I own 3 AC window units. About a month ago I put the first one in. Every year I try and wait out the summer as long as possible, but like the law beating down John Cougar or John Melloncamp or whatever he goes by nowadays, the summer always wins. However it was not a hand’s down victory as I only put 1 of the 3 units in…at first any way.
I store the two lighter AC units (translation: the ones that way slightly less that 200 pounds) in the attic during the off season. I store the heavy bastard, which goes in the window in the living room, in the basement. It was the heavy bastard that was put in first. He’s a juggernaut that makes a lot of noise to let you know he’s working. The cats love it.
I thought we’d be fine with just the 1 unit, until last week.
The temperature soared to a less than quaint 90 plus throughout the night. I couldn’t take it anymore so I decided to wave the white flag and hope that waving action would bring a cool breeze my way. It didn’t. But at least the house was comfortable. That is, until 2 nights ago.
The temperature dropped and we were able to turn off the noise making coolers for the first time in a week. We opened the windows and went to sleep. That’s when the sounds started coming from the attic. “Oh no,” I thought. This happened last year too, but we were able to ignore it. This year was different. Louder. Just a real pain in the ass.
Sorry. Let me fill you in…
Last year, about this same time, we were lucky enough to turn the units off for a few days. We noticed music coming from the attic. Music and moaning. Now I know what you’re thinking, music and moaning often go together. Two things. One, you’re right. Two, you’re a pervert. So after about 3 nights of music and moaning, I went into the attic with my 2008 Philadelphia Phillies Commemorative World Series bat. And a flashlight. Now I have a light in the attic, so I’m not sure what inspired me to take the flashlight. But I’m glad I did.
I flipped on the attic light, pulled down the retractable stairs and slowly climbed upward. The whole while the music grew, yet the moaning seemed to stop. I took a deep breath and broke the plane from the hallway to the basement. Just then ALL sound stopped. And the attic light went out. I flicked the flash light on and dropped it to the floor below me seconds after seeing something, or someone move. I too dropped to the floor below and let the stairs slam shut.
That was the end of sleeping that night.
The next morning Julie and I were greeted by a local ghost hunter, Tig Sillbourne, who seemed willing to entertain our little problem. I explained what happened to Tig as he drank the coffee we brewed for him. He shook his head in agreement as if he knew exactly what I was going to say next. I was hopeful under Tig asked what the music sounded like.
“Jazz,” I said.
“With a tonal bebop harmony,” Julie added.
Tig’s eyes grew wide, but only slightly. It could have been from the strong brew beneath his lips.
“Can you hum it?” He asked.
“I can’t,” I explained. “I had an accident as a child, that keeps me from being able to hum, whistle or roll my tongue.”
Julie whistled. It was a sweet song. Not as haunting as it had been the night before. Tig’s face went white and the coffee mug went smashing to the floor.
“Sell the house.” It wasn’t a suggestion. He was commanding us what to do next.
We sat stunned in silence. Then the music and moaning started again. At 7:23 in the morning.
“What is it?” Julie said looking toward our guest for some information.
“It’s not a what. It’s a who. I’m afraid your attic is haunted by Eric Allan Dolphy.”
I was appalled. “Who is that? A biker? A killer?
“A jazz musician.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“How do we get rid of him?”
“You can’t.”
“We have to be able to do something.”
“Well….”
“What?”
“Jazz musicians are impervious to almost everything on Earth…save one thing.”
“What?”
“Heroin.” Julie guessed right. She had just watched a documentary on Chet Baker.
Luckily for us Tig provided many services and happened to have some “china white” on him. We climbed into the attic and left a spoon, a needle and the white powder. We waited an hour and the music stopped. The beast had been sated…for a little while. For you see, ghost can not overdose on heroin.
That brings us to the other night.
I grabbed the bat and immediately became reminded that there is no 2009 Philadelphia Phillies Commemorative World Series bat. This pissed me off and made me ready to face a jonesing Jazz musician.
“Dolphy!” I yelled as I ascended the stairs. “We will not have this crap again this summer.”
There he sat amongst my comics, with his base clarinet pressed against his lips.
“I never understood how they brought Superman back from the dead.” He said as he lowered is instrument.
I noticed Action Comics & Superman issues everywhere. I lowered the bat.
“It was the ‘Eradicator’.” I said.
“Yeah. But I still don’t get how.”
“I know. It’s a bit messy.”
“And that Red & Blue bullshit. What was that supposed to be man?”
We sat in silence for a few moments.
“I think it’s jazz,” I said.
He nodded, and hasn’t made a sounds since.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Holiday Warning
Holiday Warning
The Warning
My company is Gung-Ho to keep you safe this and presumably every holiday. Or as I call it, the “If it’s a regular Monday you can go fuck yourself, but when cake is being served, please be careful” policy.
“The 4th of July means picnics, barbecues, pools, parades and fireworks.”
Being the patriot that I am and the son of a Vietnam Vet, I believe the 4th of July means a bit more than the list above. Such as hustling handjobs from the ladies…or dudes if that’s your thing.
Picnics. I honestly can’t think of the last time I was on a picnic, aka = got a handjob in the park. I do have a picnic basket however my cat has destroyed it. Thus proving the old adage, “Ants may ruin a picnic, but a cat can fuck up a picnic basket beyond ALL recognition.” I can’t tell you how many times my grandmother said that to me.
Barbecues. I always think of them as the Mennonite version of the Amish picnic. Sure there’s butter churning at both (again…handjobs), but the Mennonites have cooler means of cooking their food, like using a George Foreman grill.
Pools. They rock. I’ll be in one, will you? Aquatic handies are all the rage with the kids these days. Which makes sense since semen smells like chlorine, right? One bit of warning from a fellow who has a pool (a possible medical condition based on the chlorine thing), discourage glass bottles in the pool area. Glass is clear. Water is clear. Emergency rooms smell like urine. Which reminds me, when peeing in the pool don’t be a sneaky bastard. Add a little flair and do it from the diving board. Preferably not while doing a “can opener.” As “parts” have a tendency of ripping open when “can openers” are involved.
I can definitely get behind the idea of a parade to celebrate veterans on the 4th of July. Not literally, like I’m driving a float. But I definitely believe in the idea. However I think people now have parades for the dumbest reasons. Like NYC’s parade last week to raise “Handjob Awareness.” Seriously? We weren’t aware before? Although some of those floats were pretty bad ass! And Belinda Carlisle sang which is nice.
Finally. The best part. Fireworks. I don’t mean packing the family in a car and driving to see things blow up over head. Hell, if that excites you might I suggest joining the military (we are already making preparations for your parade). I have NEVER been a fan of craning my neck and watching pretty color in the sky. Although I am also not a dirty hippie! The fireworks I like are the ones that you perform at a self level. The ones that have the potential of turning a 15 year old righty into a lefty for their remaining years, and lead to awkward moments during attempted handshakes…as well as other “hand” activities (handjobs if you’re not paying attention).
“In 2006, an estimated 9,200 people were treated in emergency rooms for fireworks-related injuries, 36 percent of whom were under 15 years old.” What does that tell us? That these fucking 15 year olds have access to some kick ass explosives. Where are they getting this shit? The ice cream man? When I was 15 I had no idea where to get fireworks. So here I am a miserable 34 year old…with two hands. I feel I missed out.
My office offers the following advice because apparently, we are all retarded. My comments are in (parenthesis).
Please follow these safety tips to help ensure that you are safe during the 4th of July weekend:
•Never allow children to handle fireworks – keep kids a safe distance away. (This is terrible advice. Children are curious, like cats. That coupled with the need to destroy things, such as picnic baskets, kids need the valuable lesson of blowing shit up. They can’t do that from the safety of the mini van. Let them get up close to the guy lighting the fireworks with his cigar. Hey, the kid might even pick up a nice sociable habit like smoking – bonus!)
•Never leave a child alone near water: on the beach, at a pool, or in the bathtub. If you must leave, take your child with you. (Buzz kill! Take your kid with you? Please. If you’re on the beach and a couple of hot, albeit drunk, nympho college girls wanna bestow handies upon you, you can’t have this pint size cockblocker ruining your holiday weekend. Especially if he threatens to tell you wife. Besides, in this post Michael Phelps world, it wouldn’t hurt the kid to learn to upgrade that doggy paddling a bit)
•Never consume alcohol when operating a boat and always wear a life vest. (This is what I call a twofer rule. Double whammy. First the life vest bit. Dumb. If the boat is fast enough your buddies will be able to swing back around once you fall overboard before you sink. If the boat isn’t fast enough, well that’s your fault for going out in the aquatic pussymobile isn’t it? Also, and more importantly, life vests block the good parts on your female passengers. You worked all morning to get them topless. You can’t have them put a vest over them things. As for the alcohol, how do you think you got them topless in the first place? This twofer rule sucks)
•Never drink and drive. More than half of all traffic fatalities are alcohol-related, when attending a picnic drink in moderation and use designated drivers (They never tell you want causes the other half of the accidents, ill timed handjobs? Likely its shoddily chosen designated drivers. I am confused by the line “drink in moderation and use designated drivers.” Which one is it Hoss? And what happens if your DD blew his hand off playing with fireworks-he was over 15. Now you have to sober up in the ER while the genius you picked learns how to sign his HMO forms with his left hand. IN the end, you should have gone out on the speed boat you were thinking of renting)
•When driving, obey speed limits, maintain safe following distances, and stay out of other driver’s blind spots. Allow extra travel time due to increased traffic. (OK. But only on the 4th of July. Christmas I’m flooring it!)
•If outside, wear a wide-brimmed hat, apply sun screen, and drink plenty of water. (What if my wide brimmed hat doesn’t match my life vest? I’ll let you in on a secret that the government doesn’t want you to know. Wide brimmed hats are what is causing global warming, and keeping you from getting handjobs)
•When grilling, make sure the grill is used outside (Are you kidding me? I have one set up next to the toilet) and at least 10 feet away from your house or any building. (Nice add on. I was gonna put it up against my neighbor’s house) Do not use the grill in a garage, breezeway, carport, porch, or under a surface that can catch fire. (All fine locales for a festive 4th of July Handy)
Have a fun 4th of July, leave safety to the other guy.
And someone should delve deeper into the obvious conspiracy theory stated above. Based on the statistical evidence listed, 15 year olds have the highest percentage of missing appendages yet are the ones clamoring most for handjobs. This might lead to the recent craze that is all the rage with the kids these days…blowjobs from the ladies…or dudes if that’s your thing.
The Warning
My company is Gung-Ho to keep you safe this and presumably every holiday. Or as I call it, the “If it’s a regular Monday you can go fuck yourself, but when cake is being served, please be careful” policy.
“The 4th of July means picnics, barbecues, pools, parades and fireworks.”
Being the patriot that I am and the son of a Vietnam Vet, I believe the 4th of July means a bit more than the list above. Such as hustling handjobs from the ladies…or dudes if that’s your thing.
Picnics. I honestly can’t think of the last time I was on a picnic, aka = got a handjob in the park. I do have a picnic basket however my cat has destroyed it. Thus proving the old adage, “Ants may ruin a picnic, but a cat can fuck up a picnic basket beyond ALL recognition.” I can’t tell you how many times my grandmother said that to me.
Barbecues. I always think of them as the Mennonite version of the Amish picnic. Sure there’s butter churning at both (again…handjobs), but the Mennonites have cooler means of cooking their food, like using a George Foreman grill.
Pools. They rock. I’ll be in one, will you? Aquatic handies are all the rage with the kids these days. Which makes sense since semen smells like chlorine, right? One bit of warning from a fellow who has a pool (a possible medical condition based on the chlorine thing), discourage glass bottles in the pool area. Glass is clear. Water is clear. Emergency rooms smell like urine. Which reminds me, when peeing in the pool don’t be a sneaky bastard. Add a little flair and do it from the diving board. Preferably not while doing a “can opener.” As “parts” have a tendency of ripping open when “can openers” are involved.
I can definitely get behind the idea of a parade to celebrate veterans on the 4th of July. Not literally, like I’m driving a float. But I definitely believe in the idea. However I think people now have parades for the dumbest reasons. Like NYC’s parade last week to raise “Handjob Awareness.” Seriously? We weren’t aware before? Although some of those floats were pretty bad ass! And Belinda Carlisle sang which is nice.
Finally. The best part. Fireworks. I don’t mean packing the family in a car and driving to see things blow up over head. Hell, if that excites you might I suggest joining the military (we are already making preparations for your parade). I have NEVER been a fan of craning my neck and watching pretty color in the sky. Although I am also not a dirty hippie! The fireworks I like are the ones that you perform at a self level. The ones that have the potential of turning a 15 year old righty into a lefty for their remaining years, and lead to awkward moments during attempted handshakes…as well as other “hand” activities (handjobs if you’re not paying attention).
“In 2006, an estimated 9,200 people were treated in emergency rooms for fireworks-related injuries, 36 percent of whom were under 15 years old.” What does that tell us? That these fucking 15 year olds have access to some kick ass explosives. Where are they getting this shit? The ice cream man? When I was 15 I had no idea where to get fireworks. So here I am a miserable 34 year old…with two hands. I feel I missed out.
My office offers the following advice because apparently, we are all retarded. My comments are in (parenthesis).
Please follow these safety tips to help ensure that you are safe during the 4th of July weekend:
•Never allow children to handle fireworks – keep kids a safe distance away. (This is terrible advice. Children are curious, like cats. That coupled with the need to destroy things, such as picnic baskets, kids need the valuable lesson of blowing shit up. They can’t do that from the safety of the mini van. Let them get up close to the guy lighting the fireworks with his cigar. Hey, the kid might even pick up a nice sociable habit like smoking – bonus!)
•Never leave a child alone near water: on the beach, at a pool, or in the bathtub. If you must leave, take your child with you. (Buzz kill! Take your kid with you? Please. If you’re on the beach and a couple of hot, albeit drunk, nympho college girls wanna bestow handies upon you, you can’t have this pint size cockblocker ruining your holiday weekend. Especially if he threatens to tell you wife. Besides, in this post Michael Phelps world, it wouldn’t hurt the kid to learn to upgrade that doggy paddling a bit)
•Never consume alcohol when operating a boat and always wear a life vest. (This is what I call a twofer rule. Double whammy. First the life vest bit. Dumb. If the boat is fast enough your buddies will be able to swing back around once you fall overboard before you sink. If the boat isn’t fast enough, well that’s your fault for going out in the aquatic pussymobile isn’t it? Also, and more importantly, life vests block the good parts on your female passengers. You worked all morning to get them topless. You can’t have them put a vest over them things. As for the alcohol, how do you think you got them topless in the first place? This twofer rule sucks)
•Never drink and drive. More than half of all traffic fatalities are alcohol-related, when attending a picnic drink in moderation and use designated drivers (They never tell you want causes the other half of the accidents, ill timed handjobs? Likely its shoddily chosen designated drivers. I am confused by the line “drink in moderation and use designated drivers.” Which one is it Hoss? And what happens if your DD blew his hand off playing with fireworks-he was over 15. Now you have to sober up in the ER while the genius you picked learns how to sign his HMO forms with his left hand. IN the end, you should have gone out on the speed boat you were thinking of renting)
•When driving, obey speed limits, maintain safe following distances, and stay out of other driver’s blind spots. Allow extra travel time due to increased traffic. (OK. But only on the 4th of July. Christmas I’m flooring it!)
•If outside, wear a wide-brimmed hat, apply sun screen, and drink plenty of water. (What if my wide brimmed hat doesn’t match my life vest? I’ll let you in on a secret that the government doesn’t want you to know. Wide brimmed hats are what is causing global warming, and keeping you from getting handjobs)
•When grilling, make sure the grill is used outside (Are you kidding me? I have one set up next to the toilet) and at least 10 feet away from your house or any building. (Nice add on. I was gonna put it up against my neighbor’s house) Do not use the grill in a garage, breezeway, carport, porch, or under a surface that can catch fire. (All fine locales for a festive 4th of July Handy)
Have a fun 4th of July, leave safety to the other guy.
And someone should delve deeper into the obvious conspiracy theory stated above. Based on the statistical evidence listed, 15 year olds have the highest percentage of missing appendages yet are the ones clamoring most for handjobs. This might lead to the recent craze that is all the rage with the kids these days…blowjobs from the ladies…or dudes if that’s your thing.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Close One (or potentially 3!)
"Close one!"
That was my thinking last week when I was wearing one of my favorite pairs of boxer shorts.
I don’t remember when I started wearing boxer shorts, but I know the radio station Eagle 106 was still around, because they were an Eagle 106 pair. I remember them well because they were made of this horrific material that was so stiff the “pee hole” was always open, kind of defeating the purpose of underwear at all. If that wasn’t bad enough, my Mom won them for me.
And thus I entered the world of boxer shorts.
There are many stories I could share, such as the “white” Homer Simpson boxers I destroyed…the less detailed the better on this one, but note “white” is in quotes. There’s the light pair I accidentally dyed pink. I continued to wear them, because who would ever know? Then, and perhaps the greatest boxer story known to man, there was my infamous “Bullwinkle” boxers. I wore them to France (no underpants poem coming up). And decided they should, like many works or Art, remain in the Louvre. I have a map indicating where I hid them. Some day I hope to go back and see if they are still there. France is pretty dirty. I’m thinking they are.
So the other day, I put on one of my favorite pairs. They’re supportive. They’re comfortable. They’re one of the pairs that make my day better when their turn comes up. We all have pieces of clothes like this. Which makes you wonder why you hang on to the ones that don’t make you fell like this. I put them on last week and went off into the dangerous world of boxer wearing…
I saddled up to the urinal like a cowboy’s known to do and did what cowboys did…besides running the Natives off their land. Although I guess in a way there was a similarity…that is if the cowboys had asparagus the night before. I finished and pulled the zipper up…and got caught!
Here’s the thing that the ladies will never understand…er…at least I hope they never understand…can you snag a labia in your zipper? Because if you could, you should probably be in the circus. Every guy, at some point in his life will “catch himself.” It just happens. It’s usually not something you feel right away. You think, “Did I?” but you there’s no pain. Then it HITS! *WHAM-O!
*I did notice that I have WHAM, “getting caught” and men’s rooms in this past sentence. I dedicate it to George Michaels.
I felt resistance, which causes an immediate stoppage of zippering. I looked down and realized, not unlike the Secret Service, my boxers took one for the Commander in Shorts. Will they get a metal? Unlikely. Will they be remembered in a text book for children to read about for years to come? No, but as previously mentioned one of their contemporaries is in the Louvre. Will they just get thrown into the trash and become another discarded piece of clothing eventually worn by a homeless man? Maybe…but not yet. I am happy to say I am wearing them as I write this.
They’re my favorite pair, how could I simple toss them aside especially after they took one for the team (I refer to my parts as a team, as we’re all in this together).
So next time you put on some article of clothing that is near a dear to your heart, stop a moment and enjoy that feeling, especially if your “heart” happens to be in your crotch.
That was my thinking last week when I was wearing one of my favorite pairs of boxer shorts.
I don’t remember when I started wearing boxer shorts, but I know the radio station Eagle 106 was still around, because they were an Eagle 106 pair. I remember them well because they were made of this horrific material that was so stiff the “pee hole” was always open, kind of defeating the purpose of underwear at all. If that wasn’t bad enough, my Mom won them for me.
And thus I entered the world of boxer shorts.
There are many stories I could share, such as the “white” Homer Simpson boxers I destroyed…the less detailed the better on this one, but note “white” is in quotes. There’s the light pair I accidentally dyed pink. I continued to wear them, because who would ever know? Then, and perhaps the greatest boxer story known to man, there was my infamous “Bullwinkle” boxers. I wore them to France (no underpants poem coming up). And decided they should, like many works or Art, remain in the Louvre. I have a map indicating where I hid them. Some day I hope to go back and see if they are still there. France is pretty dirty. I’m thinking they are.
So the other day, I put on one of my favorite pairs. They’re supportive. They’re comfortable. They’re one of the pairs that make my day better when their turn comes up. We all have pieces of clothes like this. Which makes you wonder why you hang on to the ones that don’t make you fell like this. I put them on last week and went off into the dangerous world of boxer wearing…
I saddled up to the urinal like a cowboy’s known to do and did what cowboys did…besides running the Natives off their land. Although I guess in a way there was a similarity…that is if the cowboys had asparagus the night before. I finished and pulled the zipper up…and got caught!
Here’s the thing that the ladies will never understand…er…at least I hope they never understand…can you snag a labia in your zipper? Because if you could, you should probably be in the circus. Every guy, at some point in his life will “catch himself.” It just happens. It’s usually not something you feel right away. You think, “Did I?” but you there’s no pain. Then it HITS! *WHAM-O!
*I did notice that I have WHAM, “getting caught” and men’s rooms in this past sentence. I dedicate it to George Michaels.
I felt resistance, which causes an immediate stoppage of zippering. I looked down and realized, not unlike the Secret Service, my boxers took one for the Commander in Shorts. Will they get a metal? Unlikely. Will they be remembered in a text book for children to read about for years to come? No, but as previously mentioned one of their contemporaries is in the Louvre. Will they just get thrown into the trash and become another discarded piece of clothing eventually worn by a homeless man? Maybe…but not yet. I am happy to say I am wearing them as I write this.
They’re my favorite pair, how could I simple toss them aside especially after they took one for the team (I refer to my parts as a team, as we’re all in this together).
So next time you put on some article of clothing that is near a dear to your heart, stop a moment and enjoy that feeling, especially if your “heart” happens to be in your crotch.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Chi TOWN!
I am thinking of auditioning for the Musical “Chicago.” There’s only 1 problem…I can’t sing. I’m one of those Irish that likes to think he can sing, but deep down knows there’s a potato feminine in my tune carrying department. This is a trait only found in Irish Americans. I’m not saying that ALL natural born Irish can sing, I’m just saying they all think they can and would never admit anything else.
So, Wilmington Drama League is about to put up “Chicago.” I enjoy the musical, but I’m not going to pretend that I love it or it’s the great musical I’ve ever heard. But it does have one thing I am a huge fan of, fishnets.
*I swear they look better on a person...well not ALL persons...
I don’t know where my obsession for the airy leggings came from. Perhaps the Las Vegas ads in my Dad’s old VFW magazines (which, by the way, seems like an appropriate ad for a magazine about war, “You’re lucky enough to survive Vietnam, now try your luck ay blackjack!”)
The thing is this…I just flat out can’t sing. So my thinking is Matt Casarino, director of Chicago (and writer extraordinaire in his own right…or rite…or write – HEY-O!) should add a character, The Prison Janitor. That’s right. Who cleans up those floors the girls get all sexy on? The Janitor. The can’t be dancing around on dirty floors, this is not Flashdance after all. His back story is tragic. He was beaten by his mother as a child and as a result has become a mute (no singing – brilliant). His tragic flaw, he’s obsessed with fishnets, probably from frequenting dirty prostitutes (come on, the guy isn’t going to be picking chick up in bars, he’s a mute AND a Janitor). Though he doesn’t sing or talk, he can even have a dance number if it’s necessary. Maybe with a mop? I don’t know. That’s really up to Matt to decide.
In the end he runs off with Roxy Hart when he realizes he can communicate through her when she sits on his lap ala ventriloquist dummy. He sings a heart wrenching song at the end in his own voice (which is actually sung off stage by someone else). The women all swoon for him because they are amazed at how beautiful his singing voice is and that you can’t see his lips move. They show their appreciation by using their fishnet clad bodies to writhe across the floor. Both turning The Janitor on and, kindly enough, taking care of his cleaning chores.
I don’t know that this dream of mine will come true. However, I high recommend you ALL plead with Matt Casarino, that this is the direction he should take the show when you show up for auditions Sunday, July 11 and Monday, July 12 at 7:00pm. Tell him, “you send one of ours to the stage or we’ll send you to the morgue…that’s the Chicago way.” It works better with some Ennio Morricone score behind it.
I’d say I’ll see you there, but there’s I am in a local production of Rocky Horror that night, playing the mute Butler who rubs against everyone.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Karma Vs Caffeine
No matter what my wife says, Karma is a bitch! She gets angry when I say this. She says based on MY version of Karma, the people in Haiti did something to bring the shit storm they have experience over recent times on themselves. Neither she nor I actually believe this. I’m sure some of you do, and you are the one Karma is looking to gang rape.
So that said, I have spent many of my days making fun of people with lazy eyes, crazy eyes or eyes that are completely missing. Growing up, not a day would go by when I didn’t make fun of Sandy Duncan. I still do, though most people don’t know who that is. If you try and explain it to them, their eyes glass over (which is kind of ironic or eye-ronic).
Sammy Davis Jr, Peter Falk, Stevie Wonder…ok, he didn’t have a glass eye, but we still made fun of his deformity.
That said my eye has been twitching like crazy! So much so that I have taken to calling my right eye Alex P. Keaton (because again, the 80s sitcom stars must fell my wrath!)
I thought the twitch was being caused by mounting stress. My wife (the one who doesn’t believe in my vicious version of Karma) seems to think caffeine is the culprit. I had given up drinking soda a couple of years ago because I was starting to get a bit large in the “lower region” (my gut). However, like a true addict, it slowly crept back into my life.
So I stopped drinking it again 2 days ago. But alas, I woke up this morning with a blood filled eye. “What the what?”
I can now only assume it is not caffeine, but rather Karma making a visit.
So I’d like to apologize to Sandy Duncan for all of the times a Wheat Thins commercial came on and my brothers and I laughed at you. I apologize to Peter Falk, who always seemed so focused on the case as Columbo even if he couldn’t focus on an object. I apologize to Steve Wonder. I have seen you lately buddy (notice no joke about you not being able to see me?) Seriously, you too might want to cut out the soda and perhaps go easy on the Wheat Thins. And finally I apologize to you the reader, for that horrendous “eye ronic” joke I told. You deserve better than that.
As for Alex P. Keaton, you can suck it buddy! Just becaussssssss…
…Holy Shit! My hand started shaking at the end of that sentence!
So that said, I have spent many of my days making fun of people with lazy eyes, crazy eyes or eyes that are completely missing. Growing up, not a day would go by when I didn’t make fun of Sandy Duncan. I still do, though most people don’t know who that is. If you try and explain it to them, their eyes glass over (which is kind of ironic or eye-ronic).
Sammy Davis Jr, Peter Falk, Stevie Wonder…ok, he didn’t have a glass eye, but we still made fun of his deformity.
That said my eye has been twitching like crazy! So much so that I have taken to calling my right eye Alex P. Keaton (because again, the 80s sitcom stars must fell my wrath!)
I thought the twitch was being caused by mounting stress. My wife (the one who doesn’t believe in my vicious version of Karma) seems to think caffeine is the culprit. I had given up drinking soda a couple of years ago because I was starting to get a bit large in the “lower region” (my gut). However, like a true addict, it slowly crept back into my life.
So I stopped drinking it again 2 days ago. But alas, I woke up this morning with a blood filled eye. “What the what?”
I can now only assume it is not caffeine, but rather Karma making a visit.
So I’d like to apologize to Sandy Duncan for all of the times a Wheat Thins commercial came on and my brothers and I laughed at you. I apologize to Peter Falk, who always seemed so focused on the case as Columbo even if he couldn’t focus on an object. I apologize to Steve Wonder. I have seen you lately buddy (notice no joke about you not being able to see me?) Seriously, you too might want to cut out the soda and perhaps go easy on the Wheat Thins. And finally I apologize to you the reader, for that horrendous “eye ronic” joke I told. You deserve better than that.
As for Alex P. Keaton, you can suck it buddy! Just becaussssssss…
…Holy Shit! My hand started shaking at the end of that sentence!
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Bald, Balding, Baldiest
Bald dudes get a bum wrap in our society.
People equate being bald to 2 things: skinheads and cancer patients.
Come on! Really? Isn’t there anything else. Isn’t there anyone COOL who can take up the cause of the bald or balding fellow? I guess I should say Fellette here too but, let’s face it, a bald chick is kind of hot. It immediately makes one think of other possible hairless areas.
Did you know in the history of the United States Presidency, only 5 were bald! John Adams, was fortunate enough to live in a time when it was fashionable for men to wear wigs, plus he had his own HBO mini series - the 20th century has yet to see a tranny wannabe in the White House. John Quincy Adams who, based on photos and what limited research I did (Wikipedia), clearly inherited his father’s follicle challenges AND his badass wig collection. Martin van Buren, like the two previous bald Presidents, he only served 1 term – I guess people didn’t like to re up these guys once they got a look at that “high shine.” James Garfield was bald…and assassinated. He only got to baldly serve his country for 200 days, many of which were spent in bed after being shot by the full headed Charles Julius Guiteau. Guiteau kept his hair buzzed close to his head, which many baldies see as a spiteful insult, “I can grow it, but I choose to do this.” And finally Dwight D. Eisenhower. Okay, I’ll admit Dwight kicked ass! But he was an infamous military leader. Perhaps he kept his hair cut short as many a soldier is known to do, I guess so bullets slip off of them or something
And I know there are some bad ass baldies out there. Kojack, Picard…Yul “Mother Effing” Brynner! Although he did change his name from Ûlij Borisovič Briner, you could say he was ashamed of being Russian…but perhaps it was the fact that he was forced to buy an awful lot of hats! The man was in The Kind and I! Do you think it wasn’t deliberate that Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein II (both men of copious amounts of hair) cast a bald dude in a show that features a song called “I'm Gonna Wash That Man Right Out of My Hair?”
Bald is beautiful?
Finasteride, which produces many products used to treat male pattern baldness (for example Propecia), is currently trading at $35.51 on the NYSE. Merck & Co, the company that owns Finasteride, made 27.4 billion in 2009. Sure, they deal in more then just hair rejuvenation, but 27.4 billion is a LOT of little hairs! So what is the cost of a treatment such as Propecia? I don’t mean fiduciary, I mean the possible side effects, because that’s how you know how desperate someone is. Well…1 to 18.5% of users experience impotence, 7% abnormal ejaculation (not sure what this means…does it glow in the dark, cause that’d be cool), 1 to 2.8% decreased ejaculatory volume, almost 3% abnormal sexual function (again, not sure if this mean a raging Bruce Banner like boner that rips through one’s pantaloons – again, quite a party trick), and my favorite 1.2% experience testicular pain. Quite a gamble to have something to run a comb through.
In December 2008, the Swedish Medical Products agency advised that the use of Propecia may result in irreversible sexual dysfunction. So you spent all that money to lure a girl into your sack and you can’t do anything once she’s there! Hell, just invest in a rag and some ether.
So anyone who wonders if it bothers me that I have 50% less hair then I did 5 years ago and 150% more hats in the same time, let me assure you that I take NO pills or other remedies to hold on to something that every one of us complains about if it’s in our food. Although I have been known to rip through a pair of khakis in my day!
Monday, April 26, 2010
Let's See How Long This Lasts...
I have fallen off when it comes to blogging. I used to love it. But lately I can’t get motivate enough to walk up the stairs and turn on the computer. Also, I have taken to spending time with my wife. I know. Crazy right? But when I want to commit every commuters soul to damnation because they all slowed down to witness a fender bender (which I assure you I didn’t even gaze upon), I just come home and tell my wife. She rolls her eyes and then outs small, almost tasteless amounts of arsenic in my dinner.
I also wonder if anyone really cares. Sure people will listen to your opinion when you have a party, because you have supplied beer and nachos (again, if prepared by previously mentioned wife, I’d watch yourself). It’s amazing the amount of rhetoric people will entertain if they are getting something free out of it. Hell, there is an entire holiday built around girls showing their privates for beads that you can buy at most party stores. But not only do you NOT get anything for free while reading someone’s blog, you give up something FREE. Your time (I was going to be clever and say “your free time,” however it occurs to me, most of you deadbeats will read this on your company’s time).
I do love reading people blogs (on company time). One of my favorite things to do is get angry and worked up over the opinions in a blog and think, “what kind of a moron would write this garbage!” Then I realize, I am reading my blog from a few years ago. I also like to get drunk and write a blog. When I read it later it’s like the story of the elves helping the old cobbler mend shoes. Only filled with a shit load of spelling errors and more than a few incoherent sentences…also, I still have holes in my shoes.
I do have more time to write now. I recently ended a web series that took up much of my time. And although I am in pre-production on another series, I have done things differently this time around. I brought on a bunch of talented people so I can steal their ideas and work a hell of a lot less!
So with that I hope to re enter the world of blogging. Or at least get one of these new writers to do it for me.
I also wonder if anyone really cares. Sure people will listen to your opinion when you have a party, because you have supplied beer and nachos (again, if prepared by previously mentioned wife, I’d watch yourself). It’s amazing the amount of rhetoric people will entertain if they are getting something free out of it. Hell, there is an entire holiday built around girls showing their privates for beads that you can buy at most party stores. But not only do you NOT get anything for free while reading someone’s blog, you give up something FREE. Your time (I was going to be clever and say “your free time,” however it occurs to me, most of you deadbeats will read this on your company’s time).
I do love reading people blogs (on company time). One of my favorite things to do is get angry and worked up over the opinions in a blog and think, “what kind of a moron would write this garbage!” Then I realize, I am reading my blog from a few years ago. I also like to get drunk and write a blog. When I read it later it’s like the story of the elves helping the old cobbler mend shoes. Only filled with a shit load of spelling errors and more than a few incoherent sentences…also, I still have holes in my shoes.
I do have more time to write now. I recently ended a web series that took up much of my time. And although I am in pre-production on another series, I have done things differently this time around. I brought on a bunch of talented people so I can steal their ideas and work a hell of a lot less!
So with that I hope to re enter the world of blogging. Or at least get one of these new writers to do it for me.
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