Sunglasses At Night.

I see you over there; you're trying to look cool, and you're failing miserably.

The thing you don't realize buddy, is that although you think you are the shit, you look like a total retard, and I'll tell you why:

Lose the fucking sunglasses. You're indoors, goddamn it, not sunning yourself on the patio.

Sunglasses have a place and time. That place is outdoors - and the time would be anytime you are outdoors. The only exception to wearing sunglasses inside is if you are a player on the World Poker Tour. So unless you can show me a stack of chips and a wad of cash I see no reason for you to be wearing your shades.

Inside.
At Zellers.
By the Kiddie section.
Fucking perv.

Do I sound judgmental?

It's just that your choice of eyewear leaves me with only three options:

• You are a stalker perv, scoping out innocents while looking for low, low prices.
• You are severely handicapped, and thus unable to determine the correct time to remove your $6.95 "Peekers" Sunglasses.
• You are blind.

Since I didn't see a fucking white cane, that only leaves the other two options, and I don't see the Special Olympics logo on any of your clothing so we are just left with the first selection.

Eyes are the windows to the soul; so unless you have no soul, (stalker perv), lose the shades and let the world know what you are looking at.

Later.

Han Solo's Blues.

Why did I let them do this to me?

I could have fought back; but then they would kill Chewie and Leia.
The bitch of it all is that I'm just a guinea pig for Vader to freeze Luke later on. Heck, if that wet-behind-the-ears farm-boy had any sense, he wouldn't be caught within twelve parsecs of this place.

I can't believe I trusted Lando. "Can't help it; they landed just before you did" My ass. I know he's still jealous from the time I won the Falcon from him. I bet seeing me come out of his old ship with a fine piece of ass like Leia must have really got to him. Sure, he played around on the landing pad, but I bet you behind closed doors he pimp-slapped one of those fuckers with the shiny earmuffs.

Why do they keep it so hot in here?
I know it's a foundry and all but come on, only Vader and Bobba Fett have A/C in their crazy suits. Chewie must be about ready to shed, and Leia's looking a little worse for wear... I bet she thinks this is just great, she's always bitching that I'm a scruffy nerfherder who is up to no good. She's always talking about this and that, and she even had the cohones to sit in the co-pilot seat and tell me how to fly my ship. I'm almost tuning her out now, just giving whatever reply comes to mind. "You're right, I know, yes your Worshipfulness." I'm reciting more shit than that gold fag robot she's holding on to for Luke.

Why is she doing that, anyway?
I saw her plant one on him, it was kinda hawt; maybe she'll do a three-way. Now if I could just swing Chewie in instead of Luke, we'd be set. I'd like to see the look on her face when she gets an eyeful of Wookie cock.

She's going to say something now; I can tell - she's got that scrunched up look on her face. It's fucking noisy in here, how does she expect me to hear with the machinery and these little pig-looking bastards scurrying around me? What's she saying? Something about a shoe? Her gloves are new? Fuck, always with the clothes. Well I gotta say something, it might be important.

"I know."

Great. Now she just looks confused.

What are these bastards doing now? This thing has it's own elevator? I hope that this carbon thing doesn't fuck up my clothes - these are my best pants.
Before I go down I'll take one last look at Leia and she if she's impressed by all this.

What? Now she's hugging Chewie? I'm not even frozen yet!

This Sucks.

Observation.

The most maddening thing is the world is to find something and then lose it.

Hung Out.

As you can tell, I had a little bit to drink last night. It was an end-of-summer work party, free booze and food, games for the kids, party till you drop.
A good time was had by most, and a fantastic time was had by some.

Unfortunately most of us had to work today.

I'd rather go into work hung over than just stay at home. I find the hangover goes away quicker at work, because you are actually doing something instead of just laying around feeling shitty.

At least most people do something - there are those people who go into work and expect you to feel sorry for them or excuse their lackluster performance just because they had a few too many the night before.

That's just too fucking bad; if I have to be here and work, so do you. Suck it up and grow a pair. (Ladies up top, guys down below.) I don't expect you to feel sorry for me, and I don't feel sorry for you. I don't mean to sound bitter, but just don't think you are getting any sympathy from me.

If you work hard and party hard, everything is okay - there's balance.
If you party had and work so-so, it's all fucked up.

Don't fuck it up.

Later.

Messed Up.

Thanks for being my first contributor of posting while drunk.
Isn't it great?
I have nothing to say, yet the most comprehensive vocabulary on the Internet to say it with.

What a fuck up; eh?
Tell me something I don't know.

Later.

Alter Ego.

Clark Kent.
Bruce Wayne.
Wally West.
Chad Vader.

Everyone has an Alter Ego, whether they know it or not. I have yet to meet anyone who behaves they same way around all types of people or is consistent in all types of situations. (I'll even include myself in this.)

We all act or say things differently depending on the circumstances that we are in at the time. There are somethings I may say to my friends at a party that I would never say in front of my Grandmother. ("Yo Grams, check out the rack on that chick - yeow! Am I right?")

Guys do it all the time.
Put a group of guys together in a room, and it's all dick and fart jokes, serious discussion on the merits of porn, and if a 15-pack of beer is enough to get you through the next twelve minutes. (Pretty much solving the world's problems. Routine stuff.)
Plunk a girl in the middle of that mix and 95% of the guys will clam up and act semi-respectable, so as not to come off as an insensitive asshole. Why? They want to put their best face forward. No sense in having someone who will potentially fuck you thinking you are a dick right away.

So which Alter Ego do you wear most often?

It's hard to tell who is the real person. The one you are at work, at home, with friends, with family, or around strangers. Sometimes I think the only time you are the real you is when you are driving from place to place.

That's why Batman has such a cool car, see?

It all makes sense now.

Later.

Running Silent.

My mother always said that if you don't have anything nice to say, you should shut the fuck up and keep your mouth shut. (Or something along those lines.)

After contemplating her advice, I post the following:

.

Later.

Keystrokes.

I have a very haphazard typing style.

(I type like I fuck. All over the place, faster than you'd think, and with very little errors. All in all a very intriguing method that gets the job done. There's no spellchecker in bed though, so I make sure to get it right the first time.)

My hands fly all over the place, and I shift my gaze between the screen and the keyboard. I tried typing on one of those ergonomic keyboards once, but with the way I type it just didn't work out.

I've never been able to touch type, and I have no one to blame but myself. Last time I took typing was in Grade Eight, and I didn't last very long. Due to repeated confrontations with the teacher, I was ejected from the class. (How anyone can learn typing from a teacher with a lisp is beyond me - how am I supposed to tell if she was saying "s" or "f"? It all sounded the fucking same.)

But my style works for me.

I'm able to accomplish almost everything I want to when I type, and with very little in the way of errors. (Most of my spelling errors are due to my own mental failings, and not the keyboard's fault.) The only things I tend to do when typing that annoy me are typing repeat characters when I'm spelling a word like "error", (Before spellcheck got a hold of it, that fucker had four "r's" in a row.) and sometimes inadvertently hitting the Caps Lock key instead of the shift key. That gets really fucking annoying at times.

At least I'm not a hunter-pecker. Typing my usual rambling shit would take all day, and no-body's got time for that.

Later.

Unchecked.

I hate the Blogger Spellchecker.

The only reason I use it at all is because when I use bullet points or numbered lists and spellcheck with the Google Toolbar, Firefox has a hiccup and messes up everything that I have typed. And since I am so accustomed to Firefox now, I just bit down and used the Blogger Spellchecker.

It's like dealing with a retarded cousin.

Not only does it have no intuition to assume what word I'm trying to type, but it will give back my own misspelled word as a suggested respelling. What's the point of using the damn thing if it thinks my shitty spelling is okay? If I wanted to have my words look like they were typed by an epileptic and checked by a monkey I'd let The Sidekick write my blog. (Ah... nothing but love.)

But because I care about how things look and I want only what's best for you, my readers, I'll deal with the frustration and inconvenience. (Spellcheck inconvenience in Google - it's all good. Check in Blogger - suggests incontinence. Little bit different in context, no?) Now that's dedication.

Later.

Support.

To have a friend that backs you up is one of the great cornerstones of any-one's life.

There was a time for me, not so long ago , that I was able to test the limits of my friendship and found them to be beyond what was expected. You find that it's difficult to express the proper way to say thanks for just being there and being themselves; the best option is just to wait until that debt or action can be repaid.

Cause that is what Friendship is all about.
It's about helping without being asked, and about being there when you are needed.
My friend knows where I am, and I'll do what is necessary to help in anyway.

Buck-a-Beer?
I'm there.

Dollar Shots?
Can-do.

Name it, Brother.

Later.

Life Lessons from Star Wars.

1. Don't keep talking about power converters, it only makes you look like a whiny bitch.
2. True Love can only be expressed by sealing yourself in carbonite.
3. Be careful who you open-mouth kiss, it could be your sister.
4. Family problems are best dealt with by multi-level, quasi-religious conspiracies.
5. Being the Chosen One isn't all it's cracked up to be.
6. Shoot first. If you feel bad about it, wait until the Special Edition.
7. Never trust a chick in a metal bikini. (Jabba's Law.)
8. If something smells like burning fat, it means Porkins has hit the Death Star.
9. No matter what happens in your life, it's all Obi-Wan's fault - he's turned the council against you.
10. Because of future technological advances, I'll never have to worry about dying from cancer or losing my hand if (and when) it gets cut off. Seems the number one cause of death in a galaxy far, far away is death by broken heart.
    
11. In the future, anything is possible. They managed to get Porkins in an X-Wing, didn't they?
    
12. That cramming a menacing bald character with a big purple lightsaber into a movie is enough. I get it, George, you have a big dick.
13. That being a Sith Lord is great and all, but it don't mean shit when they cut off your legs.
14. Cutting into a Tauntaun and crawling inside for warmth is okay, but try it with a giraffe and everyone gets mad.
    
15. If I ever meet an Ewok, I'll have a nice pair of furry boots at the end of the day.
    

Young, Dumb, Full of.....

I think that most young men today are complete fucking retards.

Not to offend the guys I know who are younger than me, (McQuarrie - you and Vaughn are safe.) but most of the kids I work with (babysit) have got about as much intelligence as a canned ham. And that's giving the ham a lot of credit.
Granted, most of these stellar intellectuals are only 16 or 17 years old, but for what they are expected to do, age makes no distinction.

There are two areas that upset me the most. Speed and Comprehension.

When addressing the issue of Speed, I just have to say that when a guy twice your age can move twice as fast as you, it's probably something to be ashamed of. If I was being out-hustled by a sixty year old, I would be embarrassed to no end. These guys seem to have one setting: slow. When you ask them why, they tell you they are tired. From what, you may ask? Just up late playing games or partying. I have no objections to either of those , but if you have to drag your ass around work because of it, maybe you should suck it up and grow a pair. When I was sixteen I would party until one, fuck a chick until two and still be at work for seven am. (Yes, I am that good.) All I'm asking them to do is pick up the pace a bit, quit shuffling around like you got lost on your way to the Special Olympics.

As for Comprehension, let me say this: The only thing that moves slower than these guys is their thought process. Trying to give them simple instruction is like trying to teach a dog calculus. (And I'm talking one of the dumb breeds of dog.) When I finish telling them what I want done they even cock their head to the side a bit, just like a dog that doesn't understand you. I'd have more luck trying to teach a guy with no hands how to read braille.

And it doesn't matter who it is - they all seem to be in pretty much the same boat, with only slight variations in performance. At work tonight I would have gladly stabbed one or both of them in the eye with my pen, but I only had one pen, and sometimes they get stuck in the orbital socket. (A pen is too good to waste on some of these little schmucks, I'd prefer something duller, like a stick or cotton swab.)

I'm not sure how we can improve the situation, but if giving them repeated slaps to the back of the head is involved, sign me up.

Later.

The First Time.

My Smores cherry has been popped - and it was a disappointment.
I found the treat gooey and too sweet, and just too much of a mess to deal with.

My God, doesn't that have a direct corollary to sex?

Name one person who has had a fantastic experience their first time and I'll show you a liar.
I'll admit, I was not the phenomenal lover I am now when I first stepped up to the plate. (If anyone quotes me on that, I'll deny it to my grave.)
I think that the first time someone has sex it's the meshing together of so many thoughts:

• What you think you know about it.
  
• What people have told you about it
  
• What is actually happening to you at the time.

When you multiply that by two, (There should be two people there - otherwise it's just masturbating, and that's a whole other first time.) and you have six different thoughts of how this thing should work out. That's a cluster-fuck if there ever was one. (I know there are going to be a lot of puns throughout this, so lets keep the snide remarks until the end.) Don't forget that you have to tell this person how mind-blowing it was, even if it wasn't.

Adding to the awkward moment is the environment in which it happens.
It's never in a hotel room in Paris, or on the beach in Hawaii. (Except for Hawaiian kids, and they probably don't find it as romantic as the rest of us.) Most of the time it's at a drunken party, or quickly done before your (or their) parents get home. Sometimes it's even in the back of a car. (Mostly for Surrey girls, but still..) So on top of all the other pressures, you've just added another one.

The good thing is to get it out of the way, so that the pressure is off, and you can concentrate on more important tasks that will challenge you for the rest of your life.

Like getting it again and again and again and again.

Later.

Back to Nature.

Going camping for a couple of days.

Roughing it in a thirty-two foot RV.
I say roughing it because the T.V. is only 27 inches, there's VHS - not DVD, and no Internet access. I think I'm going to have a tough time with this. ("What do you mean this tree isn't a wireless hot spot?")

Maybe sitting around the campfire might be fun.
I think I'll try s'mores for the first time.
(Yes, at my age I'm still a s'mores virgin.)
I may even have time to read a book or two.

So if I come back as a grizzled man of the woods, don't worry.
I'll still blog, but it'll be about catching bears with slushies and wiping my ass with bark.
Bet you can't wait for that.

Later.

Alliteration.

Anyone attempting Alliteration assumes all accountability.
Boldly broadcasting boundless ballads becomes boring.
Conversely, catastrophe catches clumsy columnists
Doubters deny demonstratable data.
Envy easily envelops eager examiners.
Fucking figures.

Gloaters gallivant gloriously, guessing goof-off.
However, he helps himself, hanging on.
Into immortality, incredible insights.
Jealousy jades juvenile jokers.
Kilobytes kill kindling's kin.
Losers languish.

Maybe mankind might malign?
None nay-say negligible niceties.
Only optimism obliges openness.
Peril precedes pointless pondering.
Quickly quashing quotes, quatrains.
Repercussions? Regrettable.

Safely staying studious seems silly.
Talking takes time - too tedious. Typing triumphs.
Unless unwilling, unavailable, uncompromising?
Victory validates values. Victims vanquished.
Whatever we want, we will win.
Xanadu Xeroxed

Yahoo! Yoked youths yowl yonder.
Zany? Zippered zombies zoologically zonked.


That's all folks. Harder to do than I thought. I kinda makes sense; if you are drunk and don't speak English very well. Believe it or not, I was going to just post about how magazines seem to use a lot of Alliteration in their headlines to catch your eye. But it evolved into this. It's either a masterpiece or a car wreck: you decide.


Later.

Jerk.

Most people don't know it, but I can be a Jerk at times.

I come across as this easy-going kinda guy, but I do have a serious side as well.
It doesn't come out too often, as I prefer to keep things light and not bog life down with depressing things.
But push the right buttons.... Bam! Full on Jerk mode.
(I've never used the term Full on Jerk mode outside of the context of touching myself. It feels a little strange..)

But there is Playful Jerk and Complete Asshole Jerk.
They are two distinct beings, each with their own way of operating.

Playful Jerk will come out at times, showing himself to the world in brief flashes. People notice Playful Jerk, and are amused and motivated by him. He is light hearted, with a slightly dark undertone. The things he says are funny, yet carry some weight and at times two meanings - the good and the bad.

Complete Asshole Jerk is not very nice at all. He can be extremely blunt, tends to yell if on the phone, and has been known to reduce grown men to tears. (If any man who cries can really be called a man.) He rarely appears, and only under extreme duress. He makes his presence known and then he leaves almost as quick as he arrived.

We don't get to see the Jerks all that much, as I normally just stay in either Playful or Asshole mode. But the Jerks are there, lurking below the surface.

You've all been warned...

Later.

Mysteries of Produce.

There are a few things I've often wondered about the fruit and vegetable section.

I never had much call to think about produce before, as I'm normally a meat-&-pasta guy, but in the last few months I've been eating more and more of it. Combined with the fact that I'm somewhat akin to Chad Vader, I've been able to watch how other people deal with their perishable purchases.

• While most women feel comfortable walking around stroking a Long English Cucumber, tapping it against their chin while lost in thought, men seem to feel very self conscious handling the Honeydews and Cantaloupes. Like someone is going to walk by and call them a pervert or something.
• Brown Mushrooms and White Mushrooms are essentially the same, yet no one buys the Brown. I think it's strange because when you cook a White Mushroom, what does it do? Yup - turns brown.
• Why is it that most of the people you see grazing (Our term for people who "taste test" items like Cherries, Grapes, and Blueberries without asking or buying) are fat? You think that after eating all that fruit, they'd be unable to go home and gorge on fried chicken and chocolate.
• Why does a cut Papaya fascinate me so? Next time you see one, tell me what it looks like. I've never wanted to bury my face in a fruit just because I walked by it. Thank God I'm able to resist my compulsion.
  

I know that there are more things that I question on a daily basis, but those are pretty much the main ones. I think that most of these mysteries are easily solved, but that would take time and energy, and I'm still having trouble taking my eyes off the cut Papaya.

Later.

The Thrill of Victory.

Just got home from poker at McQuarrie's.

Or as they call it, The McQuarrie Brothers Indian Casino & Resort. The Sidekick plays the weekly poker game there, and they were having an early game this week so I got the invite to go. I was supposed to go out for coffee with the Sidekick, but he persuaded me to spend some time at the resort.
I have to say, the resort itself is a pile of shit, but the table was generous tonight.

That's right folks, you're looking at the guy who cleaned house tonight. Took down the big pots and made those fuckers who read Bluff magazine think about cancelling their subscriptions. (Who reads poker magazines anyway? If I had all that time on my hands I'd use it up on valuable things, like porn.) I will admit that I had my share of luck, and thanks to that, (and a small amount of skill) I did better than last time.

But as I've said before, the main thing was to have a good time.
And a good time it was.
Ka-Ching!

Later.

Not Mickey's Dog.

So the intellectuals of the world are going to meet and decide if Pluto is a planet or not.

Fuck the war in the Middle East & forget famine and poverty - let's discus a floating rock in space. It's good to see that mankind has it's priorities straight.

Why should we care if it's considered a planet or not? Am I ever going to go there? (Maybe, once my trans-warp drive is completed. I just need a stainless steel DeLorean and a kid with a puffy vest...) Now if you got some people together and decided France wasn't a country anymore I could see people taking notice. But next to making astronomy textbooks out of date, who does this really effect?

• Disney's going to be pissed. Whose bright idea was it to name the dog after a planet? Now Mickey's going to have to get Pluto put down and get a new dog. Maybe he'll call him Comet. Or Moneygrab. Whatever works. I hated that fucking dog anyway. Did nobody ever notice how much he and Goofy looked alike? Goofy's mom was one sick little whore..
• Astrologists. These fuckers are going to be mad. But hey, they should have seen it coming. (Right?..C'mon it's a good joke, don't leave me hangin'.) But really, what sounds more fascinating - "Pluto's in your seventh house, causing moodiness and disruption" or "There's a hunk of rock floating out there, and I have no idea what I'm talking about."
  

That's about the only two that I can think of.
Maybe three if I count the crazy weirdo that comes into work all the time. Smells bad, wears his bike helmet indoors, talks to everyone about anything. He's about the only person I can see who might have some sort of interest in it.

But it's good to see that we are taking the time to resolve these little issues. Because I'd be really concerned if I woke up one day and discovered I was living in a solar system with a planet that shouldn't really be there. It would bother me to no end knowing there is a hunk of rock up there getting more credit than all the other hunks of rock.

Later.

I Know...

1. That my chances at International Rock Stardom are slowly fading away. Once you are over Thirty, it looks kind of silly to be "throwing the horns". And what kind of groupies would you get? Rejects from the Wal-Mart music section? No thanks.
2. That the slower people get, the more they piss me off. Just move faster or get the fuck out of my way. Roads, aisles, it doesn't matter.
   
3. That most of the world is geared towards the Lowest Common Denominator.
4. That I'm smart enough to know I'll never win the Lotto, and dumb enough to keep trying anyway.
5. That if I could be paid in coffee and donuts, it wouldn't be all bad.
6. That the word phenomenal is a phenomenal word.
7. That the more I listen to the radio, the deeper my affection for my iPod.
8. That my whistling skills are sub-par; but fuck it - I like to whistle. Loudly. So it echoes.
   
9. That I have the God-given ability to beat any joke into the ground. Guaranteed.
10. That you can't always get what you want - be it inner peace, or ketchup in the drive thru.

Later.