Tuesday, September 13, 2005

A late-evening conversation.

The following conversation just happened about five minutes ago.

There (groggily): Uh... hello?
Here: Oh, hey. You were sleeping?
There: Yeah. 'Sokay. What's up?
Here: Nothing. Just wanted to say hey. Forgot you were going to bed so early.
There: Nah, I just have to get up early. (Sounding concerned) Is everything okay?
Here: Yeah. Go to bed.
There: Are you sure?
Here (more emphatically): Yes! Go to bed! I will tell you my theories at a later date.
There: Theories? What theories? What about?
Here (thinking quickly): Um... procreation?
There: Agh... Don't do it.
Here: Okay, I won't. Bye.

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Thursday, September 01, 2005

Dag.

This is what I get when I decide to check out other people's blogs before going to bed:



However, I don't know why this startled me in the least.

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Finicky.

Some of you may have noticed that I've been on the Blog a lot in the past few days. You may have also noticed I've changed the template five thousand times.

I really liked the last one I had up before this one. Unfortunately, the image that went on the bottom left corner of the page was hosted on another site, and that site is going all wonky right now, denying you the pleasure of viewing what might be the most adorable rendering of the Grim Reaper I've seen in a dog's age. So, that prompted me to do some tweaking, and for now, this is what you're going to get.

Again, if anyone wants to take on the the task of designing a workable and kickass template, I'm all ears. Woo me.

So, we got a new guy at work this week. This has made me the "new girl" no longer; I am simply "the girl who used to be new, but is now just dumb as hell because she's still asking a thousand questions after doing this job for over a month."

It's a place of honor, really.

Anyway, when I found out we were getting another person on our team, and it was a guy, of course, my interest was peaked. Gotta fit that single, late 20's female stereotype, you know.

Oh, God. "Late twenties." I'm going to pretend that didn't just happen.

New guy walked in the other day. Had to be in his late 40's to early 50's. Wore a suit with a blue-green t-shirt. How very "Sonny, Sonny Crockett, King of Miami Vice!" of him.

Ah, yes. Just as Brenda is two-for-two in predicting my employment, I am three-for-three in getting into jobs lacking viable male suitors. Insert image of me shaking my fist at the sky here.

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Wednesday, August 31, 2005

The Help-A-Surly-Asian Foundation.

That is the name of the organization I'm going to start. I came up with the idea sometime late this morning, after the "Service Engine Soon" light came on in my car on the way to work. During his lunch, Sideshow was nice enough to take it to AutoZone to find out what might be wrong with it. Best they could tell, there's a problem with Xander's transmission.

Fahk.

So, this car repair thing is becoming more and more frequent lately, to the point that I feel like I'm throwing money at my car to just keep it running. And we all know how joyful transmission troubles are. On the way home today, every time I tried to accelerate, I felt like I was rolling in neutral. Sigh.

Long story short, there was mention made of shopping around for a new car. I detest the idea, but realize at the same time, it is eventually going to become very necessary, despite my lack of funds. Hence, I am starting the aforementioned fundraising effort, which you may simply call "The Surly Asian Foundation."

Of course, I complain here, but I am really not complaining about it. After all, things that have been happening in the past few years, even the past few days, that are constant reminders that no matter what happens, I've still been incredibly blessed. In other words, I'll get over it soon enough.

So, if you want to contribute to The Surly Asian Foundation, you may do so in the best way possible by volunteering or contributing to the helping organization of your choice.

I'm going to go and try to stop being a whiny asshole now.

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Tuesday, August 30, 2005

Post-It Transcription #01.

From a grand total of six Post-Its, at various points in my workday. Mind you, these are the slightly larger, rectangular Post-Its, better suited for my incessant rambling than the standard square ones.

Post-It #1:

I think I'm going to start blogging like this when I'm at work and can't get on the Net. I'll just scan them when I get home. Too difficult to read camera phone pictures.

Now that I've moved to my own cubicle island, things are going swimmingly. My previous location had me at the end of a row of four cubicles with low walls that allowed everyone to peer over at each other, which gave me little comfort as I was surrounded by weirdo oldsters (normal oldsters, on the other hand, kick total ass). Also, I was in a corner with two large windows, giving that warm, incubator feel, which I utterly detest. And chocolate melts way too quickly on that side of the office. But, that's beside the point.

Post-It #2:
Add the heat of the moment corner to being surrounded by Granola Cruncher, Ridiculous Southern Drawl (as opposed to Endearing Southern Drawl, a distant cousin), and Cap'n Asshat and his horridly cloying cologne...

Oh, what's that smell? Smells like LATE MID-LIFE CRISIS!

Sorry about that...

And you have what I like to call Cubicle Purgatory.
BTW, if you want to know more about Cap'n Asshat, sign up for the seminar. I waste entirely too much energy venting about that turd burglar, and I'm not about to devote a whole blog entry to him.

Post-It #3:
Now that I'm on my cubicle island at the opposite end of the office, the temperature is much better, and I have a higher cubicle wall on the side of my cube that faces others, preventing unnecessary eye contact with people I don't want to look at. The only thing I'm going to need to do is install a mirror in my cube. My back is to the door now, and it makes me feel very Martin Blank, if you do get my meaning.

People here think I'm weird, and more than once they've said that I'm just like my brother. I don't get that at all. I wear way more skirts than he does.

Post-It #4:
I am forever on the quest for a satisfying (and cost-free) template for the B World Blog. Of course, the one you are viewing now is cute as hell (ha!), but you know how I am about these things. I mean, how many times did I rearrange my furniture in college? Come on.

So, if you know anyone willing to do pro bono web design grunt work, let me know.

Word of the day: longshoreman.

Post-It #5:
I've got an hour to go... Work with me, people!

Haven't listened to Mr. Johnson in three days. Perhaps this is why there's so much tension in my shoulders and neck.

This last hour is always the toughest. The pace slows considerably, and the office gets quiet, and there are only three of us left for the last hour of operations. I always feel like I need more caffeine to get through the hour. Every afternoon for the past two weeks, I've taken to levitating Gobstoppers to kill time, like I did in high school. Viva Corporate America!
Editor's Note: The last line would've looked much better as it appears on the Post-It, as I am unable to produce an upside-down exclamation point the way it should be at the beginning of the sentence.

Post-It #6:

You know what? I think I'm finally getting used to signing my name without my credentials after it. I don't know quite how to feel about that.

-- My signature here --
Not for individual sale.

It's 5:30. I'm going, gone.

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Pointless.

So, I was wondering how I would be able to capture the precious moments that happen away from the computer, such as the ones that occur during work or elsewhere. I tried to do the mobile blogging thing w/the cell phone, but for some reason, when I send those blog entries in, the punctuation marks don't seem to translate very well (ampersands and colons all over the place, like a very gory grammar horror movie).

So, as I sat there in my little cubby today, I decided I would jot down bloggeries on Post-Its and scan them when I got home. Then, I'd post the scans on the blog. I thought it would be neat to see the "raw feed" of all the bullshit that comes out of my head.

That's what I did. When I got home, I hunkered down at the desktop and scanned away. Little did I realize that today was not a day for patience in scanning, resizing for the web, and getting the image to look right at a reasonable file size. I also discovered that this was not a day for trying to find another blog template to jazz up the blog. Fahk. I gave up after my eyes started hurting from trying to manipulate the image. Coincidentally, this happened at about the same time I got hungry, so it worked out in the end.

So, yeah, no Post-It scans today. You never know: I might be inclined to do them at a future date. But, the original Post-Its are sitting here sadly, waiting to be eaten by the dog, so I suppose I should just transcribe them.

Okay, I'll get right to that. Later.

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Monday, August 29, 2005

Another one from the job...

"The United Way... We're all about surly little white children!"

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Saturday, August 27, 2005

A Picture Share!

One of the funniest things I've ever seen.

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"Frames can't catch you when you're moving like that."

So, this is my official day to relax. Working forty hours in five days as opposed to ungodly hours in four seems to be a better pace for me, but it certainly makes me appreciate those precious two days of weekend. I had great plans for today, like running errands and taking a long walk in the park with Riley. I was going to keep busy. Silly me.

I got some things done, like going to the library, fueling up the car, and grabbing lunch, but the rain started soon after that, and I hence lost all motivation to do anything else. The rain drove me back home, and here I sat for a few moments, with the dangerous prospect of having nothing but time.

For the past few days, I've wrestled with a lot of past-present-future stuff, not helped along at all with the far-reaching tentacles that Googling permits. If nothing else, the Googling just added some ridiculously overpriced petrol to my nostalgic inferno. To make a long story short and save myself from further embarrassment, suffice it to say that Googling combined with free long distance can be a noxious pair. This did not bode well for my "nothing to do" state, since it gave me something (albeit a something quite dangerous to my waning sense of closure, but a "something" nonetheless) to do.

Thank goodness for an empty house and a voice mailbox that is so full of messages that it won't stand to take anymore.

I'd better stop babbling. This is making even less sense to me as I read it, and I supposedly know what the hell I'm talking about.

Right at this moment, I'm sitting on the couch with nothing but Riley fighting for lap space with the computer and Mr. Johnson filling up all that unnecessary silence. I've also got a blog entry that less than makes sense to anyone else. And that's fine with me.

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Thursday, August 25, 2005

Hey...Want to see something funny?

At a later date, I will go all apeshit about the dangers of Googling. For now, suffice it to say that said Googling lead me to an extraordinary find: my old website.

Yes, my Fortune City free site from the grad school years. Horror of horrors! Want to see it? Click here.

Surprisingly enough, the level of suck then isn't that much different from now. Hmm.





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Wednesday, August 10, 2005

Sleep rules.

Yes, I realize I haven't posted in a month. I've gotten some complaints. It's okay, since there really wasn't a lot of yelling. I will be on here again soon... It's just that since I get home at a reasonable hour from work now, I tend to want to just loaf with the Riles and watch as much Elliot Stabler as the law allows (and a little that it doesn't). So, now, I'm going to go do just that. Toodles.

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Monday, July 11, 2005

Going home before night falls...

I swear, it's got to be one of the better things on this Earth. Besides Riley waking me up with puppy snores, that is.

this is an audio post - click to play




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Sunday, July 10, 2005

Dennis can suck it.

this is an audio post - click to play

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"This is turning out worse than Stewie's iPod commercial!"

this is an audio post - click to play

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Saturday, June 18, 2005

Riley participates in a Poop Exchange Program.

I honestly believe that's true. I mean, I make it a point to pick up all of her deuces, no matter where we are, even if she drops in our own yard. It's just good manners. But there's a dog around here that's leaving deuces left and right, on our lawn and on neighboring lawns.

I'm just afraid that people will think it's Riley, because these poops are of a comparable size to her own donations to the Earth. Also, I tend to walk Riley in broad daylight, which may encourage suspicions that she's the only dog that exists on the block (never mind that I'm always carrying neon-orange pickup bags). Nevertheless, there are shits aplenty that aren't getting picked up, and I don't want Riles to get framed.

Seriously... I think we have a Phantom Pooper, and I think I know who it is. I have a strong feeling that it's the Shih-tzu (God, I hope I spelled that correctly) that lives next door with Queen Nosy-As-Shit and King Barely-Functioning-Alcoholic. Not only do they annoy me, but they sent both of their kids to Clown College. F them in the A.

Anyway, this little dog, who shall remain nameless, as he is but a blameless pooch, is almost never on a leash, and more than once, my Mom has had to help its stupid owners when they come knocking on the door to casually state that the dog has run off, and could we help? The dog will often be in my way, crossing the road to get back to his house (no doubt after leaving another phantom crap in another neighbor's yard), and I have to stop completely so as not to run him over, while the owner pays much more attention on watering her plants.

I don't want to even go into the whole garbage bin incident, or else blood will come trickling down my ear.

For real, is there an HRS or DC&F type of agency that I can call to rescue this dog from its ignorant owners? At the very least, it might stop the dog crap from magically appearing next to my Mom's car...

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Second Audio Post!

The concept behind this is just too overwhelming for me...
this is an audio post - click to play
My God... Do I actually sound like this? Why didn't somebody tell me???








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First Audio Blog!

this is an audio post - click to play
woot!

Technology rulz!!!




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Thursday, June 09, 2005

And now, the Dangerously Small Caucasian Head Next to the Conspicuously Huge Asian Cranium.

Image hosted by Photobucket.com
"Heed! Pants! Now!"
Told you guys I was scared to post this. I'm going away now.

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Wednesday, June 01, 2005

Big day.

So, I turned in my letter of resignation today, with little fanfare. The Hebrew Hammer offered me five bucks to "ruin" my supervisor's lunch by barging into her office with my letter. Ten if I galloped in with my best Happy Gilmore "happy place" midget impression. I declined on both counts.

My supervisor was actually pretty cool about it, even stating that "although we really need people like you in the field, we don't need you getting burned out and hating it." Which is exactly why I'm taking a break from it in the first place.

LoLo wants dibs on my office. Talk about blood in the friggin' water! I might as well paint the office walls with a fresh coat of chum.

I also managed to get the blessed mercy of both J.Co and my supervisor, and was allowed to leave work early so I could haul ass to the airport to meet up with Stumpy. That was fabulous. Five years of not seeing each other culminates in an hour and a half of utter happiness and silliness in the confines of the airport T.G.I.Fridays. Suffice it to say, the phrases "are nuts optional?", "filthy whore," "Oh my God, I look like my mother!", "anal probe," and dozens of other gems were used quite generously in that ninety minute span. We really scared the elderly airport crowd at Airside E. Too bad I don't have any video tape.

I would post a picture from our mini-reunion, but Stump has a dangerously small Caucasian head, which makes mine look gigantor in comparison. Forget that shit. But damn her for still being fucking gorgeous. I'm going to go hide in my little Asian cubby now.

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Tuesday, May 31, 2005

I promised myself...

I wouldn't quote Stevie Nicks in this post. And I really won't. I can't promise the same about Lisa Lisa & Cult Jam. You can't make me.

I just got off the phone with Stumpy. Apparently, she's going to be at TIA on a layover tomorrow evening, and wanted to know if I could meet up with her. Mind you, we haven't seen each other since, quite possibly, undergrad, and it would be the most wondrous of wonderful things to have a mini Beaver reunion...

But tomorrow is my "late night" at work.

Yet another reason to hate my job.

I think I'm going to try to finagle an early exit from the office tomorrow, should J.Co be so kind as to let me go. Because, if I can't go, and I miss the one opportunity I've had in several years to see Stumpy, I'm gonna lose it. And not in that quirky, "Eminem doing his impression of Pee Wee Herman" way, either.

Oh yes, my hurt will cause an inferno. (See? I told you I couldn't promise you anything!)

A lot has been happening lately; thus, my neglect of the World. But hopefully, after I turn in my resignation letter (how the hell do you word those, anyway? "Thanks for all the shit. I'm out!"?) and things settle, we'll be back with a vengeance.

For now, sleep. As Mr. Chappelle says, "Night night. Keep your butthole tight!" Or something of that ilk.

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Tuesday, May 17, 2005

To reiterate...

I know I'm repeating myself, but I find it important, even now, at this late date, to say:

Not Everyone Fucking Loves Raymond.

I realize it may seem a bit petty, but hell, he ragged on our sorority girls that time he was at Gator Growl. For cryin' out loud, nobody gets to rag on our sorority girls but us!

Whatever. At least for the time being, I don't need an excuse to avoid CBS on Monday nights. Oh wait, wasn't really a problem to begin with. Carry on, my wayward chums.

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Saturday, May 14, 2005

Oh, forget it.

So it took me a few thousand hours to realize the "new" blog template got rid of all these wonderful entry titles. Fahk. Back to normal, almost. I'm going to bed.

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Thursday, May 12, 2005

So, you may have noticed...

In the spirit of avoiding work and toiling of any kind, I changed up the blog template today. This one is courtesy of Hidden Anxiety. Thank you, whoever you are, for shaking it up a little for me. I was almost getting ill of pink.

And that would be horrible, Mr. Hat!

So, tell me what you think of it. I'm still getting used to it, myself. Then again, I find myself recently using a Firefox theme called "Pimpzilla," but that's beside the point.

Anyway, Happy Birthday to Super Mario today, too! In his grand tradition of austerity, we will not be hiring hookers this year. Crap!

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Wednesday, May 11, 2005

ISO another vacay.

And no, the weekend before last does not count! I was sick that Monday and Tuesday. God! Okay, maybe not feeling well, as opposed to "sick." I really didn't feel good about going to work those days. That's got to count for something.

I have worked three straight 12-hour days, and I have to tell you, it's getting mighty old. Today was one of those days where I was so exhausted by hour nine, I found myself trying to twist my lips so they'd stay shut so I wouldn't accidentally tell my client's haggard nag of a mother to shut the fuck up, already! It was very, very close to happening. And since she has no teeth, she sounds like Elmer Fudd, even when she's really serious, so it was everything I could do to hold myself together... especially after her sixteen-year-old son (poor guy) told her to "shut up, you toothless old hag!"

Again, it was an exercise in the greatest of restraint. Instead of commending him, as I so secretly wanted to do, I had to reprimand him for not being respectful to his mother, despite the fact that she so righteously deserved his barb. It's no wonder I got a massive headache after that session. Inner turmoil does that to you, I hear.

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Sunday, May 08, 2005

My patience wanes as night falls on Wal-Mart.

Full day today. Before I forget, a big shout-out to Moms, one and all. You put up with our sorry asses for many years, then let us go easily into the real world, muttering "Those fuckers will figure it out soon enough!" under your breath. For that, and for not killing us in infancy, we salute you!

Moving on... It was a fabulous day today, since it was both Mother's Day and my folks' anniversary. Spent most of the day at my bro's, sharing a meal with the fam and fiddling with decorating Sideshow's pad. After I left my brother's, I decided to grab a keyboard to put on my laptop desk in my room so I could use the laptop with the monitor and docking station while I was at home.

Since it was after seven on a Sunday night, I decided to head to the nearby Wal-Mart, which, much to my chagrin, is always busiest and most full of idiots when I really need just one simple thing.

This evening proved to be no different. The place was teeming with people doing last-minute grocery/Mother's Day shopping (for shame!) and various children simply milling about, getting in my way. I quickly proceeded to the Electronics Department, found the cheapest keyboard at $6.97, and proceeded to the checkout.

Once there, it rang up as $9.98, and I told the cashier that I would go back and check the price, although I was sure it was correct, and allow her to check out the two patrons behind me in the meantime.

I got back to the keyboards, grabbed another one, and brought it to one of those price-check scanners. It rang up as $9.98 there as well, so I went back to the shelf. There were maybe 30 of the same keyboard, all on the shelf marked $6.97. I decided to take a picture of the price, then headed back to my register.

By the time I got there, there was only one family ahead of me, but they had a cart that was packed to the gills, and had already filled the conveyor belt with their stuff. When I ended up behind them, they had just realized that they were goofing off in the store so long, the ice cream they put in their cart at the beginning of their shopping trip was melting, and started leaking out of the carton and onto the conveyor. belt. It took them about three minutes to complain about this, and say that they took so long their ice cream was melting and they didn't want it anymore, and make the cashier come from her position behind the register to their side of the belt and clean it up.

I stood behind them, patiently.

Then the Mom discovered that whoever put the bread in their cart managed to put it under something heavier, which squished the bread. So, she sent her teenaged daughter, who looked about as useful as an asshole on an elbow (props to you, QT!) to get a newer loaf, and she did so, groaning as she left.

In the meantime, the cashier kept ringing up their purchases, and someone I can only assume is the Dad, who looked about as useful as a second asshole on an elbow, just kept piling up shit on the conveyor belt in ridiculous piles that the cashier had to carefully maneuver then re-pile more sensibly in order to bag them. The kid came back, then her Mom asked her, "Is the Tylenol there?"

"I guess so," the kid said, absent-mindedly.

Mom then proceeds to ask the cashier, who by this point, has scanned about three hundred things, whether or not she scanned a pack of Tylenol. The cashier stops to dutifully review the receipt so far, and determines that no Tylenol was scanned.

The Mom, exasperated, leaves the line to get the Tylenol, muttering about how her daughter drives her "insane" as she goes, while her daughter absent-mindedly twirls her hair.

Meanwhile, the harried cashier continues to scan products coming from this fucking clown car of a shopping cart.

Mom returns with the Tylenol. Scanning continues, and daughter momentarily freaks out because she can't find her cell phone. Mom shows little sympathy, then daughter recovers it from her back pocket. The world breathes a collective sigh of relief.

I check my phone. Seven minutes have gone by since I got back in line.

Daughter spots some friends or family members. They get in line in front of me to greet the Clown Cart Family. I am relieved that I don't have to kick anybody's ass when they realize there are actually others in line before them, and they go to find another register.

Another register opens up nearby, and the cashier calls out for anyone waiting in line. The Mom slugs me in the arm and tells me that another register is opening. I tell her I have to wait in line at this one, because I have a price discrepancy issue. The cashier, still scanning items, nods in agreement at the Mom. Mom, daughter, and Dad all stand there, Dad forever loading the belt.

Ten minutes have gone by at this point. I can't move, and have to wait because my purchase is in this line. I start to look at the floor to avoid watching this family dumbly stand around.

Finally, the total is rung up to over two hundred dollars. Mom maneuvers her way from where the wheel-o'-bags is, back to the little counter where the ATM/Credit Card scanner is, and proceeds to put her big-ass "Boots N' Bags" (or whatever the hell it was called) purse on the little counter, then rummages through said big-ass purse to find her checkbook.

No, no, no, no, don't phunk with my heart! (I know Fergie feels my pain.)

I feel like I am slowly dying inside.

Mom proceeds to fill out her check (rather slowly, in my opinion), then tells the cashier that she doesn't need to look at her license, because she already put that information on the check. A manager happens to be standing nearby, and says she just wants to make sure everything on the check is accurate.

This launches the Mom in to a two-minute tirade about how she actually tries to make it easier on cashiers by putting her driver's license number on her checks, because she was a cashier once, and it's really unecessary for her to have to present her ID. Well, give this lady a fucking Nobel Prize, already!

Twelve minutes, and I think my calf may be cramping.

Finally, the purchase has been completed, and the family is on their way out the door. The cashier tells me to follow her to her register to complete my own purchase. Well, where the fuck were we just standing, Montreal?

She takes me to a podium where the manager is standing, explains the price discrepancy, and the manager states, "Yeah, you can do a price adjust." Then we proceed to another register (apparently "hers,") and she rings up the keyboard for $6.97. Hallelujah, thank you for coming. I bust ass out of there to avoid any further annoyance in my evening.

Now, I sit here, typing on the very same keyboard I purchased after waiting about half an hour in agony, and retell you my sorry tale of stupidity in commerce. Moral of the story? Shit, I have no idea. There are so many potential ones. Don't be an idiot; get your checkbook out and start filling out the check in advance, maybe. Wal-Mart can even fill in your check for you. Don't go into a big stink about how you used to be a "whatever," too, so you "know how things work." If you "know how things work," just accept it and follow the rules; don't fucking complain and waste other people's time with your righteous retail attitude.

Whatever you do, don't get ice cream at the beginning of your shopping trip and fuck around for two hours so it melts, then complain that it's melting while you wave it around, making a mess for others to clean up.

Agh, my head hurts. I need a drink. I think I'll have one of those Diet Cokes sweetened with Splenda. Maybe my taste buds are shot, but that really seems to taste a lot like regular Coke to me.

Dammit. There's another thing I forgot to get at Wal-Mart. I can't fucking win!

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Friday, May 06, 2005

I don't know what's worse...

The horrible joke I made coming back from our Cinco de Mayo festivities, or the fact that LoLo laughed so hard at it.

See, she was driving us back to our cars, and her leftovers were sitting on the dashboard. Well, when she stepped on the gas to go when the light turned green, the leftovers flew backward, and I managed to catch the to-go box in my left hand, keeping the contents safely ensconced within.

Impressed with my cat-like reflexes, something was mentioned about the difficulty level of getting guacamole out of your shirt, and J.Co said, "Just Shout! it out!"

I, of course, having no beer in my system, stated, "Yeah, I tried that once. It didn't work so well. I just stood there, screaming at my clothing."

J.Co said it was horrible, and although LoLo agreed, she still laughed at it while admitting it was horrible that she was laughing at it so hard. What can I say? I aim to please.

All this after an evening of verbal abuse and stinging slaps to my upper arm. This is what I get for trying to tell jokes to drunk people.

Damned Five of Mayonnaise, ruining it for everybody!

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Thursday, April 28, 2005

So, Katie...

I heard that you were dating Tom Cruise. You have a whole actual teenager's worth of age between you, since he's 42 and you're not (I mean, 26). And you just broke up with Chris (was it the whole DWI thing? Because, I can understand if you don't want to be in one of those 12-Step relationships and whatnot).

Image hosted by Photobucket.com
Uh, eww.

Wow. I really wonder how this happened. And when I told Lori, I had to move to the side to avoid any potential flying vomit. But if you're happy, I guess I am. Just don't get any navy blue pants and white short-sleeved blouses yet. And maybe hold off on reading any L. Ron Hubbard for a bit. You know, save it for if you guys get real serious.

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"I love my sister... She's the best!"

Happy Birthday to young Erin, who turns younger than me today! She's busy trying to become a doctor and whatnot, so she has tunneled herself away in some medically-related hole for some time now, with little more than her enormous cranium and some soy cheese to keep her company.

Erin, I love you, and don't forget the advice I gave you before you began this medicinal endeavor:

"Hey, jackhole, don't forget: Don't become an asshole when you get to med school, like the rest of 'em!"
Well, maybe I put it more delicately than that.

I am now going to go do my laundry with some detergent named after a song by Nelson. Later!

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Tuesday, April 26, 2005

"Capa-town," my ass!

I just wanted to let you know that this weekend, at the barbecue I attended twice (meaning once with Danhole and again later with Riley, not meaning I attended it, had a "rewind day" a-la-Tru Calling, and re-lived it), I managed to find someone who not only appreciated my bright yellow "Liger" t-shirt, but also proceeded to spend the next five minutes spouting off favorite Napoleon quotes.

And, if that weren't enough, this person also managed to proudly proclaim a deep-felt affection for Pootie Tang (another one unabashedly close to my own heart), so deep that he bought the DVD twice (because someone stole the first one, which makes me wonder who the hell would steal a copy of Pootie Tang, and also makes me surprised that it wasn't me who did it).

I love it when you click with someone over something absolutely unconsequential, but treat it like you've just discovered the friggin' Holy Grail. I may potentially add this person to my meager will, identifying him only as one of my "main damies." Yeah, that's what I think I'll do. Sa-da-tay!

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"Did you happen to eat a gall boulder, then fall on your stomach?"

That show is just good!

So, the desktop computer and television have been moved into the vacated room across the hall. I still don't get why it was decided that my tele would be moved, as I now have no way to effectively fall asleep to it. Crap.

The desktop is going to be rebuilt (version 180.3 or something) sometime soon, and the laptop is going to reside in my room. At the very least, there aren't any wires running through the hallway that would entice Riley to nibble.

Now, the only thing that's going to be a bitch is that I have to put back everything that was cluttering my entertainment center and desk in some order (it's currently chaos packed into open boxes).

I haven't had much time to post lately. I've been cramming appointments into four working days, trying to keep productivity at decent levels. Also, I'm heading out on Friday morning for a five-day sojourn up the coast. Soooo, it's pretty much been head-up-my-own-ass time the past week or two.

Now, if you'll excuse me, there's some dusting that needs to be done yesterday.

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Saturday, April 23, 2005

Just an FYI.

My curiosity peaked due to the mini-maelstrom this afternoon, I sought out this little nugget of information, which is repeated often on other websites:

If it rains on your wedding day, you'll shed many tears during your married life.
Hmm. You don't say. Interesting.

There was another superstition about rain on your wedding day meaning you'd have lots of children, but I'm choosing to ignore that one. Pretty much a moot point, if you ask me. And I didn't see that one on more than two or three sites. So, there.

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Thursday, April 21, 2005

Very bad things.

As one can infer from my previous post (see below), extreme irritation + the "Repeat" option on your mp3 player + obvious lack of chocolate = horrible emotional death drop. I'm sorry for all of that rot. Actually, no, I'm not sorry at all. It is what it is.

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Wednesday, April 20, 2005

"I waited for you here, but you never showed."

Thank you, Mr. Sweet, for the above, and the following:

I thought I knew you. I was in for a surprise. I let my love flow from my heart into your eyes. And then I found out that there was nothing I could know, or guess, about you. You'd go as far as you could go.

And it took me years to figure out that there was nothing I could give to you. And years to figure out that there was nothing you would take from me. And how can I describe the way you slowly took my hope away?

And all of the time, I thought I knew you.

I thought I knew you. But I wasn't even close. I had my heart set on little more than a ghost. And I thought I'd show you there was no way we could lose. I thought I'd force you to realize and choose.

And it took me years to figure out that there was nothing I could show to you. Years to figure out that you were never really going to choose. And how can I describe the way I slowly lost my love for you?

And all of the time, I thought I knew you.

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Monday, April 18, 2005

Best. Quote. Ever.

Someone told me something that really whacked me upside the head and left me stunned. I had half a mind to whoop this person's lily white ass. But then, said person redeemed herself when she said the following about an upcoming family event:

"Man, I'm gonna show up with my new tits, and I'm gonna wear the lowest-cut dress I can find, and I'm gonna say, 'Look what your Pentecostal ass is missing!"
I kiss the ground she walks on. I truly do. Names have been withheld to protect... well, me.

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Monday, April 11, 2005

"Are you telling me that my note made you realize that you're gay?"

"Let me tell you something: come 10th year reunion, that tiara... is mine!"

Sorry. Just been catching up on my
Tru Calling, is all. What a fabulous birthday present in a community gift bag that was!

I watched the "Reunion" episode tonight. Really struck a chord with me. So much so that I had to eat a triple-scoop mint chocolate chip ice cream cone to cope. My needs are simple. My wants, ridiculous.

Some observations from the last few days:

  • According to the front window at Burrito Brothers in Gainesville, they're going to open another one in Tampa by the end of the year! Break out the Ziplocs!
  • On the car ride home, Sarah and I realized that her official theme song should be "Oops... I Did It Again." I can't believe we actually came to a consensus on that one.
  • The possibility of 14 straight hours of karaoke is harrowing, to say the least.
  • I don't need no stinkin' sunscreen.
  • The 2005 UF Football season is looking better and better every day.
  • My dog is still an avid Law & Order fan.
  • With my impending takeover of Sideshow's old room, should the computer and tele move in there, do I call it a "Media Room," a "Library," or "The Copacetic Room"?
And major props to anyone who understood that last reference. Byron, how I miss you. You were like Brian from Zanesville, Ohio during freshman year, except you were much cuter and your cranium wasn't quite so massive...

Sorry, I digress.

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Friday, April 08, 2005

Law and Hors d'oeuvres.

I just had a fabulous idea while downing my fiftieth glass of Caffeine Free Diet Coke. The next in the long line of series in the Law & Order franchise should focus on all the eating that occurs during the defense of justice on the mean streets of New York City, particularly, the appetizers!

And instead of the "cha-chunk!" sound that plays during most of the scene transitions, they could sound a bell like in a diner, or a burp, or... oh, never mind. But I've got a good start, right?

Gah, I'm just going to fall asleep to another airing of L&O:SVU. It's a wonder I don't have litigious nightmares. Got a big day tomorrow, have to catch some rest. Love and devotion, thy name is Elliot Stabler. Goodnight.

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Feeling like a slug.

It seems as though my mental exhaustion knows no limits. I sit here, transfixed to the screen, and I have absolutely no motivation to do any of the tasks I have set before myself today.

This morning, Riley showed similar motivation. When I tried to get her out of bed so that we could go on her constitutional, she just looked at me and put her paw on my hand with the leash in it, as if to say, "No way, lady... ten more minutes!" I had to concur, and went back to bed. Then, my dog proceeded to try to eat my face. Silly little rascal!

Earlier this week, right before having the shittiest Wednesday on record, I was coming off another late Tuesday night when I decided to stop in to the Radio Shack to see about getting another FM transmitter. Before leaving, the ZipZaps display caught my eye, and I noticed that they had a black Dodge Viper available. I quickly purchased that, a ZipZaps Bigfoot Monster Truck, and hauled ass to Jimmy's Mom's house so that we could start up the Clearwater Kitchen Speedway.

Jimmy was quite surprised I bought him the Viper; I told him quickly that it was the only Viper I could afford to get him, ever. After assembling our vehicles (funny how this little R/C seemed to befuddle one of the great military engineering minds of our time), we proceeded to run a ridiculous number of laps from the beginning of the kitchen (where the carpet from the dining room ends), through the den, under the dish cabinet, around the back leg of it, and back to the fridge.

It was harrowing. Jimmy's Viper was so quick, the handling was ridiculously tight, and he went flying everywhere. The only reason I managed to win a decent number of races was because my truck was less sensitive to steer. But that didn't stop Jimmy from needing a "best three out of five," then a "best five out of seven," and so on and so on. I'm not kidding, we managed to break a sweat racing these damned things.

Eventually, Jimmy got the hang of steering the Viper. But I still beat him soundly. It was a fun way to spend some of the tiny bit of time he was in town. Next at the Adkins Kitchen Motor Speedway: Boggin' in the MUD!

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Thursday, April 07, 2005

"Oh, my God. That's awesome. You totally have to do that!"

The above affirmation is why I would throw myself in front of a moving bus for Steph. What prompted it? I'll never tell.

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Tuesday, April 05, 2005

"Matty! THRILLER!"

Sorry, I just had to get that one out. I feel better now.

Craziness abounded, as usual, at work today. I had a ton of no-shows (which just make me feel like my day gets less productive as it goes on). One kid was pretty clever with her approach, however. The mom called the front desk to let us know that her daughter "Just jumped out of the car on the way to the appointment," saying that Mom would never see her again. It made me wonder if I personally did something to piss the kid off so much that she didn't want to come to therapy. But after two seconds of that wasted time, I moved on.

At least I ended the day well. My last kid managed to come in early, and he's a cool little skate kid who doesn't mind talking. Now, if I could only get him to stop beating the living crap out of his brother, we'd be golden...

Eyes hurt. Shutting them now.

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Thursday, March 31, 2005

"Wanted: Ass Bandit!"

"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.

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Tuesday, March 29, 2005

Druggies giving each other love advice is just amusing to me.

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.

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Saturday, March 26, 2005

I need TP for my Danhole.

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!

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Wednesday, March 23, 2005

I was gypped a cookie from my bag of Brussels.

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.

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Tuesday, March 22, 2005

Spring Break Blows.

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.

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Sunday, March 20, 2005

Sick good photography.

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!

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Every time I think I'm 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!


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Friday, March 18, 2005

Oooh...

As posted concurrently on the Fuckles Blog:
Image hosted by Photobucket.com
Come on with it, then!

Can't wait for April!

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Thursday, March 17, 2005

The Night of the Sides '95.

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...


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Wednesday, March 16, 2005

"I told you, I barely have time to keep a journal, let alone breast feed an orphan!"

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!

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Tuesday, March 15, 2005

Best. Phone call. Ever.

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!

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Sunday, March 13, 2005

Right on!

Today, the Gator Men's Basketball Team beat the Kentucky Wildcats to win the SEC Championship, and now, I must celebrate!

Image hosted by Photobucket.com

Okay. Celebrating's done for now. More later after I recover from the ice cream-induced coma.

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Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

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.

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Friday, March 11, 2005

"Who's ready to discharge?!"

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:

Image hosted by Photobucket.com
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.

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"I'm not Captain Save-a-Ho!"

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.

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Thursday, March 10, 2005

"Brand, what happened to your braces?"

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.

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Wednesday, March 09, 2005

"Respect the cruller. But tame the donut!"

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!

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Saturday, March 05, 2005

"You're driving me crazy. When are you coming home?"

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!)

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Friday, March 04, 2005

"That's right, it burns... 'Cause you're wicked!"

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.

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Thursday, March 03, 2005

In search of the peanut butter center.

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.

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Wednesday, March 02, 2005

Taste the mother-f'ing rainbow!

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.

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Tuesday, March 01, 2005

"I'm going to paint your Porsche mint green so it looks like my van's baby!"

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!

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"Give me a recharge, bitch!"

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!

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