Imagine how mad you'd be if you gave your life for freedom and you where honored with a traffic jam coupled with carbon monoxide poisoning. Thirty minutes had passed before we realized the parade was over. It was a perfectly seamless transition from boorish emergency vehicles (as if anyone wants to be reminded of fire, disfigurement/death, and prison on their day off) to boorish civilian vehicles. No, I'm not at all embarrassed that we where cheering on '84 Chevy cavaliers and the like, but I was a little irritated, as were the shy owners of these lackluster vehicles. Actually, come to think of it, some looked pretty embarrassed. I guess that kinda makes sense given how self-conscious people are about their cars; as if that's the reason they're fat and dumb. I originally surmised that they must be legless vets who had to drive... Nope. Just boring everyday people that where mad at being stuck behind a parade. "How dare they have a parade on the day I get my hair done!"... You know- those kind of people. The best part of the parade, I feel I should add, was the octogenarians with rifles. That was quite thrilling, if not scary as hell. Anyway, I'm not even sure what I should write about, the 10 minute parade, or the unwilling participants in the parade who thought a 10 minute parade was more than enough to honor the victorious dead.
It has been 17 years since I had last seen the parade in my hometown. Not because I didn't want to, but because I had better things to do and didn't really feel like going... and it's the day I usually go to get my hair cut. The first two years I missed it was because I was in it. Nobody hired me to be in it; I was too young to put fires out with anything but my 'wee-wee', and too cute, on top of having way too much going for me to be in the boy scouts, - It was a freelance thing. It was also the period in which I thought I was the best thing in the parade. I would ride my bike in and out doing faux wheelies and pop-a-wheelies, bunny hops, and things I made up that looked like epileptic fits on two wheels--Incidentally referred to as the "Danger Shakes"! I thought I was the shit. It turns out I was more than just 'the shit', I was absolutely fucking awesome. As a matter of fact, judging by what I seen this past memorial day, I was the best damn thing to hold up traffic in my hometown since the naked, sock sniffing maniac who inhabited the woods near Main Street back in '95. If I had known how interesting my poorly choreographed seizure on a Huffy was, I really would have worked on my act.
After witnessing this mockery of a parade, I thought it a good idea to speak with the "event coordinator", who, I was informed, doubled as the night shift 7-11 clerk, about embellishing next years parade with--me. Not so surprisingly, he remembered me saying, "Those were the best years for the parade, I remember when you stole that old woman's sock right off her foot, taped it to your face, and then mooned the boy scouts- hahahahaha!" I told him he was mistaken, I was the other interesting guy in the parade on the bike. "Oh - I remember now, my wife always feel bad for you. She say you like bird with broken wing." Leave it to an indian to wax poetic while simultaneously mock you. Knowing full well that, unless you want a slurpy, or someone to build you a web page, you don't consult an indian. I continued trying to get on next years roster. I wanted my ten minutes of fame. Because my charm doesn't require a passport it wasn't at all suprising that he said I can ride in next years parade if I can locate the sock sniffer and get him to be in it, too. sonofabitch.
Time does funny things to...well, things. I located the sock sniffer in a federal prison not long after my meeting with the indian guy. Mr. Fanning, a.k.a. snock sniffer, a.k.a. sock sniffer (try saying sock sniffer 5-times-fast), is locked up for an undetermined length of time for unpaid parking tickets... Fuck it! Watching traffic is better than being stuck in it. Leave the parade the way it is. Besides, it deserves to suck if they're going to try and cut expense and have an indian plan a memorial day parade. Unless they're going to broadcast it over the internet.
The biggest tragedy of all this was not the parade, not the fact that I wouldn't ride again in the parade, but it was finding out that a naked guy who sniffs socks was infinitely more interesting than I was.
This blog would have never taken place if they simply would have spent the extra ten dollars on a float that said: THE END!
Friday, February 27, 2009
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Gas is Combustible
1 pint of beer, a pint of rum, a pint of sour cream, a pint of flatus gas. The first three are quite familiar to most of us, except maybe the Mormons, whom I have been told, think sour cream comes from the the devil's tit. For those of you unfamiliar with the stinkier (that's right: stinkier) side of biology, one pint of flatus gas is how much an average individual expels in a day. That would be approximately thirty expulsions a day. Consider you are in a small office space with forty individuals working a full day: That would be 1200 expulsions, or 40 pints of gas!! Wow! Luckily, as required by law, venting systems are in place at most places to relieve you of about 89% of those gases. Without it, it would be like sitting in your garage with the car running - eventually causing severe sickness, then death.
My girlfriend, on the other hand, does not bend to the physical laws of nature. Instead, she gets earaches, and her left eye quivers. I tell her that she is doing herself harm by not letting nature take it's course, and she says, "I don't know what the fuck you are talking about." I tell her that most other women run a lot of "errands", which is why some men find that they have way too much milk and six dozen eggs in their refrigerators, and she says, "Why the fuck would we want six dozen eggs! Look, Carl, I know what this is about. For your information I fart all the time, but mine smell like kittens." So I said, you could stop eating kittens if we had a lot of eggs. At this last comment she suppresses a smile, and probably some gas, and turns red in the face - I wonder to myself, is that from embarrassment, the gas, or the kittens...
At any rate, I love my little Chernobyl, but I don't want a bug eyed, deaf, and crippled girlfriend, so I decided to take her to a psychiatrist...who happened to be a female. After explaining to the "doctor" what the issue was, taking great care to divulge all necessary science concerning the physical dangers of my girlfriend's issue with flatulence, she looked nervously about, then directed her gaze at me - looking me directly in the chin, in fact, and said, "What the fuck are you talking about?" It goes without saying that my chin was quite upset with the outcome, and I was, too. However, I would be lying to myself, and my chin (ok, I'll stop) if I said I didn't half expect that outcome. So then, my fucking girlfriend is a ticking time bomb, but apparently female code prohibits anyone of her kind to acknowledge it, regardless of the fact that she has become a danger to herself and others. Even though I stopped smoking, it's still a parlous living arrangement. I will just need to face the fact that I am going to die someday... in the most unpleasant fashion.
My girlfriend, on the other hand, does not bend to the physical laws of nature. Instead, she gets earaches, and her left eye quivers. I tell her that she is doing herself harm by not letting nature take it's course, and she says, "I don't know what the fuck you are talking about." I tell her that most other women run a lot of "errands", which is why some men find that they have way too much milk and six dozen eggs in their refrigerators, and she says, "Why the fuck would we want six dozen eggs! Look, Carl, I know what this is about. For your information I fart all the time, but mine smell like kittens." So I said, you could stop eating kittens if we had a lot of eggs. At this last comment she suppresses a smile, and probably some gas, and turns red in the face - I wonder to myself, is that from embarrassment, the gas, or the kittens...
At any rate, I love my little Chernobyl, but I don't want a bug eyed, deaf, and crippled girlfriend, so I decided to take her to a psychiatrist...who happened to be a female. After explaining to the "doctor" what the issue was, taking great care to divulge all necessary science concerning the physical dangers of my girlfriend's issue with flatulence, she looked nervously about, then directed her gaze at me - looking me directly in the chin, in fact, and said, "What the fuck are you talking about?" It goes without saying that my chin was quite upset with the outcome, and I was, too. However, I would be lying to myself, and my chin (ok, I'll stop) if I said I didn't half expect that outcome. So then, my fucking girlfriend is a ticking time bomb, but apparently female code prohibits anyone of her kind to acknowledge it, regardless of the fact that she has become a danger to herself and others. Even though I stopped smoking, it's still a parlous living arrangement. I will just need to face the fact that I am going to die someday... in the most unpleasant fashion.
Friday, February 6, 2009
Enough already!
I've been receiving a lot of flack from people about not having written anything in a while. What you people don't understand is that I haven't been sitting on my ass - I have been out killing drug dealers, cops, civilians, blowing cars up, putting down union strikes, assassinating church leaders, racing cars through the desert, riding camels, discovering lost artifacts, and implementing civilizations in remote corners of the globe (pffffllllpppp, corners on a globe--ridiculous.) So what if I've been sitting on my ass playing PS3 all the while. It was 'me' time.
Another much more tragic reason I have not been writing in a while is because I think I may have graduated to another dimension of humor that can no longer be satisfied in this 3 dimensional world.... Which is another way of saying I suck, and no longer have a sense of humor. To illustrate this more clearly, let us visit this past Saturday when a less fortunate woman with a butterball figure and a bad case of the gout was knocked over by a horny dog (AKC does not acknowledge said breed), and was repeatedly assaulted in the face by a crooked, pink protuberance on the dogs under carriage, and I DID NOT LAUGH! It even played out funny: One man yelled, "Jesus Christ, that poor dog is stuck to my wife's face by some strange pink protuberance!" Not to be outdone, the dogs owner cried, "That's just my dog's misshapen penis; it's looking for a place to hide!" After everyone but me got a good laugh in, we helped this poor gun-shy woman up and got her out of there. So you see, if that's not funny, then what the hell is? The answer is nothing. I am doomed to be a crotchety old man shooting pigeons with my shotgun off my front porch sipping Arnold Palmers because that's what crotchety old men do. I don't even know what an Arnold Palmer is, but it's namesake tells me they taste like sweat and defeat--A suitable flavor for the elderly.
Because nothing is funny anymore I thought I would just tell a couple true stories from my past that may have a moral lesson. If you can find it, you can keep it.
When I first got my license I thought I was the shit. With the wind in my face and the sun warming my cheeks as I passed through numerous toll stations with my butt hanging out in an effort to attract a mate, I motored through life without a care in the world. Everything was beautiful, until one day....: I was dropping my younger sister and her friend off at a little league game so that they could drool over pre-pubescent boys when I was accosted by a group of said individuals blocking the narrow causway I needed to take to get out of there and go home. Their leader, who was not in uniform and on a bike, thought it would be a good idea to play the 'tough guy' role for his friends by, not only blocking my way, but also giving me the "I'm not to be messed with" eyes. If there is one group of people I don't take shit from more than any other, it is 13 year old thugs. Unlike all you pussies who probably would have found a way around these ruffians all the while being sure not to make eye contact muttering to yourself about how kids have no respect today, I did what any good citizen should have done: I ran those punks over with my car. Unfortunately for me, bad parents no longer appreciate when their children are disciplined by others, regardless if their method yields a more long term result. These ungrateful swine actually sent cops to my house to investigate me. Of course when they found out who I was they dropped all the charges - but would you believe that the mother of the child that had his bike justifiably destroyed demanded that I fix the thing? Clearly, I thought to myself, she must be kidding. I told her I may have taken away his bike, but I gave him the XP 9000, which as everyone knows, is the best wheel chair they have out right now (IT HAS THREE SPEEDS!). I told her that I would come back and fix his arms if she didn't start appreciating what I did for her family. 10 years later, that guy whos legs I fixed won a silver medal in the special Olympics. I still have yet to receive some recognition.
This next true story will also feature other people's children, and how simple misunderstandings can turn into horrible misconceptions that spread like AIDS in Africa.
I like kids - really. I wouldn't want them, and they annoy me horribly, but I do like them. I also think it's funny, before attending family functions such as Christmas and Thanksgiving, to ask if all the kids where invited, too. The answer is of course, yes, and then I let out a god-awful groan as if some one where twisting a knife inside my stomach. You don't think that's funny, but in the 7th or 8th dimension that would be hilarious. Because of all these things.. and of course that time I ran over a bunch of kids, I have to be extra careful around every one's children. For a while I didn't notice, but there was a reason that when I attended social gatherings with kids present, they part for me like the red sea. I considered it lucky - in the way that people think carrying around severed feet of small animals is lucky. But I realized that it wasn't just luck when I caught my first murmur of a concerned parent, "I can't believe they let that monster in! Did you know he once ran over a bunch of kids just because they where blocking his path! One of them is in a wheel chair now!" and the other said, "Oh I know.... Did you hear the one in the wheel chair won a silver medal last year?" So after hearing this, to avoid starting another witch hunt, I started being extra nice to kids. For a while, that kept me out of trouble.
4th of July, 2007, 7:42 pm:
It was a festive occasion, I was drunk and having a blast. That in itself was an accomplishment, i.e. - I was a drunk at what seemed like an arts and crafts festival. I made my way across the street to the party that was happening there to find that the owner of the house was willing to sell me a couple black jacks and such; the kind or fireworks you can hold in your teeth and blow up, albeit uncomfortably. I was so happy and drunk that I was throwing fireworks this way and that. When I got back to the house, I lit a black jack and through it about 4 feet away from a group of people to startle them, but guess what was in the center of that group of people hidden from my eyes - A DAMN KID!!! AHHHHH!! All that hard work of making believe I turned over a new leaf went to shit. It only took a moment before people realized who was responsible(it probably didn't take that long.) "WITCH HUN... I mean, THERE HE IS!", someone shouted. Soon parents began to amass. There where only 20 people at the party, so imagine my confusion and fear when no less than 70 parents came before me brandishing pitch forks and flood lights (torches went out of style with the mob back in 1870, but for some reason they kept the farm tools) - Parents from far and wide responding to some archaic signal in the brain where ready to burn me alive! I was forced to try and reconcile with an angry, drunk, and fanatical mob that was out for my blood. If there is one thing I learned about dealing with an angry mob, it is that you need to use small words, speak slowly, and use lots of hand signals. Preferably the same kind Italians use. I was able to assuage their blood lust and remind them that American Idol was about to start using these simple techniques. And in doing so, I ended the fiasco. However, my troubles are far from over. I am now, "That guy who ran over a bunch of kids with his car" and, "that guy who tried to blow that kid up with class A fireworks."
Another much more tragic reason I have not been writing in a while is because I think I may have graduated to another dimension of humor that can no longer be satisfied in this 3 dimensional world.... Which is another way of saying I suck, and no longer have a sense of humor. To illustrate this more clearly, let us visit this past Saturday when a less fortunate woman with a butterball figure and a bad case of the gout was knocked over by a horny dog (AKC does not acknowledge said breed), and was repeatedly assaulted in the face by a crooked, pink protuberance on the dogs under carriage, and I DID NOT LAUGH! It even played out funny: One man yelled, "Jesus Christ, that poor dog is stuck to my wife's face by some strange pink protuberance!" Not to be outdone, the dogs owner cried, "That's just my dog's misshapen penis; it's looking for a place to hide!" After everyone but me got a good laugh in, we helped this poor gun-shy woman up and got her out of there. So you see, if that's not funny, then what the hell is? The answer is nothing. I am doomed to be a crotchety old man shooting pigeons with my shotgun off my front porch sipping Arnold Palmers because that's what crotchety old men do. I don't even know what an Arnold Palmer is, but it's namesake tells me they taste like sweat and defeat--A suitable flavor for the elderly.
Because nothing is funny anymore I thought I would just tell a couple true stories from my past that may have a moral lesson. If you can find it, you can keep it.
When I first got my license I thought I was the shit. With the wind in my face and the sun warming my cheeks as I passed through numerous toll stations with my butt hanging out in an effort to attract a mate, I motored through life without a care in the world. Everything was beautiful, until one day....: I was dropping my younger sister and her friend off at a little league game so that they could drool over pre-pubescent boys when I was accosted by a group of said individuals blocking the narrow causway I needed to take to get out of there and go home. Their leader, who was not in uniform and on a bike, thought it would be a good idea to play the 'tough guy' role for his friends by, not only blocking my way, but also giving me the "I'm not to be messed with" eyes. If there is one group of people I don't take shit from more than any other, it is 13 year old thugs. Unlike all you pussies who probably would have found a way around these ruffians all the while being sure not to make eye contact muttering to yourself about how kids have no respect today, I did what any good citizen should have done: I ran those punks over with my car. Unfortunately for me, bad parents no longer appreciate when their children are disciplined by others, regardless if their method yields a more long term result. These ungrateful swine actually sent cops to my house to investigate me. Of course when they found out who I was they dropped all the charges - but would you believe that the mother of the child that had his bike justifiably destroyed demanded that I fix the thing? Clearly, I thought to myself, she must be kidding. I told her I may have taken away his bike, but I gave him the XP 9000, which as everyone knows, is the best wheel chair they have out right now (IT HAS THREE SPEEDS!). I told her that I would come back and fix his arms if she didn't start appreciating what I did for her family. 10 years later, that guy whos legs I fixed won a silver medal in the special Olympics. I still have yet to receive some recognition.
This next true story will also feature other people's children, and how simple misunderstandings can turn into horrible misconceptions that spread like AIDS in Africa.
I like kids - really. I wouldn't want them, and they annoy me horribly, but I do like them. I also think it's funny, before attending family functions such as Christmas and Thanksgiving, to ask if all the kids where invited, too. The answer is of course, yes, and then I let out a god-awful groan as if some one where twisting a knife inside my stomach. You don't think that's funny, but in the 7th or 8th dimension that would be hilarious. Because of all these things.. and of course that time I ran over a bunch of kids, I have to be extra careful around every one's children. For a while I didn't notice, but there was a reason that when I attended social gatherings with kids present, they part for me like the red sea. I considered it lucky - in the way that people think carrying around severed feet of small animals is lucky. But I realized that it wasn't just luck when I caught my first murmur of a concerned parent, "I can't believe they let that monster in! Did you know he once ran over a bunch of kids just because they where blocking his path! One of them is in a wheel chair now!" and the other said, "Oh I know.... Did you hear the one in the wheel chair won a silver medal last year?" So after hearing this, to avoid starting another witch hunt, I started being extra nice to kids. For a while, that kept me out of trouble.
4th of July, 2007, 7:42 pm:
It was a festive occasion, I was drunk and having a blast. That in itself was an accomplishment, i.e. - I was a drunk at what seemed like an arts and crafts festival. I made my way across the street to the party that was happening there to find that the owner of the house was willing to sell me a couple black jacks and such; the kind or fireworks you can hold in your teeth and blow up, albeit uncomfortably. I was so happy and drunk that I was throwing fireworks this way and that. When I got back to the house, I lit a black jack and through it about 4 feet away from a group of people to startle them, but guess what was in the center of that group of people hidden from my eyes - A DAMN KID!!! AHHHHH!! All that hard work of making believe I turned over a new leaf went to shit. It only took a moment before people realized who was responsible(it probably didn't take that long.) "WITCH HUN... I mean, THERE HE IS!", someone shouted. Soon parents began to amass. There where only 20 people at the party, so imagine my confusion and fear when no less than 70 parents came before me brandishing pitch forks and flood lights (torches went out of style with the mob back in 1870, but for some reason they kept the farm tools) - Parents from far and wide responding to some archaic signal in the brain where ready to burn me alive! I was forced to try and reconcile with an angry, drunk, and fanatical mob that was out for my blood. If there is one thing I learned about dealing with an angry mob, it is that you need to use small words, speak slowly, and use lots of hand signals. Preferably the same kind Italians use. I was able to assuage their blood lust and remind them that American Idol was about to start using these simple techniques. And in doing so, I ended the fiasco. However, my troubles are far from over. I am now, "That guy who ran over a bunch of kids with his car" and, "that guy who tried to blow that kid up with class A fireworks."
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