A Traffic, Oil, And Giant Solution To Problems

My solution to traffic, fender-benders, the insurance industry, road rage, fat-cat oil company profiteers who can't drill in the Mexican Sea Gulf, drunk driving, that dipshit with the loud rap music stereo blasty-boom, people who demand you get out of their way because they are late for a latté, your impending short-comings due to underestimating the intense influence of a red-head, lowered Acuras driven by shit-head kids with no insurance crossing 4 lanes in 1/8 of a mile after merging, and Calvin peeing on a rival car makers.

(ahem)

Oh, and Nick Hogan.

Everybody would be in pods that have giant magnets in the front and back. Front magnets and rear magnets have opposite polarities, but all fronts have the same and and all rears have the same. See, that means you get close to, but not crash into, the other cars.




Then, the entire system runs on tracks that are magnetized, like those tracks that the bullet trains run on in Japan, Germany, and every other country we've kicked the S out of in a war. Losers better their positions, and the winners walk around making movies about our triumphs, that we have to drive to at $4.37 a gallon. Assclowns. And you zip right along, ZOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP. The track has magnets that switch polarities and zip you along quietly, with the only exhaust coming from Michael Savage.

THEN, you get in your pod, which would be like a comfortable little office or customized bathroom with a TV and WiFi connection and a place to "do business" and a boss-ass system. You punch in where you wanna go, hit the GO button, and you zip into the flow of traffic that is on the rail.

The rail system senses you coming in, and slows a car down a half-mile back, so you get right into where you fit best. NO MERGING. NO ASSFACE DISSING YOU FOR TRYING GET AHEAD OF THEM, HOW DARE YOU, SeatSniffer. And bingo, you're in the flow in a Merge/Purge lane.

Merge/Purge? That's the lane on the far right that goes about 15 M'sPH slower than the rest of traffic. You go there FIRST, then you get into traffic, and the lanes go faster depending on how far you have to go. If you're in it for the long haul, you get way to the left and zoom along at about 70-80 M'sPH. If you're heading to Trader Joe's, you get about 45 M'sPH, while finalizing your shopping list and talking to your therapist.

HANDS FREE, of course.
And I will still miss meetings because I'll leave the house 3/10ths of a second later than I ought to.

NO, this won't work, I know that.
Because we love our cars.
They give us the personality where our Personality should be.

And because people love being Tail-Gated by the... BITCH... who can't drive and talk at the same time and then acts like it's MY fault that she's gonna be late to work at the tanning salon. And it's not. It's her fault she can't keep her GPA up at a Vo-Tech.

And because the guy in the BMW M3 I see every day passing in school zones would have to develop a NEW skill to compensate for a flaccid personality. I wanna gutterball that doosh.

And because we love pulling to a red light, in the right-hand lane, and sitting behind the bootch who ain't seen that it's a RightTurnOnly lane, and there's no cross-traffic, so GO... GO AHEAD... go go go go go go GO GO GO GO GO GO GO... go. Please. Oh CheezIts Crepes, I'm going to push you into traffic. (yes, this happened today).

So anywho, that's just my suggestion. I think we're close to accepting the notions I proposed. However, until we find a way for people to be employed on the magnetic roads thing... I'll be cruising around town in a car not unlike the one seen below.

You know... for personality.

The great minds are all off-center, off-kilter, and need to be that way.

I'm changing the world. YOU change the lightbulbs.

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Lee or Ray, Part 2

Adding to this earlier post, now a re-post, about men with the names of Lee or Ray in their names being somehow more prone to violence. Check it ooot...
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This is going to be the first in a series of how men, and perhaps women, with the middle names of Lee or Ray are most-famous for committing crimes.
Jerry LEE Lewis, for example. Crime? Married a 13 year old. Stopped recording music.

Dixy LEE Ray!, double-name score, former Governor of the state of Washington. Was in office when Mt. St. Helens erupted. Just sayin'...

David LEE Roth. Ego savant. High kicks. Lost his mind.

Billy RAY Cyrus. Not enough?

Charles RAY Fuller. from the AP story: The 21-year-old North Texas man was arrested last week for trying to cash a $360 billion check, saying he wanted to start a record business, authorities said. Tellers at the Fort Worth bank were immediately suspicious — perhaps the 10 zeros on a personal check tipped them off, according to investigators.

AND LET'S NOW ADD... from the AP Story...
A grieving mother is angry and a suspect is now free after King County prosecutors dismissed a murder charge, saying they simply can't prove who killed a young man almost two years ago.

Lonnie Lee Johnson was freed Monday after spending more than 1 1/2 years behind bars. He was accused of stabbing to death Jessie Drungo, 23, in a Kent parking lot during a scuffle that may have had racial overtones.

This list will indeed grow. Something about those middle names of Ray or Lee just drive a person to madness. Madness, I say.

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Bloating Gas Pain

I have kept track of my gas consumption and prices since November of last year, to chart not only what I spent, but how much I got for it, and how many miles I was getting per gallon.

December 21 of last year, gas was $3.19/gal in the state of Washington.
$40 bought me 12.46 gallons.

Tuesday afternoon, I put in $40, and got 10.99 gallons, at $3.63/gal, an increase of $.44/gal. Gas has not improved in quality, color, taste, nor abdominal prominence. It's still gas.

Now, at this rate, gas will be consistenly over $4/gal by Labor Day. Supply vs. Demand shows us something important here.

If we have less of a demand (buying, using, filling bottles to light&heave at buses of clowns), the supply loses it's value, and the price drops.

FRIDAY is supposed to be one of those "Gas Out! Holiday!" things, where people aren't supposed to buy any gas for an entire day.

IDIOTS.

You don't break addiction by not taking drugs all day Friday, only to take a freeze on Saturday morning. On Saturday, you get up, you use something other than drugs, like exercise or hugs or prayer or naps, and stay away from drugs. Now you have 2 days off the dope. Sunday, maintain, do the same thing. Take a walk. Ride the bus. Ride that bike.

Gasoline is expensive on the West Coast because we don't have a near-by refinery to work it for us, and since we have the Alaska pipeline, you'd think we'd have that in place. But who wants a refinery next to their kid's "School For The Relatively Normal"? Not here, in Washington, one of the most heavily-taxed, under-waxed, gluten-free pancake-stacked states this side of Saudi Arabia.

Car-pool, thumb it, hoof it, jog it, wheel it. If you can, lay off the gas.

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Humor, The Sixth Sense

Humor, like Style, but not Substance, is a Trait one has. Perhaps like an odor, if one were to ask my lovely wife, who announces her entrance to most rooms with "It stinks in here, Geoffrey."

I feel that people are Funny the way some are Tall. Born to have a certain amount of it the world will experience, you don't really know how Funny somebody is until you get in a situation with them where it comes out. Like Height, Humor is best experienced when somebody's reaching for something, like a rebound or the sombrero-shaped chip/salsa bowl. You can't tell how huge Shaquille O'Neal is until you're standing next to his dong at the urinal. And you can't tell how funny a person is unless you actually have a gauge of "Funny vs. Not Funny."

So here's where I am going with this:

Today, I was on a conference call with a number of people who I think have a pretty good sense of humor. They would "get," if not really "adore," Mitch Hedberg.

"Rice is great, especially if you're hungry, and want 2,000 of something."

"I have an intense dislike of protests, but I don't know how to show it."

So I'm on the call, and I do a little Roll Call to make sure that I know who's all there. At the end of the list (we have an application that shows everyone who's dialed in, so I read the names of everyone whom I could see had dialed in), I said...


"Okay, I think I got everyone."


Met with silence.




THEN, I say, "Please announce yourself if you're not here."
Met with about a 3-Mississippi of silence...
Then...

"Uh, yeah, they can't say they're not here if they're not here."


... huh... ya don't say... well then...


And thus ends another experiment of injecting humor into the workplace. I fully expect that little exchange to end up in a Reader's Digest. If I put myself in the role of the guy leading the call, I'll look like an ass for explaining that Yep, not being there precludes one from being able to speak in their absence. But if I say somebody else did it, I could be $400 richer.


When at a coffee stand/shack/establishment, asking for "room" with your drink means they don't fill it all the way so that you can post-load it with as much Splenda as your spleen can turn into bloody bits of... okay, sorry... It's the space at the top. "Room For Cream," a great name for a dairy, btw.

I once asked a barista, "You guys ever run out of room for people's drinks, when somebody asks for it?" That got quite the hearty tilt of the head and a twitched eyebrow in the vein of "Don't hit on me, fatty."


The kid behind her laughed his ass off. Barista only said "Like, on the counter where we put them?" The kid behind her explained, "No, like the space at the top of the drinks."


By then the joke, like my hope of ever being as widely accepted as Dane Cook, slid off the counter, to the floor, and underneath some fart-stain's Vans.

So there ya go.
We don't all laugh at the same things all the time, but the Funny is always happening. You may just be too short, or tall, to see it.

Last example...

Why is the guy on the left wearing a watch?
Where does he have to be? Ear doctor? Elephant try-outs? This is why you have to start eating Organic, folks.

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Fat? So!

I gotta tell ya... I've been a big, fat-ish guy my entire life.

I look at the pics of myself in youth league soccer, and I look like I absorbed the kid next to me. Big head, big frame, big ol' Northern European field-workin'/bear-fightin' trunk. And for YEARS I despised it.

I've tried more than a few different diets. The two that worked best for me? South Beach and Weight Watchers, both built around keeping your blood sugar in-check with lean meats, beets, whole grains (if you can't see the grain in it, that ain't whole grain foodstuffs), low/no dairy fats (AND THIS GUY LOVES THE FRIGGIN' AGED, FERMENTED, CURDED COW JUICE CHUNKS, people).

But lately I'm on the reduction. For a number of reasons, not the least of which is vanity. Yes, I want to look and feel better about the body I walk around with, and put on stages in front of people. They deserve better. As does my wife. I want to look better for her, too. Also, for LONGEVITY. Dropping 10% of your weight can greatly reduce health issues such as diabetes, pre-diabetes, sleep apnea, cholesterol, and back sweat.

If you have just 75 minutes a day to work out, your life must be very uneventful.

But if you have, say, 45 minutes to work out every other day... THEN CHECK THIS OUT, now with a special word from "The Biggest L0ser" trainer Jillian Michaels.

I don't shill for anything that I don't either get paid for or believe in. And I believe in Turbulence Training. Big time.

(CLICK GRAPHIC FOR MORE INFO!)

I've dropped about 6lbs of my body fat. I've put on about 2lbs in muscle. And I don't spend an hour in the morning on a treadmill only to return after work for another hour of tossing iron. And when I'm done working out? PUMPED. Not sore and aching and torn down. I'm tired, but I feel like I could eat a mountain lion.

Work, quickly, intensely, and you can shape your body quickly, intensely. Or take the loooooooong, slow approach, and we'll talk again around Labor Day.

I'm staying on it. The only thing holding me back, like I said, is not applying smarter eating principles. But these are sacrifices I will make for the good of my Self, Body, and Life. That's worth it, to me.

But I still love Iced Cream and Cheese. Forever.

Coming soon... "pictures" of the Geoff. Sorry.

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Today Is My Wife's Birthday!

409 days ago, my Wife From The Future became My Wife, Alicia. It is perhaps the highest honor I have had bestowed upon me. I cannot think of a greater honor.

Not Guitar Hero III champion,

not Body For Life winner,

nor eating your IQ in Rocky Mountain Oysters.

Today I do my best to celebrate Alicia's birthday, because this woman is amazing. I mean that in the true sense, in that I am amazed by her work ethic, her temperment, her love, her efforts, her drive, and her outlook. I mean that I step back and recount the times I've done things dumb enough to make me want to have an out-of-body experience so I can crotch-kick myself, and she just laughs at me and works through the rubble.

I think one of the keys to a great life is to never, ever stop growing as a person, and Alicia is doing that. She is never satisfied with one thing for too long, she wants to make something better, prettier, or peanut butterier. Her self-motivation is often my motivation. She never stops making me laugh, inspiring me, and almost pissing me off. She is perfect for me, and I am a happy, happy man.

This past year we did something that was both painful AND annoying: We made a budget. Alicia did the real work, hammering out numbers and spreadsheets, I just whined about why I couldn't lay on the floor and play with my shoelaces. But we did it, and she's driven our budget ever since. And the renovations in our home. And it's because of her planning and ideas that we are doing incredibly well, and living a life open to the influx of blessings, friendships, and travel two people who have contrary viewpoints to MTV's programming deserve.

Alicia, Happy Birthday! You are the best person I could have in my life, and someday, we both know that I will be the best person for you. I love being your houseband.

And now a word from the cat.

BRRROWR?

BROWR?

BROOOOOOOOORRROWR!

Mmmowr?

(scratch your eyes)

purr purr purr purr purr

[draaaaaaaaaaaaaag my f*cking claws down your expensive duvet cover because I'm an asshole]

mmmmmMRROOOOWRowrowwworrr?

[Poop, kick it on the wall]

Happy Birthday, Alicia! I'm doing the best I can, and you deserve better!

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Commentator Tots

Dearest Reader,

For nearly a year, if not almost a year, I have had no Comments section.

It wasn't because I didn't care what you had to say. I did. I do. I did do. I done.

So, do. Comment, that is. Feel free now to hit the comments and fire one off to me. I had 'em blocked out because of the sp@mming that was going on in my comments section. Now, I work with somebody who is human spam, filling my airwaves with stuff I don't need to know.

Wow, would love to talk about it, but there's a proximity to work and blogging that shan't be breached, unless one blogs anonymously, like a giant nerdload.

So there ya go. What have you to say?

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Who'm I Gonna Vote At?

First off, sorry for ending the title in a preposition. Old street joke... and yet Josh Sneed did it in his "Comedy Central Presents..." special.

Secondarily, I'm not endorsing, formally, any candidate until after the election. In doing so, I can maintain my record of choosing the right candidate, currently at 3-1. I took an "L" after the first Gore-Bush Blowout in 2000. More of an honor thing.

NOW, I am voting based on a few core values I have. One of which is personal responsibility. As much as I love the general platform that Ron Paul stands for, I also think he is far too isolationist for our world of cultural integration. And I've heard he's anti-coffee ice cream, so that's a big stinkin' finger in the eye of his record.

McCain came out and spoke about how the Government should have limited involvement in the banking bailout that arose over the sub-prime mortgage lending. In doing so, he called out the banks for their irresponsible lending practices, as well as the people losing homes because, oh, they didn't have their $h*t together in order to keep their $h*t together and not work off the ARM sitch.

In doing so, we don't have to drop $400,000,000 of taxpayer/education/health care/body armor money on helping folks who, golly, didn't realize that $2,200 a month is MORE than $1,400 a month!

Unless the banks go to China for money. Or Saudi Arabia. Oh... hmmm, wait a sec, this just got weird...

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I Can Hear You Now

Okay, I've decided on a sense I would give up if I had to lose one of my senses.

The decision was made for me, really.
At first, I figured that I'd go with "taste." If I wanted to drop a sense, it would be Taste. The upside is that I wouldn't be tempted in most ways that I am tempted by certain things. The downside is that, if I lost my sense of taste, I would start enjoying the music of Nickelback, The Music Industry's Answer to Illegal Downloading. Plus, I love foods. And I have a lot to try.

So I went another way. Or, like I said, the way came to me, and I said "mmmmB'okay." I know that I'll live a long, healthy life, vibrant and full of fun clothes and trips. But if I had to be robbed of a sense, of the 5 we have (Smell, Sight, Touch, Taste, Hearing), oh crap, EASY...

HEARING.

• I can read captions to funny movies and humorous passages in books.
• I can remember how many of my old favorite songs sound, but most of today's music is recycled from an era I wasn't that hip to anyway.
• I would never have to listen to somebody tell a totally F'ed-up joke. Not a "wrong" joke, a joke they aren't smart enough to remember the proper delivery to.
• I wouldn't have to listen to people complain about how their $5 coffee doesn't taste enough like coffee after they put enough milk and flavor in it to give a leprechaun insulin shock.
• Crying babies? Never again.
• Children's laughter? Creepier than you think.
• You're gonna have to come into the room to tell me the cat has diarrhea.
• Co-worker's diatribe, punctuated with mistimed giggling, about how "this place used to have creamer but now, I uh, my friend works at a place that has creamer and this place used to have creamer, and uh..." WHAT? WHERE IS THIS GOING? WHAT DO YOU WANT? WHAT?

SORRY, I cannot hear you. The Lord has blessed me. So what, I have to talk with my hands and tell people via written word that I'm unable to hear them? Look at all I have lost! It would be worth it.

Think of all the stuff you are inundated with on a daily basis that just turns to white-noise in your mind.
Never again.
The aliens have it right. TELEPATHY. ABDUCTION. PROBES.

Humor is a sense, much like taste.
Some people can enjoy the foie gras, the slow-braised elk tenderloin, and the cheese pairings. Some, well, they're just pissed you passed ANOTHER Arby's, man.

So yes, Hearing. If I had to lose a sense, it would be hearing. No more Nickelback. Yes, I'd choose to lose my sense of hearing,
Or Decency. I'm tired of gut aches from non-farting in public. Or maybe half-decency, half-smell. I think too few people have the perspective of what I could be doing in grocery aisles and various clothiers. So yeah, Decency would be the other sense I may give up.

I should re-think this.

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Letters To Losers

Open Letter to Inattentive Lady At QFC:

I don’t care how long you stood behind me, not seeing that I was reading a magazine near, but not IN a check-out line.
I don’t care that you didn’t see that the check-out line I stood near, but not IN, wasn’t even operating, as nobody was in front of me, and the checker wasn’t there, and the light wasn’t on to show that it was in operation.
I don't care that you didn't see any sort of goods near me that would indicate a purchase was nearing in our time-space continuum.

The answer to your question “Well why (was I) standing there for?” is this:
Because you’re a dumb crap-piece who needs her world challenged in more ways than standing behind a man reading Seattle Metropolitan magazine for a minute before your head cork-pops from your butt’s hole to realize, OH HEY, that guy’s not even in line.

I honestly hope that your world is an emotionally teetering card-house on top of a frayed-cord space-heater near a puddle of the tears you cry at night in between couch-smoked cigarettes and tumblers of Chardonnay, weeping “Come back, Doug, come back” into an macramé pillow case. If I wanna read, I’ll read in your F’ing kitchen, Hag-ass. Sorry that you can’t pay Attention with AMEX. Next time, wear more perfume and make my other eye blind, we won’t have this problem. Eat a crap taco.

Open Letter to DoucheBagge Personifcato At The Alderwood Mall FoodCourt on Saturday, 2/16/08, between 2:30 & 4pm:

It’s not gonna happen, man.
I know you think the baggie Dickies jeans, backwards cap, black thermal shirt, flat-link silver-colored chain necklace, and Swisher Sweet tucked under your cap is an ensemble of ass-attraction. But there’s What You Think. And There’s Reality. Nice giant headphones plugged into a CD player, BTW. El nardo.

To watch you walk around with your elbows slightly flared, as though you were puffing up to make yourself appear bigger to other socially retarded monkeys (your friends), I was reminded of why some animals eat their young, or at the very least, stop feeding them. I know judging you without knowing you is wrong, but Bang-bang-bang-GUILTY on all counts of acting like the ring leader of a gang I dubbed “The Alderwood Skids.”

I watched as you all kept your slack-jawed gazes fixed upon the door, perhaps for a group of girls within your perceived ability to score with them. Yet for 90 minutes, it didn’t happen. That bus from the home for girls with sub-70 IQs never showed, did it?

And what was the dance move you were attempting? The left hand, flattened, palm-down at waist-level, while you undulated your hips to music only you could misinterpret and lose the beat to? You certainly had the attention of a number of girls. They all said “aaaaw!’ while hoping your seizure stopped long enough to laugh at you.

I’m going to see you again, I know I will. And when I do, I hope your posse is with you. The guy with the gigantic eyebrows. His brother with the mongobrow. Your friend who had a checkerboard shaved/dyed into his head. Your best buddy who you looked like you were about to kiss a couple of times, were it not for all those prying eyes. The kid with no headphones who kept shaking his head like we was listening to a song that focused on the ratio of “Money:Bitches” or perhaps “Bitches:Problems.” When I see you again, I will videotape you and post it on the internet to show everyone why NOW is the time to genetically modify food so that people under a certain IQ cannot breed. Smell my hate-fart.


Open Letter to the "Aren't I Funny!?!?"but You're Not Funny You Just Can't Shut Up Pipe-Blockage

Shouting your way in to every conversation going on around you is a great way to get your voice heard. And registered on the "Do Not Talk Around This Person" list. You think you're funny, because that one time at your old job your co-worker said they were going to trim their bushes over the weekend and you said "HEEEEEY! Don't GO theerrre!" and you've hung your whimsical hat upon that tag ever since.

My favorite was when somebody mentioned their friend's serious illness, and you imparted how your sister had a similar but not-as-serious illness, and your friend should have gone to the hospital your sister went to.

What.
The.
F*ck.

Next time that happens, I'm going to let it hang for 5 seconds, and interrupt whomever starts talking to put the limelight on YOU, Rubbernecker, because you want the attention and you'll get to pony-up the info you so greatly want to share. And when it's over, waaaaaaaaaay past the time you should have shut up, I'll just say "Oh, is that all? You made it sound so big, it's really not, is it?"

And then I, not YOU, will look awesome! Nice wolf shirt.
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Seriously folks, I'm truly in a GREAT mood!


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