I was locked in my apartment complex's gym for about half an hour tonight with a nice Asian couple that was hesitant to use the building's second story window as an escape. Consequently, I stuck around with them and watched as an equally helpful neighbor attempted to open the deadbolt that stood between the sweaty gym air and our freedom with a hairpin and a flathead screwdriver. Ultimately we all took the window. I didn't make up a single syllable of that opening. That's just the kind of crap I find myself in from time to time.
As you might suspect yourself, there are a number of things wrong with this picture. For one, who the hell gets locked in the gym? The immediate culprit was a deadbolt whose key only staff has, so it clearly wasn't an ignorant resident. But why would a passing security guard or maintenance man assume no one was there? Well, because the three people doing cardio upstairs had the lights turned off. Sadly, I was one of them. You see, the couple was already up there, working away, with the lights off when I arrived, and I didn't feel comfortable just showing up and throwing the light switch. I mean, who the hell am I? I bring a Nintendo DS to the gym to keep my mind distracted from the burning sensation in my lungs when I ride the stationary bike, which I ride because the treadmill involves too much motion to actually play the DS. I don't really have a leg to stand on here. So I just hopped on a bike and pedalled (difficult without that leg), glancing between the ESPN on in front of the husband and the E channel before the wife, and as the three of us burned away dozens of calories to the blue light of flatpanel televisions, someone locked us in the gym.
I discovered almost immediately that a window on the second level would make for an easy escape, mainly because another resident climbed in through it and asked what was going on. And while the descent out the window was certainly possible, the wife in particular was having none of it, and for whatever reason I do the things I do, my brain decided it was poor form to leave them alone. Honestly, I'd be that douche on the Titanic politely allowing other people onto the lifeboats because of the poor Irish bastards drowning in coach. Anyway, that's what kept me there so long. That, and I was mildly curious to see if the new arrival actually had what it takes to pick a deadbolt with improvised tools. He did not. Still, he seemed a good guy. Sure he had a knife on his belt, and while the type of white guy who perpetually carries a knife on his hip is typically not the kind I want to toast a Natural Ice with, he seemed a good sort. He even said I should stop by his place to have a beer and play videogames some time. He probably plans to kill me and use my skin to make a dress, but with an invitation that charming, who knows?
Clearly, this absurd situation was a divine portent if ever I've seen one. The problem with any sign, as all you good semioticians know, is the ambiguity in interpreting them. I naturally assumed the Divine was suggesting I skip working out to stay home and invent new songs about my dog. My wife suggested I was supposed to stay in the gym longer to begin with. Touche. I'll be going back tomorrow, if only so that when the roof collapses on me I can tell my dearest "I told you so."
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Drug Scandal Rocks NASCAR: Mullets to Fly at Half Mast
NASCAR officially joined the auspicious ranks of Major League Baseball, the Olympic Games, and Midget Tossing on May 1st when Jeremy Mayfield, one of the "sport's" noted auto-coach pilots, failed a drug test. It was mainly short essay and multiple choice questions, and while he did alright through the geography and, surprisingly, Native American history sections, he really tripped up on #32: "Are you on drugs?" Rather than opting for "a) No" or "b) Of course not; in fact, even asking me not only affronts my sensibilities as a sportsman but tarnishes the game itself," good ol' Jeremy circled "c) Fuck, I don't know. I'm way too stoned. Better make me pee in a cup."
Well, today ESPN broke the story wide open. In brazen defiance of convention, NASCAR's first documented positive drug test was for - you guessed it - crystal meth. I, for one, am shocked; I really had my money on some combination of huffing paint and popping a murderous amount of Flintstones chewable vitamins. Just goes to show you, I guess: you can take the Redneck out of the trailer park, but not out of the "Redneck Roundy-Round." NASCAR fandom has been rocked by this latest news, and many aficionados are too distressed by the revelation to finish brewing the latest batch of moonshine in their bathtubs; indeed, even the sultry arms of a first-cousin cannot distract these gap-toothed, hillbilly degenerates from their inconsolable loss.
Of course, I don't mean to suggest that the sluggish, cholesterol-ridden arteries of NASCAR have flowed with only pure red, white, and blue until this dark day. You see, this is the first year such drug testing has been instituted. In previous epochs, pit crews simply assumed the earthenware jug their driver was securely belting beside him was merely water to fight the dehydratin'. Clearly, they had no idea what was going on. One senior editor at ESPN even reports that a retired driver admits to having raced on heroin. Yeah, I'll repeat that: "he drove on heroin." Way to put the whole Barry Bonds thing in perspective for us, Cleatus McDrivesalot. In so many other sports, athletes discretely take drugs to enhance their performance; NASCAR drives apparently just want to get fucked up, and aren't about to let driving a car at speeds over 200 mph get in the way. Kinda puts a new spin on that famous line, "I feel the need - the need for speed." Just imagine the bloodbath if those NASCAR racers had ejector seats.
Well, today ESPN broke the story wide open. In brazen defiance of convention, NASCAR's first documented positive drug test was for - you guessed it - crystal meth. I, for one, am shocked; I really had my money on some combination of huffing paint and popping a murderous amount of Flintstones chewable vitamins. Just goes to show you, I guess: you can take the Redneck out of the trailer park, but not out of the "Redneck Roundy-Round." NASCAR fandom has been rocked by this latest news, and many aficionados are too distressed by the revelation to finish brewing the latest batch of moonshine in their bathtubs; indeed, even the sultry arms of a first-cousin cannot distract these gap-toothed, hillbilly degenerates from their inconsolable loss.
Of course, I don't mean to suggest that the sluggish, cholesterol-ridden arteries of NASCAR have flowed with only pure red, white, and blue until this dark day. You see, this is the first year such drug testing has been instituted. In previous epochs, pit crews simply assumed the earthenware jug their driver was securely belting beside him was merely water to fight the dehydratin'. Clearly, they had no idea what was going on. One senior editor at ESPN even reports that a retired driver admits to having raced on heroin. Yeah, I'll repeat that: "he drove on heroin." Way to put the whole Barry Bonds thing in perspective for us, Cleatus McDrivesalot. In so many other sports, athletes discretely take drugs to enhance their performance; NASCAR drives apparently just want to get fucked up, and aren't about to let driving a car at speeds over 200 mph get in the way. Kinda puts a new spin on that famous line, "I feel the need - the need for speed." Just imagine the bloodbath if those NASCAR racers had ejector seats.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
The Penis Mightier
Have you ever thought to yourself, "How am I supposed to take a drink when I'm using my hands to lather my shampoo / drive this snowmobile / fend off my traitorous attack panda"? Shortly after that, did another synapse accidentally fire and you thought, "Holy fuck, I'm drunk"? Of course you have -- you're one of my readers, aren't you? Hell, I was probably with you when this happened.
The problem, though, is that we're often in short supply of efficient means of capturing those pristine moments of spiritual clarity and liquid depravity. Forget memory (ironic word usage! 3 points!); there are entire weekends from college that neither I nor any of my friends can accurately piece back together. And sure, there is the ever-popular voice mail, but they do tend to drag on, and often the speaker sounds like Eliza Doolittle with a mouth full of marbles. But in this age of Twitter, where anything and everything of meaning can apparently be condensed to 14o characters or less (Milton just rolled over in his grave...onto Henry James), I'm actually thankful for the text message. Not because it prompts my students to essentially fiddle with themselves under their desk in a pitiful attempt at being clandestine, no -- because it gives us something as beautiful as my new favorite site, Texts From Last Night.
Texts From Last Night is exactly what the name promises: it's a compilation of hilarious text messages people have sent one another the night of or immediately following a bender. As one might imagine, a number of them are rather crude and rarely "politically correct," but there are some gems that carry a wisdom profound enough to make tears glisten on the hardest cheek. To make matters even better, they put the area code of the guilty party before every text. Enter yours, and see if you were the naked form splayed unconscious beside them, the one about whom they sent that somewhat unflattering report to their friend.
The gods are otherwise embroiled in family squabbles at their celestial table -- quick now, sample their divine ambrosia:
(815): I met the nicest Tranny last night. He/She loves Cheetos.
(408): I told him it was like a man's penis, but smaller.
(352): I just woke up and realized I puked in my boxers WTF.
(904): You stay classy.
(352): The worst part was I forgot until I tried to put them on.
(954): I just got hit by a car and apologized to the driver. I asked him if he was okay.
(404): I just bought the big bottle of Patron. It looks small. What have I done with my life?
(503): Succeeded.
And my personal favorites:
(703): I asked him if he wanted to go to my place, he said i could go but he was gonna stay
(407): I woke up this morning next to some guy. I was horrified, he woke up and said, "the white tiger strikes again!"
The problem, though, is that we're often in short supply of efficient means of capturing those pristine moments of spiritual clarity and liquid depravity. Forget memory (ironic word usage! 3 points!); there are entire weekends from college that neither I nor any of my friends can accurately piece back together. And sure, there is the ever-popular voice mail, but they do tend to drag on, and often the speaker sounds like Eliza Doolittle with a mouth full of marbles. But in this age of Twitter, where anything and everything of meaning can apparently be condensed to 14o characters or less (Milton just rolled over in his grave...onto Henry James), I'm actually thankful for the text message. Not because it prompts my students to essentially fiddle with themselves under their desk in a pitiful attempt at being clandestine, no -- because it gives us something as beautiful as my new favorite site, Texts From Last Night.
Texts From Last Night is exactly what the name promises: it's a compilation of hilarious text messages people have sent one another the night of or immediately following a bender. As one might imagine, a number of them are rather crude and rarely "politically correct," but there are some gems that carry a wisdom profound enough to make tears glisten on the hardest cheek. To make matters even better, they put the area code of the guilty party before every text. Enter yours, and see if you were the naked form splayed unconscious beside them, the one about whom they sent that somewhat unflattering report to their friend.
The gods are otherwise embroiled in family squabbles at their celestial table -- quick now, sample their divine ambrosia:
(815): I met the nicest Tranny last night. He/She loves Cheetos.
(408): I told him it was like a man's penis, but smaller.
(352): I just woke up and realized I puked in my boxers WTF.
(904): You stay classy.
(352): The worst part was I forgot until I tried to put them on.
(954): I just got hit by a car and apologized to the driver. I asked him if he was okay.
(404): I just bought the big bottle of Patron. It looks small. What have I done with my life?
(503): Succeeded.
And my personal favorites:
(703): I asked him if he wanted to go to my place, he said i could go but he was gonna stay
(407): I woke up this morning next to some guy. I was horrified, he woke up and said, "the white tiger strikes again!"
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Social Darwinism
Honestly, I'm not sure if they think I'm stupid, or if they're just that stupid themselves, but whatever the reason, there are always a few students who mistake my affable, good nature and think they can pull a fast one on me. Couple that with Spring Quarter sloth, and you have a charming cocktail that can, at times, result in them submitting absolute bullshit. It's time's like these, dear reader, when I can write emails like this:
Part of the reason I had asked for the electronic version of your paper was because I actually did have the first page of what you had turned in last week, but it didn't quite look like it was what the assignment was asking for, so I thought there may have been some mistake. This is indeed what you sent this time, but again, let me suggest you double check that this file was actually your second essay. If it were, I'd point out that the header of the essay suggests you originally wrote this for _________ in Fall Quarter, and remind you that submitting old work, even of your own, for a new assignment technically constitutes plagiarism. Additionally, as there is no mention made of _____________, the essay our papers were meant to respond to, this essay doesn't meet the basic requirements of the prompt. Either way, it would have gotten a 0.
Of course, none of that matters, because I'm sure this isn't the rough draft of your second essay. Do look around for it and get it in to me as soon as you can.
Before I address what's going on here, allow me to translate my previous, formal missive:
Hey, you fucking retard. I realize this is already weeks late, but please don't think I'm so goddamn stupid that I wouldn't notice the shit you sent me is barely on topic and clearly has another class named in the header. Let me remind you that I can now official nail your ass to the wall; I own you. However, as I loathe communicating with you in any fashion, I find it far more expedient to threaten you and then point your ignorant ass toward the back door than to actually follow it up. Cobble some shit together overnight, lie to me (like you would anyway), and I'll give you a D-. Chop, chop.
p.s. You put the date at November 2009 on your paper, dipshit. I suggest you get in that time machine and turn in a fucking paper on topic this time around.
Ah. I feel considerably better now. One or two of you may be aghast, or at least curious, why I'm not turning this person in to a disciplinary committee, but the short answer is his sloth is actually working in his favor. Having never turned in a hard copy of the paper, he can just claim that he accidentally sent the wrong file, and as my delicately worded translation suggested, I don't have the time or inclination to deal with it. Besides, as our final paper is on a famous novel, chances are he might try it again.
Honestly, if we were all on the Serengeti, this one would have been ostracized from the herd and pulled down by predators long ago. Alas for our more "civilized" age.
Part of the reason I had asked for the electronic version of your paper was because I actually did have the first page of what you had turned in last week, but it didn't quite look like it was what the assignment was asking for, so I thought there may have been some mistake. This is indeed what you sent this time, but again, let me suggest you double check that this file was actually your second essay. If it were, I'd point out that the header of the essay suggests you originally wrote this for _________ in Fall Quarter, and remind you that submitting old work, even of your own, for a new assignment technically constitutes plagiarism. Additionally, as there is no mention made of _____________, the essay our papers were meant to respond to, this essay doesn't meet the basic requirements of the prompt. Either way, it would have gotten a 0.
Of course, none of that matters, because I'm sure this isn't the rough draft of your second essay. Do look around for it and get it in to me as soon as you can.
Before I address what's going on here, allow me to translate my previous, formal missive:
Hey, you fucking retard. I realize this is already weeks late, but please don't think I'm so goddamn stupid that I wouldn't notice the shit you sent me is barely on topic and clearly has another class named in the header. Let me remind you that I can now official nail your ass to the wall; I own you. However, as I loathe communicating with you in any fashion, I find it far more expedient to threaten you and then point your ignorant ass toward the back door than to actually follow it up. Cobble some shit together overnight, lie to me (like you would anyway), and I'll give you a D-. Chop, chop.
p.s. You put the date at November 2009 on your paper, dipshit. I suggest you get in that time machine and turn in a fucking paper on topic this time around.
Ah. I feel considerably better now. One or two of you may be aghast, or at least curious, why I'm not turning this person in to a disciplinary committee, but the short answer is his sloth is actually working in his favor. Having never turned in a hard copy of the paper, he can just claim that he accidentally sent the wrong file, and as my delicately worded translation suggested, I don't have the time or inclination to deal with it. Besides, as our final paper is on a famous novel, chances are he might try it again.
Honestly, if we were all on the Serengeti, this one would have been ostracized from the herd and pulled down by predators long ago. Alas for our more "civilized" age.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
A Gentleman's Bet
Shut down every tattoo parlor on the planet, because there's just no point anymore. The single best tattoo every produced has been created, and its very existence reveals how hollow and shameful all other body art really is. Virgin tears and the blood of Thor were used to create this ink, and as the needle first pierced this person's leg / beefy forearm, the angels wept for joy.
I challenge anyone to find and post a picture of a tattoo more awesome than this. It's alright if you fail; the deck is stacked against you. But as your eyes well up at the prospect, merely behold this, and you will be whole again. And if you're blind, just point the useless jelly that was your eyes in the direction of this image, and those sightless orbs will no longer be a mockery of your sad plight. Also, if I'm not mistaken, your sins will be forgiven...or maybe that's when you stare at a Florida license plate. I can never remember. But I'm pretty sure this tattoo can at least cure leprosy.
I challenge anyone to find and post a picture of a tattoo more awesome than this. It's alright if you fail; the deck is stacked against you. But as your eyes well up at the prospect, merely behold this, and you will be whole again. And if you're blind, just point the useless jelly that was your eyes in the direction of this image, and those sightless orbs will no longer be a mockery of your sad plight. Also, if I'm not mistaken, your sins will be forgiven...or maybe that's when you stare at a Florida license plate. I can never remember. But I'm pretty sure this tattoo can at least cure leprosy.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
WWJD?
I must confess, I'm still getting used to the "married" thing. After being told for the majority of my life that accidentally brushing against the corner of a sofa with my swimsuit area would consign me to the ceaseless agony of purging flames and the harsh trill of demonic laughter, I can't help but feel suspicious that sex is now suddenly okay. It's as if I could swear I saw the pitcher throw the ball, but when I'm frantically rounding second base, I see it drawn, almost lazily, from his voluminous glove as a shit-eating grin spreads slowly across his face. I fell for his trick, and now I'm trapped. And then I'm pulled screaming down to hell in that ridiculous baseball uniform...
It's only fair, then, that the Catholic Church is making an effort to correct the significant psychological damage inflicted upon me during my formative years - at least the part dealing with, well, one's "part":
Say hello to Sex As You Don't Know It: For Married Couples Who Love God, the seksy new book by Polish priest Ksawery Knotz. In it, Kfather Knotz assures his guilt-ridden readership that sex should be "saucy, surprising and fantasy packed," which is eerily prescient, as I know many a Catholic who secretly dreams about being suddenly ambushed by their spouse dressed as a high elf and dunked in sun-dried tomato Alfredo. The Cliffnotes version is that, surprise, you won't burst into flame during sex, though if you and your spouse didn't hit the clinic before your "I do," there may be some burning afterward.
Speaking of reasons to be horribly, horribly ashamed, Florida (the flaccid penis of the continental United States!) has recently made a real push to add a sense of gravitas and quiet respect to their license plates:
Now, I'm willing to go out on a limb here and say that this one isn't a Catholic thing; we're more into having members of an abstinent religious order give married couples sexual advice based off of a year's worth of counseling experience. But as a religious institution with a long history of iconographic, even idolatrous experience (if you ask a sixteenth-century Protestant), please allow a Catholic to give you a few points on your latest brain child. For starters, is our Lord and Savior languishing in front of a sun, a giant halo, or an orange? There's a chance this may affect the interpretation of the devout, or make people thirsty for juice. Get on that. Also, while it will make Christ-centered vanity plates much easier to accomplish, having a picture of Jesus in the middle may ruin the effect of my FKOSAMA or HIOFCER plate. I mean, the old design was perfect. What could go wrong with it?
Props to Doc and Digital Mercenary, who passed along the Seks book and license plate, respectively. I love how I have become the repository for all the absurd things my friends uncover on the interwebs.
It's only fair, then, that the Catholic Church is making an effort to correct the significant psychological damage inflicted upon me during my formative years - at least the part dealing with, well, one's "part":
Say hello to Sex As You Don't Know It: For Married Couples Who Love God, the seksy new book by Polish priest Ksawery Knotz. In it, Kfather Knotz assures his guilt-ridden readership that sex should be "saucy, surprising and fantasy packed," which is eerily prescient, as I know many a Catholic who secretly dreams about being suddenly ambushed by their spouse dressed as a high elf and dunked in sun-dried tomato Alfredo. The Cliffnotes version is that, surprise, you won't burst into flame during sex, though if you and your spouse didn't hit the clinic before your "I do," there may be some burning afterward.
Speaking of reasons to be horribly, horribly ashamed, Florida (the flaccid penis of the continental United States!) has recently made a real push to add a sense of gravitas and quiet respect to their license plates:
Now, I'm willing to go out on a limb here and say that this one isn't a Catholic thing; we're more into having members of an abstinent religious order give married couples sexual advice based off of a year's worth of counseling experience. But as a religious institution with a long history of iconographic, even idolatrous experience (if you ask a sixteenth-century Protestant), please allow a Catholic to give you a few points on your latest brain child. For starters, is our Lord and Savior languishing in front of a sun, a giant halo, or an orange? There's a chance this may affect the interpretation of the devout, or make people thirsty for juice. Get on that. Also, while it will make Christ-centered vanity plates much easier to accomplish, having a picture of Jesus in the middle may ruin the effect of my FKOSAMA or HIOFCER plate. I mean, the old design was perfect. What could go wrong with it?
Props to Doc and Digital Mercenary, who passed along the Seks book and license plate, respectively. I love how I have become the repository for all the absurd things my friends uncover on the interwebs.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Happy Mother's Day
A bit belated, I know, but I still wanted to share some admittedly saccharine, overly-sentimental takes on Mother's Day.
EMBED-Mothers Day Card 02 - Watch more free videos
And my personal favorite:
EMBED-Mothers Day Card 04 - Watch more free videos
My thanks to Oghrim for passing these along. I'm sure there's no deep seated, repressed justifications for why we find these so funny.
EMBED-Mothers Day Card 02 - Watch more free videos
And my personal favorite:
EMBED-Mothers Day Card 04 - Watch more free videos
My thanks to Oghrim for passing these along. I'm sure there's no deep seated, repressed justifications for why we find these so funny.
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