Posts
I saw one of these new “clean energy” ads last night on TV and I have to admit: I was very soothed by it. I felt cleaner just participating in the commercial and, since I nodded my head right along with the rest of the TV zombies out there, I consider myself a participant.
The commercial opens up with a bunch of tweet-tweet nerdy upbeat music, then they have a well-dressed paragon of environmental championship explain to you how clean this company’s revolutionary new energy product is. Then, they hit you with the bombshell revelation of this groundbreaking new technology. Know what it is?
Natural Gas.
Apparently – they’ve just discovered it.
Nevermind that Canada quite literally BURNS as oilwell waste enough of this stuff every day to heat Minnesota for 3 months – or that I already use it to run my grill and dryer; this company still felt the need to advertise it. I’ve known about it for years, mind you, but I reckon they’re just catching on. It’s like some idiot in marketing went “Wait! We sell NATURAL GAS?!?!?! I HAVE TO TELL SOMEONE ABOUT THIS.”
It makes me furious. I wasted 45 seconds of my life watching an advertisement for something I already buy!
But that’s not the worst part – I’m sitting there nodding my head in agreement with the ad’s virtuous greenie – he’s listing out head-throbbing statistics on how fast we’re all going straight to hell, but at the same time he’s teasing me with the promise of environmental salvation. I know some kind of solution MUST be on the horizon or he wouldn’t be talking his grinning head off on tv. So, in a rising crescendo of hope and virtue he lays his big selling point on me: “Natural gas!!! (tweet tweet tweeetttt, upbeat music, birds chirp, lions and lambs cavort in the background)…..NAAATURALL GASSSS!!!! Its 50% cleaner than…..."
COAL
SERIOUSLY?!?!?!??!?! 50% CLEANER THAN COAL?!?!?!?! AAACKKK!!!!
That’s C O A L - the single filthiest substance in the world. Who even measures that? HOW do you measure that? More importantly, WHY do you measure that?
If I ran the networks the next advertisement would just say in block print:
WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE
Friday, October 30, 2009
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Magic Mud
I find when I’m short on real-life material I tend to turn to the news media for entertainment. Not the entertainment industry, mind you, the news media.
Today a headline on CNN.com is “Harvesting Baseball’s Magic Mud” followed by a story on a gentleman who sells dried mud to, you guessed it: the baseball industry. Never a group known for burning up the IQ charts, this special mud is apparently the one key ingredient to pitchers’ fingers finding purchase on the otherwise-slick finish of a new baseball; less of a problem, I suspect, before the unique ridges in their fingertips were embossed with dollar signs.
According to CNN the gentleman in question, one “Jim Bintliff”, mines this secret mud from whats been described as "a fishing hole" that lies on the banks of the Delaware River. Also perhaps not the shiniest penny on the sidewalk, clever Jim followed with his sweeping claim "Nobody knows this is where I get the magic mud.”
Well, Jim, my magic computer research indicates it comes from the chewed-up portion of the Delaware river nearest your house with a Yosemite Sam lawn-chair in it. I have a heavily-rubbed $50 bill that says I can Mapquest “Jim Bintliff”, follow the trail of empty Miller High Life cans down to the river behind his house, and before you can say “Buster Don’t Spit On That” we’re knee-deep in rich man’s mud.
CNN, in its infinite wisdom goes on to say that out of nine brothers and sisters, Bintliff was the one picked to carry on the family business.
“Picked.” Oh man.
I assume his parents chose him for this esteemed role, he could have gone to college, but they picked him for something magical. To his credit he’s made the most of it. I can see it now - “Boy, you’re going to spend the rest of your life wading in the mud out back. Now go make us proud!”
Some people have all the luck. I had to graduate from a 4-year institution of higher leaning AND get a paying job before my parents considered their work complete.
Perhaps Chris Van Zant, Assistant Manager for the Braves, put it best:
"It seems kind of funny," he said. "When you see fans fighting for a souvenir ball that goes into the stands, you're like, 'Well, that ball has my spit on it.' There's a little kid somewhere with a baseball on his nightstand and I spit on that ball."
Whew. Thats heady stuff Chris. Deep. Real' deep.
According to CNN, Chris Van Zant earns part of his paycheck with his spit – he’s the team's only “baseball rubber.” Before each game, he mixes his special spit with Jim's special mud and rubs the gloss off of each new ball. In his 10 years with the club, Van Zant estimates that over 40,000 baseballs passed through his (spittle-bathed) hands.
Son, you’ve rubbed a lot of balls.
Today a headline on CNN.com is “Harvesting Baseball’s Magic Mud” followed by a story on a gentleman who sells dried mud to, you guessed it: the baseball industry. Never a group known for burning up the IQ charts, this special mud is apparently the one key ingredient to pitchers’ fingers finding purchase on the otherwise-slick finish of a new baseball; less of a problem, I suspect, before the unique ridges in their fingertips were embossed with dollar signs.
According to CNN the gentleman in question, one “Jim Bintliff”, mines this secret mud from whats been described as "a fishing hole" that lies on the banks of the Delaware River. Also perhaps not the shiniest penny on the sidewalk, clever Jim followed with his sweeping claim "Nobody knows this is where I get the magic mud.”
Well, Jim, my magic computer research indicates it comes from the chewed-up portion of the Delaware river nearest your house with a Yosemite Sam lawn-chair in it. I have a heavily-rubbed $50 bill that says I can Mapquest “Jim Bintliff”, follow the trail of empty Miller High Life cans down to the river behind his house, and before you can say “Buster Don’t Spit On That” we’re knee-deep in rich man’s mud.
CNN, in its infinite wisdom goes on to say that out of nine brothers and sisters, Bintliff was the one picked to carry on the family business.
“Picked.” Oh man.
I assume his parents chose him for this esteemed role, he could have gone to college, but they picked him for something magical. To his credit he’s made the most of it. I can see it now - “Boy, you’re going to spend the rest of your life wading in the mud out back. Now go make us proud!”
Some people have all the luck. I had to graduate from a 4-year institution of higher leaning AND get a paying job before my parents considered their work complete.
Perhaps Chris Van Zant, Assistant Manager for the Braves, put it best:
"It seems kind of funny," he said. "When you see fans fighting for a souvenir ball that goes into the stands, you're like, 'Well, that ball has my spit on it.' There's a little kid somewhere with a baseball on his nightstand and I spit on that ball."
Whew. Thats heady stuff Chris. Deep. Real' deep.
According to CNN, Chris Van Zant earns part of his paycheck with his spit – he’s the team's only “baseball rubber.” Before each game, he mixes his special spit with Jim's special mud and rubs the gloss off of each new ball. In his 10 years with the club, Van Zant estimates that over 40,000 baseballs passed through his (spittle-bathed) hands.
Son, you’ve rubbed a lot of balls.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
A Downstairs Boobing
I recently set up a Google Analytics account so I can get a vague idea of what’s going on with my (roughly 14) readers.
So far, I’m impressed.
Google lets me keep track of keyword search terms that have led to my site (it doesn’t tell me who you are, or where you’re from so don’t worry) and the results are simply astounding. The hands-down winner out of all the keyword search phrases I see successfully leading to my blog is…..(drumroll please!!!)
“Ashley Boobs Downstairs”
and, trailing a close second:
"Ashley Shy Boob"
Hello world: this is my cousin, and those are her boobs.
Ahthankyou.
So far, I’m impressed.
Google lets me keep track of keyword search terms that have led to my site (it doesn’t tell me who you are, or where you’re from so don’t worry) and the results are simply astounding. The hands-down winner out of all the keyword search phrases I see successfully leading to my blog is…..(drumroll please!!!)
“Ashley Boobs Downstairs”
and, trailing a close second:
"Ashley Shy Boob"
Hello world: this is my cousin, and those are her boobs.
Ahthankyou.
Monday, October 26, 2009
That Wicked Squirrel
"Why, hello darlin'" a cherubic, pink-cheeked Lee Q. Trice drawled in greeting to my date as we walked in to the party; then , "Pppppwhheett!" he followed, cheerfully, with a light between-the-teeth duckwhistle.
To me he directed a well-timed, "Way-ull, Ewing is here. I reckon I better mosey on home. I see the party just ended" before I had time to retort.
I have a hard time finding an easy crowd these days.
Without further ado Lee, "The Trice Is Right" Trice, already tacking slightly into an unseen headwind, weaved gently off in the general direction of the bar leaving me, and a collection of cousins and various kin, within convenient reach of the low-county boil.
After dinner we sallied forth into the yard and found Lee seated happily at the table nearest the bar, holding forth on the dangers of bull-riding, and gently polishing his giant western belt buckle with a napkin soaked in the mixture of beer, red, and white wines he had in his cup.
"Why herrloo darleeiing" he said (this time to me) "Wher hash you all bensh?" He looked away briefly to fill his solo cup to the brim with a new red wine, then picked right back up with "I juschsht want you to know that you hurt my feelingsh, Ewing."
Surprised, I rejoined with "Lee! What in the world are you talking about? We just got here!"
"No! I don't like to talk about hard shubjecksh at shutsch a naaaiicee gatheringofgoodpeoples" he slurred, left eye wandering a bit. "Lets jushsht fight it on out on the lawn."
"Lee, I don't think thats necessary. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, I swear! What did I do?" I said.
"Well, I tell you Mr. Ewingsh. I like to hunt the squirrrreelllsss too you ol scallywag! Yes I do! Lee Trice is the Stylingest and Profilingest Szhshquirrelhuntertheyeverwuz! You done forgot about ol' pore Lee Trisch away down in All-Benny!"
Then it dawned on me: the guest list of The Annual James G. Ewing Jr, & Tripp Maddux Squirrel Hunting Championship of the World Invitational Tournament had scored yet another victim.
So to Lee Q. "The Trice Is Right" Trice: consider this your official invitation - The Wicked Squirrel Approacheth.
To me he directed a well-timed, "Way-ull, Ewing is here. I reckon I better mosey on home. I see the party just ended" before I had time to retort.
I have a hard time finding an easy crowd these days.
Without further ado Lee, "The Trice Is Right" Trice, already tacking slightly into an unseen headwind, weaved gently off in the general direction of the bar leaving me, and a collection of cousins and various kin, within convenient reach of the low-county boil.
After dinner we sallied forth into the yard and found Lee seated happily at the table nearest the bar, holding forth on the dangers of bull-riding, and gently polishing his giant western belt buckle with a napkin soaked in the mixture of beer, red, and white wines he had in his cup.
"Why herrloo darleeiing" he said (this time to me) "Wher hash you all bensh?" He looked away briefly to fill his solo cup to the brim with a new red wine, then picked right back up with "I juschsht want you to know that you hurt my feelingsh, Ewing."
Surprised, I rejoined with "Lee! What in the world are you talking about? We just got here!"
"No! I don't like to talk about hard shubjecksh at shutsch a naaaiicee gatheringofgoodpeoples" he slurred, left eye wandering a bit. "Lets jushsht fight it on out on the lawn."
"Lee, I don't think thats necessary. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, I swear! What did I do?" I said.
"Well, I tell you Mr. Ewingsh. I like to hunt the squirrrreelllsss too you ol scallywag! Yes I do! Lee Trice is the Stylingest and Profilingest Szhshquirrelhuntertheyeverwuz! You done forgot about ol' pore Lee Trisch away down in All-Benny!"
Then it dawned on me: the guest list of The Annual James G. Ewing Jr, & Tripp Maddux Squirrel Hunting Championship of the World Invitational Tournament had scored yet another victim.
So to Lee Q. "The Trice Is Right" Trice: consider this your official invitation - The Wicked Squirrel Approacheth.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Russia, Land of The Deadly Circus Bear
See here for what could easily be the most important news you read all day: http://www.cnn.com/2009/WORLD/europe/10/23/russia.skating.bear.death/index.html?eref=igoogle_cnn
My favorite part is that the writer described “fatal” trained Russian circus bear attacks as “rare.” Note that he or she did not say non-fatal attacks were rare, just fatal ones.
Good grief.
I’m actually surprised that fatal attacks weren’t described as “pretty common” or “the best part of the show”, because I’ve seen trained bears doing stuff before and they look supremely pissed off. I can’t say I blame them. If you stuffed me in a clown costume, taped a propeller-hat to my head, and whipped me until I rode a child’s bicycle in a circle to the amusement of 10,000 people at a time – I’d spend most of my off-hours dreaming up a way to eat your head too.
The writer also did not specify how the man’s leg was severed – he or she just remarks that the man’s leg was “nearly severed” while the bear was “dragging him across the ice by the neck.” I may not be a genius, but I know a bear with a mouthful of neck is going to have a hard time cutting my leg off, even if he was a trained lumberjack – a detail the newsperson fails to mention.
That doesn't surprise me though - based on my experience with our news media I would definitely expect the Russian news media to forget to include "Chainsaw-Wielding" in the "Ice Skating Bear" description, but it would definitely explain a lot.
Ultimately though, I'm going to take up for the bear trainer (may he rest in pieces) - if you take a 1,500lb thumbless carnivore and add ice skates, you're mixing up a recipe for good times all summer long.
Sounds to me like the real news report probably read “Zamboni driver panics. Runs over bear trainer during bear attack, severing leg” and the Russian government covered it up to limit references to their stupid ice sports. But who am I to judge? I sit in a tree, alone, for hours at a time talking to myself and consider it a "sport".
I also wonder if the bear just skated right on over to the guy to eat him. I believe thats a fatal mix of "irony" and "well trained bear" because he managed to skate off with the guy too. Whew. How embarassing is that? Killed by a bear wearing ice skates.
Trained bears are one thing, but trained tigers are the ones that really get me. I feel like bears are big and lazy, and some of them probably consider all that abuse a pretty fair trade for free meals.
Not tigers.
That’s a great big cat with a mouth full of Ginsu knives, and you and I both know how unpredictable cats are. How many times in your life have you reached down to pet somebody’s perfectly-content-looking kitty only to spend the next 30 seconds trying to peel his claws out of your arm? That’s why I don’t mess with other people’s pets – I don’t want to play with your animals, buddy, so keep them off me.
Maybe they paid him a alot. I know I could be coerced into working with a trained bear for the right amount of money or ammunition, but I would definitely not clamber into an enclosed space with a tiger and look him in the eye, that’s for sure. For one: I’d be a little embarrassed because I know the tiger is sitting there going “seriously? This is what my life has been reduced to?”
Secondly: I’m mighty damn scared of tigers.
My favorite part is that the writer described “fatal” trained Russian circus bear attacks as “rare.” Note that he or she did not say non-fatal attacks were rare, just fatal ones.
Good grief.
I’m actually surprised that fatal attacks weren’t described as “pretty common” or “the best part of the show”, because I’ve seen trained bears doing stuff before and they look supremely pissed off. I can’t say I blame them. If you stuffed me in a clown costume, taped a propeller-hat to my head, and whipped me until I rode a child’s bicycle in a circle to the amusement of 10,000 people at a time – I’d spend most of my off-hours dreaming up a way to eat your head too.
The writer also did not specify how the man’s leg was severed – he or she just remarks that the man’s leg was “nearly severed” while the bear was “dragging him across the ice by the neck.” I may not be a genius, but I know a bear with a mouthful of neck is going to have a hard time cutting my leg off, even if he was a trained lumberjack – a detail the newsperson fails to mention.
That doesn't surprise me though - based on my experience with our news media I would definitely expect the Russian news media to forget to include "Chainsaw-Wielding" in the "Ice Skating Bear" description, but it would definitely explain a lot.
Ultimately though, I'm going to take up for the bear trainer (may he rest in pieces) - if you take a 1,500lb thumbless carnivore and add ice skates, you're mixing up a recipe for good times all summer long.
Sounds to me like the real news report probably read “Zamboni driver panics. Runs over bear trainer during bear attack, severing leg” and the Russian government covered it up to limit references to their stupid ice sports. But who am I to judge? I sit in a tree, alone, for hours at a time talking to myself and consider it a "sport".
I also wonder if the bear just skated right on over to the guy to eat him. I believe thats a fatal mix of "irony" and "well trained bear" because he managed to skate off with the guy too. Whew. How embarassing is that? Killed by a bear wearing ice skates.
Trained bears are one thing, but trained tigers are the ones that really get me. I feel like bears are big and lazy, and some of them probably consider all that abuse a pretty fair trade for free meals.
Not tigers.
That’s a great big cat with a mouth full of Ginsu knives, and you and I both know how unpredictable cats are. How many times in your life have you reached down to pet somebody’s perfectly-content-looking kitty only to spend the next 30 seconds trying to peel his claws out of your arm? That’s why I don’t mess with other people’s pets – I don’t want to play with your animals, buddy, so keep them off me.
Maybe they paid him a alot. I know I could be coerced into working with a trained bear for the right amount of money or ammunition, but I would definitely not clamber into an enclosed space with a tiger and look him in the eye, that’s for sure. For one: I’d be a little embarrassed because I know the tiger is sitting there going “seriously? This is what my life has been reduced to?”
Secondly: I’m mighty damn scared of tigers.
Black Magic Waitress
Now, I don’t want you to take offense to this, or to be otherwise disturbed with me for the following commentary, so please allow me to preface with the following disclaimer: If you are a waiter, I have nothing but love for you. I don’t hate waiters or any sort of service staff, in fact I quite often engage in a healthy bit of banter with the waitstaff which, on the whole, improves my meal..
I just hate paying you guys.
I was looking for ways to save money the other day (without really curtailing my spending) and I just happened to notice a pile of restaurant receipts on my dresser. I couldn't help but spy the double-subtotals and all the scrawl underneath where I had indicated a tip amount, so I started adding it up.
Let me just tell you: I've got the entire food service staff of Sandy Springs on my payroll.
I was appalled. I mean seriously. Why do I pay someone 20% of my total food bill to write down what I want to eat, carry that slip of paper 14 feet, then bring my food back to me? In a free market that's worth about $1, not 20%.
20% means for every dollar I spend I pay someone $0.20 to carry my plate around. It’s like a tax to sponsor bad attitude.
Why don’t we pay the mailman 20%? That’s a valuable service right there - even if I do have to wait an extra 30 minutes while he reads my NRA magazines in the driveway.
Think about it like this: say you spend on average $30 per day for food. You eat pretty much every day (at least I do), and I eat out more often than I eat in, so let’s say you’re single and eat out 75% of the time. Shake all that information up and here’s how it works out: 365*30*75% = $8,212
With those numbers you spend a shade over $8,000 per year on eating out alone – and that’s not even including alcoholic beverages. What’s 20% of that? $1,642.00. $1,600 for the pure luxury of having someone who you don’t know traipse around with your plate, wave some bad attitude around, and give you terrible advice on eggplant entrees.
That works out to $4.50 per day, or $135 per month. $135 per month on waiters and you don’t even get to deduct it off your taxes as a business expense. From what I understand, for $4.50 per day you can literally FEED an entire family off in Africa somewhere. I bet that includes tipping the waitstaff too.
So here is what I propose: let’s take all the local waiters and waitresses (God bless them), put them on a boat, and send them on vacation until I’m dead. For even 10% off my bill I’ll be glad to walk in the back, holler at the cook, pick up my food, eat it, wash my dish, and put it away. I’ll give myself my own advice on the entree selections based on what’s in the menu. It is, after all, written in English - not Sanskrit as they would have you believe. I may even bring my own Chinet and skip the dish washing which is, in my opinion, the classiest solution.
How about this? I can bring my own waiter. For $10 an hour you can get one of the guys that hangs around by the Citgo in Sandy Springs to do pretty much anything labor-wise you like. Last week when I pulled up for gas 4 of them jumped in the back of my truck without saying a word. Looks like a truckload of waiters if you ask me! No seat belt? No problem! Split 4 ways over a 2hr dinner the cost of one of those guys is only $5 apiece. Of course, two of them hollered and jumped right back out when they saw all the dried blood in the truck bed from the deer I killed last week.
I was impressed with the two that hung around.
Or how about this? A person from the table who came in front of you serves you dinner, and you serve dinner to the people who came in behind you? And you know what? They can wear latex gloves if you like; but for 20%, no, I don’t care if you wash your hands or not. Take down the “must wash your hands signs” that they all ignore anyway - I’ll take my chances. You can get naked and wander around with the water pitcher for all I care.
I’d actually be willing to pay a little bit more for the luxury of being allowed to cruise back behind the swinging door at random. I want to find out just exactly what the hell is going on back there anyway. I know for a fact you can’t make a whole chimichanga at home in 4.8 minutes, so I want to learn whatever black Aztec art they've rediscovered in the back at Taxco - its been hidden from the world long enough.
I just hate paying you guys.
I was looking for ways to save money the other day (without really curtailing my spending) and I just happened to notice a pile of restaurant receipts on my dresser. I couldn't help but spy the double-subtotals and all the scrawl underneath where I had indicated a tip amount, so I started adding it up.
Let me just tell you: I've got the entire food service staff of Sandy Springs on my payroll.
I was appalled. I mean seriously. Why do I pay someone 20% of my total food bill to write down what I want to eat, carry that slip of paper 14 feet, then bring my food back to me? In a free market that's worth about $1, not 20%.
20% means for every dollar I spend I pay someone $0.20 to carry my plate around. It’s like a tax to sponsor bad attitude.
Why don’t we pay the mailman 20%? That’s a valuable service right there - even if I do have to wait an extra 30 minutes while he reads my NRA magazines in the driveway.
Think about it like this: say you spend on average $30 per day for food. You eat pretty much every day (at least I do), and I eat out more often than I eat in, so let’s say you’re single and eat out 75% of the time. Shake all that information up and here’s how it works out: 365*30*75% = $8,212
With those numbers you spend a shade over $8,000 per year on eating out alone – and that’s not even including alcoholic beverages. What’s 20% of that? $1,642.00. $1,600 for the pure luxury of having someone who you don’t know traipse around with your plate, wave some bad attitude around, and give you terrible advice on eggplant entrees.
That works out to $4.50 per day, or $135 per month. $135 per month on waiters and you don’t even get to deduct it off your taxes as a business expense. From what I understand, for $4.50 per day you can literally FEED an entire family off in Africa somewhere. I bet that includes tipping the waitstaff too.
So here is what I propose: let’s take all the local waiters and waitresses (God bless them), put them on a boat, and send them on vacation until I’m dead. For even 10% off my bill I’ll be glad to walk in the back, holler at the cook, pick up my food, eat it, wash my dish, and put it away. I’ll give myself my own advice on the entree selections based on what’s in the menu. It is, after all, written in English - not Sanskrit as they would have you believe. I may even bring my own Chinet and skip the dish washing which is, in my opinion, the classiest solution.
How about this? I can bring my own waiter. For $10 an hour you can get one of the guys that hangs around by the Citgo in Sandy Springs to do pretty much anything labor-wise you like. Last week when I pulled up for gas 4 of them jumped in the back of my truck without saying a word. Looks like a truckload of waiters if you ask me! No seat belt? No problem! Split 4 ways over a 2hr dinner the cost of one of those guys is only $5 apiece. Of course, two of them hollered and jumped right back out when they saw all the dried blood in the truck bed from the deer I killed last week.
I was impressed with the two that hung around.
Or how about this? A person from the table who came in front of you serves you dinner, and you serve dinner to the people who came in behind you? And you know what? They can wear latex gloves if you like; but for 20%, no, I don’t care if you wash your hands or not. Take down the “must wash your hands signs” that they all ignore anyway - I’ll take my chances. You can get naked and wander around with the water pitcher for all I care.
I’d actually be willing to pay a little bit more for the luxury of being allowed to cruise back behind the swinging door at random. I want to find out just exactly what the hell is going on back there anyway. I know for a fact you can’t make a whole chimichanga at home in 4.8 minutes, so I want to learn whatever black Aztec art they've rediscovered in the back at Taxco - its been hidden from the world long enough.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Gentlemen: Meet Your Dinner
Charlton M. Bouchemeyer, our newest roommate, emailed me the other day suggesting that we invite a few people over for a "punkin' carving" which, he declared, was "critical to his success and happiness in October."
Not wanting to stand in the way of the man from Tennessee's overall mental health, we ended up turning it into a punkin'-carving competition complete with prizes and whatnot; and sent out an email invitation to that effect. On the whole, I think it went well; at least from a medical standpoint, because nobody cut anything off, and nobody cried - I consider that my two key metrics for post-party analysis.
Ashleigh Cavannes (pronounced "ca van ness" or "cavan ess" or just "Ashley") even brought her own punkin' carving kit, which impressed me to no end. Even though she has a name you have to misspell to pronounce, she's still got some class; and she brought tools to the party - big winner. I didn't realize such a thing existed and I got so excited about the punkin' carving kit that I promptly snapped the blade off the little punkin' saw. That's about par for the course with me and tools I think.
The only thing I found vaguely disturbing is that only about 50% of attendees actually followed the party directions and BYOP'ed. I feel like if I get an invitation to an event that says, in no uncertain terms, that I'm to bring with me a giant gourd-like squash from the family cucurbita - I'm going to bring that gourd-like squash.
I'm not going to bring a lemon, six tangerines and a sack of walnuts, or a honeydew melon, or a cucumber, or dessert, or anything else. I'm not even going to bring spaghetti squash or butternut squash (both of which taste much better than punkin') - I'm going to bring a punkin'.
Why?
Because I'm a competitor, and a punkin'-carving-champion needs his punkin'.
Punkin'-shortage aside, it was fun and everything went smoothly. Tyler whipped up some fabulous chili so I managed to sneak some venison in on the unsuspecting public - one of my main joys in life. I didn't even get a "shut up, shut UP!" look from Tyler but once during the whole evening! That's a record.
She sasheyed into the room just in time to hear me loudly announce "well, the chili has venison in it. Actually, now that I think about it - its from that deer - right there on the wall!" as I pointed to a mounted deer head hanging near the fireplace.
That got me the look, so I dropped the topic double-quick.
Later she said - "listen idiot, people don't want to feel like the animal they're eating is eyeballing them from the other side of the room. Its in poor taste."
Let me just say: I've had that phrase hissed at me in more social settings than I care to recount and its a real mood killer.
So, excuuuuse me for living. I just thought they'd like to meet their dinner before they ate it.
Not wanting to stand in the way of the man from Tennessee's overall mental health, we ended up turning it into a punkin'-carving competition complete with prizes and whatnot; and sent out an email invitation to that effect. On the whole, I think it went well; at least from a medical standpoint, because nobody cut anything off, and nobody cried - I consider that my two key metrics for post-party analysis.
Ashleigh Cavannes (pronounced "ca van ness" or "cavan ess" or just "Ashley") even brought her own punkin' carving kit, which impressed me to no end. Even though she has a name you have to misspell to pronounce, she's still got some class; and she brought tools to the party - big winner. I didn't realize such a thing existed and I got so excited about the punkin' carving kit that I promptly snapped the blade off the little punkin' saw. That's about par for the course with me and tools I think.
The only thing I found vaguely disturbing is that only about 50% of attendees actually followed the party directions and BYOP'ed. I feel like if I get an invitation to an event that says, in no uncertain terms, that I'm to bring with me a giant gourd-like squash from the family cucurbita - I'm going to bring that gourd-like squash.
I'm not going to bring a lemon, six tangerines and a sack of walnuts, or a honeydew melon, or a cucumber, or dessert, or anything else. I'm not even going to bring spaghetti squash or butternut squash (both of which taste much better than punkin') - I'm going to bring a punkin'.
Why?
Because I'm a competitor, and a punkin'-carving-champion needs his punkin'.
Punkin'-shortage aside, it was fun and everything went smoothly. Tyler whipped up some fabulous chili so I managed to sneak some venison in on the unsuspecting public - one of my main joys in life. I didn't even get a "shut up, shut UP!" look from Tyler but once during the whole evening! That's a record.
She sasheyed into the room just in time to hear me loudly announce "well, the chili has venison in it. Actually, now that I think about it - its from that deer - right there on the wall!" as I pointed to a mounted deer head hanging near the fireplace.
That got me the look, so I dropped the topic double-quick.
Later she said - "listen idiot, people don't want to feel like the animal they're eating is eyeballing them from the other side of the room. Its in poor taste."
Let me just say: I've had that phrase hissed at me in more social settings than I care to recount and its a real mood killer.
So, excuuuuse me for living. I just thought they'd like to meet their dinner before they ate it.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Domestic Red
When I arrived home from work today Tyler was standing in the kitchen surrounded by empty shopping bags and a general conglomeration of foodstuffs, and there was a large cauldron on the stove fairly bubbling over with a mysterious red liquid.
I didnt expect that.
I expected to come home and find something typical like Bud watching football in my room naked, or CB shooting his bow off the roof, or Dad in the basement rifling through my collection of high-end sporting goods.
Instead, I came through the carport, looked in the back window, and there she was in all her dirty-blonde domestic glory, complete with light sheen of perspiration and a dried spray of tomato sauce on her forehead.
Surprised, I paused and immediately identified the cauldron as containing some form of meaty peasant stew (or "chili" as I believe the plebian hordes sometimes call it); but what I appreciated the most was her dress: she was clad in a t-shirt, one of my fleece pullovers, running shorts, no socks, and the piece-de-resistance: a brand-new pair of women's green rubber knee-high hunting boots.
She was tromping about the kitchen waving her chili-spoon at an imaginary orchestra and singing "The Battery" by The Lost Trailers, woefully off-key, at the top of her voice:
"OHHHHH, I WOOOKEEEEE UP ON THE BATTTERRRYYY ON A CHARLESTON FRRIIIDDAYYY NIIIGHT, WITH MY DIRT-STAINED CORDUROYS AND 'BALANCES CRUMPLED UP BY MYYY SIIIDDEEE. SAID GOODBYE TO MY COMPANY, AND I SHOOK IT ON DOWNNN THE LINNNNEEEE!!!!"
Which just goes to show you: theres a little red in everybody.
I didnt expect that.
I expected to come home and find something typical like Bud watching football in my room naked, or CB shooting his bow off the roof, or Dad in the basement rifling through my collection of high-end sporting goods.
Instead, I came through the carport, looked in the back window, and there she was in all her dirty-blonde domestic glory, complete with light sheen of perspiration and a dried spray of tomato sauce on her forehead.
Surprised, I paused and immediately identified the cauldron as containing some form of meaty peasant stew (or "chili" as I believe the plebian hordes sometimes call it); but what I appreciated the most was her dress: she was clad in a t-shirt, one of my fleece pullovers, running shorts, no socks, and the piece-de-resistance: a brand-new pair of women's green rubber knee-high hunting boots.
She was tromping about the kitchen waving her chili-spoon at an imaginary orchestra and singing "The Battery" by The Lost Trailers, woefully off-key, at the top of her voice:
"OHHHHH, I WOOOKEEEEE UP ON THE BATTTERRRYYY ON A CHARLESTON FRRIIIDDAYYY NIIIGHT, WITH MY DIRT-STAINED CORDUROYS AND 'BALANCES CRUMPLED UP BY MYYY SIIIDDEEE. SAID GOODBYE TO MY COMPANY, AND I SHOOK IT ON DOWNNN THE LINNNNEEEE!!!!"
Which just goes to show you: theres a little red in everybody.
W. A. Slocumb, Proprietor
I’m in the midst of a 10-year battle to spend the night at my Uncle William’s house; not, mind you, that I’ve been invited; rather that I’ve consistently invited myself which, as The Oldest Golden One, is my birthright. After 10 years of trying, the house itself has grown enormous in my mind, tormenting my strangled imagination to no end until, finally, I understand Pip’s obsession with The Havisham estate. I fully expect to walk in one day and find all the clocks stopped on the same time and my Uncle William wearing a top-hat and cravat; seated at a mossy, dust-laden, credenza gazing at me through a pair of pince-nez.
Most people cave under the pressure of a blatant self-invitation; but not W. A. Slocumb, Purveyor of Fine Antiques. I’ve been trying to get an invitation over there for years, but all he’s ever let me do is help him move furniture in and out, and clean leaves out of his gutters. The only time I’ve seen the upstairs it was mostly through a crack in the back of a crumbly old bureau he made me stick my head in and drag through the house.
Hardly a warm welcome if you ask me - which you didn’t.
After years of casual cajoling – my proposed Christmas sleeping arrangements at Uncle William’s have grown into something of a cause and I’ve stepped up the pressure a bit. I was, however, shocked and saddened to hear a voice whisper evilly “I hope you have money for a hotel room” in my ear after lunch on Sunday.
That’s just plain rude.
He didn’t even invite me to his massive Christmas party in 1999! A sociable man of my stature and congenial nature can only stand so much rampant affrontery! How much more must I bear?
I was 19 at the time of his big bash, but so what? It’s not like I had a history of traipsing around showing off my nosewhistle or my sore toe at dinner parties. I own my own tux, thank you very much.
Something about ‘99 must have lifted him up in his Buster Browns a bit because I hear it was an affair to remember. The whole town was abuzz; hushed mention of “The W.A. Slocumb Guest List” tainted the lips of Idle Hour Country Club’s elite for weeks afterwards.
Well, I happen to know the musty old curmudgeon thinned the hollandaise with Miracle Whip to cut costs; and, I’m not one to tell tales, but I doubt anybody in Macon has a palate fine enough to distinguish between real tenderloin and yesterday's London broil somebody hit a few good licks with a roofing hammer.
I didn’t make the cut then and now, 10 years later, I’m a living testament to the fact that if somebody doesn’t want you in their house: its mighty damn hard to get in there.
See you in December you old goat – I’ll get a peek in that attic if it kills me.
Most people cave under the pressure of a blatant self-invitation; but not W. A. Slocumb, Purveyor of Fine Antiques. I’ve been trying to get an invitation over there for years, but all he’s ever let me do is help him move furniture in and out, and clean leaves out of his gutters. The only time I’ve seen the upstairs it was mostly through a crack in the back of a crumbly old bureau he made me stick my head in and drag through the house.
Hardly a warm welcome if you ask me - which you didn’t.
After years of casual cajoling – my proposed Christmas sleeping arrangements at Uncle William’s have grown into something of a cause and I’ve stepped up the pressure a bit. I was, however, shocked and saddened to hear a voice whisper evilly “I hope you have money for a hotel room” in my ear after lunch on Sunday.
That’s just plain rude.
He didn’t even invite me to his massive Christmas party in 1999! A sociable man of my stature and congenial nature can only stand so much rampant affrontery! How much more must I bear?
I was 19 at the time of his big bash, but so what? It’s not like I had a history of traipsing around showing off my nosewhistle or my sore toe at dinner parties. I own my own tux, thank you very much.
Something about ‘99 must have lifted him up in his Buster Browns a bit because I hear it was an affair to remember. The whole town was abuzz; hushed mention of “The W.A. Slocumb Guest List” tainted the lips of Idle Hour Country Club’s elite for weeks afterwards.
Well, I happen to know the musty old curmudgeon thinned the hollandaise with Miracle Whip to cut costs; and, I’m not one to tell tales, but I doubt anybody in Macon has a palate fine enough to distinguish between real tenderloin and yesterday's London broil somebody hit a few good licks with a roofing hammer.
I didn’t make the cut then and now, 10 years later, I’m a living testament to the fact that if somebody doesn’t want you in their house: its mighty damn hard to get in there.
See you in December you old goat – I’ll get a peek in that attic if it kills me.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Who's Your Friend?
I was shocked and appalled to hear that some kind of healthcare thing passed its Senate committee last week.
What in the world is healthcare doing in the Senate? Was it a Senate resolution to set up a private hospital for senators? That would not shock me.
Was it a bill to mandate the addition of delicious grape flavor to wooden tongue depressors?
What, you don't know?
ME EITHER!!!!
I like my healthcare just fine - its great. Know why? Because I pay a lot of money for it so that when I go to the doctor or the pharmacy and don't have to pay any money -I feel like I'm getting something for free. Its the same principal that leads me to order things on the internet and set delivery dates for months down the road; that way I feel like somebody is sending me presents, and boy do I love presents!
Just last week I got a first edition Ruark novel from Amazon.com that I've wanted for years and I had no idea where it came from. Turns out - I sent it to me!
Apparently, I am my own best friend.
I guess the downside to the healthcare debate is that, no matter how I look at it, I'm basically just paying a lot for the privilege of getting sick. If I do get sick - at least for the moment I'm stocked up on reading material, and who knows what I"ll send myself next week!
I can't wait to find out.
What in the world is healthcare doing in the Senate? Was it a Senate resolution to set up a private hospital for senators? That would not shock me.
Was it a bill to mandate the addition of delicious grape flavor to wooden tongue depressors?
What, you don't know?
ME EITHER!!!!
I don't have the slightest CLUE whats going on and I don't intend to find out because every time I investigate, it stresses me out. I'll leave it up to Tyler, my proxy on all things political.
I just can't keep track of those crafty buggers up there Senate-ing their little hearts out with their hospitals and their bills and their funny hairdos! Aren't they such little scalawags out playing with their Senate friends all day long and causing trouble!! I envision the Senate is something like a giant red-velvet-lined sandbox for old men.I like my healthcare just fine - its great. Know why? Because I pay a lot of money for it so that when I go to the doctor or the pharmacy and don't have to pay any money -I feel like I'm getting something for free. Its the same principal that leads me to order things on the internet and set delivery dates for months down the road; that way I feel like somebody is sending me presents, and boy do I love presents!
Just last week I got a first edition Ruark novel from Amazon.com that I've wanted for years and I had no idea where it came from. Turns out - I sent it to me!
Apparently, I am my own best friend.
I guess the downside to the healthcare debate is that, no matter how I look at it, I'm basically just paying a lot for the privilege of getting sick. If I do get sick - at least for the moment I'm stocked up on reading material, and who knows what I"ll send myself next week!
I can't wait to find out.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
My Grass Is Greener
So, here’s the thing: if you have time to ASK for directions to the bathroom, you clearly don’t have to go bad enough to warrant a trip.
My lovely girlfriend, Tyler (yes, its a girl), is constantly asking for assistance in finding the nearest facilities. I understand some people aren’t naturally built for water retention like me (I drank a gallon of water once leaving Savannah and didn’t pull over until Macon), but seriously: if I’m in public and I have time to ask somebody how to get to the loo; I’ve got time to get myself either:
a. Home
or
b. Outside
Either of which I definitely prefer to any single room in the world where more than 25 semi-naked men have conducted the elemental business of life.
I do love urinals for their gleaming white utility and function, but I don’t care if its gold-plated, brand-new, or recently Cloroxed into oblivion; I prefer the front grass to the Long Porcelain Row and I don’t care WHOSE yard we’re in. Public germs are 100% airborne, and thats a fact.
But rest easy; that was for free - this isn’t another blog about public bathrooms. Aunt Greer, Commandant of The Appropriateness Gulag, can breathe a sigh of relief.
What I’m getting around to, in a roundabout kind of way, is that I love my basement workshop.
I love it so much that I just consulted with my friendly neighborhood contractor on the logistics of installing my very own gleaming white, used by only me and Santa, commercial-grade, stand-up urinal; right next to my workbench.
Turns out: it CAN be done.
Santa better get his fat ass busy laying in a supply of those little blue urinal cakes this year because The DudeRanch is strictly BYOUC.
My lovely girlfriend, Tyler (yes, its a girl), is constantly asking for assistance in finding the nearest facilities. I understand some people aren’t naturally built for water retention like me (I drank a gallon of water once leaving Savannah and didn’t pull over until Macon), but seriously: if I’m in public and I have time to ask somebody how to get to the loo; I’ve got time to get myself either:
a. Home
or
b. Outside
Either of which I definitely prefer to any single room in the world where more than 25 semi-naked men have conducted the elemental business of life.
I do love urinals for their gleaming white utility and function, but I don’t care if its gold-plated, brand-new, or recently Cloroxed into oblivion; I prefer the front grass to the Long Porcelain Row and I don’t care WHOSE yard we’re in. Public germs are 100% airborne, and thats a fact.
But rest easy; that was for free - this isn’t another blog about public bathrooms. Aunt Greer, Commandant of The Appropriateness Gulag, can breathe a sigh of relief.
What I’m getting around to, in a roundabout kind of way, is that I love my basement workshop.
I love it so much that I just consulted with my friendly neighborhood contractor on the logistics of installing my very own gleaming white, used by only me and Santa, commercial-grade, stand-up urinal; right next to my workbench.
Turns out: it CAN be done.
Santa better get his fat ass busy laying in a supply of those little blue urinal cakes this year because The DudeRanch is strictly BYOUC.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
A Late Arrival
Someone suggested recently that “consistent lateness” was one of my defining qualities.
I take exception to that.
I’m not consistently late – I just consistently arrive when I feel like it. There is a major difference.
Lateness suggests that I intended to be somewhere at a certain, pre-ordained, time and really – I didn’t. I know you said “7PM”, but at no point at that time, or subsequent to that invitation, did I ever really intend to be there smartly at 7PM. I just didn’t, and I’m not sorry.
I look at start and arrival times as a basic suggestion or “broad guideline” for my behavior.
Please allow me to paint you a picture of a typical Friday night dinner gathering: I understand that most couples will arrive at your house at 7PM for dinner, but I also know that most of them will be genuinely “late” (and fighting about it in the car), AND that you’re not going to have dinner on the table until 7:45ish because, honestly, I know you don’t have sense enough to take Martha Stewart’s “prep time” comments seriously. I know you figure, somehow, that if it takes Martha 30 minutes it’ll take you 19; but I tend to swing the opposite way. See, I think if it takes Martha 30 minutes it’s going to take YOU, your Chinet, and your dry-rotted spatulas about 3 hours (not including cleanup). I take ex-cons at their word.
I also know that if I get there “on time” I’m going to be the first one there which violates Mom’s basic party rule “get there late and leave early.” That’s strike two.
The other secret ingredient to my arrival time is that I’m very comfortable with the thought of you starting whatever youre doing pretty much whenever you want. Don’t wait on me! I’ll catch up. If I can’t catch up – I’ll find a way to occupy myself. I’m resourceful like that, and I’ve always wanted a peek in your sock drawer.
I’d just as soon walk in on the middle of a great dinner conversation than have to drum one up myself anyway. So what if you run out of something before I arrive? I’ve got beef jerky and nutbars in the truck – right underneath the .38 shells, D-cell batteries, and emergency poncho. I’m prepared for any dinnerguest emergency.
My lovely, budding-psychologist of a girlfriend just sweetly informed me that “lateness is a form of control.” I didn’t realize that, but it’s good to know. If somebody is going to be in control of me – it may as well be me.
Stuff THAT in your casserole dish and burn it.
While we’re on the topic: I’m also not bringing you anything when I arrive for dinner. You invited ME over for dinner. How it works is: I come in and you give ME food. Sometime down the road I’ll feed YOU dinner – don’t bring me anything - and then we’re even! I don’t want your pepper jelly-smeared chunk of cream cheese anywhere in my house, I promise.
Sweet lawd.
Every time somebody plunks one of those bad boys and a box of triscuit’s finest woven cardboard down on the table and I hear a sharp intake of breath as the hostess breathes a lusty “Ohhhhhh. Mmm what is that? That looks delicious” I want to scream “OHHH ME!! PICK ME!!! I KNOW WHAT IT IS!! IT’S A COLD BLOCK OF CREAM CHEESE SMEARED IN NASTY JELLY FROM A JAR AND GOD ONLY KNOWS HOW OLD IT IS.”
Oh the ritual tunes we dance to…
You can take that same block of cream cheese, or “brie” or whatever it is, and wrap it in instant biscuit dough and you know what you’ve got?
Nothing.
You’ve got a big nasty block of rotten cheese product wrapped in white flour and water. Keep it. My neighbor’s cat eats better than that and I should know: I fed it a dead squirrel last night.
I’m betting he dropped it off under their dinner table promptly at 7:30…
Right on time.
I take exception to that.
I’m not consistently late – I just consistently arrive when I feel like it. There is a major difference.
Lateness suggests that I intended to be somewhere at a certain, pre-ordained, time and really – I didn’t. I know you said “7PM”, but at no point at that time, or subsequent to that invitation, did I ever really intend to be there smartly at 7PM. I just didn’t, and I’m not sorry.
I look at start and arrival times as a basic suggestion or “broad guideline” for my behavior.
Please allow me to paint you a picture of a typical Friday night dinner gathering: I understand that most couples will arrive at your house at 7PM for dinner, but I also know that most of them will be genuinely “late” (and fighting about it in the car), AND that you’re not going to have dinner on the table until 7:45ish because, honestly, I know you don’t have sense enough to take Martha Stewart’s “prep time” comments seriously. I know you figure, somehow, that if it takes Martha 30 minutes it’ll take you 19; but I tend to swing the opposite way. See, I think if it takes Martha 30 minutes it’s going to take YOU, your Chinet, and your dry-rotted spatulas about 3 hours (not including cleanup). I take ex-cons at their word.
I also know that if I get there “on time” I’m going to be the first one there which violates Mom’s basic party rule “get there late and leave early.” That’s strike two.
The other secret ingredient to my arrival time is that I’m very comfortable with the thought of you starting whatever youre doing pretty much whenever you want. Don’t wait on me! I’ll catch up. If I can’t catch up – I’ll find a way to occupy myself. I’m resourceful like that, and I’ve always wanted a peek in your sock drawer.
I’d just as soon walk in on the middle of a great dinner conversation than have to drum one up myself anyway. So what if you run out of something before I arrive? I’ve got beef jerky and nutbars in the truck – right underneath the .38 shells, D-cell batteries, and emergency poncho. I’m prepared for any dinnerguest emergency.
My lovely, budding-psychologist of a girlfriend just sweetly informed me that “lateness is a form of control.” I didn’t realize that, but it’s good to know. If somebody is going to be in control of me – it may as well be me.
Stuff THAT in your casserole dish and burn it.
While we’re on the topic: I’m also not bringing you anything when I arrive for dinner. You invited ME over for dinner. How it works is: I come in and you give ME food. Sometime down the road I’ll feed YOU dinner – don’t bring me anything - and then we’re even! I don’t want your pepper jelly-smeared chunk of cream cheese anywhere in my house, I promise.
Sweet lawd.
Every time somebody plunks one of those bad boys and a box of triscuit’s finest woven cardboard down on the table and I hear a sharp intake of breath as the hostess breathes a lusty “Ohhhhhh. Mmm what is that? That looks delicious” I want to scream “OHHH ME!! PICK ME!!! I KNOW WHAT IT IS!! IT’S A COLD BLOCK OF CREAM CHEESE SMEARED IN NASTY JELLY FROM A JAR AND GOD ONLY KNOWS HOW OLD IT IS.”
Oh the ritual tunes we dance to…
You can take that same block of cream cheese, or “brie” or whatever it is, and wrap it in instant biscuit dough and you know what you’ve got?
Nothing.
You’ve got a big nasty block of rotten cheese product wrapped in white flour and water. Keep it. My neighbor’s cat eats better than that and I should know: I fed it a dead squirrel last night.
I’m betting he dropped it off under their dinner table promptly at 7:30…
Right on time.
Monday, October 05, 2009
The Great Proposition
I was propositioned by a prostitute last night while waiting in line for drinks at the Metallica concert.
Its alright, I can see that you’re going to need a few moments to yourself - so give it some time to sink in; and try not to think about too many things at once. When you’ve collected yourself, please, do read on...
When I say “propositioned” – we didn’t talk specifics or pricing, but the offer was out there. And I do mean – RIGHT THERE. Apparently leather tube tops have reached some level of popularity in this young woman’s neighborhood, so the vast majority of her transactional assets were in plain sight.
Once I realized what was going on my initial response was to get very sweaty and stare – both of which I did in short order. She must have taken my glazed gape for genuine interest, because she immediately followed her initial introduction with:
“I’m a model. Do you like models? I just saw a beautiful blonde in the restroom. I do model searches for my boss in Florida. This girl was hot. I mean super hot. Dumb though. Really dumb. Do you like hot girls like me? The last time I saw Metallica was 11 years ago in Irvine, Ca.”
This was entirely more information than I was prepared to process, but having never been engaged in conversation by a buxom special-friend-for-pay, I automatically reverted to my default setting - extreme politeness.
“Wow. That’s a long way off.” I said, brilliantly.
A tense frown shadowed her features as she said:
“What?? What do you mean?
“Errrr. Ahhhh. Ahem. I mean – California. You know. It ain’t real close.”
“Oh!” She said, visibly relaxing.
“I thought you meant I’m old. I’m a bit sensitive about my age.”
“Ah.” I said, wittily.
Then, remarkably, and without so much as a by-your-leave; she pressed her buns up against my left leg and, with a sort of shake-shimmy maneuver I could never hope to duplicate, turned and smooshed her rather large bosom against my arm - fairly vacuuming my elbow deep into the recess of her ample cleavage.
Ladies and gentlemen: I was well and truly stuck, but let us draw the curtain of decency around this scene for a moment and step back, together, for a look at the situation as a whole.
I’m at a METALLICA concert. The line for the men’s urinals is 10 minutes long. There is no line for the women’s bathroom. Do you know why? Because women mostly do not go to Metallica concerts.
Having never been to a Metallica concert before it didn’t begin to dawn on me exactly how different this experience would be until, upon arrival, Matt took one look at me, said “Nice pink shirt” and snickered derisively into his cheap beer.
My first reaction was a defensive “Hey! I wore this to church this morning! What’s wrong with it?” but, having been subjected to clothing ridicule by the arrogantly shabby Matt Dunn before, I smiled sweetly and made a mental note to break a knob off his car stereo later rather than engage in debate.
We walked along for a bit; then, just before we turned the corner to Phillips, I got an email from Matt’s wife, Leslie, on my blackberry as follows:
“Hey. You wore a salmon-colored polo to a Metallica concert? What’s wrong with you!?”
Apparently news travels fast.
Just then, we turned the last corner; Phillips Arena spread out before us, and we were greeted by a unique spectacle - a seething horde of humanity clad in nothing but solid black; man, woman, and child.
I looked like a big stupid bag of cotton candy.
So, back to our tube-topped friend of dubious virtue: there I am – salmon-clad and standing in a very crowded bar during a Metallica concert, and I’m being aggressively rubbed-up-on by a gratuitously-endowed, attractive young woman in a leather skirt.
I glance about me, briefly, and realize: she is literally the only woman in here, and every black-clad knight of Satan’s army is staring directly at us, or rather: her.
Oblivious to my discomfort, she began to absentmindedly rub her bosoms on me and continued: “Yeah. Really. I’m sensitive about my age lately for some reason.” I heard her say from somewhere off in the distance.
“Err. Well, how old are you exactly” I heard myself respond, nervously shuffling my feet.
“Well I’m in my thirties” She said.
“WOW!” I said at this new revelation, not knowing what to else to say, but wanting to at least appear cheerful.
A frown once again shadowed her brow and she returned with: “Hey. I said I was sensitive about my age.”
At that she abruptly turned and stalked off to the other end of the bar, hams swaying luxuriously in her wake. The last I saw of her she was cutting through the sea of humanity like a voluptuous, fleshy barge; buxom prow parting the all-male crowd which receded reverently about her in undulating waves of unchecked lust.
I stood there dumbfounded, as the realization washed over me: I, James G. Ewing Jr., homeschooler, just offended a prostitute.
Its alright, I can see that you’re going to need a few moments to yourself - so give it some time to sink in; and try not to think about too many things at once. When you’ve collected yourself, please, do read on...
When I say “propositioned” – we didn’t talk specifics or pricing, but the offer was out there. And I do mean – RIGHT THERE. Apparently leather tube tops have reached some level of popularity in this young woman’s neighborhood, so the vast majority of her transactional assets were in plain sight.
Once I realized what was going on my initial response was to get very sweaty and stare – both of which I did in short order. She must have taken my glazed gape for genuine interest, because she immediately followed her initial introduction with:
“I’m a model. Do you like models? I just saw a beautiful blonde in the restroom. I do model searches for my boss in Florida. This girl was hot. I mean super hot. Dumb though. Really dumb. Do you like hot girls like me? The last time I saw Metallica was 11 years ago in Irvine, Ca.”
This was entirely more information than I was prepared to process, but having never been engaged in conversation by a buxom special-friend-for-pay, I automatically reverted to my default setting - extreme politeness.
“Wow. That’s a long way off.” I said, brilliantly.
A tense frown shadowed her features as she said:
“What?? What do you mean?
“Errrr. Ahhhh. Ahem. I mean – California. You know. It ain’t real close.”
“Oh!” She said, visibly relaxing.
“I thought you meant I’m old. I’m a bit sensitive about my age.”
“Ah.” I said, wittily.
Then, remarkably, and without so much as a by-your-leave; she pressed her buns up against my left leg and, with a sort of shake-shimmy maneuver I could never hope to duplicate, turned and smooshed her rather large bosom against my arm - fairly vacuuming my elbow deep into the recess of her ample cleavage.
Ladies and gentlemen: I was well and truly stuck, but let us draw the curtain of decency around this scene for a moment and step back, together, for a look at the situation as a whole.
I’m at a METALLICA concert. The line for the men’s urinals is 10 minutes long. There is no line for the women’s bathroom. Do you know why? Because women mostly do not go to Metallica concerts.
Having never been to a Metallica concert before it didn’t begin to dawn on me exactly how different this experience would be until, upon arrival, Matt took one look at me, said “Nice pink shirt” and snickered derisively into his cheap beer.
My first reaction was a defensive “Hey! I wore this to church this morning! What’s wrong with it?” but, having been subjected to clothing ridicule by the arrogantly shabby Matt Dunn before, I smiled sweetly and made a mental note to break a knob off his car stereo later rather than engage in debate.
We walked along for a bit; then, just before we turned the corner to Phillips, I got an email from Matt’s wife, Leslie, on my blackberry as follows:
“Hey. You wore a salmon-colored polo to a Metallica concert? What’s wrong with you!?”
Apparently news travels fast.
Just then, we turned the last corner; Phillips Arena spread out before us, and we were greeted by a unique spectacle - a seething horde of humanity clad in nothing but solid black; man, woman, and child.
I looked like a big stupid bag of cotton candy.
So, back to our tube-topped friend of dubious virtue: there I am – salmon-clad and standing in a very crowded bar during a Metallica concert, and I’m being aggressively rubbed-up-on by a gratuitously-endowed, attractive young woman in a leather skirt.
I glance about me, briefly, and realize: she is literally the only woman in here, and every black-clad knight of Satan’s army is staring directly at us, or rather: her.
Oblivious to my discomfort, she began to absentmindedly rub her bosoms on me and continued: “Yeah. Really. I’m sensitive about my age lately for some reason.” I heard her say from somewhere off in the distance.
“Err. Well, how old are you exactly” I heard myself respond, nervously shuffling my feet.
“Well I’m in my thirties” She said.
“WOW!” I said at this new revelation, not knowing what to else to say, but wanting to at least appear cheerful.
A frown once again shadowed her brow and she returned with: “Hey. I said I was sensitive about my age.”
At that she abruptly turned and stalked off to the other end of the bar, hams swaying luxuriously in her wake. The last I saw of her she was cutting through the sea of humanity like a voluptuous, fleshy barge; buxom prow parting the all-male crowd which receded reverently about her in undulating waves of unchecked lust.
I stood there dumbfounded, as the realization washed over me: I, James G. Ewing Jr., homeschooler, just offended a prostitute.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)