"Hold up this caboose!" Margaret Cho kicks my ass up and down the street!
Right now, I want to punch LoLo in the ass for sunning herself in the Bahamas while I sit here, concussed. Never thought I'd see the day when I'd have to bring a friggin' helmet to work. Cripes.
Ay, too much thinking. Going to bed.
I'm not even kidding. I was flipping through the channels again, and Dope Sick Love, that HBO America Undercover documentary was on again. I caught it just as one of the guys tore up a brown paper bag so he could use it to write a love letter to his girlfriend, who was staying for two weeks at lovely Riker's Island.
His buddy, who one can only assume is a fellow dope fiend, found out what he was doing, patted him on the back, and said, "Just let it out, man. Just let it all out."
For some reason, I find this, and any other attempts by people who shoot up then attempt to clean their needles off in a public toilet to sound wise, pretty damned chuckleworthy.
Maybe it's just me.
So, today is Dan's birthday. He is currently in Orlando, hoarding as much quality steak as he can and taking in the Magic game on this auspicious day. Be sure to harrass him in some way, but whatever you do, don't say anything even remotely sounding like, "Dan, we need to talk..." 'cause that crazy-ass white boy will go off!
Happy Birthday, Danhole, and thanks for being one of the five regular visitors to this blog that isn't related to me!
I opened a fresh bag, and there were only four cookies in the top row of three, and there are only fourteen in what's supposed to be a bag of fifteen. Balls. Now, I'm one pissed off little Asian.
And again, I'm watching an episode of "America Undercover." This one's about "drug-addicted couples living on the streets of New York." At one point, a junkie cleans out his needle for future use by dipping it in a toilet he hadn't flushed yet. Yeah, one of a myriad of reasons not to do drugs. Bad things happen, man. Bad things.
It was another grueling day at the office during the week of Spring Break. This is, officially, the least productive day of the year so far. I spent most of it avoiding finishing paperwork (although I did get two more intakes done in rapid fashion), and trying to find non-caffeinated beverages in the vending machines (harder than I realized). With all the energy I expended, I'm surprised I'm even up watching this crap. I should go to bed.
Update: the second layer of cookies in the bag of Brussels reveals six cookies, bringing the total cookie count back to the advertised fifteen. I can now call off David Horowitz.
The reason I say this is because it seems that every year at Spring Break, we have a lot less people come in for appointments. I can understand that less people would schedule, because, well, shit, why would any kid in their right mind want to come in for therapy during their break? The thing that gets me is that people schedule, with the full knowledge that they're scheduling during Spring Break, and they insist it's fine, that they'll make the appointment, then... They don't fucking show up. No call to cancel, or anything. They just leave you there, waiting five, ten, fifteen minutes into their appointment, until you finally call it a no-show twenty minutes after their appointment was supposed to start, wasting yet another hour of your day, and another hour of weekly productivity. Gah.
The first day of Spring Break for the kids around here was a rain-filled crapfest. Today was hot and muggy. I hope the little bastards get more rain this week. Why should I be the only one miserable? Ah, I'm getting bitter again. I'm going to go eat some oranges and try to feel better.
For those of you out of the loop, go check out Ryan's official site. As always, impressive imagery, and this site is a nice and clean presentation. Oh, and that stuff you hear in the background (or have the option to turn off, but why the hell would you do that?) is what I like to call Grantasmuzik. Go to it, now! And don't forget to put some of your loose change in the UNICEF milk carton in the corner on your way out!
Right now, I feel like a whale. Perhaps I had too much beverage today, but I can barely move. This just caps off a weird weekend.
Yesterday, Mom was feeling sick, so I was going to run some errands for her. Right before I left, Sideshow called me over to the garage.
"Dude," he started in low tones, "Pop's in so much fucking trouble."
"What? Why?"
"He was doing yardwork, and he lost his wedding ring."
"Dude. He is in so much fucking trouble!"
Apparently, Mario was raking and bagging leaves in the backyard, and at some point, his ring fell off. We figured that maybe the ring fell into one of the lawn bags. I wondered why Pop didn't just hunker down and go through the bags.
"Dude, if it was me, I'd pour that shit all over the driveway to look for it," Sideshow stated, "But Pop just won't do that."
"Has he told Mom yet?" I asked.
"No," he replied, "But she's going to kick his ass when she finds out."
Silence for a few seconds. Then we looked at each other. "We better lay low for the next couple of days," we both concluded. I left to run errands.
I got back a couple of hours later. My folks were nowhere to be found. I find out that Mario took Perla to the ER because she fell out of bed and somehow dislocated her finger trying to break her fall. Soon after, Perla recounts the tale of her injury, and how it hurt more to get the shots to numb the area to reset her finger than the actual dislocation did. Her whole left hand was covered by an ice pack, so I asked her which finger it was.
She held up her hand. "My ring finger," she replied.
Well, I'll be damned. Something tells me that through the healing process, my mother won't be able to wear her wedding ring, either. At this point, I wonder whether Mario has told her about losing his ring, but I chose to keep my mouth shut.
Fast forward to today, when I did my laundry. My dad handed me something he wanted me to put in the garage, and as I turned around to get it, the lid to the washing machine came crashing down on my hand. Needless to say, it's been ice on, ice off for the past few hours. Oh yeah, did I mention? It was my left hand. No rings present or missing, of course.
Anyway, it's time for me to get some ice on this bitch. Until next time, have a chuckle at this, because any reason for me to chuckle at this hoser is a good one:
Veteran band protests about Justin
Another good reason to respect the elders!
So, in a fit of rage after work today, I decided to call Jules on the car ride home to vent. As always, our conversations start with a current event, and end up with a review of some of the ridiculousness we experienced at one point or another in college.
So, this time, the conversation started with my exasperation at the ignorance of general rules of consideration and politeness, and ended up with a discussion of the infamous late September, 1995 evening better known as "The Night of the Sides."
See, by September, 1995 was shaping up to be a pretty decent year. I successfully completed my first full year of college, and was almost two months into my sophomore year at UF when God decided to remind me that shit flows downwards. In what seemed like seconds, I lost a close, longtime friend (or maybe it would be more accurate to say that she lost me), and was on the verge of losing another person, who had not only been the sole object of my affection for over a year, but had also become one of my closest allies in the battle for self-discovery and growth known as undergrad.
The big blow up started on that horrible Saturday night that some of you may remember, where I sat in my beloved suitemates' room, listening to every possible thing I didn't want to hear at that time: all about my friend from home (who insisted that she was going to help me "land" my object of affection), actually going after said object after he admitted his feelings for her. This, of course, was coming from his mouth, and the torture seemed to go on forever. He insisted that he understood how I felt (which to this day, I find grossly impossible), and wanted us to "stay friends like we are, no matter what happens." His next request? "Please, be fair to her," he pleaded, "She feels horrible about this, and she doesn't know what to do. She really wants to talk to you and work things out." Although that cynical, angry, hurt part of me protested, I agreed to do my best.
The next two days were spent in a self-imposed silence, wrapped in a cocoon of agonizing solitude. My dearest roommates, even the skanky one with no conscience or soul whatsoever, did their best to keep me occupied and support me. I can honestly remember doing nothing for the next two days but staring at the sky while sitting out on the low wall behind Beaver West. I would even occasionally look to the little bridge that connected Beaty and Jennings, which was the hall my supposed friend lived in. I thought it was funny that for someone who was reportedly "torn up" about the situation, and who really wanted to talk to me and "work things out," and who lived a spit away from me, she had been glaringly scarce over those two days.
It was only by Monday, when I had been face-to-face with her in between classes, and she looked at me dumbly and said nothing, that I had seen just how "horrible" she felt. And in my need for release, that evening, I was going to call her and tell her exactly what I thought of her cowardice. But I got another phone call first.
It was the object of my affection, calling to check up on me. In his awkward attempts (and attempts at this point, by any one of us, would be nothing but awkward) to "keep our friendship the same," he offered to come over to cook me dinner. Stupidly and selfishly, I accepted. He came over with two boxes of macaroni and cheese, our staple food. I always found it idiotically impressive that he could make the mac and cheese without measuring instruments. He suggested having a side dish to go with it. The only thing I had was mashed potatoes.
Twenty minutes later, we both had two bowls in front of us, and ate mac and cheese and mashed potatoes in uncomfortable silence, both shoveling food into our mouths and looking down at the table so we couldn't look at or talk to each other. It was the most awkward dinner I've ever had, emotionally and content-wise. And I got terribly bloated afterwards.
And right after he left, good old what's-her-name called. Thus "The Night of Sides" became "The Night the Beaver West Girls Turned Off Melrose Place to Watch Something Else of Spelling Proportions Live." But that's another story, for another time. Suffice it to say, all that carbo-loading really got my Irish up.
Speaking of Irish, Happy Friggin' St. Patrick's Day, everybody!
If you'll excuse me, I think I need an extra helping of cabbage, an some more of those potatoes... Gotta fit the last bit of corned beef in before it turns midnight, and it becomes Friday, and I can't have any blasted meat...
Ah, I tell you, I can't get enough of Confessions of a Sociopathic Social Climber these days. J.Co and I watched the first half hour of it during lunch today. If we hadn't, with the day I had today, I am quite sure my head would've exploded all over my paperwork. How in the hell would I bill for that?
Today is also the Patterson's birthday. I think his official age will heretofore be listed as "Methuselah" on his driver's license. Happy Birthday, Mark, and guess what? Dan will give you two and a half cents to jack an I35 off the lot and keep it in pristine condition by the time you get it to his place!
It came sometime around eleven this morning, when I got a call from Jimmy's Mom's cell phone. It was Jimmy on the other line, calling to tell me that he had finally landed in Texas, and his year-long stay in Iraq was officially over!
At that point, a great load of weight was officially off my shoulders, and I could breathe a lot easier. Welcome Home, Jimmy. See you at Skippy Central soon!
Today, the Gator Men's Basketball Team beat the Kentucky Wildcats to win the SEC Championship, and now, I must celebrate!
Okay. Celebrating's done for now. More later after I recover from the ice cream-induced coma.
I know this is relatively old news, but I recently saw this again, and am hard pressed to ignore it.
I sat here, watching various flavors of Law & Order, and this Burger King commercial came on. You know the one: cowboy singing, dancers, Brooke Burke on a swing... anyway, long story short, the singing cowboy dude is Darius "My name isn't 'Hootie!'" Rucker. Good Lord.
I have nothing else to say about that.
I think Riley's going to start the local chapter of PFGDA (Parents and Friends of the Gay Dogs of America) after she finishes watching Legally Blonde 2: Red, White and Blonde.
She went to the groomer's today, and came back with green bows with white paw prints on them, just in time for St. Patrick's Day. Unfortunately, I don't think they're going to live to see St. Patrick's Day. To wit:
She's been home for only a matter of hours, and already the one bow is all cockeyed. I'm going to see how long it dangles by a hair until she goes nuts trying to remove it. Yeah, I think that's how the rest of my evening's going to go.
See, this is what I get for staying up and catching HBO's "America Undercover" series. Damn, I'm dumb.
Another one of those "longer than anticipated" days at work today. We have someone who is new to the front desk staff, but has worked in our agency for quite a while. The thing is, this person is so incredibly sweet, and tries really hard, but damned if this person can do the job right. After making Swiss cheese out of my schedule today, and rescheduling people for me all over the place (which the front desk staff is not allowed to do, since I am in charge of my own schedule), there was little else anyone could do to keep me from snapping. Steve, of all people, the King of the Wig Out, was even telling me to keep my cool (which, as of late, has become more and more difficult given the current work environment climate).
Never mind that I had to play mind games with an eight-year-old in our waiting room tonight. As I was approaching one of our security doors to get into my office, he walked up to me.
"I know the code to get in there," he said, gesturing to the keypad. Great, I thought, another little shit who is going to broadcast our security code to all kids within earshot. "Yeah? Why don't you show me?" I said, allowing him to punch the keys. And son of a biscuit, the kid knew the code. He beamed at me when the light on the keypad turned green.
I jiggled the handle of the door, pretending that it wouldn't open. "Are you sure?" I asked. "Yeah. The light's green." Okay, so this was a smarter one. "All right. Try it again." He tried again, but punched in the wrong code, so the light stayed red. He looked perplexed.
"You know what?" I said, "When you punch in the keys on that keypad, it takes your fingerprints." Looking amazed, he turned back to the keypad, and punched in the code again, but this time used his thumb. The code was correct, and the light went green again. He turned to me, beaming from ear to ear. Damned clever little shits! I mean, even though my story was total bull, he believed it, and believed it enough that he thought switching fingers would help! Gah! My tactic wasn't working. I had to think of something else.
"Oh, I forgot," I said, leaning in a little closer. "Since the keypad takes your fingerprints, it can tell whose prints are supposed to be on it, and whose aren't. If your prints go on there, and they're not supposed to be, you could get in trouble." Absolutely mortified at the thought of getting "in trouble," this smart little dude jumped back about five feet, his mouth wide open. I leaned towards him again, whispering, "I don't think we want you to get in trouble, right?" He nodded solemnly, and went back to his seat. His mom, who was sitting ten feet away, chuckled to herself as I went back towards the front office to tell them what had just happened.
"Is what I said to that kid to get him to not blab to everyone the key code and stop fucking around with the keypad so terrible?" I asked. Nobody seemed to think so.
See, I don't even feel bad about lying to a kid about something like this. How messed up is that?
Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to get in a chat room and lie about being the winning bidder on Justin Timberlake's leftover French Toast. I mean, Freedom Toast. Damned frogs, making toast for a pansy-ass Mama's boy. Crikey.
That Mikey Walsh is a sly little character, isn't he? No wonder I still heart him so.
I'm getting ready for bed, and have caught myself watching yet another episode of Cheaters. It absolutely kills me that they have a half-hour nightly episode on the weekdays, and an hourlong weekend episode on Saturdays. This is why the DVR is such a wondrous instrument: I get to tape my daily dose of trash and play it in the background while I'm doing other stuff. Riley herself is, at present, quite intrigued with this episode. I think it's mostly due to the fact that the actual "case" they're featuring is over, and they're doing a follow-up interview with someone from a previous case. This particular follow-up is to that weird-ass episode Grant and I watched a couple of years ago when we were in Orlando. We ate that entire rotisserie chicken and left Marc a wing and a piece of skin (after all, it was his stupid ass who said "I'll just eat whatever you guys leave me" without looking away from his computer monitor).
Anyway, I remember the episode really well, because it was one of the first few episodes I'd seen (and at the time, I only seemed to catch Cheaters when both Grant and I were in Orlando), and it was freaky as hell. I shan't go into too much graphic detail here, but I will say that the "confrontation" for this episode included the boyfriend catching his girlfriend in their own apartment, strobe lights pulsing, and two other women running to hide in the bathroom wearing not much more than flourescent orange safety vests (one with her face painted to look like a cat, the other wearing an old-school type gas mask), various sex toys hanging from the bed canopy, and photos of Jesus Christ and the Virgin Mary with blinking LEDs in them, on the endtables next to the bed. Yeah, that kind of freaky.
Okay, I've revisited the whole situation in my head, and now I need to lie down. Maybe it will go away if I close my eyes.
Oh, Jesus. I was planning on spending the evening catching up on paperwork, but that doesn't seem to be in the cards. After all, there was Alias to be had today, as well as making that Season Four tape I'm making to clear up space on the DVR, and my sudden need to have a hot fudge sundae. Yes, after almost thirteen hours at the House of Pain (also known as "work,") the last thing on my mind is actual labor.
Alias was damned good this evening. As per usual, somewhere between the seventh and ninth episode of the season, they really get into the swing of things and set the course for the rest of the year. This episode alone, I said "What the fuck?" at least five times more than usual. My favorite things about this episode? Weiss calling Sydney a "filthy American," Marshall proclaiming his DJ skills, and that Mustang crashing through the factory doors and emerging without a scratch. That's some kick-ass Turtle Wax, if you ask me.
Speaking of Turtle Wax, Jerminator has officially become a member of the Fuckles Blog Team. His most recent post has something to do with biscuits, gay cousins, and the General Lee. If you get the chance, go check it out to see what he has to say when he gets the chance to talk out of his ass!
According to an e-mail he sent me last night, Jimmy's answer to the above question is "sometime around March 8th." Unfortunately, that doesn't give me enough time to call off from work so I can take a few days to go with Mama Adkins on some crazy road trip to Texas. So, Jimmy, if you're reading this, get your happy ass back to the States, then get to Clearwater ASAP to get your truck so we can welcome you home properly. Capisci?
Goodness, I certainly hope I spelled that last word correctly. Heck, I should lay off the guy...after all, today is his birthday. (Psst: Happy Birthday, Jimmy!)
The Rock is on Conan right now, talking about how he noticed in publicity shots of him winning a championship belt that his ball popped out. That's friggin' hilarious.
Earlier this evening, Leviathan, Grantasm and myself were trying to open up a private chat room so we could chew the fat. Of course, I was put in charge of this, since I am the only one of the three of us running Trillian. And in Trillian (not sure if this applies to AIM as well), you can, space and allowable characters willing, name your chat whatever the hell you want. So, I decided to name our chat room "Chat, Bitches!" (without the punctuation marks).
Little did we know, upon entering "Chat Bitches," that the name was already taken. And there were already people in it. About six or seven. And they all seemed to be pre-teen girls with screen names that essentially bastardized anything and everything in the English language.
Knowing me and my stickler sensibilities regarding grammar and spelling, you know my eyes started to bleed just a little.
Of course, these kids were none too pleased that someone else invaded their chat space. After a number of "What the fuck?"s "Wutever"s, and "Who the hell are you?"s, we got out of that room into our own. But it was fun just sitting there, not saying anything while 69MrsChadMichaelMurray91 and her ilk got more and more perturbed at our presence. Squatter's rights, bitches!
Now, I'm going to take Conan's musical advice to Brittany Snow: "Button up your overcoat when the wind blows free!"
Nah, I'm just going to bed.
I am, finally, thankfully, home. My last appointment today was supposed to end at six. My six cancelled, then my seven from yesterday who cancelled called, and I rescheduled them to three today. Then they called and rescheduled to five tonight. That appointment, with a very, very angry thirteen-year-old boy, lasted until seven, and I didn't get out of the office until right before eight. Gah. It was a very worthwhile, yet absolutely exhausting session. Stick a fork in me, I'm done.
I drove home in the pouring rain (I know, I thought I heard Sting singing in my head, too), listening to "Vienna," eagerly awaiting an evening of blogdoggery and relaxation. There were so many idiots on the road (because we all know rain + cars = idiots who think they can haul ass), but thankfully, I got home in one piece. I sat down with a huge iced tea and a half-empty bag of peanut butter M&M's, ready to create.
I proceeded to eat a few M&M's in my usual manner: for peanut butter and crispy, I eat the chocolate surrounding the center, then eat the center. For some reason, I find it important to clear the centers of any trace of chocolate before eating them. And I wouldn't eat the centers right away; I'd wait until I was almost finished with the chocolate, then eat the middles.
Well, I sat there, checking my e-mail and whatnot, with some peanut butter centers in one hand, then, *poof*... my hand was empty. And wet. I looked down at my hand, and saw, just behind it, the following:
Caught!
That little brat ate the peanut butter centers out of my friggin' hand. Then she tried to look cute. Even came up to lie down on the floor next to my chair and put her head on my foot. Funny, but it worked: I couldn't bring myself to scold her.
I know. I'm a pushover.
Yet another long day in the world of meddling with children's minds. Nothing earth-shattering today, I think.
Yesterday was hilarious, though. I was running groups at one of the middle schools, and one of the eighth grade boys was running around the classroom, acting like an idiot to impress the girls, and as he was bounding around the place, his shorts fell down around his ankles.
The entire room erupted into hysterics. I put my head in my hands long enough for this kid to pull up his pants, and for me to pretend that I never saw it happen. Although I would've loved to laugh right along with the other kids, because this particular kid is an obnoxious little shit who likes to belittle others. Damned kids need to learn how to use belts. And by that, I mean as tools for both restraint and
punishment.
Middle schoolers are such odd, odd creatures. Not little babies anymore, not quite masters of their own awkward rebellion. It's a funny thing to watch, I tell you.
I talked to Keir earlier. We talked about our workdays. I told him a bit of what my day was like, and he imparted this upon me, which makes me want to get it printed out and keep it in my wallet:"See, this is why I could not do what you do. I would just give them weed and a shitload of Skittles."
Timeless. Utterly timeless.
I actually caught Scrubs today. I never watch Scrubs, but I was typing, and it was on. I was actually amused.
I totally started this post off, planning to go into a lengthy discussion about something that happened to me today, but Levi had to get online and start some shit about never seeing The Godfather: Part II, which set me off totally. Then he had to go and refer to The Next Karate Kid as "Karate Kid Four," and my eyes are already bleeding. I've got to set this kid straight. Somebody bring me the ice bucket and rubber mallet!
Nothing more amusing at one in the morning than Sarah Michelle Gellar and Maya Rudolph as the Ramada Sisters. And by the way, SMG as Christina Aguilera in a spoof of Making the Video: Dirrty is just... comic gold!
It's the first of the month (insert random Bone Thugz-N-Harmony lyrics here), and I find myself in front of the laptop, relishing in a fresh waffle bowl from the Slab. Yes, this addiction knows no limits.
This evening, I went to the Slab nearest to work, and for once, they had strawberries in the evening. This particular store never, ever has strawberries in the evening when I get out of work late. So, this has been a red-letter day. Or, at the very least, forty minutes.
More after I finish this. The dog is eyeing me with a nefarious plan to snatch my ice cream glistening in her eye. Tricky little minx!
