, and being self-sufficient as much as the next guy . . . but these people are making it infinitely unpleasant to work for them. "How so?" you may be asking. Well, for starters, they have built in this system of unhoppable hoops to ensure that holiday pay is next to non-existant. Let me run through this list of requirements with you.

    First, you must have worked 13 weeks consecutively prior to the scheduled holiday (in this case we're talking Memorial Day). I have that. Next, you must have completed a cummulative 1000 work hours with the staffing agency to even be considered for holiday pay. I have that as well. This is where it gets intersting. You have to have completed 512 hours by the time of the holiday to get the pay. That is the hoop that's on fire. Surrounded by starving tigers that are also on fire. That is what always gets me. This time, I am almost positve that the mark was missed by 2-3 hours. That's it, 2-3 hours of missed work due to the place where I work at letting us go early (unpaid for me . . . paid for them) and I'm out a day's pay.

    Don't get me started on benefits. I have to find a stable surface to get a grip of whenever a regularly staffed employee walks by talking about their sweet ass benefits. Or when they discuss the yearly performance bonuses. Or when they can freely take a day off and use their vacation time/sick day allowance and not worry about the impact to their paycheck. Ask me how many sick days I get? NONE! Oh, I've been sick in the past year that I have been working here, but I can't afford the luxury to stay home . . . nor can I afford to have the luxury to stay home when my wife isn't feeling well either. No, I have to walk away and go to work as I see her clearly in pain . . . and it kills me.

    So the next time one of these staffed employees comes around with a big grin on their face or pleads to the supervisors to let them go early because it's a holiday weekend . . . I'm going to deck one of them. I don't care if 90% of them are soccer moms (or is it security moms . . .what is the government calling them these days?), i'll do it.
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