Skull Buggery

2007-10-29T11:42:00.000-05:00

Hey Snapcracklefantasticpapelbonbonarooinskidoesitlikedoinyourmotherhard, that's either a bit of poopy in your pants or a hardon. Either way, you just won the world series. Good for you.

there's always nothing much to say

2007-08-09T10:10:00.000-05:00

thanks j dot mascis. thanks for everything. like puppies and spring time, and that annoying little kid across the street who says only the letter d. but he owns that letter.

since i haven't posted in a bit, here's the news in brief.

chapter one.

i still hate everyone. everyone.

chapter two.

after not hearing from my fabulous family in nearly two [blissful] months, dear old drunken mom checked in yesterday. only now, with the aid of my little orphan annie decoder ring, a box of cracker jacks, and some mind-expanding nail polish remover fumes, am i beginning to suss out what the hell she was mumbling and drooling about in an oddly high-pitched voice.

the first few letters spelled out genius dad's most-recent brilliant idea: painting their house. for those who don't know, the genius is not in the best of shape or health, and shouldn't be anywhere near activities more strenuous than having a poo. and for those who don't know of my parents' incredible sense of style, their house is a study in bland. every wall, inside and out, is the same shade of beige. no, mum, there aren't any hints of green or blue or yellow in them there walls, they's all beige, kind of like your personality. yeah, so, the genius picked the hottest day of the year (so far), rented himself a cherry picker, and bought all the battleship gray paint in the state of new hampshire. in the immortal words of the gap band, the genius got down on it, and painted the house the loveliest shade of gray. interesting note: dad hates gray. apparently, in the heat, he lost 20 lbs and 13 of his remaining 42 brain cells. go dad!

the next couple of letters are debatable, but i'm leaning toward the suggestion that mum is less than thrilled about her 50-somethingth birthday (i'm such a great son that i can't remember which anniversary of her luminous birth it will be), which will occur on friday. hey, if you're in the area, pop your head into that bbq place in bitchin slummerville, i'm sure you'll witness a real hootenanny. we'll be that group who's staring at the walls, the ceiling, the floor, hell, at anything but each other, and we won't be speaking. fun, fun, fun. ugh.

chapter three.

the end.

porn chops and special sauce

2007-07-05T14:46:00.000-05:00

i understand why the it department has to lock down administrator rights and software downloading capabilities, but please, for once, can't they ease up on the flash player? seriously, how the hell am i supposed to watch high-quality porn at work without the flash version 8 upgrade?

*****

the third through fourth of july proved much too strong for the end of my 15-year binge drinking.

tuesday night, our hood closed itself to the public for a block party that featured some stellar burgers and spicy italian chicken sausages obtained from the local whole paycheck food store. these were ever so lovingly chased with how many??? of harpoon's summertime offering (a light yet rich ale with hints of lemon and oh so yummy drunkenness).

after chow, we headed to the lil beach at the bottom of our street, chairs in hand (somehow i forgot beers for the walk), to watch the town waste who knows how much money on the fantastic fire works display. as i sat with my feet in the sand and my head in my lap, ocean waves rolling gently toward me, i could think only how fabulous it is living by the ocean, especially on a perfect summer night. i also thought of the relatively long and interesting road i took to get to that spot in the sand, and how i could not have got there without the kindness, guidance, and kicks in the ass from the many people i'd met along the way.

after the fire works finale, we headed home, and i had a beer in salute of all those who've put up with my shit over the years. cheers mates.

after almost not waking up wednesday and trying rather feebly to sweat out the booze with a long bike ride through the coastal 'burbs, we found ourselves in some strange company (friends of my cousin) and some not so strange company (many, many drinky poos). i'm still unsure as to how or where i went to sleep last night, but i remember mrs. fondleberries and i belting journey lyrics at the tops of our lungs (while driving home???), a random phone call to a guy at roof deck party in boston (he sang journey along with us over the cellular airwaves, it was beautiful), and something mrs. fondleberries said that has to do with pastel colors and circular objects; i'm told i can never repeat it.

on wanting to be more left-handed

2007-07-03T14:19:00.000-05:00

i believe that onomatopoeia should be spelled more like it sounds, and have something to do with peeing on people in public. i also believe that farting in a crowd is perfectly acceptable, and that trans fats are oh so yummy and delicious, hey rachel ray, is yummylicious a word (i hate that bitch).

that said, i've (sadly) arrived at the tail end of a 15-year bender. does my mood reflect the withdrawal? it's been a pretty good run, filled with nonsensical conversations with ????, hilarious blackouts, and oh so many times waking up alone on the couch (my couch?), fully dressed. but it's high time that i step away from the bottle and into a smaller waist band. holy shit, i've become something of a poster child for a) not having kids, b) the big and tall (minus the tall) men's shop, or c) raising the legal drinking age to 72. also, my new best friend forever, harry the broken blood vessel, has moved into my left cheek; quaint. and, i think the rest of my skin is permanently tinted yellow ochre (thanks to bob ross for the lesson in color).

i'm pretty sure i shouldn't have that constant sharp pain in my lower right abdomen (ehem, hepatitis anyone?).

nor should i have that constant throbbing coming from the right and left sides of my back (renal failure?).

but, i digress.

what i'd really like to talk about is bringing an end to world hunger, or paris hilton, whichever comes first (and likely miss hilton will come first, given she's now free from that incredibly unfair and unjust jail time, you go girl! straight to fucking hell. and fucking die.). i raise my hatred for paris hilton only because the fuckwits at boston.com thought it fitting to juxtapose the unfairness of her trial with senor bush's commuting of scooter libby's sentence on their home page today. (uses valley girl accent) seriously? omg! and, uh-uh, oh no they di-int!

bloggerdom and springer spaniels

2007-06-23T21:53:00.001-05:00

every now and again, i fancy myself a famous white rapper accepting an mtv music award: "first of alls, i gots to praise jesus for giving me the strengths and wills to being here, now, with the power." then, i realize that i'm hammered. again. yay me!

in current events, mrs. fondleberries and i are off to martha's vineyard (the vineyard, as it's referred to up here) for a week of honeymoon/relaxation/anything but work. we've got the old mini cooper sled stuffed with beach chairs, blankets, and sunscreen---not that we'll actually get to the beach, given it rains, heavily, on us every time we're there. [insert new favorite retarded phrase here: it's all good, yo.] i'm hoping to catch a glimpse of a kennedy in its natural state, drunk and/or raping and killing local girls.

episode 1

2007-06-22T11:59:00.001-05:00

so i've decided that my posts will be of the diary variety from now forward. what the hell, it's the internets and only a few of you freaks out there really know who i am.

be warned:

1. posts will likely be typed using only lowercase letters and very poor grammar.

2. posts will likely read as though i'm a 14 year-old girl (which i just might be, i'm awaiting csi crime lab results and digestion of the ham sandwich i just had for lunch).

3. i live a very boring and utterly suburban life.

4. i have cats that will probably be posted about quite often.

5. there isn't a number 5.

episode 1.

as shown below in the horribly accurate picture of my sausage and peppers fingers, i got married. the event occurred last saturday (in salem, ma, for those who might give a shit), and was a decent time, thanks in no small part to the open bar and the many folks who felt compelled to ensure that i always had a full glass of wine. it was, however, a tad anti-climactic, given the now mrs. fondleberries and i have been together for a coo's age (which, quentin tarintino (spelling?) tells me, is 12 years).

we planned to do this thing about 10 years ago, but for various reasons never got around to it. the mrs. had even bought a dress, we got rings, scouted locations, etc. alas, nothing. however, since we bought a house a couple of years ago and we're not getting any younger (and i'm certainly incapable of dating or being sought after by anything but a cheesesteak and a sixer of beer), we figured what the hell, and jumped in feet first (i'm not a good swimmer, and yes, i held my nose).

so, we spent the last year planning for what i lovingly referred to as the first real step toward divorce. we selected a nice little library venue for the ceremony and a restuarant we both like for the reception. that's where our paths diverged.

the mrs. took up dieting and twice-weekly trips to the gym (personal trainer and all, fancy), while i took up beer and wine, by the truck load. i watched her health and wellness increase, and tone develop in her itty-bitty muscles; she watched (in horror?) my stomach "muffin top" over my now size 34 jeans (i should really be wearing a 36, but fuck that). i chewed my finger nails to nubs, she had manicures.

the days rapidly ticked by. before i could lick the cheese wiz off the plate, i'd become the fattest bastard i've ever been, and was standing in an empty room, wearing a tux with a pink vest and tie tucked neatly inside it, and being photographed from all possible angles (to get my good side, i dunno). being completely absorbed by holy shit i'm a fat fuck (and oh, by the way, i'm getting married) thoughts, i paid little attention as folks began filling the room. i think i said hello to some and hugged others, it's all a bit unclear. but i had a good excuse for being aloof: i was, after all, a fat guy in a tux.

mrs. fondleberries, on the other hand, looked great.

at some point a guy in a robe pronounced us married, and the mrs. planted a wet one on me (that's hot). thereafter, i vaguely remember, in no particular order: the sounds of clapping and shoes clicking on stairs, more photographs, being creeped out by my mother grabbing my hand, more kissing, thinking that a little kid was likely to get sick from pressing his face against one of the restaurant windows, dancing, drinking, more drinking, some nice words said by my brother, more drinking, eating, cake, more dancing, and that i had finally understood what it meant to be loved.

when i awoke the next morning with a headache, i knew that although things would be different, nothing had really changed, and that i am very lucky to have mrs. fondleberries by my side.

the glowing red star at the edge of the universe (part 1)

2007-06-18T08:49:00.000-05:00

"the hardest part is always the title," jim quipped and dropped a half-smoked cigarette from his nicotine-stained fingers. he watched it fall for almost too long, as though hoping an infernal blaze would be the consequent result of his careless act. the glowing orange-red-amber tip spun end over end, and the butt hit the floor with cosmic force, scattering hot embers and cold ash like the debris of exploded stars across a galaxy.

he was tired from sleeping only four hours in the last few days, while working to meet another ridiculous deadline for another ridiculous client. "fuckers," he though aloud; "the lot of them." his normal, if they can be called normal, sleeping habits weren't much different from those he'd had when under the stress of a deadline, but he felt nostalgic for un-deadline sleep now.

he removed his gaze from the floor and scanned the room. it was well lighted, clean, small. furniture was sparse: his working desk and chair in the corner by the only window; a leather recliner in the opposite corner; the couch sprawled across the back wall; a set of bookshelves, stuffed with books and loose papers, opposite the couch.

seeing now her figure, he remembered that jamie had been sitting on the couch. she sat with one leg dangled over the arm, the other tucked so awkwardly under her ass, jim thought, that she must be comfortable or in the throws of some depraved fettishist act. he thought fleetingly what it would be like to have her. then the deadline swarmed over him: he slouched. "shit."

he reached at the floor and grabbed the filtered end of the still-burning butt. he lifted it furiously to his lips. he breathed in deeply and closed his eyes. he felt every chemical-filled fiber of the smoke coursing through his body. the skin on his arms and neck raised. he held in the smoke until it choked off the last bits of air in his lungs; he pursed his lips and spit the smoke into the air. jamie winced. "why do you still smoke," she stated rather than asked. clinging to the warm tingling sensation in his body, he closed his eyes tighter and chose to not acknowledge her.

he walked back to the desk, sat again, and pushed the cigarette carefully into the corner of his mouth. the swirling smoke stung his eyes. he pulled his chair closer to the desk and leaned forward toward the black antiqued smith-corona typewriter (how pretentious) that sat, waiting anxiously for the calloused massaging of jim's fingers on its keys. he reeled a leaf of paper forward and returned the carriage. he tapped a few of the keys, trying to string the letters and words together in his head before hammering them onto the page. he noted the empty bottle of white out now tipped on its side and rolling back and forth on the desk like a fish out of water gasping for air, wanting to be filled again with the goopy white heaven that lay in a cracked, dried pool underneath it.

jim pulled his hands into fists and smashed them against the keys. jamie flinched, but said nothing. "she laughs at this, my impotence," jim thought. "it's only a title," he thought. He raced through the card catalogue of words in his head. "all i need is a title. a title. give me the fucking title!"

Married (to sausage fingers)

2007-06-17T19:16:00.001-05:00

Blog monster at bravo sierra zulu six niner

2007-06-12T16:08:00.000-05:00

I can't seem to get motivated enough to post. This is evidenced by the 14 posts I've been working on that are in various stages of not appropriate to release into the 'sphere. I'm not sure where this blogger's block is coming from, but I guess I have to accept the fact that it's a hairy bugger that apparently means to give me the business if I attempt to post.

When to Use Your Words

2007-06-05T12:14:00.000-05:00

I'd like to send a big fuck you to the dick who decided while walking towards me and realizing that I'm a new guy, that he'd put his head down and walk right by me rather than say, oh, i dunno, "hi" or "welcome" or even "eat shit buddy". nice. little does he know that i run this here semi-anonymous blog, and the shit is on him.

In other news, I'm glad to see how much you all care about my dying tree and the pain it is causing me to have to part with it. Really, I'm ok, and I won't be discussing its fate here anytime soon. I did manage, however, to "borrow" one of the neighborhood kids and, well, let's just say that Rob will be impressed.

I do have this exciting bit: I'm using yet another work from home day well, as I'm off to the dentist.

UPDATE

I'm back from the dentist. Truth be told: I hate the dentist. In fact, I think I'll hook him up with sir shit head of the hallways.

File under it's news to me and other useless thoughts

2007-05-30T10:22:00.001-05:00

I'm the kind of guy who focuses too much effort on [useless] details. Consequently, I miss much big picture stuff. I like to believe that I am always aware of all things around me, alas this is not the case. Take, for example, my last post.

It has been brought to my attention by those of you who left comments and some who haven't that the post was a tad depressing. While typing, I didn't feel any sadness, nor was I striving to evoke such emotion in readers or elicit sympathy. I simply thought of a few words that, in my small brain, seemed to fit together and tell a bit of a story.

In other news, I've got a new job (week three is well underway). It's the same job I just left with better salary. I still get to write "may cause gas with oily discharge," which is still disgusting and funny (ok, ok, I don't feel badly for folks with this condition, in fact, I'd love to meet someone with such gas, invite them out for fried clams and milkshakes, and watch them squirm from trying to hold it in). The work space is nice and the window in my office is faced toward a wildlife sanctuary, but I don't think I'll find zen anytime soon. The commute sucks, but what commute that ends up at, well, work doesn't (hooker, movie star, band member (not marching), and bar fly don't count). Nice thing is that I get to work from home a couple of days each week. Like today. Although, I must admit that I've done about 10 minutes of work today compared with the two hours of surfing the net for porn and another two hours spent scraping and priming a section of trim above our back door that was ravaged by the winter weather.

In yet other news, the tree in our front yard that we thought was a cherry tree turns out to be a flowering crabapple tree, and it's dying from fire blight.
This is the latest home-owner's bummer we're faced with. Once again, there's no landlord to call to have things fixed and/or replaced. No, I have to have three different companies come out: one to cut down the tree and hall it away, one to grind out the stump (there's porn in there somewhere, I'm sure), and the third to deliver a new tree. We're thinking of putting in either a yoshino cherry tree or a mount fuji cherry tree. Exciting, I know.

Recently, our dishwasher died, we replaced it with a lovely fridgedaire stainless number. Also, the future Mrs. Fondleberries, fell in the shower and got herself some fabulous bruises on legs and arms (I've been telling folks that I beat my old lady, which makes me laugh).

Lastly, I'm told there are now 17 days until I'm married.

Once

2007-05-27T16:06:00.000-05:00

I once was young and had a lifetime ahead of me. Everywhere I could see, I was told, there would be doors through which my future lay. I had time to make choices. I had time to do nothing at all, or everything I could. I had little experience and less knowledge, but I thought that I knew it all and was willing to say so to anyone who would listen.

I once was cool and hip and thin.

I once had hair. Long, flowing hair.

I once had only myself to worry about or care for.

It seems that at once all of these things changed.

I am now middle-aged. Most of my hair has decided to part from me. I've gone up at least two waist sizes. I still belt Smiths lyrics while driving, which, I'm told, makes me less than cool (and likely a bit gay). I have a house and bills and a job. And I'll be married in less than a month.

Back in Black

2007-05-03T10:36:00.000-05:00

Or back in the States(?), and wearing pink, whichever comes first.

I'm working on the trip review post, but guarantee it will suck (almost as much as I do).

In the interim, here's a bit of conversation I recently had with a work colleague (WC, not the closet, Jesus, pull your head out of your ass):

Lord F: I would very much like to visit France at some point.

WC: France isn't a country, it's a restaurant.

Lord F in Slough

2007-04-22T09:04:00.000-05:00

Well kids, I'm taking my nappy head across the pond for a week of work (-ing on hitting every pub in sight). I'll have updates on your love life, pimple-faced toads, and not wearing socks while jumping in puddles when I'm back.

Cheers.

Go Sox!

2007-04-20T20:26:00.000-05:00

Enough said. Even though the Sox will lose to the Yankees. Again. And I'll bitch them out for it. Again.

Realize, folks, that we're keeping it light this week. But I do hope that I've misspelled at least one wrod.

and so it goes

2007-04-15T19:37:00.000-05:00

it's odd to type, but i have a hero.

i had a hero.

my hero died this week.

i'm older, but not wiser. and he's dead.

my hero wrote. a lot.

he wrote:

"Listen:
When I was a younger man---two wives ago, 250,000 cigarettes ago, 3,000 quarts of booze ago . . .
When I was a much younger man, I began to collect material for a book to be called The Day the World Ended."

and so it goes.

The Weekend and a Volkswagen*

2007-04-13T08:49:00.000-05:00

If I weren't so tired or bored or angry or disappointed so much of the time, I might venture outside of the small bubble that surrounds my immediate self.

I might take up drinking with the homeless-Americans in Boston's quaint public alleys.

I might hang glide or balloon or join the North Shore kite-flying society and spend time complaining with my fellow upper middle class dribs about those eye-sore homeless-Americans littered about the streets and abandoned buildings.

I might take long road trips along the coast and land at the breakers in Rockport and eat steaming bowls of New England clam chowder with bikers and tourists.

I might buy or even make some form of art.

I might Ralph Waldo Emerson and walk into the woods, searching for a strong, old tree to stop at and sit to read labels on old wine bottles.

I might do nothing.

I might commute to work every day and sit in my dull cubicle*, staring out the window, wondering what it would be like to venture outside the bubble that surrounds my immediate self.

*Typos corrected, thanks for noticing, I'll remember you when I'm dead.

Bringing Suck Back

2007-04-08T06:47:00.000-05:00

Hidey ho, bloggeroos.

I haven't posted here in a while because:

1. Sinus infection. This is my second such infection since January. I'm starting to finally question my "immune" system: the dirty bastard is getting me into all kinds of trouble. The head-pounding pressure had disallowed seeing and typing as well as breathing.

2. Work. My fabulously boring job has decided to unfuck itself momentarily, which has put me into a world of shit trying to clean up the dribble on the mattress, so, no bloggy there.

3. Detoxification. By far, coming off the sauce is the least fun I've had in some time. The shakes have kept my sausage and peppers fingers from settling down to blog.

4. Commuting. I spend at least 2 hours each day in my car driving to and/or from work. I don't mind so much as the music is good and I'm certain to spill most of my latte thanks to the incredibly unmaintained roadways in and around Boston. Alas, commuting leaves little time for blogging.

5. Douching. Or should I say, "sucking". Either way, it's got nothing to do with cleaning or a good time, rather it merely sums up my normal activities of daily living.

What will I do about all of this non-posting? Probably nothing.

Hi. I'm Lord Fondleberries. And I'm a Blogger

2007-03-26T18:09:00.000-05:00

I am a Blogger. There, I typed it.

I'm not sure what that means, really. Does it mean that I should don a white frock and smile down from some virtual throne at the small following who, desperate enough to worship the garbled and largely unintelligible words spewn forth from my sausage and peppers fingers, sip from goblets brimming with my killer Koolaid recipe? Does it mean that I'm a cat person (I am: my kitties are better than yours)? Does it mean that I have unique or begged or borrowed or stolen musings on the minute details that comprise This [my] American Life? Does it mean that words that flow every few days from some misfired synapses out into the 'sphere have relevance or meaning or context [apparently the cult thinks yes]?

Alas, I think that my being a Blogger may mean, in simplest terms, that I am one who longs for the affection of those whom I don't and won't know, like you, my fake internet friend.

Over the very long four months that I've blogged, I've learned that I do not meet most criteria for having a blog worthy of a Koolaid following:

I have nothing to say
Interesting things rarely happen to me (drunk driving accidents and premature ejaculations in the presence of my own hand aside)
I cook, but follow the recipes of other bloggers or actual cooks
I write very bad fiction
I am no longer a waiter
I just learned that control + g is the Blogspot shortcut for Hindi transliteration
I post on my blog randomly
And etc.

So, what [the fuck] is wrong with me? Why [do I] Blog? Why are we [here]?

Forty-two.

Since I am such a slacking (lack-lustre) Blogger, I feel that I owe [you] some personal tid bits. Here goes:

1. I will never turn down a drink (whether or not I'm buying).

2. Those angioplasty and stent procedures that were all the rage on NPR today, I wrote the clinical study reports to get quite a few of those devices and procedures approved.

3. I'll be married in June to this great person that I do not deserve (it would be funny [or sad] if I could truthfully type that she is mail-ordered).

4. I'm a sucker for a grande non-fat late, especially every dehydrated hung-over morning.

5. I much prefer commenting on blogs than making original posts on mine own blog.

6. I am a self-professed Anglophile, though I've never been to the UK.

7. I know that three of four people prefer Rice Crispies to Raisin Bran for breakfast.

Glad to meet you.

My Kingdom for a Plunger

2007-03-21T14:15:00.000-05:00

I truly wish that the highlight of my day could be that feeling I get when I arrive at the bathroom at work to have a piss, only to realize that the toilet is chock full o nuts with someone else's shit and toilet paper. Again. Oh, and that first deeply drawn breath of the incredibly pungent accompanying odor. Alas, I cry a bit from hooking myself firmly in the zipper of my trousers, and walk, sulking, back to my cube with my back teeth floating in the piss I should have had.

Yes, I realize that I am a guy, and that yes, I should pee in urinals like my big-boy counterparts; but I am very afraid of germs. I don't even like to shake hands, and I certainly don't let most people touch me. I am especially afraid of those germs that might be found in and around public toilets: quite simply, I do not want any of what I send forth sprayed back at me, covered in friendly hangers on; sue me for desiring to remain clean. Ergo, I choose to pee in a regular toilet; and, no, I don't sit when I pee.

But, why is it, that invariably, after my fourth cup of coffee of the day, when mister bladder has had his fair share and tugs gently at my coattail to relieve him of his duties, I casually make my way into the bathroom at work, open the stall door, and find mister hanky the poo swimming in the deep end of the bowl with his toilet paper buddies? I am sure that when I was 10, I would have found this very amusing and gathered all three of my friends into the bathroom to see the dookie; but now, at 33, while taking a biobreak from my fabulously boring job, a bowl full of semi-digested waste is not something I look forward to, albeit, this is a regular occurrence at my office.

What's that, oh, it's a bit of throw up in my mouth. Yay!

What in the fuck is wrong with people that they think it's super ok to explode all over a public facility and walk, anonymously, away (without washing their filthy, shit-laden hands, I'm sure)? Perhaps I'll set up a hidden camera and record these bastards in the act, then upload the video to our corporate intranet under the Press Release section with the headline, "CEO Dumped, Stocks in the Shitter".

Afraid of the dark

2007-03-18T15:44:00.000-05:00

The mechanical clicking of the front door latch being opened forcefully penetrated the wildly random violence of Efram's latest dream. Storm waves crashed against the rock below his naked feet. He couldn't discern how many shouting voices were behind him. An image of his mother, lying in a casket, dressed in flowing white robes, her eyes pinned shut, pushed the gray-black clouds apart. He turned to face the voices. He tried to scream as he saw only the long, black steel of the gun barrel pointed at his chest. Falling to his knees, he covered his face with his trembling hands and begged through choked tears, "Please, don't kill me. Please. Not now. Not yet."

He awoke.

He lay, shivering, in the bed. His stark-white t-shirt, dampened from sweat, stuck to his chest. His ears quickly filled with the pounding sound of the blood coursing with seeming contempt through his body with each tachycardic heart beat. He tried to focus a gaze on the ceiling light. The stinging in his eyes and the now-running tears trying feebly to coat the dryness forced a fuzzy memory: garbled words of televised salesmen; the hard seam of the leather couch pushing into the side of his crooked head; waking to the blackness of a cold, quiet room, hardened drool on his chin; stumbling through the hallway, grasping at the walls to steady himself; removing all but his t-shirt and underwear to a pile on the floor by the bed; tearing the covers over himself. He closed his eyes slowly, watching what few and now swirling shapes he could just make out disappear into the darkness of his thoughts.

At once, he remembered the sound that woke him. His eyes opened. His face flushed. His chest clenched. His stomach dropped. He stole the bed sheet into his tightly clenched fists.

I am afraid, he thought.

Ruth lay next to him in the dark, unaware of his quiet, frightened stare. He thought to reach over, to touch her, to wake her so that she would share his fear. He, instead, turned away from her and lay on his side. His heart beating faster and faster.

What will I do; what should I do, he thought.

He did not move.

He became acutely aware of any sound in the house: a creaking floor board outside the bedroom door; the yawn of the cat in another room; the whirring of the refrigerator motor; the ignition of the furnace; air blowing through the wall vent; Ruth's slow, heavy breathing beside him.

The deep sound of her breaths whisked him away into thoughts he'd hoped were forgotten. Here was their first kiss. Here were all of the late night talks and long walks by the beach. Here was the argument over leaving too big a tip for that shitty waiter. Here were countless silences while watching films or playing records. Here were the drunkenly strewn shards of the wedding china after which of the countless, nameless times enough was enough. Here again was the moment he had known that she no longer loved or needed him. Here, now, alone by her side, afraid of the dark, were as many tears and pangs of his heart that he could conjure. He closed his eyes with as great a force as he could bring himself to raise, and he tried to cry. He managed only a dry gasp.

With a slow, silent movement, he left the bed.

Standing in the hallway, he looked left, then right. As though it were for the last time, he turned and looked back at the gently moving mound of covers surrounding Ruth's sleeping body in their bed. He hoped he would smile and think warm, loving thoughts of cherished memories; he instead turned back toward the stairs and began the slow descent.

In the living room, he took up a tumbler of scotch, and sat by the window in the antique rocker they found on a whim during a day trip along the coast. He pushed his heels at the floor and the chair rocked back, as far as it could; he felt the strain of his calf muscles as he held the position. He sipped slowly from the glass, feeling the steady burn of the alcohol coating his mouth, throat, stomach.

As he sat alone, he repeated silently: I just want to die; please kill me; please.

It's like that and that's the way it is

2007-03-15T13:52:00.000-05:00

Isn't Run DMC just the coolest?

Now that I've got the 14-year old girl from 1985 out of my head and onto the breakdancing cardboard, I can get right down to it.

Every now and again, I like to repost comments I made on someone else's blog here. For me, the fun part is that the comments are read out of context, as well they should be. And it gives the very few of you who read my blog, but not the random blogs I read and comment on, the opportunity to see how fabulous I really am. With comments.

Here's one I left recently:

for ed, it was the very beginning of a late-winter saturday. he'd stepped out of his apartment, sure he'd double and tripple and even four times checked that he'd locked the door, put his wallet in the back left-side pocket of his carefully and fashionably torn jeans, and that he'd grabbed his wool cap from the coat rack.

he stood in the hallway, running through this checklist in his head (door . . . wallet . . . hat . . .). hearing tomwaits, his cat, faintly and furiously scratching at the bottom of the door, he looked down. one paw, sometimes both, made itself small enough to fit through the space between the door and floor. ed wondered if tomwaits wished for his quick return, or to run out with him into the mysterious world outside the apartment. was tomwaits on the other side of the door wondering if would it be a world of sunshine and mousing; or of laying snuggled against ed's chest in a field of long, soft grass; tomwaits didn't and soon realized he wouldn't know, and stomped away from the door.

ed boarded the elevator and pulled the wool cap low over his brow.

outside his building, he tried and failed to get a cab. he looked up at the sky around him, then down at his feet. were this mere months and 12 steps earlier, he'd have had the comfort of a cool, perspiring metal flask pressing almost osmotically against his chest through the inner pocket of his jacket. now, however, he was alone. he looked back up at the sky and pushed a finger over his brow and under the edge of the wool cap. he feigned a smile and walked toward the metro, mustering more and more strength with each step.

the train pulled into the station so quickly, the rush of air as it went past nearly knocked him over. his eyes were glazed over. he seemed unphased. he boarded the metro and sat by the door. again he pushed a finger over his brow and up under the edge of his cap. he stared down at his feet, remembering the steps. the steps. he looked up and right, pointing a finger at the woman sitting next to him.

extensions, he thought.

************************************************************************************

Meanwhile, back at my own blog . . .

Every now and again in my head, I hear conversations between Latin people living in Brooklyn. I'm guessing that I'm not the only one with such thoughts.

The last version drove a chopped, red hoopty with chromed out rims and twice pipes right out my left ear in the form of three separate, one-sided rants:

1. "Like, oh my god, he was all, like, 'yeah, so, what are you gonna do about it,' all gang-banga, and shit. So, I says, 'I'm gonna kick your fucking ass, guapo, if you don't quit it. Right. Fucking. Now.'"

two. "Churlindo was so pissed off when I says to him, I says, 'yo! you couldn't give it to yourself hard: you're not a man, you're just a little Puerto Rican bitch'."

3. "Uh-uh, oh no he di-int!"

What Time is it?

2007-03-12T18:53:00.000-05:00

I'm sick and fucking tired of daylight savings notifications, especially from the IT group at my company.

Yeah, I get it, you're on top of all things time as they relate to the crucial business function of our daily working lives which is IT. Good for you; great even. I'm excited for you, really, I am. But, why is it you have such the uncanny knack of not knowing anything IT-related that isn't video games and orange soda pop? So, please, you soiled-diapered wearing bastards (of young; hey, is that a replacements reference? it sure is, jethro, it sure is), stop sending me fucking e-mail notifications every 30 fucking minutes telling me to do something, vaguely, because it's fucking daylight savings time!

Thanks to the barrage of September-the-eleventh-two-thousand-and-one-style terrifying, doom and gloom, Osamma's gonna bite clean through my momma's red, white, and blue ass with his anti-democracy and hiv-filled fangs, daylight savings e-mails I've received in the last 8 (count 'em, 8) fucking weeks, I've stock-piled enough canned tomato soup and bottled water to sustain the entire human race until Heyseuss comes back for crumpets and tennis at Wimbledon. Holy shit-fucking dump truck filled with decapitated dolls and stuffed bunny rabbits: turning the company clocks ahead happened in the past, you monkeys.

I no longer need to ready myself for the catastrophic events that comprise meeting times moved ahead one hour in my calendar, or looking to the little Mircosoft clock in the corner of my screen to see that it's been successfully advanced one hour. You're technological geniuses, I understand.

I do not believe, nor do I give a steaming pile of shit, however, that advancing our clocks one hour took the entire IT department plus the fucking bazillion contract IT shitheads you claim it did, 8 weeks of planning to push a fucking button. Hey, I took a shit today, and wiped after: where's my fucking parade?

Look, I love Bob the semi-retarded, pear-shaped, zit-encrusted help desk guy as much as anyone (no shit he's semi-retarded: he wears headgear, but it's for playing video games, he says; Nintendo rules!). I especially love him, to pieces, when he can't figure out how to re-map the network drive his team, striking under a covert operation, decided to delete without asking how important the files i and the other 75 members of my department thought it necessary to back up on that drive for the last up to 8 years. Fuckers. But, for fuck's sake, did we really need all 72 (tee-hee, I counted, there are seventy-fucking-two of them) corporate-wide e-mails telling us not to forget about daylight savings time? And the FAQ e-mails about daylight savings time that followed this major accomplishment in the evolution of man? Seriously, I didn't learn anything valuable about day light savings time in any of these e-mails. Where, for example, did the idea of daylight savings time originate? Or, why did this event occur 2 weeks early this year, but not in the UK? Are folks in the UK more special than other folks? (Well, they do bow to a queen on a regular basis, but so don't many of us.)

Alas, I guess there might be a need for the deluge of stupidly crafted e-mails, as I tend to forget that I work with others, approximately 2500 others. And they're all at the very least semi-retarded, like my buddy Bob the IT guy. And how do I know this? Here is an excerpt from the most recent set of FAQ:

What if my workstation or Blackberry does not have the proper time displayed?

Please restart your workstation/Blackberry, if the correct time does not display after the restart please your local Helpdesk. The Helpdesk can verify that the Daylight Savings Time patch has been installed.

How can I confirm the actual time in other time zones?

While in your MS Outlook please select Tools/Options/Calendar Options /Time Zone. This will give you the option to view dual time zones please select the appropriate time zones and you can view dual time zones on the calendar. If the time zone does not reflect the proper time zone in your calendar please readd the time zone.

Although there are so many favorite parts of these bits to choose, I selected this one because it provides the most options: "if the correct time does not display after the restart please your local Helpdesk".

Please what my local Helpdesk? Kick their legs out from under them and fuck them in the skull with a Unix user manual? Or, call them to my desk emergently, then duck tape their ass to my chair (if they fit), and push twinkies in their fat, zitted faces? Or, perhaps, print the 72 daylight savings time e-mails, roll them tightly, beat the living shit out of them with the roll, then ram that roll in their cake-filled asses?

Oh, oh, oh. Wait. Hold it. I got it: please my local Helpdesk. I get it, they're fucking clueless side-show attractions who couldn't make a keyboard stroke with their flipper hands, but I'm the ass who gets fucked in the ear. Super.

UPDATE FOR WHINY IT PROFESSIONALS

Your IT department, thanks to your significant efforts to keep the help out of Helpdesk, sucks harder than original Nintendo. Nice work.

P.S. Hey, fuckstick, I'm the guy who spilled coffee on that Helpdesk Superstar certificate that hangs in your dirty cube to help with your daily affirmations: I'm good enuf and smrat enoug and peeple lick me!

Superawesomefantasitcawesomeness and Hair

2007-03-10T19:06:00.000-05:00

When I launched this blog way back on that freezing cold night before heading out for drinks and drag reviews in late 2006, my intent was that it be the tin foil wrapping on the rabbit ear antennae that might just bring a bit of clarity to the snow-filled screen of the tv in the dingy, green shag-carpeted and plywood-paneled living room in my head. (Hey, I'm a run-on sentence. Yay me!) The idea was to make a happy little place for me to poop out tid bits of the insanity and inanity that comprise my life. Openly. Anonymously. And perhaps even somewhat truthfully.

But it would appear that now it's become, quite simply, a steaming pile of virtual poop. So, I'm taking this post to re-invent my blog.

That's right bitches, it's Buggery 2.0, and it's fucking on! Yeeeeaaaaawwwww! There'll be more buggery than Sean Connery's slurring cock has ever seen. There'll be more Fondling than Michael Jackson at a day care center. There's going to be more fucking Lord than Jesus fuck me right in the metal plate in my head Christ himself. Oh yeah! There's going to be so much superawesomefantasticawesomeness you'll think you got skull fucked and died, then fell into a bed of yummy tropical fruit-flavored skittles.

Actually, no, there won't be any of that. I'm not reinventing anything. Because I simply couldn't give a flying fat fuck. And to do so would cut clinically significantly into drinky drinky time, and there will certainly be none of that. So, fuck all that.

Hey, if a retard fell off the short bus, will I still like cake?

What Did I Say?

2007-03-10T15:16:00.000-05:00

It seems that I haven't posted here in a while, which has not been for lack of silly and useless things to say: it's just that I've been rather drunk for a while. And before you ask, it's not with love or life or any of that shiny happy fluffy clouds and furry pink bunnies shit. Nope. It's all about the booze for old Uncle Fondleberries.

Sure, I've managed to get to work, pay some bills, and perform other activities of daily living, but I did it all with my pants on backwards and my zipper down. What is the sound of one butt cheek clapping? Grasshopper: get more beer.

Wait, what did I say? I ask that question every morning after, slightly excited but slightly more afraid to learn the answer.

Advice from the Cube Gods

2007-03-05T21:22:00.000-05:00

Today's advice:

"You suck! That's great!"

The Sunday Post

2007-03-04T11:34:00.000-05:00

It is another winter Sunday just north of Boston. The sun is shining brightly in the clear blue sky. Salt and snow have stained the streets. And the wind is blowing our back gate open and shut rather violently. Its latch is missing, you see, thanks to the future Mrs. Fondleberries who, one night a couple of weeks ago in a moment that can only be described as cute, let the gate slam shut. Slam! With a whimper, as though the wind were knocked out of it, the latch popped off. Since I'm a bit fat and lazy these days, I haven't yet fixed it. I'm sure that I'll get to it by mid summer.

* * * *

I was awakened this fine morning at about 5 AM by a revelry of yelping, screeching, hissing, and fighting composed and orchestrated by several neighborhood cats. Apparently these buggers had the night before decided as a collective feline unit that it was high-time they were in heat, and by morning needed to tear the living shit out of each other's fleshy loins and pump warm yummy goodness into each other until filled with soon to be kitties. Kitties are sweet. What made this barrage of noise even more special was the fabulous hammer-to-anvil pounding of my usual Sunday morning hang over that was, lucky for me, echoing through my still booze-laden head.

* * * *

When I was a kid, my father, whom I'll call "Drill Sergent Dad (DSD)", used to wake me every morning at zero-530. The DSD would kick open the door to my bedroom, stand over my comatose corpse for how ever long he stood there (which is a story for a different post), and he'd shout the military revelry tune repeatedly until he could see the whites of my eyes; eyes encrusted with morning sleep.

"Get up, kid, he'd bark, "and wipe the snot out of your eyes. Ready yourself in fifteen."

Readying meant that I had exactly 15 minutes to perform what the DSD called the three S's (shit, shave, and shower), then dress in gym shorts, t-shirt, and sneakers. Once ready, I'd meet him in the kitchen to "mess", then we'd head out to the local Junior High School track for a run.

The track was a quarter mile around and close to 20 yards wide. Tiny purple pebbles comprised its surface. The DSD had decided that we would run one mile. Four turns around the track. Four was neat and tidy. We didn't run for speed, or necessarily for distance, or even to share each other's company. This was conditioning. We ran in stride. Our feet hit the pebbles simultaneously. Left, right, left, right. I envisioned that the only thoughts the DSD had during the runs were of military cadences: I don't know but I've been told, Eskimo pussy is mighty cold, and the like. He never spoke during the runs, though.

Once the mile was up, we'd walk off the track and onto a nearby field to stretch and get in some push ups and sit ups. Counting the repetitions would be the only conversation. We got in however many push ups and sit ups we could before I'd have to be off for school and he for work.

This ritual, which I referred to as my morning fuck you, began shortly after my 13th birthday and lasted until I left for college several years later.

* * * *

As I lay in the guest room bed this morning, sweating booze and staring at the ceiling, I tried to come to grips with the fact that getting more sleep was not an option. Once I had accepted that fact, I got out of bed, wiped the snot from my eyes, and stumbled to the bathroom to have a piss. I was happy to see that I was wearing pajamas. I wasn't sure if I had made the transition from real clothes to bed clothes before passing out on the couch last night.

Standing in the can with one hand pressed flat against the wall and the other holding myself up, I felt oddly a touch horny. It must have been the not being able to think of much other than all that fine feline fucking going on outside.

I finished my piss and meandered to the sink to wash my hands. I splashed a bit of water on my face and put my hands on the edge of the sink to brace myself. I lifted my head and looked into the mirror. Water dripped off the end of my nose. It was a slow-motion moment. In my head, I heard a slow blues riff being played on a tinny piano. There was a stinging feeling in my half-closed, bloodshot eyes. I blew water off my lips, wiped my nose on my sleeve, and lowered my head. I wondered how I'd got so far from the DSD and my morning fuck you.

It's Just Words

2007-03-03T13:14:00.000-05:00

As a self-proclaimed grammar Nazi, I'm usually acutely aware of the ways in which native English-speaking people mangle the English language. I find most errors rather funny at first, but I'm a scosh obsessive, so I feel the need to and do point out flaws and/or make corrections where and when I've not been invited to do so. Most people I know chalk this up to my being a dick. I'm ok with that.

My most recent crusade has been to right the great "then" vs. "than" wrong that so many of you are guilty of committing. The difference is rather simple.

Then should be used when referring to the chronological order of a set of events, as in

"I was reading your blog, then I realized that you were a shithead."

Then can also be used to define a condition, as in

"If you don't know the difference between then and than, then you should not be allowed to blog."

Than, on the other hand, should be used to make a comparison, as in

"Your use of the English language is worse than a retarded monkey's."

Now that I've cleared this up for you, if you insist on writing a phrase like, "I am older then Bob", you should have your pinky fingers removed and a dictionary thrown at your head, and if you think it's ok to use a phrase like, "If you can provide a full description, than you should know", then I'm not so sure you should be allowed to blog anymore.

Onward grammar soldiers to more fucked-upped grammatical mangling.

Today, Heather said, "Marky Mark and the Funchy Bunk." Apparently she was so excited by Mr. Mark's buffness (or something) that she botched the name of the band. What could she have been thinking? Was it, "mmmmm, he's funchy?" Or, "I'd love to get me some of that hot funchy bunk." Either way, it was hilarious to hear her say that. I'm going to refer to myself as funchy from now on. Maybe in conversation, I'll ask people, "hey, are you feeling funchy today?"

So, what are some of your favorite language fuck-ups?

Briefs or Thong?

2007-03-02T12:13:00.001-05:00

Today's advice from the cube:

"I couldn't suck any harder."

More Briefs

2007-02-28T16:14:00.000-05:00

Today's advice from my cube at work:

"It's you suck awareness day."

That's nice. And motivating.

The Soundtrack of Your Life

2007-02-27T21:28:00.000-05:00

what is it that music does deep within us? what is it that makes us tap toe with the beat? why does music conjure memories of days thankfully long gone by or woefully forgotten?

sounds equal images equal memories equal emotions.

here's a partial listing of the tuesday night soundtrack as spun by superstar dj lord f (with partial commentary):

run dmc: rock box (hell yes)
3rd bass: words of wisdom (perhaps there is a theme being kicked off, tune in later)
de la soul: eye know (anyone who can rhyme over steely dan is ok in my book; steely dan, i smell w.s. burroughs, and he's dead. ewww.)
eric b and rakim: i know you got soul
special ed: i'm the magnificent (yes, mothertrucker, i am)
d nice: my name is d nice (actually, it's lord fondleberries. well, maybe it's not)
bdp: my philosophy (for heather's informizzle, d nice came up with bdp: it's all in the way he rhymes over that 8 0 8)
big daddy kane: warm it up cane (is that pornographic, because i hope it is)
the the: uncertain smile
pixies: dig for fire
billie holiday: they can't take that away from me
black rebel motorcycle club: ain't no easy way
the doors: l.a. woman (mister mojo rising)
led zepplin: communication breakdow (on purpose)
ll cool j: mamma said knock you out (don't call it a come back, bitches)
whodini: the freaks come out at night (who the hell has that in their record collection, that's right, suckas, lord f is in the house . . . lord f is in the house . . . when i said "lord" you say "f".)

and the finale:

tomoyasu hotei (aka the electic samurai): battle without honor or humanity (all a y'all silly suckas be knowin that one from the kill bill sountrack. me, i own the actual album. heck yes. i rock the house)

In Briefs

2007-02-27T17:03:00.000-05:00

Boxer briefs.

It's Tuesday. I'm sitting in my cube following the sage advice scribbled on the side of a foam lego block on my desk. It reads, "Don't forget to suck!"

I'm totally on that.

Billy Graham Killed My Dreams

2007-02-24T19:33:00.000-05:00

I'd normally make this post under the ongoing list of reasons why I'm retarded, but I thought I'd put in a little more effort. I hope you like it, I really do. Well, not really. In fact, I don't like you. So leave my blog. Ok sweety?

So, I spent today online. What else is new: it's Saturday, I'm a loser, ergo ipso facto. Today's twist, and yet another example of my stupendous retardedness, is that I was online on not one but two computers. With the first, I was happily then frustratedly and finally pissed offedly in the online waiting room at redsox.com, waiting (tee hee) my turn to order green monster seat tickets. I'll get to that in a minute. With the second, I was avoiding work by blogging and searching for classic porn. That's right, I said work, on Saturday, which makes my Monday through Friday job that much more super great and awesomely incredibly fanfuckingtastic---you know, because I also have to do it on Saturday.

I booted the 'puter aruond 7 AM (Boston time, le bruce bruce, in case you were wondering). I grabbed my notes, sat down with a cup of coffee, and got crack-a-lackin. Then I remembered that why the fuck am I working on Saturday? So I got busy avoiding work. Before I knew it, hours had gone.

It was about 11:00, and I remembered that, holy shit, I was supposed to hit redsox.com to get tickets for my cousin, brother, and me. The deal: one game, four tickets. On the green monster. Sweet baby Jesus, we were going to get what every sox fan would sell their mum for.

Naturally, the sheer excitment about possibly getting monster seats made me shit my pants and spray beer out of my nose. Dude, come on, this was a wicked pissah chance of a life time. Most folks, especially sox fans, understand the pure awesomeness of getting the chance to see a sox game while sitting high atop the famed left field wall. (Anyone who doesn't understand the magically scrupmtious yummy delicious sweetness of this kick-assedness can go fuck yourself.)

The happy madness began just before noon. It ended at six. Sans tickets.

I toggled between puters every 30 seconds, blogging on one and checking to see if I was refreshed into the ticket purchasing section of redsox.com on the other. Every 30 fucking seconds!

Yeah, so, six hours later and no tickets didn't piss me off, even a little? Oh, that's right, I was super fucking pissed. I was firstly pissed at the red sox for tricking me into believing that I actually had a shot at these seats. But who can blame me? My cousin got an e-mail from redsox.com stating some congratulatory bullshit about how he was chosen to be among the select few (apparently fucking million) to have the opportunity to get green monster seat tickets to a red sox home game. But he wasn't going to be around to collect the loot, so could I? Shit yes I would. I was then pissed because I fell for this shit, like an old Betty giving the last of her life savings to bring Jesus to Billy Graham.

Somewhere between seeing my dreams spiral down the toilet and not working on Saturday, I read a choose your own ending post over at Monkey boy Egan's, which I thought was fun. I'm copying that for this post.

Given that I've got a following of about 7 and they're all a touch retarded, I figured I'd help them with the choosing. Here goes. It's now the end of this post. Will you:

A. Go.

B. Fuck.

C. Yourself.

Hint: try all three, in order.

Waiting for Godot-Guffman's Parents to Finally Succumb to Cirrhosis of the Closet Drinker's Liver

2007-02-24T09:08:00.000-05:00

There is a small part of me that wishes that phone calls with my parents were normal. That is, that there would be a beginning, a middle, and an end that didn't involve one or more of us being drunk, and that there would be meaningful and understandable dialogue. This is never the case.

Here's a bit of what I can remember of a recent phone call with my parents.

The scene is the dining room of Lord Fondleberries lovely seaside home in a north shore subburb of Boston, MA. It is late but not bed time late.

Lord F is fairly well sloshed on cheap, old wine. He's on the phone, long distance, when the call waiting kicks in.

The phone: Annoying digital beep. Fucking annoying digital beep.

Lord F pulls the phone from his ear to look at the caller ID window: The parentals. Shit. Double shit, fuck, shit, and more shit. Fuck.

Uses internal voice Now, I know that Heather wants this call to be from my wonderfully oedipal mother. She wants my mom to say that she's got the perfect color theme-matching dress for the wedding, and that it's not teal, or mauve, or, fuck forbid, white, and that it doesn't have a sweep that would require no fewer than four midgets to carry it down the aisle. This would certainly end Heather's anxiety about my mother making a rediculously dramatic scene. Alas, I just know that this isn't the case, so I ignore the beep.

Lord F finishes the current conversation and hangs up the phone. Minutes later . . .

The phone: Ringgggg! Ringggg! In Samuel L. Jackson voice Hey, I said, Ring, bitch! The caller ID displays the parentals.

Lord F: Awww fuck.

More ringy, ringy from the phone.

Lord F Uses passive aggressive voice: Huh-Hello?

Dad Uses Darth Vader Voice, sans heavy breathing: Son. This. Is. The Father.

Lord F thinking he's using his internal voice, but speaking aloud: Awwww fuck. Why is it him? It can't be. He only calls when my ass needs to be on the line (read: beaten) for some pro-fill-in-the-anti-Republicunt-blank-here-shit, and he needs to tell me so. And I haven't marched for any Liberal causes lately, well, I am voting for Hillary and/or Obama in 2008, but he can't know that. It fucking can't be him. Suddenly realizing he's talking out loud. Oh, shit.

Dad: Huh?

Lord F: What? Nothing. I mean, huh-ehem-hi. Dude. (Dude?! I called him fucking dude. Shit, my liberal ass is fucked.)

Dad: Hi, son.

Lord F uses his internal voice internally thank fuck: Praise shit, he's hammered and didn't notice that I called him dude. Yay me! I'm slipping that in at least once more. Dude. Heh heh.

Dad slurring wildly now: Son. I need your help.

Lord F also slurring: Ok, go ahead.

Dad: Our credit card's been robbed.

Lord F uses internal voice: Our credit card's been robbed? We have a credit card together? And it's been broken into? Wait, he must think he's talking to my brother. They did give my 28 year-old brother a credit card for Christmas last year. It must be that.

Dad slurring: Son? You there? You hear what I say? It's been robbed into. On the internet. In London. Hello?

Lord F somewhat confused and/or pissed, and definitely drunk: Well whaddayou want me to do about it, I can't fix the internet, ya know. You better cancel that card, though. Understand? Shut it down! Now!

Dad: What? Cancel it?

Lord F: Shut it down, man! You have to get on that. Now!

Dad: Ok . . . ok . . . o . . . k. Slurps Jack Daniels and sighs.

Lord F: You get that? 'Cuz they'll get your bank account number and take all your money. Mumbling now. And I'm not taking you fuckers in.

On Dad's end of the line there is loud whispering and the sound of ice swirling around in a glass and hitting the side of the glass (chink chink).

Lord F: Shit. Mom.

Dad: Son. I'm handing you to the mother. Tell her what she needs to do. Laughs. You know me, son, I won't remember this in the morning, you know? It's my age. Not as spry as I used to be.

Lord F internal voice: You were spry? So many creepy and gross thoughts.

Dad: Ok, I'm putting your mother on. Shouts Mom?

Mom slurring so much she's barely intelligible: Hel-- Ha-- Helllllo?

Lord F: Hi.

Mom: Ok. How you? Good. Laughs.

Lord F because he's drunk, he can no longer mask his Boston accent: Look. Mah. Dad says yaw cahd got robbed.

Mom giggling: Mmmm hmmm. Sips from a glass.

Lord F: Can you hear me?

Mom: Yup. I think you are too.

Lord F: What? Jesus.

Mom: Why? You know what I love you ok?

Lord F: Yah. Great. Look, you gotta listen, ok?

Mom sighs and tries to shake of her drunkenness: Ok. I yam.

Lord F: Ya gotta go ta the website and shut off yaw credit cahd, ok?

Mom: Huh?

Lord F speaks slower and consequently slurs more: T o t h a s i t e. Cancel. Yaw. Cahd.

Mom incredibly confused and drunk: Where's your father? Dad? Dad?

Lord F: No Mah, he said to you wants to remember. Ok? You gotta do it, he can't anymore. Ok?

Mom: Yup. I got it.

Lord F: Got what?

Mom: I'll be the website for your father and he'll do the cahd. In the morning, ok? He's so sexy, I like him for it. You know what I'm saying?

Lord F: What? Good god, I don't need to hear that. There's not enough therapy in the world for me to hear that.

Mom: Wha?

Lord F: Listen, did you get what I said, about the cahd? Close it down at the website. Call me in the morning. I'm going to bed.

Lord F hangs up the phone and passes out face down at the desk.

Drinking and Baseball

2007-02-22T19:40:00.000-05:00

Here's a quickie to keep the theme going: I couldn't be happier about the arrival of my fabulous new Drinking / Red Sox shirt . . .

It works so well with my sausage (and peppers) fingers. L O L.

Go Sox!

I wish my genes were jeans, so I could wash them and make them seem new again

2007-02-22T11:55:00.001-05:00

Yeah, so, last night I drank a bottle of wine I had opened four weeks ago, and sat at the table taking oversized bites off a block of expired Romano cheese to satiate my appetite for being, well, a growing middle-aged drunk guy. As the t-shirt says, "Life is Good". I wish I had the waist line of the stick figure on that shirt. Alas, I am said middle-aged and growing drunk guy.

Both of my biological(?) parents are closet drinkers, as in they don't drink to their full potential in public settings, but get them home---in a taxi that I had to pay for or after a drunk driving accident, whichever comes first---and sobriety is just another word that starts with a letter of the alphabet that their combined fourth grade education never got to. I question the biology, as there is still some faint glimmer of hope that a sane and caring couple will step forward and claim me as their long-lost child. If any of you tries to take that hope away, I'll cut off your balls and/or tits and mail them to you.

As should be obvious from the first line of this post, I seem to have picked up my parents' affinity for all things alcohol (and most things of little to no dietary quality). I sat, braised in a cheap wine that was almost entirely grape flavored vinegar by the time I got to drinking it, and I wondered how far the proverbial apple actually falls from the genetically mutated tree. In my case, the apple never fell, it was plucked and made into apple wine. Yay, booze! You see, when it comes to my second favorite pass time (after reading of course), I'm certainly out of the closet. Let's see:

Drunk at parties: check
Drunk at shows: check
Drunk at ballgames or while watching ballgames on tv: check and check
Drunk at your house: check
Drunk at my house: check
Drunk at work (but only during thirsty Thursdays, beer hour Fridays, and at lunch): check

Well, it would appear that I've got the bases fully covered, as it were.

Still, I can't help but wonder what things would be like if I had different parents. Perhaps I would have turned out like this

Alas, as you all know, I turned out like this

I'm working on a follow-up to this post, a transcript based on what I can rememeber of a phone conversation that I had with both of my parents while the three of us were sloshed. I think there was plenty of international intrigue, political scandal, general villainry, and Darth Vader. It should be incoherent at best. I'm looking forward to it being a huge flop in the blogosphere, much like the rest of my posts.

Iraq, You Rock, But Folks Keep Dying

2007-02-21T19:40:00.000-05:00

I realize that this blog has a readership of about 7 buggers (on a good day), but I'm still throwing this out to all internet [Mario van] peoples.

Does anyone else find it a scosh nuts that the "Coalition of the Willing" are pulling out of Iraq in droves, and Bush is calling this a "sign of success"?

Last I checked, there were nearly 4,000 total Coalition deaths, including 3,147 U.S. Apparently these folks were expendable, otherwise, George W. Bush and the U.S. Congress wouldn't likely have agreed to and begun increasing U.S presence in Iraq via a surge in troops to the tune of 21,500.

Today, it was sunny and relatively warm (41 degrees F) for winter in the Boston area. As I walked the four blocks from my parking spot to my office, through melting snow and ice, I relished the warm air and thought only of the coming spring and summer months. I smiled and sipped my coffee.

Hours before, another U.S. helicopter was shot down, "insurgents" blew up a truck carrying chlorine gas, which sent 55 people to the hospital, and yet another exploded car bomb killed 2 and injured an additional 4 people. These people did not die to protect my freedom to write this.

Clinton was nearly impeached for getting a hummer from a fat chick and trying to keep it a secret from his wife; Bush kills thousands and will get the chance to kill thousands more. That's fair, right?

The Ongoing Definitive List of Reasons Why I am Retarded

2007-02-19T16:29:00.000-05:00

Additions for 19 February 2007:

1. I thought that the plural of le chat was les chattes (like lattes only cats).

2. I once had a plan for world peace, but traded it for a bucket of fried chicken (dam, I love the Colonel).

3. I prefer to spell "damn" without the "n", and when questioned about this I say that, yes, I meant "dam", as in what beavers build. Then, I laugh because I said beaver.

4. I've been using "lol" in everyday conversations.

5. I still have a MySpace account.

I'm Mad as Hell and I'm Not Going to Take it Anymore

2007-02-19T11:39:00.000-05:00

It's true: I am mad, and I'm not going to take it anymore. Except that I don't seem to have a choice. And I'm going to have to take it. Hard.

I'd like to thank the U.S. Senate Republicunts for standing by their man, Saturday, and blocking important, albeit, non-binding legislation that saught to deny the insane President's troop build up in everyone's favorite sand box, Ifuckingraq. Instead, I'll say, "nice work, way to keep that partisan divide as wide as Bush's daughter's gash".

Wasn't there a recent national vote, afterwhich the Republicunt majority was replaced with a Democratic majority? And were the Democrats not running on the basis that they would take a stand against the fake war and against the lunacy of George witless Bush, Dick fucking Cheney, and the rest of the neonazi (I mean neoconservative) party? What the hell happened? Oh, that's right. The fucking Democrats blew their wads and decided that instead of actually wanting to end the war, they'd rather launch exploratory committees to evaluate their potential presidential candidacies.

Will someone please remind me what the troops are dying for in Iraq these days? Is it freedom? Is it truth and justice? Is it the pursuit of democracy? Oh, that's right, it's for oil. And capitalism. And George W. Bush's legacy. Well, fuck him, and fuck this farce.

With the information available on the superfactual internet, I was able to dig up this tidbit at the so-called uberliberal website www.npr.org: a total of 3088 U.S. troops have died during the course of this "war on terrorism". Add to that the range of Iraqi deaths (minimum = 30,000 as reported by the Bush administration, maximum = 650,000 as reported by the Johns Hopkins School of Public Health) and the U.S. government's general lack of giving a shit about troops and civilians and anything un-Jesus, and the similarties between this failed invasion of Iraq and the failed invasion of Vietnam seem even harder to dismiss. Like the huge boner I have to get rid of Bush's idiocracy. Interestingly, the Vietnamese government reports that approximately 4 million people have suffered from the effects of agent orange; I wonder how many people will suffer when Bush finally dusts off the red button and brings a nuke-you-ler holocaust on the Middle East.

Perhaps the government does need to reinstate a draft policy. Only this time, the Republicunt Senators and Representatives will be the first drafted and killed off. When they're dead, draft their kids and kill them off. Then, for shits and grins, hit up the Democratic Senators and Representatives who voted for a war not this war, and send them off to die.

Oh well, I guess I shouldn't be so upset, as I'll be in Canada dying from cirrhosis as soon as fucking possible.

Saturday Morning Post

2007-02-17T09:08:00.000-05:00

It's nine AM, Saturday morning in Boston. As sit at the dining room table typing this, Heather is still in bed asleep. I heart her. I probably don't tell her enough, but it's true. I believe she knows that I do.

The sun streams through the window. Snow is piled in random spots next to driveways, in the middle of the street. A thick coat of ice covers almost everything in sight. I'm hoping this cold spell will end soon. If for no other reason than I'd like to walk through the neighborhood without the snot in my nose freezing.

I'm not looking forward to charioting the old mini sled to Starbucks this morning, but I do need a fix. It's been an odd week. A few rants. More folks leaving my company: the company is moving to Lexington, MA, which sucks for the vast majority of us who commute either from the north or south shores.

Yesterday was my ex-boss' last day. She'd been my ex-boss since July 2005, when she dumped me off to my current boss. That made me feel special; the I'm wearing a helmet and drooling kind of special. My ex-boss hired me at this job. Now she's gone.

I can wait no more: I'm off for coffee.

Fuck the Police

2007-02-15T21:11:00.000-05:00

Say it with me, in the words of the immortal make-pretend gang lord Easy motherfucking E, "fuck The Police".

Seriously, to pick up where Uncle Roy left off: fuck Ticketmaster (read all that is even more unholy than George W fucking cunt fuck Bush). And fuck Sting.

No. Fuck that. Fuck Gordon fucking Sumner. Fucking Cunt. Fuck him right in his eight-hour tantric sex-having, Brazilian-waxed ass. That's right Gordo, I said it, your name is fucking Gordon. And you're a dirty fucking cunt. Jesus fuck, do I hope you got your ass beat in grade school. I hope some shit-fuck bully beat your ass under the auspice that you'd someday suck harder than a hoover, where that day is defined as Dream of the Blue [fuck]Turtle. I hate you. Hard. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. Fucking hard.

Oh, and shame on you, Stewart-I-hope-Sting-someday-wants-to-reunite-for-a-nominal-fee-('cuz it feels so good)-to-play-the-music-that-meant-so-much-to-so-many-people-(like my whoring ass)-because-that's-the-only-way-I'd-reunite-in-front-of-large-audiences (paraphrased from a radio interview with Stewy the cunt, 2006). I hope you get cancer in your ass, eyes, ears, nose, throat, dick, and mother. And I hope Les Claypool and that dirty fucking hippie douche nozzel, Trey Anastasio, out you for being a COMPLETE PIECE OF GREEDY, SELF-SERVING, LYING FUCKING SHIT, and you fall, face down, in a pile of my own loose and occult blood-filled stool, and die.

What the fuck unleashed this silly-ass shit storm of fucks and cunts, you ask: why, the opening BID for Police tickets being 300 fucking dollars. What in the holy fuck is that? You actually mean to tell me that I am reserving the right to bid more and fucking more and yet fucking more of my dollars for what Ticketmaster calls the chance of a lifetime to be "a part of this extraordinary tour by taking advantage of these unique offers". GO FUCK YOURSELF. FUCKING HARD. RIGHT IN THE FUCKING EYE SOCKET.

Sunday and Not Drinking?

2007-02-11T09:02:00.000-05:00

Sunday. Again. Online. Again. But I don't feel the usual shitty.

My skin is slightly pink. Eyes: wide open. Hands: no shakes. Breath: toothpaste fresh. And what the hell is this feeling of awakeness?

Sitting here at the desk, typing, I closed my eyes for a brief moment and all the things I think I could accomplish flashed before me. There I am vacuuming. And singing. And there I am grocery shopping: chicken, vegetables, milk . . . milk for fuck's sake. On the senate floor: "Mister President, end this war." Oh, there I am in a field, twirling, arms spread wide to the sides. "The hills are alive with the sound of I'm not hung over."

What the hell is all of this energy? Is this how people who can handle their alcohol consumption and set three-drink limits feel? Is it how people who get more than two hours of sleep each night feel? I'm frightened.

How the hell did this happen? We did go out last night. We did see Dane's jazz quartet. I did embibe. But I only had two drinks. I wasn't sloshed. I held no fewer than three conversations without slurring words or my eyes drifting apart. I drove home sober. I undressed and put my clothes away rather than in a pile on the floor; then I put on pajamas and got into bed.

And then something happened in Whoville that hadn't happened in seventeen years: this drunk grinch went to bed, and slept. For eight hours.

Now it's the next day, and I'm not hung over. What will I do with myself?

First, I'm off to get coffee. Then, who knows.

Perhaps I'll take up smoking.

Drinking and Saturday

2007-02-10T11:42:00.000-05:00

Saturday. Again. Online. Again. Hung over. Again. I'm finally getting used to the hang over yellow skin, half-closed eyes, and ass dry mouth. It's the tiredness that sucks. The problem with drinking too much and not sleeping is well, the next day. And shit does the next day always come much too quickly.

Heather will have me cleaning the house soon. So I'm enjoying the slacker time while it lasts. I like having a clean house, but would rather have a small army of brown people clean it for me. All the neighbors have various teams of people who show up once each week with vacuums and cleaners and paper towels and various undocumented dialects. And poof. Their house is clean. If only keeping up with the Jones' didn't require so much cash. Perhaps I'll steal one of these little brown cleaning dynamos and keep him in my basement for my own private use. Alas, I do not believe the Jones' would allow one of their cleaning staff to disappear. This is too bad, I hear they make fabulous mojitos.

Tonight we're heading to the Peabody Essex Museum to see my friend Dane sing. That should be swell, and will likely be served with at least several martinis. This will inevitably turn into a hang over, and the next day. I'm afraid of change, so this pattern of drinking and the next day might be just what I need. Either that or some good old fashioned monkey lovin.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

It is much later in the day. And we haven't yet cleaned the house. In fact, we haven't done much of anything. Heather's not feeling well, so she'd gone off to watch the telly. I joined in a while ago and caught the end of The White Rapper Show, which was followed by Snoop Dogg's Rags to Riches special. I am now convinced that fat white chicks should not go out in public, much less rap with New York beeyatch-like accents on cable television. I have to pay for cable, so I should get what I want. And I do not want fat rapping white chicks. This reminds me of the t-shirt with the "no fat chicks" logo. Holy shit, I hope that I'm not becomming a Texan.

I don't believe that Jesus is the saviour. I don't believe every American must own a gun. I have at least one black friend. I hate George W. Bush and, well, conservatives and neoconservatives and the religious right and the rest of the republicunts. Phew. I'm not a Texan.

I fucking hate VH1: it is the most evil shit fucking channel in the history of television, and it should be stopped. But I'm not the guy to put an end to it. I'll leave that for someone else. All I ask is to be texted when it's done.

I believe we're still heading out tonight, which means that I should at least wash some clothes. And take a shower. I'd rather not leave the house smelling as I currently do.

Damn these hang over blues. I'm not sure if hang over is one or two words or whether it should be hyphenated. I don't much care at the moment, so it will remain two words as I have typed it.

The alcoholic's conscience is kicking in: I should probably take a night or two off from the sauce. It's not likely that I'll heed this advice. But it sounds like the right thing to do. For my liver. And my increasingly distended stomach. Oh, and Heather might like it if we made it through a conversation without my speech slurring or my eyes going wonky.

That's all for now. I've got a few blogs to check up on before logging off for the night.

Real Quick

2007-02-08T14:38:00.000-05:00

The easily offended shit dicks of Atlantic Beach, Florida, lost their minds, ate a dick, and made a local comedy club change "The Vagina Monologues" to "The HooHaa Monologues" on their marquee. Like it or not people, you're all a bunch of cunts. So quit your whining and change your diapers.

According to my horriblescope for today, I was apparently prepared for this cranky response to said Floridian cunts:

There is a great deal of uncertainty in the air right now, which could leave you feeling moody or downright cranky today. The good news is that all your friends and loved ones are attuned to your feelings, and they will be able to zig whenever you zag. They can provide all the stability or calming energy you may need. So try not to isolate yourself too much today. Get with people as often as you can, even if it's just to hang out and shoot the breeze.

Lucky for me, I'm a male hooker, so I can get with up to 3 people in an hour, thus satisfying the "get with people as often as I can" bit.

In other news, the lovely people of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, have put on yet another display of brotherly love. This assholewas nice enough to leave his daughter outside in the cold. She died. My favorite part, "Tiny footprints in the snow suggested she had gotten up and wandered around before she died". Awww.

You Called Me What (the Fuck)?

2007-02-07T11:04:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, I heard two separate but related what the fucks on NPR:

1. Some Jews are calling other Jews anti-semites for not fully supporting Israel's every action.

2. Black people do not consider Barack Obama black.

As an upper middle class atheist white guy, all I can infer from this kind of shit is that apparently I have been on the wrong side of religion all my life as the apocalypse is imminent, and that Mitt fucking Romney will be the next president of the United fucking States.

It's settled: I'm moving to Canada.

Making It Home

2007-02-03T14:28:00.000-05:00

Today's house project was arranging and hanging mirrors along the stairway.

Heather's been eye humping that space for just such a project since we moved in a bit more than a year ago.

Spiffy.

Previously, for half of the summer and a bit of the fall, we took on the project of refinishing our front door. The history: our house was built in 1900 and the door had all 106 years of lead-, oil-, and latex-based paint on it. The fun part: Heather won a trip to the phlebotomist after inhaling lead dust, and I passed out at least one time after inhaling the sweet toxic scents of ethylmethylyourgonnadieifyouuseitproxy paint strippers. Here's how it turned out:

A Seatbelt, A Shot of Windex, and My Crotch

2007-02-03T12:25:00.000-05:00

Last night, while drunk and driving home from dining out, I was heard saying, "it only has to look like it's on". I was referring to my seatbelt.

I'm normally a safety conscious driver. I put on my seatbelt before starting the car. I am aware and considerate of other drivers. I use the directional to signal upcoming turns, even when turning into my driveway. When I'm lit and driving, however, anything goes. I fancy myself a cannonballer at such times. Dah, Dah, Dah! Captain Chaos!

Last night, after slinging back a few (including what I am fairly sure was a double shot of Windex with a splash of lemon juice in it), the Captain appeared to chariot me home.

I was skillfully swirving over the yellow line and back while hiccupping madly, when I saw straight ahead the flashing blue lights of a police car. Realizing that I was a) hammered, b) driving (and rather fucked uppedly so), and c) not wearing my seatbelt (which would tack an additional twenty dollar fine onto the ticket I was sure to receive), I reached over my shoulder for the seatbelt. I managed to grab the belt, yank it across my body, and fasten it securely to my crotch at the exact moment I passed the police car.

From the passenger seat (yes, I was endangering more than just my own life), I heard, "Jesus Christ! Buckle it for fuck's sake!"

I replied, "I can't, but fuck it, it only has to look like it's on."

Luckily, the cop was preoccupied on the opposite side of the road handing a ticket to another driver. And I wasn't drunk. Ok, I was.

See you on the roadways.

2007-02-02T13:28:00.000-05:00

Today marks year 12 that Heather and I have been together.

Thanks for all the great times, kind words, and support. And for being you.

I love you, pal.

me

Light Brite Will Destroy Us All

2007-02-01T09:44:00.000-05:00

Well, thanks to six years of fear mongoring and excessive use of the now meaningless word "terrorism", Lil W finally got to the otherwise intellectually superior people of Boston and made them retarded.

Yesterday, much of the city, and the tail end of my commute to work, were brought to a screeching halt. Literally. Why? Because a Mass Bay Transit Authority worker (read some fat, dumb-fuck, Dunkin Dognuts coffee-drinking, house coat-wearing, subhuman ball fuck) just happened to pull her tear-filled eyes away from the full spread of TomKat's unholy offspring in her Inquirer to look up and see this:

Minutes later, the Orange Line was shut down, traffic came to a halt, and the bomb squad appeared and "blew the object apart with a water cannon".

What the fuck. Look at this silly thing. Seriously. We've actually come face to face with the Reaper, and it's a fucking Light Brite image of space invaders?

We should all heed it's advice and go fuck ourselves.

Today's Buggery

2007-01-29T13:23:00.000-05:00

I'm on lunch waiting to hear how Heather's first day is going, so I figured I'd make a quick tour through the blogosphere.

As usual, I started here to get the news of the day. He's got a rather nice post about why escalators should swallow children (or at least suburbanite children who resemble pigs). I left him a nice comment as did my pal from StinkWeasel Stories (of course, I cruised over to her blog to see the what what; I don't reallly know what that means, but MC Search said it on White Rapper, so I figured I'd go along). I was happy to read that she still hates the fucking stupid people.

I went back to alphablog to see whether he'd (or she'd, due to the animated turtle, we're still waiting on confirmation of gender) replied to a comment I made yesterday. Sadly, s/he had not. But this smart boy did. So, I popped over to his place only to learn that he's got to switch dissertation topics, becuase the board denied him. That's sad. I recognize that he likely put in long hours on the project, so I left some words of encouragement for him. Then I noticed that the trailor trash cowboy junky also left him some words of encouragement. I couldn't resist ripping on him a bit. Ha ha. I mean seriously, he offered educational career advice to this poor fella, but at his own blog makes posts like "Phuk Skul". That's so awesome. I can't wait to drink Old Milwakee Lights in the parking lot before a Judas Priest show with that silly hick.

Then I took a breath and checked out the list. My favorite search terms this time: it's a tie. I love "Recent Pictures of Joey Lawrence Shirtless", but how could I not also love "Celebration Peeing Movie List".

During the last stretch, I went here . He's got a funny bit about a child nearly peeing in a closet and definitely falling down some stairs (I love when kids fall; actually I love when anyone falls. Want to see me pee my pants: have a fall). I'm beginning to think he's a rather sick bastard: I said that in a what I think is a rather funny comment here; incidentally (you all know how much I love and misuse that word all over the place), for the fans of the Bunny, she may be blogging again. I like to think I had something to do with that. Here's a response she made to one of my comments at her place, "You almost make me wish I still blogged". That was nearly a month ago. She's made several posts since. Hmmm. Also during that stretch, I checked out the first of three blondes I now sort of don't really know (no updates, awww). Then, I hit the second of three blondes I now sort of don't really know: she's still rockin that creepy half bacterium / half dildo pic. Sexxxy. And then, I surfed over to the third blonde I now sort of don't really know (she's a scosh filthy, but well worth reading---trust her, she's a blonde).

Finally, I checked out the deltahouse to see what ole flounder is up to. Nothing: I hope he didn't actually freeze.

Overall, I rate this trip through the sphere a four: it had a good beat, but I couldn't dance to it.

2007-01-28T18:07:00.000-05:00

Heather (that's her) starts her new job tomorrow. She's finally leaving the legal field and the bottom feeding fuckball lawyers behind. She'll still be managing a technical support group. This time, though, it's for an educational publishing company.

She's very excited to have this opportunity to work with people who actually make a difference in the lives of others via the educational tools they provide. Heather is, after all, a career student at heart.

As is usually the case when starting something new and different, she's got some jitters. But I know she'll be fine. And she'll do great.

Here's looking at you, kid.

Lord F

Making Things. Or Not Making Things. With My Hands.

2007-01-28T11:44:00.000-05:00

Earlier today, after being impressed by an instructional pottery making video, I left a comment noting that I've never made anything with my hands. I was at the time also thinking about snow. Then I was surfing the blogosphere for much too long. And I ended up here.

I borrowed this. It's silly. It's got almost nothing to do with snow. It repeats.

It is now much later. And I'm still slogging through the blogosphere. Here's a recap.

In the mood for current events, I went here, as I recently vowed to only ever get my news there. After that, I randomly ended up here. That may be my new source for news. Exciting.

Then, I went here. He's fairly funny, but apparently too cold to blog today.

I said something rather smarmy, even for me, over here.

I just left this fucking place, but I don't believe there is any truth in the advertising there. I found that guy here---go ahead and kick him in the dick, he deserves it.

At one point, I got up to poo, but was reminded of this guy. He too is a bit funny, so i decided to hold in the poopy and check him out, knowing that I could always chew on some exlax later if need be. That was amusing, but fairly uneventful. I might be envious of the number of readers he has. But, I might not be.

Anyhoo, I still think this guy is a retarded hick, but I cruised on over to what he refers to as the best blog ever (more false advertising) to see if he'd responded to some comments I (spelled Not You) made. He hadn't but this gay cowboy did. I felt compelled to leave a friendly retort (read hiya sweety, go fuck yourself. hard), only to discover that the host chickened out and enabled comment moderation. Oh well.

This guy is definitely pretending to be straight. Still. I think I'm starting to like him, though. Well, not really. But I did check out his blog today. Yawn.

This blogger called me pretentious via a comment he left at trailor trash's place. Actually, he called Not You pretentious. (It's fun to have multiple anonymous personalities.) I liked that, so I left some nice words at his blog. Note: he's got a silly little animated turtle on his blog, which means that he might in fact be a 14 year-old girl. Tee-hee.

I left far too many comments at ole frosting face's place. I did the same thing here and here. I'm not apologizing. But I am logging off for a bit.

So, what did I learn from wasting nearly the whole day online (again)? Not much. I did, however, learn that I am super fucking pissed off at some fellow bloggers. Listen, fucksticks, update your fucking profiles, so we who troll the comment fields of blogs we frequent in search of new, fun blogs to check out don't have to keep clicking on links that land us at your shitty old blog (plus or minus your whining about the free blog service you used to use becuase it now finally sucks too much for your apparently amazingly technosplendorous ass), only to have to click another link to be redirected to your new and improved, yet still shitty, albeit located elsewhere, blog. Fuck you.

Alas, I'm still not making anything with my hands. But I will be later. I promise. Heather and I will be making some beef stew. It's nice to have a steaming bowl of comfort food on a cold day. Well, it's comforting to look down into a bowl of what essentially is a steaming pile of shit and potatoes. Or eventually will become such a pile.

Hugs and mittens,

Lord F

Today's Creature Double Feature: MySpace Meets the Blogosphere

2007-01-27T21:22:00.000-05:00

Just to dispell any rumors, I heart dog shows.

Action Figures or Afghans

2007-01-27T19:23:00.000-05:00

Here's a comment I left over at bunny's place a while back when asked what Han Solo did with all the hair that damn wookie must have shed. I thought this was rather funny, so I e-mailed it to a friend: he said, "lose my e-mail address". I love that.

han-made afghans. a pun even.

han, you see, was an expert knitter, having been trained by the ewoks to knit entire king-sized afghans in less than 10 parsecs (incidentally, this is more than 2 parsecs faster than the millenium falcon made the castle run---and i'm sure his knitting would far out run any imperial starship; my guess, though, is that he'd still abandon any smuggled cargo if boarded).

there is this little-known fact: the "empire" the rebels feared was in fact han's own knitting empire, making han a puppet master of sorts. he would ultimately control the universe (vader was a mere puppet, han was truly the emperor) and reep the rewards (getting gold from the rebels and getting one hell of a face lift from the imperials).

with this new information brought to light, one can not dismiss the truth. fact: afghans require wool. fact: wookies shed. heavily. and their fur is easily spun into wool. one wookie sheds enough wool in a month to produce enough afghans for the entire star wars universe (plus or minus any outsider who might pop into the cantina to watch obi wan lightsaber someone's arm off). fact: it is cold in space and on most of the planets in the star wars universe. thus, all beings in the star wars universe would require an afghan at some point. to keep warm.

han, realizing this, quietly stockpiled his afghans until he had enough for every known being in the star wars universe (he had sneaked into the jedii temple and read the tapes of all known planets and beings, yoda didn't see him do so; yoda was likely sensing some other disturbance in his force at the time, the dirty little green fucker.). as soon as han knew he had enough afghans, he caused a bit of disruption in the senate. the cost of oil increased, there was a fake war in iraq, etc. he even had the death star built as a distraction, knowing that one day he'd blow it up as a diversion.

another fact: han didn't believe in the force. he had a trusty blaster at his side. at all times. and he wasn't afraid to use it (poor, poor greedo).

thus, while the rebels were preoccupied with destroying the evil empire and luke was getting in touch with himself via the force (and one rather dirty old brit), han took down the entire system, one afghan at a time. laughing all the way to the intergallactic bank.

yours in blankets,

han solo's wookie's aunt's sister

2007-01-26T23:23:00.000-05:00

If I wasn't trolling MySpace for young Asian lady boys just now, I wouldn't have noticed this:

2007-01-26T12:39:00.000-05:00

Heather and I are getting married. In June. It should be fun. We've dated/lived together for 12 years now. I still think she's great. Here's just a small example why.

This morning she went to Starbucks to get a coffee. She e-mailed me the following when she got home:

Ok, I've had it with paying $4.00 for sucky Starbucks...I won't even get into the fact that it was packed with all the fuckers who don't work. So, the person that took my order wrote the correct drink on the cup, however, that still didn't stop the new girl (fatty with dark curly hair) from fucking it up and then getting pissed when she called out the drink to see what it actually was. She had a strange screwed up look on her face and actually got pissy about it. I thought they were supposed to look at the cup BEFORE making the drink? So, she remakes my drink, and I leave, get in the car and why should I be surprised to find that it is literally a cup of milk with barely any chai in it at all. Thanks for the suck-ass piece-of-shit drink. I didn't ask for a no Chai, no water, no foam glass of milk, bitch! I essentially just paid $4.00 for a cup of milk?? Fuck them.

I hope you are having a good day so far.

I love her.

2007-01-23T11:37:00.000-05:00

I just read the publisher's description of Timothy Findley's "Pilgrim" on the book's dust jacket. "Fiercely original" they wrote.

I'd like to be called that.

Perhaps I'll use it during my next job interview when asked how others would describe me. "Oh, my colleagues would say that I'm fiercely original, that I have a unique and creative approach to my work as the assembly line guy responsible for hand inspecting twinkies for flaws."

Alas, I'll settle for dull. And when asked where I see myself in five years, I'll say "in the lunch room on my 15-minute break, drinking the free coffee".

The Ongoing Definitive List of Reasons Why I am Retarded

2007-01-20T15:10:00.000-05:00

Today I know that I am retarded because:

1. I have been surfing the web almost continuously since just after 700 AM yesterday, and I do not intend to log off any time soon.

2. I am currently eating a frozen pizza and drinking coke (from a can). I did the same thing for dinner last night.

3. I am debating whether or not to work Star Wars into every comment I leave on other blogs from this point forward.

4. Coldplay is on the radio as I am typing this, and I am much too lazy to go into the other room and change the channel. (Clarification: I fucking hate Coldplay and hope that Gwyneth Paltrow gave them all anal herpes, either directly or indirectly. Incidentally, I had to google Ms. Paltrow to get the proper spelling of her name.)

5. I have a blog and actually keep it updated.

6. I am 33 years-old and have a MySpace account. And I keep it updated. In fact, I'm going to change the song on my MySpace player when I finish this post.

Update as of 23 January 2007:

7. I won't let coworkers touch me (as in hand shakes you dirty bastards), but I'll lay on the filthy floor.

Update as of 24 January 2007:

8. I can't tie my shoes without making two little loops with the laces (you know, they way we tied our shoes when we were 3). Consequently, I have to make double knots.

Armistead Fondleberries' Tales of a City that Never Existed - The Slick Ricks

2007-01-19T13:21:00.000-05:00

I've recently been e-mailing back and forth with a former college roommate.

Trevor and I haven't talked to each other for many years (the internet isn't just for porn anymore: that's right, baby, get your stalk on). We both have grown up (somewhat) and have had some interesting experiences during the hiatus. That's nice.

In one of my e-mails, I mentioned that I remembered once wearing a sweater of his and bursting into flames. Literally.

At the time, we both were known for using a bit of hairspray (he tells me now that some of the people we hung out with secretly referred to us as the slick Ricks. I don't know whether to accept this as a nod to our incredible rockabilly style, or to search out those friends and wish them a happy go fuck yourself. For the record, some of these friends were Wolf, Masturbation Dave, Lank, and Barefoot Dave---the latter name given to avoid any confusion among the Daves).

As the story goes, I had borrowed one of Trevor's sweaters for some reason or another before we headed out to a nearby pond to smoke with the very same friends. Standing in the requisite circle, we passed around the old peace pipe until the supply was gone. And we were gone. While in my spot, I held a lighter by my side, flicking it. On. Off. On. And poof. I burst into flames.

The next thing I knew, I had hit the dirt. Hard. Apparently the other slick Rick had tackled me to put out the fire. And save the sweater. It was a great sweater, albeit comprised almost entirely of hairspray.

It turns out that Trevor remembered the day I caught fire. He provided this detail: the sweater belonged to his friend Heather.

A Bit More Buggery

2007-01-17T14:30:00.000-05:00

I read the post "Lock up Your Eyeballs" over at The Pissed Kitty Cometh today and was inspired by the Pisser's challenge to locate the vagina. Old Pisser was kind enough to provide a link. So, I checked it out, then left the following as a comment to this post.

Hey Pisser. I lost my vagina a few years back in a tragic accident at the National Zoo. I was happy to see your link to locating it, so I figured I'd check it out and look for clues. Here's what I learned.

I've been trying to get preggers for some time now. Sadly, though, I must report that after a blissfull two days of amenorrhea (the absence, discontinuation, or abnormal stoppage of the menstrual period), I realized, thanks to taking those Flomax tablets (wait, I don't have a prostate), I've got a bout (or is it a drought?) of anovulation (the term for the absence of ovulation).

Well, here's to one more try. As self-correction is always an issue with me, I think I'll avoid artificial insemination (the placement of a sperm sample inside the female reproductive tract to increase the chances of fertilization and pregnancy), grab me a man whore, and revert to taking my basal body temperature (the body temperature taken at its lowest point of the day, typically in the morning before getting out of bed) and attempt the basal body temperature method (a method of predicting the time of ovulation by taking daily recordings of basal body temperature and charting the results). If I hope and pray, this may help me correct problems 1 and 2 above and prognosticate my egg-ready moment.

Day 12. Huzzah! It's mere moments later and I can totally feel a blastocyst (the mass of cells that form after several days of cell division by the fertilized egg) forming inside me. But shit, what the hell is that? Damn this breakthrough bleeding (bleeding that occurs between periods and is usually heavier than spotting); I thought this time I was properly knocked up. A moment please: I must away to discussion with my cervix (the opening to the uterus)---or at least to hammer the hell out of it with my trusty old vibratator (is that like a tator tot? but I digress).

Day 13. After that therapeutic moment *sigh*, I think I'll ask my OBGYN for some clomiphene citrate (a commonly prescribed drug used to stimulate ovulation). I'm sure that in a couple of weeks, she'll ask for a look at my corpus luteum (the mass of cells that form once the egg has been released from the ovary. [Incidentally, the corpus luteum produces progesterone---am I deficient there as well?]), to make sure I'm not faking it just for the drugs. I'm sure to deny this request as shoving an electron microscope in me after the pounding I took from that vibratator (tot) would not be pretty.

Day 29. I believe I've developed a cyst (a growth or mass filled with fluid or soft material. Ovarian cysts can cause difficulties with ovulation). Damn. Perhaps I'll rush to hospital for some dilation and curettage (a medical procedure where the cervix is manually dilated by a physician and a sample of the uterine lining is taken). I hope this isn't premature. But I've been dropped to my knees for the pain. Perhaps it's dysmenorrhea (difficult and painful menstruation), or I've got an ectopic pregnancy (also known as a tubal pregnancy, an ectopic pregnancy is the term used when the pregnancy occurs outside of the uterus, usually in the fallopian tubes). Better check on the old embryo (the term for the baby from the point of conception through the 8th week of pregnancy), where the hell did I shove that electron microscope? There it is. Oh, and apparently so also is a bit of endometriosis (a condition where the uterine mucous membrane (the endometrium) or other similar tissue grows in areas other than the uterus. This can affect the ovaries, fallopian tubes or abdominal cavity).

Day 67. Is it time for my routine check for estrogen (sex hormones produced by the ovaries. A rise in estradiol (E3G) is indicated by high Fertility on the clearblue easy fertility monitor---wow, product placement even).

Up the proverbial river and past the fallopian tubes (the paired tubes which connect the ovaries to the uterus and conduct the egg to the uterus. The fallopian tubes are where fertilization most often occurs), to gradmother's house we go. Don't trip over the fetus (the term for the baby from the beginning of the 9th week of pregnancy to the time of birth) or it's stem cell research for everyone. Yay! Wait, it's been nine whole weeks and no fibroids (benign tumors in or around the uterus that sometimes can cause miscarriages); but Jesus these hemroids are killing me. Hey look: follicles (the group of cells surrounding the egg in the ovary)---am I regressing through this pregnancy? Stupid alphabetical order. Hmmm, looks a bit damaged, better spray some follicle stimulating hormone (follicle stimulating hormone stimulates the development of ovarian follicles (eggs)) and spark the follicular phase (the beginning phase of the menstrual cycle during which the egg is ripening for ovulation). Apparently i've got several additional pieces to my feminine quarters making this all possible. Or impossible, whichever comes first.

Back along the fallopian highway, is that some human chorionic gonadotropin, or "hCG" (the hormone that is produced by the placenta. hCG is the hormone detected by pregnancy tests) on the side of the road there? better whip out my trusty XXXXXXXXpregnancy testXXXXXXXXX. Oh no, you may want to avert your eyes to this one: it's a gamete intrafallopian tube transferm, or "GIFT" (a surgical procedure in which a sperm-egg mixture is transferred into the fallopian tubes where natural fertilization may occur) gone wrong. Guess I was wrong above and went artificial after all. And I'm potentially suffering from infertility (a couple is considered infertile after having regular unprotected sex for one year and not having conceived or carried a pregnancy to term), although I haven't had any sex for the last 10 years.

Day 93. I've lost another one. But I must continue. Now my OBGYN wants me to try intrauterine insemination (a method of introducing a quantity of washed sperm directly into the uterus via a catheter to enhance the chances of fertilization. The purpose of IUI is to increase the number of sperm that reach the fallopian tubes and thus increase the chance of fertilization occurring), but I told her I'd rather try in vitro fertilization (a method of artificial insemination where both the egg and sperm are retrieved and fertilization takes place outside the body in the laboratory). She tells me that I have to wait until I've reached the luteal phase of my cycle (the third part of the menstrual cycle, immediately following ovulation until the next period, when progesterone is released by the corpus luteum) and take some supplemental luteinizing hormone (a hormone that triggers ovulation and is produced by the pituitary gland. A surge in LH is indicated as Peak Fertility on the Clearblue Easy Fertility Monitor and is when your chances of conceiving are at their highest) to increase my chances.

Later that day, I began suffering from menorrhagia (heavy, prolonged menstrual bleeding), so I poked around the old oviduct (another word for fallopian tube), looking to see whether I had begun ovulation (the release of an egg [or ovum, in latin] from one of the ovaries). I'm sorry, but I'm really becomming tired of all this and I think I might have developed polycystic ovarian syndrome (a condition where multiple cysts form on the ovaries. This may cause infertility) somewhere along this long line. But it could just be premenstrual syndrome, or "PMS" (a combination of both physical and psychological symptoms occurring before the menstrual period).

Either way, it sucks, and I'm down right angry about my current levels of progesterone (the female sex hormone, produced in the corpus luteum, that creates a nourishing environment in the uterine lining after ovulation). Perhaps I'll make an appointment with a reproductive endocrinologist (a physician who specializes in fertility-related issues), tell him that I can't stop spotting (a slight discharge of blood via the vagina), that I long for ice cream and testes (the male sex glands that produce sperm), and that my proverbial tubes are tied but I really don't want any kind of tubal ligation (a surgical procedure that involves ligation (closure) of the fallopian tubes to prevent an unfertilized egg from reaching the uterus [the location where the baby grows during pregnancy. The uterus is also called the womb]). I'm sure he's really only interested in the location of my vagina (the female organ of sexual intercourse and also the birth canal) though.

The last day. Looks like it's curtains for me. I guess I'm simply stuck admitting that I never really had a functional zona pellucida (the protective coating around the egg and early embryo), nor any shot at producing a healthy zygote (The term for a fertilized egg prior to it being an embryo), so I won't even bother with zygote intra-fallopian transfer, or "ZIFT" (the placement of fertilized eggs that have not yet begun cell division into the fallopian tube), and throw in the towel.

Incidentally, where is the penis in all of this?

It's a Small World after all

2007-01-16T17:29:00.000-05:00

I'm pretty sure I overheard the following conversation today.

Little girl: "Mommy, our grass looks long. Should Daddy cut it?"

Mommy: "Don't be silly, honey, god created the brown people to cut the lawn."

Little girl: "I thought the brown people were created to clean the house."

Mommy: "No, honey, the Russians were created to clean the house."

But it might be all in my head.

I Own You

2007-01-16T12:27:00.000-05:00

I'm trademarking the following phrases, in the order of importance to and use by me:

"I fucking hate you"

"Argyle is the new black"

"Hugs and mittens"

"Looks like (or sounds like) someone woke up on the wrong side of 'I'm an asshole' this morning"

If I see any of these "out there", I'll be expecting my royalty check.

Update (as of 319 PM EST---thanks bunny):

"Dude! You're Gay!" (exclamation points required. If I see "Dude, you're gay", I'll let it slide, as there simply is no pizazz without punctuation.)

Blogtarded

2007-01-14T11:35:00.000-05:00

I realized this morning that it's time for me to stop ignoring the fact that I'm about as smart as a retarded hamster.

This a-ha moment didn't occur after I got shocked trying to remove my English muffin from the toaster with a fork. Or, after I rather pissed-offedly said why the fuck is my birthday going to be on November 23rd again. Rather, this realization occurred when I signed up on Blogroll and tried to publish a link list on my Blog.

Apparently my Blog is so cool that I'm making new fake internet friends almost daily. Yay me! I've been reading their Blogs and posting comments, and they've been reading mine and also leaving comments. It's fun. It's exciting. It must be that whole internet revolution thing that I saw an add on the tv for.

In reviewing my fellow Blogger's sites, I noticed that many of them have a link to something called "Blogroll" either above or below their lists of links. I figured I'd check this out and see if it could help me manage my now expanding link list.

I surfed on over to Blogroll and signed up for an account (it's free, otherwise my half-Jewishness would have prevented me from signing up). I then filled in the required information, including adding links to and names of the Blogs I want to appear in my link list. I followed the steps to get the code to embed in my Blog the soon-to-be-Blogroll-managed list. And poof. Not a fucking thing. Except a lone link to fucking Blogroll. It's right over there ---->

Now, I'm not the typical guy who refuses to ask for directions when I'm hopelessly lost. In fact, I've been known to break down and cry when I can't figure out where I am or how the hell I got there. Accordingly, I read Blogroll's user support documentation. Then I started to drool. Uncontrollably. I can't within my retarded little brain fire the synapses that equate to how in the fuck to get this service to manage my link list.

So, if out of the corner of your eye you see me jumping up and down in a circle while pounding my chest and drooling, please stop by and tell me how to use Blogroll. Or at least get me a helmet.

Author's note: Please, if you're one of the myriad people I called a moron over the years, do not take this to be any form apology: I still fucking hate you.

To New Fake Internet Friends

2007-01-11T06:50:00.000-05:00

It seems that a bit of Blogger on Blogger crime I committed has resulted in a new fake internet friend. The English language-challenged guy who refers to himself as "The Governor" over at "A Guy and His Blog" has made a little post just for me: how sweet.

Cheers, my new fake friend. I'll see you soon.

Author's note: My sack was conveniently on a shelf at home the night I found this guy's Blog and left my first comment under the nom de plume "not you". I thought it was funny: it has stuck. Perhaps I'll one day reveal my true self to The Governor. Until then, my cowl is firmly in place.

IMPEACH THE FUCKER

2007-01-10T22:05:00.000-05:00

In case you do not understand the request of this post, perhaps you should send a member of your own family to Iraq to contribute to the success of the mission (how rediculously midevil). Preferably this family member is 18 years-old and emotionally naive, or (like my father) is a 57 year-old, frail, career army grunt who recently returned home from this "war on terrorism" and ran like bloody hell to retire from the military before he was back-door drafted, again, into the war. Better yet, let's send the junior Bush's alcoholic, fuck-pig daughters---Like, oh my god, I'm so, like, killing towel heads; come on, let's do blow off their asses. Yeah! Daddy would be sooooooooo proud!

What is the purpose of sending "Coalition of the Willing" (are you fucking kidding me!) folks to Iraq: to kill the evil Iraqi terrorists (read those who control the oil we so desparately need to ensure that greenhouse gasses bring about the end of the world---if this cunt of a president doesn't actually do it first). And/or be killed by said terrorists.

Wait, weren't the so-called September-the-eleventh-two-thousand-and-one terrorists from Afghanistan? And, isn't Iraq geographically if not politcally and religiously fundamentally fucking different from Afghanistan (not to mention factioned among itself politcally and religiously---ergo the current civil war)? Moreoever, what the fuck does America have against Saddam Hussein (shit, I love names that have double consonants), except that Bush I made a failed attempt to capture and kill him for political, if not monetary reasons? Well, he was an evil dictator who treated his own people terribly and also personally profitted from controlling at least two thirds of the world's precious oil supply. But, so are the male members of the Bush family (without the controlling the oil bit---yet).

Our so-called freedom of speech doesn't even begin to cover the language required to describe the lunatic who's driving this pathetic shell of a country further into that "Hell" his pseudo-Christian, neo-conservative ass is so afraid of.

A friend recently wrote, "If you voted for him in 2000, you are a fucking fool. If you voted for him in 2004, you are a fucking criminal." I would add that to impeach the junior Bush is the consitutional right and just action of our elected officials; to not is a crime and is cowardly.

So I beg of you, let's band together and remove this vial filth from office before he kills people within the confines of our country---oh, but he's already done that; damn. Anyhoo, let's get this criminal and his cronies out of office. NOW.

A Bit of Buggery

2007-01-06T20:19:00.000-05:00

In keeping with the tradition of establishing new year's resolutions, I've decided that mine this year will be to spend as much time as physically possible surfing the web reading and commenting on other people's blogs.

From time to time, I'll excerpt choice bits of found material to share with you, dear reader. I sincerely hope to find some great and inspired thoughts, but will not be surprised to find a bunch of crap---and I hope to hell there are pictures to support that crap.

Here's fair warning fellow blogger: I will be at your blog reading and leaving comments about the shit that's been sloshing around in your head so long that you found it important enough to share with random assholes like me who've managed to trip over your blog while wasting time online. Who knows, perhaps when you awake in the morning and sit down with your coffee to bask in the glow of adda boy comments the casual reader's made, you'll find I've left you a steaming pile of shit.

See you in the internet.

p.s. Blogging, by nature, is an interactive experience; therefore, please feel free to upload some of the choice bits of material you've found and perhaps commented on. You may either post a comment here or e-mail your text to me (see address under my complete profile) and I'll post it under separate cover. I also look forward to people ripping on my blog: don't be shy.

Happy New Year

2007-01-03T18:16:00.001-05:00

Well another new year has arrived and I've got a cold. Again.

This marks 4 straight years that I've been sick on New Year's Eve. While the world was out celebrating and making champagne toasts, I was stuck on the couch blowing snot, hacking up a lung, watching the Twilight Zone marathon. I did manage a Nyquil toast, though, to next year's cold.

So Happy New Year. And pass the tissues. I'm going to sleep.

It's Review Time

2006-12-28T17:29:00.000-05:00

Along with holiday parties, Santa Claus, and that festive increase in drunk driving accidents, the end of the year brings about performance review time. This is the most special time of year when you get to make a self-assessment of all the work you've done. You'll e-mail your boss a completed standard corporate review form, all happy with yourself about the amount of work you've completed and how you're single-handedly responsible for the firm's success. The boss will in turn review your summary, make you change the language to third person so he can copy and paste your summary into a standard corporate form, and e-mail the form to HR. Then he'll reward you by not giving you a bonus or a raise. Yay you!

I hate this process. So this year I'm writing short reviews of a couple of films I recently watched as well as a short bit about why I hate Blondie.

Talladega Nights (The Ballad of Ricky Bobby)

A now former friend of mine recommended that I see this film. There went two hours I'm never getting back.

The ballad of Ricky Bobby is a shit heap of bad writing, bad acting, and Applebees. With retard strength. But what did I expect?

I believe this film was meant to demonstrate that growing up white in the south and having a dead-beat drunk for a father and a waitress for a mother will lead to a successful life as a race car driver.

Firstly, films should never be made about NASCAR, for driving in circles at 200 miles per hour is not a sport, it's stupid. Wait, how the hell did driving a car become a profession? Secondly, I'm sick and fucking tired of Will Ferrell yelling and screaming nonsensical crap while running naked through the streets or running in his(?) underwear through the streets or running in clothing through the streets. Just once, I'd love to see a dump truck filled with steaming shit mow him down. I'd personally like to punch Lorne Michaels in the taint for spewing Will Ferrell into the film world.

In the end, I believe this film did make me grow as a person, as I can finally say with confidence that I hate Will Fucking Ferrell.

Clerks II

Yay! Two more hours I'm never getting back.

After 12 years of waiting for Kevin Smith to make another good film---"Dogma" was good until Alanis Morrissette appeared on screen (if I were God, I'd be super fucking pissed off to have been played by that wretched hole)---I was happy to see that he returned to his roots and revisited the cult classic "Clerks". This time, however, Senor Smith has managed to nail the un firmly into funny.

With Clerks II, Kevin Smith has made dear sweet Dante and his charming pissant of a side kick Randal get all growds up. In doing so, he's turned his attention far away from providing the great one-liners and exploitations of slackerdom that comprised the original film, and has pooped out updated shells (albethem fatter shells) of these legendary characters (oh, and nice dye job on the old hair and goatee, guy who plays Dante). Seriously, we're expected to believe that Dante would ever leave Jersey, that Randal would cry, that Jay would choose sobriety? Fuck you.

How Smith has managed to replace the hilarity of sucking dicks (all 37 of them in a row) on the way to the parking lot from 12 years ago with tritely pitting the [Star Wars] trilogy against the Lord of the Rings trilogy now is beyond me. He even managed to misspell Moobies---it's like boobies ass head, except on men (man + boobies = moobies). Jesus. Quite simply, watching this film was like watching a chick blow a donkey. Not that I've ever seen such things. I'm just saying is all.

I did learn something, however: dance routines make great substitutes for lack of script.

So Kevin, if you're reading this, please fold up the star wars lawn chairs and take your hot-ass 8-foot-tall wife and action figure collection back into the oblivion of the South Jersey shore where you belong. And PLEASE STOP MAKING FILMS.

I Hate You, Blondie

Yesterday a Blondie song came on the radio and while I was listening it occurred to me that Blondie is perhaps the biggest farce of the punk rock scene. Take as evidence the following:

1. Heart of Glass. Donna Summer, is that you? This is possibly the biggest disco hit ever produced by a band with actual guitars, next to Kiss' "I Was Made for Loving You". I understand that drugs can cloud a musician's feeble brain, but why a band would choose to go from deserving to play the dingy basement of hell that is CBGB to wanting to play for the A list douche pickles at Studio 54 is a mystery for the ages (I'll blame it on Desperately Seeking Susan). By this point of her career, Debby had traded in more than her soul, she abandoned her ripped Rock and Roll jeans and Chuck Taylors for flowing polyester. If I had to bet, though, I'd say that the jeans were Versace and the Chuck Taylors were diamond crusted.

2. Rapture. What the fuck. I'd love to have been a fly on the heroin spoon for that band decision. Perhaps it went something like, "Well, Deb, disco is gone and we don't have any more rock cred, should we call it quits?. No way, guys, I made this new friend, Fab Flav Friday or something, and he says rap's where it's at, look, I did it too, I rapped. The man from mars, and chocolate bars, he eats guitars, and yeah. I smell hit." You smelled something alright: shit.

3. The Tide is High. The fake blonde is high. Seriously, ripping off Musical Youth? How dare you.

Need further proof, head on over to Blondie's fabulously updated web site and check out the photo of Debby (if you look closely, you just might see her mini van in the background).

Hi (insert name here)! Is This a Good Time to Chat about an Exciting New Career Opportunity!

2006-12-27T11:42:00.000-05:00

At least three to four times a week while I'm at work, sitting in my very public cube that just happens to be outside my boss's office, I get a phone call from some Job Recruiter. The phone call always begins the same way, as though some classified bit of government information is about to be revealed to me---and only me in true James Bond fashion. The caller whispers, "Hi. Scott? Is this a good time to chat?"

Now I only have a few friends, and this voice doesn't belong to any of them, so I'm intrigued by the mysterious message that is sure to follow. I'm thinking that I'll be given the details of when the president will be assassinated, or that Jesus is back to save us all and he'll be contacting me via carefully placed messages in the SuperCoups envelopes that come with the Stop and Shop circulars. But this isn't the case.

Instead, some bubble-headed retard of a Recruiter wants to talk me into taking a new job that is completely unrelated to any of the skill sets I have.

"I see you've been writing for Drugs R Us for a couple of years now," the Recruiter says, "are things good there?"

"Yes," I say, "things are quite good and I never want to leave. It's the bestest place in the whole world, next to unicorn land, of course."

"Well," they continue, "I've got a great opportunity that I think fits your skills perfectly. I can't tell you the name of the company or where they're located, but I just know this position would be G R E A T for you. Do you think you'd be interested?"

On the other end of the line, I'm wondering whether this is an intentional pause or if the Recruiter actually believes that I'll say yes and instantly take this fabulously vague new job. I'll bite. "Sure," I say, "tell me about it."

"Great! You'll be selling shoe leather proofing products. Actually, wait a minute---tee hee---I'm seeing now in the description the company gave me that it's a more specialized position. You'll be selling leather proofing products for men's sandles."

Apparently I'm a great fit for this job, because I've listed on my resume that I was a Proof Reader at one point.

How does one get the illustrious job of Recruiter. Perhaps you are an individual who is highly skilled in the areas of employment and employee relations who wants to lend your knowledge and professional network to those who are looking for career advancement via a new job at a new firm, or to lend a helping hand to those who are starting out in the professional world or who are currently between jobs.

Alas, you are not such charitable, benevolent beings. You are, in fact, quite the opposite.

After years of dealing with these evil fuckers, I now understand that to be a Recrutier, one must possess certain traits, which I have boiled down to the following four simple points (in the event a Recruiter is reading this---see #3 below):

1. I am a sucubus (I enjoy sucking the life out of people in mere moments).

2. I have an annoyingly bubbly personality and L O V E chatting all about you, even though I know nothing about you (tee hee).

3. I am impressively unable to gather or synthesize relevant information (or any information for that matter---tee hee).

4. Every breath I take should be considered Grand Larceny as I am stealing valuable oxygen.

If any of these apply to you, I suggest that you immediately give up your current career aspirations and become a Recruiter.

There. I said it. Now stop cold-calling me about all those exciting, new, non-existent job opportunities in the fast-paced, deadline-driven (but laid back) environments of up-and-coming companies that do not exist. And drop dead. Until, of course, I need you to find me a new job because my boss has shit canned me for talking on the phone with you idiots.

Author's note: No offense to my friend Helen who is a fabulous in-house recruiter.

Here's to You M. Dali

2006-12-25T23:17:00.000-05:00

Well, as the year draws to a close, it's time to say ciao and wish well to Jamie and Jen who will make their ways to starting anew in sunny North Carolina in a few short days.

Although it's a somewhat sad moment, it is also a moment filled with hope for a prosperous future. In the words of someone else, "through the years we all will be together, if the fates allow". We'll see you soon kids.

Love,

Han Solo

Best Gift Ever!

2006-12-25T11:00:00.000-05:00

Merry Christmas from my flaming poo hole.

Jingle Bells Suck

2006-12-25T08:34:00.000-05:00

I've never been to the 9th plane of Hell, but I imagine it's very much like waking up naked next to this guy. Or spending Christmas Eve (or any hoilday for that matter) with my family.

The fan of this blog knows well that I'm a happless holiday sprite who wanders aimlessly spreading cheer (and that redness on my bottom lip) from season to season, nostalgic for the shiny red trucks and tinker toys of Christmases past---Christmases that I'm beginning to think existed only on TV. For it is the spreading of things that brings warmth and joy to the hearts of all. Obviously my family didn't get the memo.

This Christmas Eve, Heather and I steered the old german-engineered Volkswagen sled toward the quiet suburban home of my Aunt and Uncle for wine, snacks, and sweets. We were greeted with the usual hugs, kisses, and handshakes, then made our way into the family room to greet the rest of the family who'd arrived on time---circa 7 pm. On time is a key point. In my family, time is relative, where the time my family will arrive is equal to their opinion of the relative who invited them (plus or minus one day and no phone call) times the number of drinks they've consumed the day of the event (occasionally the number of drinks value is squared to account for nappy time taken to sleep off the morning drunk).

We were all accounted for except Mom and Dad. Dad was to join the party straight from work, where he'd be until at least 7 pm, so we knew to expect him a bit late. Mom, however, was exercizing her trademarked running late routine. At exactly 701 pm, Mom had put in the phone call to let folks know that she was finally ready to get ready to leave her house (which is 45 minutes away).

Eventually (somewhere after 8 pm) we'd all (finally) arrived and were enjoying glasses of wine (except Mom who'd apparently given up saucing in public for lent and Dad who'd been "sipping" martinis since he arrived) and making the requisite jokes at each other's expense, when what to my wandering eye did appear, why there went Dad and my brother out to the kitchen then outside to have a quaint fight. I lept from my chair to throw open the sash, only to see my brother speed away in a flash. Hub-bubs and hurumphs people's chatter produced, and into the kitchen Mom and I went to deduce. Ehem, too much cheer.

In the kitchen stood dear-old Dad with a familiar what-the-fudge look in his eye. Martini in hand and mubling Ho-Ho-Oh-Fuck the holidays, he steered us away from the dust cloud that was all that remained of my brother and back into the family room to get the merry over with. I lingered for a bit staring off into the black night. Fare the well, oh brother, I thought. And thanks bunches for leaving the rest of us here.

No one's really sure what transpired in that kitchen or on that front lawn, but several awkward moments and more wine than I've ever seen Heather chug later, we resolved to open gifts. It really is the material things in life that make spending such nights with the family worth the effort. Thanks Macy's!

Overall, I rate this experience as requiring 25 to 30 therapy sessions to resolve. In the mean time, I'll see you on the barroom floor. Bottoms up friends. And merry fucking Christmas.

Silent Night of the Lambs

2006-12-23T19:38:00.000-05:00

Off to the theatre for some theatrics...formal review to follow.

What to say, what to say. Well, for starters, I'm as high as Jesus on the cross after drinking something lovingly referred to as "South Beach Specials". Now, seeing as I'm in Boston, MA, and South Beach is at least 1000 miles away, it must be the sheer power of booze putting that warm feeling of goodness in my tummy. In fact, I'm taking off my tank top right now.

As for the show, this was a delightful, festive romp with the most beautiful women you'd ever seen, albeit they were men in tights, red and green fishnet tights.

The Gold Dust Orphans theatre troup has paraphrased a world in which Santa is a maniacal little kid- and reindeer-killing puff stuffed away in a basement jail cell under the watchfull eye of a sadistic, lesbian-hating Dr. Tennenbaum. Santa, though, with his extensive knowledge of who's been naughty and nice holds the key to solving the case of the notorious "reindeer skinner".

The skinner is revealed to be none other than a deranged Frosty the snowman who's reindeer-slaying ways were ended after a failed attempt to kidnap and kill Filene Penny (daughter of JC Penny).

I learned a few things from this adventure:

* Rudolph's nose is red because he's a drunk

* Martha Stewart is right in that one should not put frosting on fruit cakes

* JC Penny is frightening but beautiful

* I'm signing up for the South Beach Diet

In plain English, this was Fun Fun Fun. Thanks to Dane and Helen for taking me along.

Ok, I'm sleepy. ta ta for now.

Love,

Santascott

Meet the Kitties

2006-12-23T18:33:00.000-05:00

I'm Cleo and I'm a 12 year-old Gemini. I like dancing and making the grumpy face. I also like cat food and dog food and any other kind of food I can wrap my lil pink lips around. I might be old and small, but I'll kick your mothertruckin ass. I'm shown here with a stuffed anmial replica of my old pal Chet; aren't I divine.

Hi, I'm Abigail Princess Buttercup. I'm 3 and I'm a Leo.

Mostly I'm a spaz, but I'm sweet as hell.

Speaking of the Funless Holiday Season

2006-12-23T14:31:00.000-05:00

I hate the holidays. Especially Xmas. I have good reasons. Actually, I have a whole family and 33 years of good reasons to hate the holidays.

I guess it all started when I fell out half Jewish - half Catholic, which, by the way, was long before Chrismakka became a standing tradition of filling faces with gafilta-turkey and drowning out the sounds of family arguments with kosher cabernet. This halfness made attending Catholic schools somewhat difficult; thanks Mom, I love you.

It was the winter of 1972 when my dad (in his loving words) "fell on my mom, consequently producing [me]". Nine long months later (Dad's emphasis) and just in time for Thanksgiving, out I popped. And off popped the top of dear-old Dad's first of many, many bottles of Jack Daniels. A mere 3 and 1/2 years later, the world would be introduced to my kid brother. By then Mr. Daniels had become a bit of a celebrity in our house, with Dad cheering each time he heard the "pop" of the bottle top and the crackle of the ice as the warm, maple-glazed oak barrel-aged goodness poured to the height of three fingers in Dad's personal glass.

Flash-forward a few years, and didn't I look smashing dancing to "Disco Duck" in my brown corduroy bellbottoms, brown velvet butterfly-collared shirt, and sheepskin vest (brown of course). It was a special time. Looking back, I probably should have been riding the short bus.

Ahh to be a kid. Back then, we didn't run full-speed away from the holidays as we do now; there were at the very least presents to keep our immediate attention focused away from the hell of the remaining 364 days of the year. To us kids, holidays were a swell time of getting the family together at our Nana's house to exchange gifts, eat bad food, and watch the older relatives get festively smashed on cheap booze.

The warm feelings of giving and making merry usually wore off by early Christmas afternoon. With wrapping paper strewn about, kids passed out from overexcitement and rug burns, and our parents' eyes growing ever more crossed with each sip, it would be left, invariably, to Nana to kick us all out and send us home. It wasn't until later in life that I learned to appreciate the magnificent skill Dad showcased in his weaving the family's used Ford Granada in and out of on-coming traffic just to get us home safe and sound. Oh, how he loved us all. To this day, I can still hear him lovingly mumbling under his breath as he drove, "please God, kill me now").

Flash forward to the rather awkward years of high school then college. There I am at 16, with a high-top fade and wearing MC Hammer pants and an Africa-shaped medallion around my neck. For those of you who didn't have a "wigger" phase, the high top fade means that my hair was shaved to my scalp on the sides and in the back, but on top, it was moussed and gelled as high as I could possibly get it, which was no small feat for a kid with half-jewish hair; MC Hammer pants were silk pants not unlike those worn by gypsies in films from the 1920s; and the Africa-shaped medallion was an object very awkwardly purchased (for a white kid) at Crystal's shoe store in Boston's Downtown Crossing. More than likely I was rapping the Christmas carols a la Run DMC's "Christmas in Hollis", while dear-old Dad---who had by then upgraded to 6 fingers of Jack---was growing more and more concerned with who my real, black parents could possibly be. Mind you, I grew up no where near the hood, yet felt a unique and strong bond with my black roots. My parents voted for Reagan. Twice. They also voted for Bush I. And Bush II. Twice.

Mere moments later, while at college, I apparently found my true self, a skinny alterna-boy with long dark hair, fingernails painted black, black lipstick, and a touch of rouge on my cheeks. My wardrobe consisted of tight black or blue jeans, t-shirts of some obscure local band, and the requisite cherry z-colored doc martins. Shit I was cool. And man did chicks dig me. According to dear-old Dad (and Jack), however, I had become unbelievably gay.

By this point, Mom (whose passive aggressive traits had heretofore been clouded in my mind by her powerful use of the force) would begin to chime in with wails of how could her good Catholic son be so offensive. And gay.

What a shit storm ensued.

Needless to say, I got coal in my stocking for several years. And I avoided the hell out of my family.

I'm grown up now and have realized the errors of my family's ways. Thanks therapy! Boy what I wouldn't give to have grown up with someone else's family. Sure, I've attempted to re-kindle the feelings of my childhood holidays, but always fall far short. Is it me, I often wonder. Perhaps. But I can't help thinking it's all their fault.

Who really looks forward to making merry with their family anyway? I say pour me three fingers of Jack, Santa, and get the fuck off my porch.