And Another Another Thing

If anyone thought I was the only person who thinks The Stranger is an incestuously "self-made hipster" rag of Biblically Gay-But-Not-In-A-Homo-Way proportions, check out this week's "I, Anonymous" entry.

Compare it to my previous blog regarding that fibrous melange of lines and pictures.

And then wipe your pipe with the local music reviews. And the "Drunk Of The Week" horsecrap of a feature is probably just a bunch of their exes they want to out for being tanked too often. Real drunks don't get their pictures taken while awake. Get with the program.

I stand by my previous quote that "Celebrity I Saw U" is the only thing in that diaper-liner worth reading.

Happy St. Patrick's Day.

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My Blog About My Dad

How To Tell When Somebody Is Lying

You know that feeling you get in your gut that says "there's no way this prostitute isn't a cop."? Yeah, check in with that.

If someone tells you a trait about themselves, an intrinsic trait, not something visible like pretty eyes or a well-tucked fruit-cocktail, then that person's probably lying to you.

You can usually tell something about somebody because you have a sense of decency and smell to let you in on it. It's a gut reaction to the way someone walks, looks around a room, and picks up the tab every time.

So remember, if somebody has the need to tell you a trait about themselves, like "I'm funny," or "I'm a great guy," or "I don't need attention," the exact opposite is true, and they will be on stage in a few minutes.

Behold the finest knifeholder created. At www.viceversa.com





I Care,
Lott
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Putting The "Con" in Conference Call

I "rushed" into work this morning because, like a lot of days, I had a conference call. The factors of timeliness and building-presence don't affect me emotionally. If I could do my job from home, I wouldn't; I don't want any of these people to know where I live, not to mention that I'd be waist-up naked and likely wine-drunk most of the work day. My focus wanes from moment to moment after the badge scan, even more-so when I know I don't have to be back here for 16 hours.

My "team" is based in California. Perfect. My original boss in this organization is about 12 feet away. The manager I had following her is about a quarter-mile down the road in another building. My current manager is in Calafournee. My next manager will be a naked mole-rat/human hybrid who lives near the center of Sugarloaf Mountain in South America. It helps save $$$ in facilities when the middle-managers are middle-crust dwellers with daylight problems. No cubes, no offices, no badges.

Thanks to technology, I am brought together (interlocking fingers, head tilt, slight smile) with my teammates in California. This conference call is the work-a-day equivalent of a car-wash hangar: Follow the instructions and you can do it yourself! No, now, don't try and throw a curveball, just get it done with and look back at it later to see how many spots you missed. Oh crap, and you've scratched living hell outch-yer protective coat. Wow... was this necessary?

It's the ever-necessary Preview Of The Year's Goals Call. It is vital to have a call of this nature so that we can each look back and say "It was horsesh*t at the beginning, too." As we cover these goals and platitudes to be worked towards, it was made clear to me that the "Scoring" system that a lot of teams are on is based on the work I produce.
And all this time I thought I was powerless.

The work I produce measures workload, efficiency, and trends of each. I pull, format, and produce these reports, or "metrics" if you wanna be corporate about it, for Four teams. I fell into this job as a back-up to the previous guy. The database he built was a house of cards, and one day someone walked by too quickly and it came a-tumbling down. Too bad, because it automated the work I have to do now, with keyboards and mouse-clicks, teeth grinding so hard they barely let any Jameson pass. The work is entered from a raw format into a... hey, wake-up... into a spreadsheet that I have created with formu... hey... are you snoring? Forget this part.

So now here I am. Rock you like a hurricane. My work will affect the scores (imagine grades, but with a mortgage payment attached) attained by many a co-worker. The technician's scores will roll up to the scores hanged by the names of their managers. These are the same managers who, when asked for a list of people they manage, sent me a 3MB org. chart so that my mailbox would be clogged for a week while I found that they manage 2 of 743 people in their regional office. And I get to decide how it all goes!

I have to go now. I am going to send a note to managers to alert them that the scores their salaries and therefore their self-worth are fed from the system that they never use, by people they have minimal communication with, by a guy who is unaffected by how well... or how pathetic... it appears their team is doing. And these folks haven't clued in yet that I can, if necessary, and with fully ethical practices, make it appear that of their 5 direct reports, only 2 of them even work for the company, and that 3 paychecks are all going to an offshore account in the Sugarloaf Savings & Loan Bank for a Mrs. Chandira Rolemat. I found the Golden Ticket, Gobstoppers. Willy Wonka's power is no match for somebody willing to float a Baby Ruth down the chocolate river.

Gotta roll, phone's ringing. Oh look, it's a manager! Unless the first two words uttered are "FREE LUNCH," I see someone with a long Q2 ahead of them.

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I will be headlining the Wednesday Show at Pegasus Pizza in Kirkland, 9:30pm, as well as the entire weekend at Laughs in Bellevue. Shows Friday and Saturday night, 9pm, and one Brunch Showcase Sunday morning, 10-10:30am. Enjoy a blintz!

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Somebody's Trying To Tell Me Something

Monday again?

Last week I printed out an article from The Onion written by a fictitious author, Jim Anchower. Jim's a late-era hesher, living in a world of broken cars, bad weed, broke friends, and low-paying jobs. I don't know if he's ever been a comic, sorry.

So anyway, I forgot the printed version on the tray and somebody left it on my desk some time between Friday afternoon and this morning. I had the article in an e-mail window, which, when printed, had my mail profile name on the top. I'm stupid sometimes.

The funniest part was that somebody had stapled a note as a cover sheet that said:

Hello,

This was left on the printer, and is not the first document like this. Fortunately, it was found and given back to you by somebody concerned for youre well being. If you are having troubles with work or general life circumstances, this company offers these resources to assist.


So here's what I think is so funny:
1- the cover-sheet person thinks I wrote the article, and/or
2- the cover-sheet person thinks my life is the subject of the article, and/or
3- the cover-sheet person thinks I am having a problem with somebody named Wes, not having any beer, scoring bunk doobage, my car breaking down, and getting evicted from an apartment, if they read the entire article, and/or
4- they also think I call myself a "lone-wolf," which I do on occasion, and/or
5- they have zero sense of humor to have never heard or the ability to appreciate The Onion.

I'm too busy making other people think I give a flip about this job, but the person did write my old manager's name on the paper. My old manager would get a huge kick out of the incident, so I really hope they called my old boss, who has not contacted me. But I do have handwriting to match to, so now I have to peruse the fridge to see who wrote on their lunches, because friggin-A, when you're on a suicide watch at work, you need the sustenance that only a meal in a cheese-sauce can provide.

My job sucks and is beneath me. It's time I look elsewhere.
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My Blog About My Dad

Whoopadoop Ramanaploop

My current managerial umbrella is open, indoors. You know what that means!
Six more weeks of answering dumb questions.

It is because of their lack of vision that I almost quit about 10 minutes ago. Truly, I envisioned myself standing up, running a program to wipe-clean my computer and network shares, and going to the desks of each person I cannot stand and telling them exactly what I thought of them, their clothes, their laughs, their hair, and why the are a-pipes for bringing a 2-liter of Dr. Pepper and SunChips to a potluck.
It gave me a fantastic erection.

But I can't walk just yet. I am reminded of the funniest Red Meat cartoon for my situation:
Titled, The Buckling Beams Of Your Hopes And Dreams, it takes on great significance today. I cannot imagine working for anybody for 40-ish hours a week to make THEM look good. I'm ready to make a move, emotionally, but financially I'm shackled to the oar of the SS WindBreaker for a while. Row, Row, Row... your... bo(siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh)
Oh yeah, and here's another Red Meat 'toon that sounds like a great idea:
Geoff Lott's Exit Strategy

Instead of having one manager, I am reporting directly to one in California, indirectly to four in Washington, and round-aboutly to 15 across the nation. A secret of management is that the more you know about corporate buzz-words and PowerPoint, the less actual work you have to do. You end up with a little office and a door and a little jaunty walk like I get after a good dump. Because that's what Managers do: Crap.

Managers have a way to escape from my prying questions; that's why I envy the door. It's little more than having your own cell in prison. But the door, it's a good status symbol if you're into meaningless status symbols. That, and it blocks annoying laughter, microwaved BBQ-cod, and I could finally fart in peace. But then again, I don't fart at work for relief, I fart at work for revenge. Thank you broccoli and Lo-Carb Monster. But I would not rip in an elevator, because that should be a capital offense.

I dump you not, there's a misManager at the Executive Admin's desk next to mine requesting to be moved to an office with a window. There's the bigger toilet in the cell I mentioned earlier.

I know they are "busy" with meetings. These are meetings set up by other Managers. The organizer of the meeting probably just read some new book on a Management technique that includes using phrases analogous to getting work stalled, held-up, debated, and then denied. "Synergy" is another word for kissing ass and nodding along. "Mission-critical" means the manager actually had an original thought, and gawrsh-durn'it, that new vending machine is going to be installed, even if it is not needed, budgeted, or filled with broccoli and Lo-Carb Monster.

I'm not meant to be here. I don't mean "here" is in this planet, I mean this place of employment. I extract 5000-item spreadsheets out of an archaic system to them manipulate, format, sort, and pivot the data in them so I can tell managers "Hey, this one guy you manage is working less than Larry King's last wife. Drop the conference call, open your door, and get in the game."

In case you're wondering, YES, I will be filming my last day. And NO, this time there will NOT be news coverage. I learned my lesson: Sell Advertising, as it helps pay for bail.

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Masturblogtion

I'm happy that more people are using blogs these days. It saves paper. And paper, as we've been told for nearly a decade now, is what trees are made out of. Therefore, not using paper means that trees are not being cut down for diaries that go tucked away, cradling ideas and dreams, funny drawings and fantasies, Polaroids that shouldn't see the light of an FBI Mag-Lite when the Feds come-a knockin' because, brother, that "woman" you met in the chat room wasn't a "woman"... she was a panda.
And now, you're a Panda-pounder, and they have enough trouble getting them to mate with each other, because you're swooping in with your DSL and your Queer Eye sensibilities and delivering not bamboo but Annie's Organic Burritos, the staple of the panda with cash. Look where that got you. Reading my blog, wondering to yourself "This guy either has been reading between the lines, or 30 minutes ago his glycogen levels dipped and he could use a gram of carbohydrates or 20."

"Supposably" is not a word. It was noted as such on an episode of "Friends" back in 1996 or so, when the one in the closet told the mook that the mook's use of "Supposably" was wrong, since it's not a word. It's Suppos-edly or Oppos-able, meaning "Pretended, alleged, or expected" or "to be in opposition to," respectively. I guess Supposably could mean "Expected to Opposed," but we already have a word for that. It's called "Me At Work With Good Ideas."

In the event you hear on the news tonight of an Indian-burn assault in Bothell, perpetrated on a woman in the early afternoon, you can be damn sure that CackleSnatch Sandie has uttered the phrase "Get 'er (sorry, I almost threw up, can't finish it)" and I have reacted appropriately.

If you've never used the =VLOOKUP function in Excel, you don't know what you're missing. Basically, anytime you have a list of data that you want to associate with another type of data, say "State - TimeZone," then you can use the VLOOKUP to quickly make the association for you. The best part is that you get to make the reference sheet by hand, especially if you use Remedy Helpdesk, work for a cheap-ass company, and are really rather drunk at your desk riiiiiiiight... NOW.

I'm headlining at Laughs in Bellevue next weekend. Their website is chips-up right now, but the details are as follows:
Show is at The Ramada Inn on 8th Ave NE and 112th in Bellevue, on the corner. Walk into the lobby, and the club entrance is to the right of the stairs. If you see old people eating Country Fried Steak, you've gone too far.
Friday and Saturday, 9pm, $10 at the door, $5 if you're on my guest list, which means you gotta e-mail me HERE and I'll add you to it.

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Take Me Home

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I'll Give You $5

Today is the 2nd day in a row that I got up and worked out in the morning. I feel really up and at-it this morning. I've also refocused my eating towards some higher-protein, lower-fat, plenty of veggies...
Chimp attack... two headed baby... GAAAAA
This is bullshit. Here's the deal.

NoMakeup Sandie is over 100 feet from my desk right now, hanging half-way into an office. This "Unofficial Office GleeClub Member" is laughing so loud that a guy BEHIND ME just shut his door, and he's at least 117 feet from the offense. A Sandie-dampening door is the only reason I envy management here.
My dilemma is that I know people love to laugh, it feels good. They say laughter is the best medicine. She's over-medicated, she's an addict. We need to have an intervention. I need some help, people.
I can't find it in myself to go up to her and say "Heeeeeey kiddo! How's it going? Sounds like you are having a really, uh... FUNNY day today, yeah? Alrighty, great. As a favor to someone you rarely talk to but can hear every word you say, I'm hoping, oh gosh... I hope this gets really uncomfortable for you, but could you force-jam your head ass-wise until you can see yourself, like in 'Being John Malkovich?' That would really be GREAT! No, no... I'm not here to talk about the John Markovich movie, as you call it. I'm here to try and hold on to my sanity. MMkay? Repeat after me... SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. Great then. Wait... why are you laughing? You laugh even when you cry? This has to be Hell, or at the very least, Tumwater."

Here's another problem. She KNOWS she's loud. She acknowledges it, almost prides herself on it. Kind of how Tony Moser prides himself after flopping a set "on purpose." Granted, her resumé states that she was raised in an Abrams tank by braying donkies, but we are nearing a time where we can finally live on the moon or under water with our aquatic mammal brethren, and she's going to be our leader because her laugh can be heard a quarter mile away.

If you have a tactful way of telling her that while her "Up Up UP!" attitude is appreciated while her volume is f*cking-A NOT, send me an e-mail HERE and I'll do what I can to balance myself out. Take care now. I'll be in the file drawer until noon.

Oh gawd, she's got bronchitis now?
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Take Me Home

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Mazeltov!

Hey there BeanieWeenie!
I have a lot going on right now, mentally and emotionally, and one thing I'm trying to do is let go of negativity in my life. Shun it, ignore it, set fire to it. When that fails I'll just turn a mirror to it and hope Negativity starts a fight with itself or flies at its reflection for a while. Negativity is all around our lives in different forms, and unlike somebody getting torqued at a Jimmy Buffet concert, second-hand neuroses just don't pop the same high they once did.

The crappy thing about me right now is that I have seen what other people are doing well, yet sliding on my responsibilities to myself. It's time for me to stop the chatter and move forward on what I want to do. Reality tells me to shut off my brain and go inward. What do I need to do more of, in order to accomplish my daily/weekly goals? That's what I'm assessing right now. What do I really WANT? What can I dedicate myself to mastering within my parameters of "mastershippage?"

While shunning negativity has helped me see what I don't like about People (that's capitalized so nobody starts getting and itchy Comment finger or moving metaphors around on their "RISK-The Blog War Edition" board) as far as Personalities go. I'm wearing glass-colored glasses, but the glass changes color depending on the amount of incoming Goodness. My brain collects positive growth signals like some guys collect Star Wars Figures: Sometimes I appreciate them, but overall I just like seeing a person enjoy what they're doing. Not growing is the equivalent of dying. Better, or worse.

So while I step back and assess what my shortcomings have been, I need to be really honest with myself. I've made some good changes, I have things I want to and will work on, and for the most part, I really hope that stain comes out of the carpet. If I can get THAT up, there's no telling what I'll be able to accomplish. I'm going within for a while, and sharing when I need to. In the meantime, I really hope you get some good things moving for yourself, or at the very least, stop stepping in other people's spotlight long enough to applaud for them. Your turn's right around the corner. Especially if you can get grass stains out of a blood stain off a chocolate/cabernet splotch-like stain.

Don't ask, just feel bad for not accepting the evite.
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Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Leggo My Ego

I have to begin by giving a warm Thank You to the people who have commented to me, electronically or in-person, about the blog regarding my dad. We are all witnessing loved ones getting older, and suddenly I feel like a grown-up and I wasn't ready for this degree of maturity. But we have no choice. Life brings you a new normal like it's counting to a random number in Hide And Go Seek, and I was lulled to believe I had found a safe, warm place to hide and grow in. Ready Or Not...
The friendship, care, and love people have shared with me is returned to each, and I wish you and your families health and happiness. Be good to those close to you. Some day you may need them without knowing you do. And they may hand you power of attorney.

Okay, get off me, people are staring... wink
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Making a conscious effort to put your self to the side and to listen to someone opens you up to a whole new world. First off, people think you are really nice. This is further evidence against the power to read minds.
Second, you can really learn the subtleties of a personality with how they talk, what they talk about, and how often they use the words "I," "me," and "my mom's only child."
Third, when you are open to a new perspective on life, you begin to take a quick inventory of yourself, and realize that listening to some people is not only a triumph, but a huge mistake.
Finally, if you don't listen and learn about other people, how will you ever be able to manipulate them? And isn't that what you want? Because you just bought a cattle prod and ball-gag off eBay, so let's not beat around the bush, mmkay?
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I'm off to Canada with the Amazing Alicia for her friend Rachel's wedding. All I know is that it's in Whistler, B.C., I'm wearing a new suit, and I finally found my passport after searching for just over 2 years. For those wondering, your passport is good for 10 years. Thank you Sweet Jesus, because my picture shows me with hair and no crow's feet.
My feet are really ugly.
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My new boss recently asked myself what my ideal position and profession would be. I told him that I've always dreamed of being a satirical columnist who gets paid to shed light on nuances of dead-ends in Western Civilization.
He feigned amusement by asking me if I ever proofread other people's e-mails. I didn't have the heart to tell him that my name isn't George. My new boss and co-workers are all in the same office, about 800 miles away in California.
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If you're looking for the hottest releases in Blues Music compilations, classics, and can't-miss discs, you need to go where you KNOW the broken souls of poor, Southern, hard-living black folks can be felt: Starbucks.
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I'm out. Check out the new Mars Volta release, "Frances The Mute." Keep the lights on when ya do it, though. It's non-classifiable music, what David Lynch would call "Uh... this is pretty far out. Punch me in the crotch again." Rock, pop, punk, trip, funk.
Gotta go, the turtles are fighting with the T-rex again.

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Take Me Home

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A Quick Lesson In Greed

The former CIO of a large Cellular communications carrier was hired by that carrier to lean it out. That is, cut jobs, costs, expenditures, etc. Why? Because it was top-heavy and hemmorhaging cash to pay for the Officer's flights and a boatload... literally... of contractors and off-shore work. Thus, the boat.

Ex-CIO comes in and does what he's known for: Squashing growth. His contractor buddy mismanages a major project costing the company upwards of $250,000,000, all while the contracting company walks with their full payment.
Losing $250-million cripples the Carrier, while the officers begin saying "work harder, and it will all work out in the end."

The Carrier never gets better, and becomes bait for larger, healthier, more bureaucratic Carriers in the world. Finally, someone bites, and the wounded Carrier's mismanagement of projects for 3 years (only 3 since it split from it's parent company) keep it flopping on the deck of a new owner. The Officers of the company, the same officers who caused the problems nobody could fix, all walk with upwards of $9,000,000 in severance packages, while the CEO walks with over $20,000,000.
Do the wrong thing, cut jobs, become a millionaire.

Some people got $140 out of the deal. And a new boss. And a new badge. And a new set of rules and regulations to learn. And they still have their jobs. Damn it.
So Corrado, Zieglis, and the incestuous Turkish Bath of managerial cronies can gargle my groceries. Hell was created for people like you, and deserve to be locked in a spinning HoneyBucket filled brim-side by Motorhead roadies.

If you don't have EBay stock, buy it now. Corrado is the new CTO at that company, which is losing money and pissing off customers. The stock will drop, someone will try to buy it, the stock will go up, you'll make upwards of $140!
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Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Two Heads Are Better Than... WHOA....

Why NOT follow up a blog about my dad with stories of freaks and whores?
Because I don't know no bettah.
Plus, This Guy And His Big Throbbing Blog followed a Happy Valentine's Day/Cock-touching command with a picture of his daughter's Valentine.
So enjoy the yogurt.
You bettah/you bettah/ YOU BET.
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Because not many folks believed me or heard of it... here's
a photo of the Egyptian baby with two heads.

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And if you didn't think they were re-tarted ho-bags before, perhaps this story from the AP Newswire about The Britney and The Paris will convince you:
Nevermind the catfight -- make that dogfight -- between Britney Spears and Paris Hilton. London's Daily Mail reported earlier this month that Britney dissed Hilton's Chihuahua, Tinkerbell, by claiming that her own three dogs "are stylin' and profilin'. ... Von Dutch just sent them the coolest little clothes. My dogs are so much cuter than Tinkerbell (Ruff! Ruff!)." Now Brit has backtracked, saying on her Web site that "I hope none of you really took my comments seriously when I was talking about Bit Bit and Tinkerbell. I was just being silly and of course I think that Tinkerbell is very cute."

For those scoring at home, that's another 2 points for the Dark Overlord Of Evolutionary Regression.

Take Me Home

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Time To Make A Move

Attensheeowness...
This blog is not about comedy at all. You may laugh, you may cry, but I didn't want to spring a very important writing about my dad on you without some sort of heads-up.
Okay... enjoy your scone.
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Today, Sunday, February 27,2005, my family and I begin moving my dad out of the home he's lived in for 22 years.
We are moving him into a "long-term care facility," or a "rest home," or an "old age home." My mom, sister, and I are facing these fears like canoeing towards a waterfall. We're pulled and tugged and it's scary and people wonder why we don't just get out and DO SOMETHING... we have. We did. We tried. We tried again. We keep trying. Currents move without you in mind. They dictate.

I'll write more when I can. Right now I have to drive to my home town and... damn it... start saying "goodbye" to another part of my life.
Mrs. Garrett never covered this with Tootie on "The Fucts Of Life."
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Okay, more now.
I've decided that I will be writing more about my dad in this blog instead of the other one, which will have exclusively my dad-related writing. This is part of my life and shouldn't be squirrled away as if it's shameful or undeserving of equal exposure.
If you have not read any of that blog, please do. Especially if you have parents who are getting older, and you happen to love them, or ever have loved them.

One story that exemplifies my dad's nature and method of "dad'ing" has to be our Tackling Dummy story.
When I was about 5 or 6, my dad and I went to a swap meet and bought some old pee-wee sized football gear. Pads, helmet, pants, the whole deal. That Christmas I got a Tackling Dummy. We would head out into the back yard, me in full pads, cleats, and a mouthpiece, my dad in sweats, wielding a football and the Tackling Dummy. The T-Dum was a large blue rectangular column, about 5 feet high, with heavy-weight canvas straps. Full of high-impact foam, it was lightweigt but could pack a wallop when swung properly by a 5'6" Auburn University alum working his way up the ladder at Boeing, and the ranks of Kick-Ass Dad.

Dad would throw the ball up in the air, I'd catch it, then have to get past him and the T-dum without hitting the deck, or being decked. Holy lord, he would just CRANK me with that thing. He'd hit me high, from the side, in the hips, right at my feet, and I go ass over eyelids. Then I'd pop up and we'd laugh really hard about how high I got on that last one. It never hurt, it was always fun. We were both just cracking up the whole time.

3 years ago I was ran into a friend of mine who I played football with in high school. He had gone on to play four years in college, and said how much different it was, where the fun wasn't there as much as you had to be almost robotic about it. Very little screwing around, very little gamesmanship, just a bunch of pissing contests. You lose some autonomy and independence, and unless you're way up on the top of the heap, you aren't shit to anyone. Then it dawned on me...
When I was a kid, I really loved playing football with my dad. I was too big to play pee-wee football, even though I wanted to play every year. Youth soccer leagues don't have weight limits, so I learned to dribble for as many as ten feet before powering a shot at a schoolmate's raised hands, shielding the world from his or her screams. I wanted to win.
But since I couldn't play football with the other kids because of my genetic makeup (low-slung, thick-trunked peasant stock), I was never going to be able to play with the other kids. But I wanted to play football, full-pads, full-contact, full-speed hitting and thumping and getting dirty and knocked down and laughing it off and getting back up.
And my dad gave me that. I didn't realize it until 22 years later that I did play football as a little boy, in a game that had no score on a field that was no bigger than my living room, with a man who would do anything to make his kids happy. It was the most fun I ever had as a kid, and the best lesson I ever learned as a man. He still remembers it, and it never fails to get us both laughing again. I don't know that he grasps the importance and love when I thank him. I hope I've thanked him enough and made him proud of me enough times before his condition advanced to where it is now.

So when I write about how hard it is to see my dad's kind and handsome face blankly-masked behind the second stage of his early-onset Dementia, and how I think about how much he has done for me in my life that I am just now realizing the intent and impact of, I never fail to run a full spectrum of emotions. 3 minutes ago I was laughing about the time he whomped me at the ankles with the tackling dummy, and I flipped in the air and landed on my feet for a "touchdown," (just past the end of the awning) and my dad said "THAT WAS GREAT! HOLY SHIT! Don't say that in front of your mom." But now, I'm crying again.

It sucks to feel this. Helpless and almost hopeless and mad at nature and God and doctors and God again, because I can think of about 50 people who deserve to be stolen by Dementia before it ever sniffed my dad's Grey Flannel. But I have been given a lesson to learn. Among the homework is a little chapter on Perspective. I am sad and angry and crying and writing this because I love my dad, because of the man he's been to me and my family, and the lessons he's taught me. The perspective is that I don't cry, I don't feel one way or another about him, and I don't ever think of or talk about or have people he knows express their love and caring about him, because sometimes dad's aren't ready to be dads, for whatever reason. But he was, I was blessed to be "dad'ed" by him, and HOLY SHIT! He was great at it. And I will always say that, even in front of my mom.

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Take Me Home

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Hey, It's Friday And I'm Busy

I'm fuggin swamped at work wiping noses and hoses, trying to get pegs in holes before I kick off some candy-sweet reports next Tuesdizzle mornizzle.
In light of that, here's what I have to say:

Drinking Games are dumb. First off, alcohol is not a plaything. Second, nothing, not rules nor a win-loss record, should come between you and getting Ozzy-drunk. Third, the rules always change to benefit whichever guy wants you to get naked. That's why I quit playing them at lunch today again.

Stop using the term "assless chaps." And yeah, I know you are all doing it in everyday converstootion. All chaps are "assless," otherwise they are pants. Perhaps they are pants with the front cut out, but if you're wearing pants with no fronts, you probably don't care what they're called, because your balls are showing. Yeah, I'm talking to you, lady, I can see your balls.

I'm out!


Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Globally Warmed, Rap Music, And Like, Totally Sorry About The Phone Numbers

This Blog Brought To You By... YOU. I didn't send this link your way. Thank you for taking a moment to read this sack of hooey.
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If ya wanna go see "Be Cool," gimme a "SHITCHYAY!"
"Get Shorty" is one of my top-5 movies. Travolta's "Chili Palmer" is as cool a cat as there's ever been on the silver screen. When he gets a pair of scissors held to his neck during a shakedown by Ray Bones, he flinches ever so slightly, but more because he didn't want his new jacket diced. I recommend watching "Get Shorty," then joining me on March 4th to see "Be Cool." Come on, Vince Vaughn acting like a thugged-out wignutz? Whaddyoo need?
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this is a bit I've worked on and it doesn't seem to be taking hold. here it is in prose form.

Global Warming
The weather in Seattle has rocketed past "gorgeous" and is nearing the gravitational pull of "a little scary." It's been all frozen windows and breath-fog for weeks now. But no clouds in the sky. No snow. No rain. We're looking at a winter drought, a potential Summer drought, and the loss of another ski season.
California is sliding into the Pacific, accumulating enough rain to make most celebrities worry their homes are sliding off the hill. Celebs, meanwhile, dodge phone calls from hacked-out people with digits from Paris Hilton's hacked cell phone. (sidenote, the ho-tard is like 22, okay? she thought it was cool to have Avril Lavigne's #, that's her only crime) California is melting like Chyna's new cheek implants. I mean, my sweet hanging Jesus, BLINK-182 MIGHT BE BREAKING UP!!!

It's got to be Global Warming. OR... as I've suspected for some time, this is Hell.
Perhaps this is what Hell is, eternal fretting over wardrobe and recreational choices. You spent $300 on a Gore-Flex jackamet, grabbed some new Rossignols with boots and bindings, hit the front door and... nowhere to go.
Whatever will we do? OH DEAR GAWD, WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO WITH ALL THIS NICE WEATHER AND FEWER JOBS FOR GUYS TO GRAB ASS ON A SKI SLOPE?
Might I suggest... Evolving? Get outside, take a walk. Move a little. Huh? Hey? Yes? No... okay.
I think it only feels warmer because, in general, people are fatter. Pundits ponder the impact of human existence on the environment while clearing their third buffet plate in Vegas. "Could you turn down the heat? It's creating chloroflourocarbons and ice caps are OH SHIT, BILL, MORE MINI-QUICHE, GO GO GO."
One day we'll find out the cause of global warming: Recycling. Decomposing landfills full of organic material. Oh sure, there's a syringe & diaper-load of it, but it's mostly natural. Put a piece of meat in a plastic bag in the sun for 3 weeks, see what happens. You'll think you're watching Keith Richards in "Bubble Boy 2: Liver And Let Die," and it will stink, but it stopped that cow from flatulating. Now, go bundle up all of those water bottles you've emptied, toss them in your Subescapearuvo, and freeze them. Then break them into millions of tiny pieces. Then melt those pieces down into a blob of Dasanifinian glory, and start molding them into bottles. The amount of energy expended to transport, recycle, and refurbish them there bottles just destroyed the ozone over Washington state.
So quit being a baby sugarplum and throw on your Whore-tex.
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I Don't Tell White Jokes, I Tell Fight Jokes

Pop music and rap music SUCK. They have become formulaic yet more profitable than ever, and therefore will eventually eat themselves. When a boy band is shot with AIDS bullets and a rapper comes out as gay, we'll finally be able to get on with our lives.

Here's how you know rap sucks. First off, these guys want to come off like we have no idea what's going on in tha strizzeets. We ain't know how it goes down on the koneh. Well who the hell is going to tell us? Li'l Jon? The man with catch-phrases like "WHAT?" "YEAH!" and "O-KAAAY!" Is he rapping or getting a ride from his mom? Tell me what's going on then, kind sir, because all I can tell is that, in songs, your stories of growin' up in the projects are best portrayed via the interpretive dances of a large brown ass, or "booty," or "ba-donka-donk," or "bumpercars." I actually looked forward to volunteering with some inner-city youth, what with the rap videos showing how much champagne, jewelry, and fine-ass weed be available.

Second, the TV show "MTV Diary" plays up these diapers with feet like they are new-age philosophers. Listen to an entire rap album, then watch that rapper's edition of "MTV Diary," the tag-line for which is "You think you know, but you have no idea." Right-on, Nas, N.O.R.E. and Fat Joe (named-so because he's, well, ugly). I had no idea. Your music said you came up hard and still lived a fast life of big cars, deep pockets, and rooms knee-deep stacked with ready and waiting poonyatta. I just watched your fat asses sleep off a hangover, tell a fan to f*ck off, and punch a chick in the stomach. You have the money, you should have paid for the morning-after pill, you ass. Your life is retarded, and your biggest problem is that you think you are who the dumbasses at MTV think you are. Yeah, fatty, LeanBack, your knees are taking a pounding.

Even Moby, who once tried to have sex with Earth Day, dropped heat on America's most embarrasing Newlyweds.

You've seen what it's like to live with celebs on all these TV shows. Yeah, there's a camera there and it's not "reality" but would YOU want to wake up to Verne Troyer writing his name in kidney-gin on your wainscoting?

SHITCHYAY you would. OKAAAAAY!

Oh, and Paris Hilton called, she's mass sorry that everyone called your number that she kept in her phone under your name so she could show everyone like you'd signed her yearbook and used the words "Party" and "Love Ya!" The girl's 22. In RichFamily years, that's like 16. In Hollywood years that's around 18. So we'll give her a pass into her Senior Year.

When I say "HO" you say "TARD!"

HO ...

HO ...

SHIIITCHYEEEAAAAAAAAASSS!

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My Blog About My Dad

Ron Reid, A Man Among Dumbasses

Last night's show at the Comedy Underground brought out nearly 15 audience members at last count. That number quickly doubled if one stopped to count comics. And there were a couple other performers in attendance who aren't funny. What brought out these beacons of anonymity?
Ron Reid, Manager of the Comedy Underground. Ron has done a lot for comics in the Seattle area, from encouraging them to giving them a shot. He's been an active conduit to some dreams coming true, and an honest and fair judge of talent and progress. He also greeted me by asking "What, was Giggles closed tonight? HA HA HA HA HA!"
Grand volley, Ron. And Yes, it was.

So we gave our shout-outs to Ron when we could, and I was confronted by a performer who I talked a large amount of crap about last year... like >20 words. Like last August. I'm not going to further it along here, but I will say this: I had forgotten about it until they reminded me of it, but they DID send an e-mail to Geoff Brousseau regarding the incident; he wasn't even involved in it.

One of the reasons I don't talk to a number of people in general is the old saying "If you don't have anything nice to say, blog it... or don't say anything." Why waste time, energy, brain space, and the heat of my breath on destroying connections? It would take a good two hours to tell some folks "Your laugh is fake, you aren't funny, your lunch stunk up the kitchen again, and your hair is thinning, Miss."
I have stopped kissing ass, but there's really no reason to throw a shovel-load of negative crap on top of someone and say it smells like "Honesty." Why not choose a kid at a mall and say "Don't judge what's on the outside, because you are ugly and from what I can tell, your parents don't have a lot of money. You will never be popular. You need to develop a personality!"? But I suppose there is a point where I just have to tell people honestly and forthrightly "It's okay that we do not talk. We are not family, friends, co-workers, or business partners. There's no reason for us to interact. Fair enough?"
The other way to go is that I just do what I've been doing; Going on with my life and steering around the potholes.

So hey, if I talked a bunch of sauce about you on this blog and it ruined your ability to get booked into rooms any more than your act did, please tell me about it. If it hurt your feelings, I am sorry. Now we all see what happens when someone comes forth with their opinions. And yes, I can be a real prick, but I'd rather save it for when some dumb ho-bag's phonebook gets hacked and my number is posted all over the internet. Instead, E-mail Me, not Geoff Brousseau, and let me know how what I said got back to a club manager, a booker, and/or a talent agent, and how that ruined, RUINED your comedy career, and/or gave you neck zits. Ya got one week.

Any later, and I'm calling "Bygones."

Thank you Ron, and Good Night.
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My Blog About My Dad

Wow... Now THAT'S What I Call A PIE!

We all want a piece of the pie. The pie filling is different for each of us. A la mode? For some, not for others. But we want it.

Sometimes you get a piece as a reward for helping make the pie. Perhaps the pie was your idea to begin with, from the shape to the recipe to the full production and presentation. So you should get pretty much the whole pie, if things were all equal.

Sometimes you are given a piece of pie "just 'cause." You likes pie, the giver knows of your affinity for pie, and why not have a little more?

But there's a giant pie divider that says "No matter how much pie you have, we get some of it. If you want to have ANY pie, you have to share some with others. Not the whole thing, but enough that you'll feel like you are left with crumbs. Some people have NO pie, so enjoy what you get." It's not your fault that some people have NO pie, you're doing the best you can to get yours! And the more pie you get, the more you have to give back. It's the sliding pie-grab scale. Work harder, have more pie in front of you? Prove you made it, and you don't have to give any back. If someone gave it to you, however, not only will the giver have to remove some pie, the HQ of Pie is gonna take a piece of whatever you spread around.

You don't want to throw the pie around, you like the pie. But bills cost pie. Shoes cost pie. Pies cost pie. Every exchange of pie requires a nibble-more than you would like, so that pieholes are filled in homes and roads and schools. It's how the pie goes round, and how more pie comes to you.

Now, you can start making your own pie all you like. It's not an easy endeavor, but if you can turn out enough pies, you will be happier than most folks. Use quality ingredients like blood, sweat, and Granny Smith apples. Use unsalted butter, and only the finest facilities you can afford. Then go on TV with your tiny little twin brother and explain how you did it, so that others will say "YES. If two ewoks can drop on the power of the BananaCream, so can THIS guy who's been up all fuggin' night wonderin' where his pie has gone."
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In the preceding story, for a lesson in social interaction and financial progress, you can remove the word "Pie" and include "Pimpy Sauce" or "PurpleFlake Colombian" or "GroupieLove." You know how it is in the game, man.
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Take Me Home

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A Weak End to The Weekend

Oh Hey there!
Today is President's Day. People all over the nation are celebrating the majesty of the highest political office in the land by sleeping off a hangover, implanting a GPS chip to their 14 year-old daughter's hymen, and/or a JC Penney 23.5-hour sale! See how much our President's mean to us these days? It's been decades since a President put forth the effort and integrity that would deem him worthy of so much as an adult bookstore's wanking closet let alone a public library. But we're erecting... heh heh heh... them like these libraries are serving overpriced coffee. Yay President! More on that group later.

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I'll back up a little bit, because I had a pretty great weekend that I want to blog/brag (brog? blag?) about. Friday night took soon-to-be Birthday Girl Killoo Run-Run O'Neill, The Magnificent and Warning-Hot! Alicia, Some other guy, and all 3 of Killorn's parents out to a fine dinner of sweet-assed Americana. Yes, she has 3 parents. Dad, Mom, And Wicked Step-Mom. All three are pretty wicked, in a decent way. We sat and ate and drank wine for three hours. Quite decadent, really. Appetizers were crab-stuffed lobster tails. Maincourse was veal-stuffed lamb-shanks. For dessert? Hot Fudge baby! DE-LISH! I talked real estate investing and market leverage for quite some time with Killorn's dad, who is as jocular and warm a man you'd ever want to buy you dinner. Great food, great people, even if Some Other Guy was there. Frick.

Saturday night was the reception dinner for some dear friends of mine, Greg Amer and Valerie Nguyen. Now Valerie Amer. Stay with me... Luckily, Alicia "The Girl Can Dance, Yo" was able to go with me. We ate grilled salmon, filet mignon, and then Salty's tried to get by with sliding German Chocolate cake to us for dessert. Hey Salty's, save it, okay? I had a hot fudge baby not less than 24 hours prior, you think this coconut chunder's going to pass for yum-yums? Then YOU eat it.
It was a great reception. I've known the Amers since 1982, and got to see all of Greg's family, including his younger brother Russ who has been my best friend since '82, except for that year he was on the road with the Charlie Daniels Band. The road changes a Russ. So true. I also had a quaint time with some friends from High School who are parents now, both of them younger than I am. Their son was really a cute kid, though, and was having a great time. It always cracks me up to see kids dancing, because they just put movement to music, no pretense to look cool. Just a bouncing around the dance floor and a big "EAT ME" to the world. Okay, maybe that last part's a little much, but, uh... Congrats Greg And Valerie! Just under 8 years, sweet!

So I'm tired and just want to post this thing. More another time when there's more...

MORE
Hunter S. Thompson committed suicide last night. WTF? Great job by the Denver Post of gently breaking the news. It softens the shock to use the words "Shoot" and "In the head" right in the headline. Apparently the Denver-ites don't have time for details, just the Who and How. Enjoy the Penney's White Sale!

And you thought it sucked going to Sunday School?
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Good Things Happening

The other day my horoscope told me that my current situation of creativity is one of sifting through monotony to find the gold, the shimmer, the heaviest of elements to mold something out of, and warned me that I'm gonna be bored with it for a while. I believed my horoscope, which I usually do when it's good, or at least isn't telling me
You STILL haven't had that looked at? Hope you have a back-up, 'cause that thing is South of cheese as of lunch.

Some comedy co-horts of mine have had some great opportunities lately, which I'm happy for them to have. I'm not saying through gritted teeth or using finger-quotes around Happy; these guys have put in some great work.
First off the bat is Tony "Yeah, I Farted Again" Moser. Tony recently got booked for a sweet gig in March that I'm not going to say much about, but let's just say that if you dig Chop Suey, you should have Hope that Stan has Doug it, too. Tony got hired by a guy named Stan to work at a noodle house in Stanwood. Nice Work, Tones.

Second up is archcomic and recently unblogged, Blaine Reeder. Blaine has been performing for just under 2 years, and spent the dates of February 10-13 as the Feature Act at the Reno Hilton. Blaine is one of the most dedicated comics I know, writing and staging his material on a consistent basis. He puts up with more Open Mics than anyone I know, and hasn't had a drink since the Reagan administration. Big deal that he was paid with a $9 buffet and hot-stone massage from a Dominican tranny, which is twice what you make on most runs around these parts. Congrats Blaine!

Lastly is Gabriel Rutledge, winner of the 2004 Seattle International Comedy Competition and Road Rally Of Seattle. One of the funniest and coolest people I've ever performed with, Gabriel recently performed in front of more than 17 people at the Moore Theater at the Lovers Of Life Ball And Promise Keepers Weekend. Actually, it was like 1,400 people, which is more than 17, true? Okay, so shut up. I wish the best for Gabriel and his wife and child as Gabriel branches off into acting and improv troupes. KUDOS, Good Sir.

Sooner or later we'll all get a piece of the pie, if we have earned it, and we know someone who owes someone a favor and is trying to pay it forward. These guys all have talent. A lot of people in comedy who make it to TV do NOT. TV appearances are not the litmus of talent. Host an awards show, call the viewers "homos" and divide the races consistently, now THAT is talent!

Don't spend time worrying about how big somebody else's pie slice is. While you're looking over there, someone's like clearing your plate, taking your perfectly untouched slice of the pie. A la MODE, you buttcrease!
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Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

What's All Up In A Name? & Pie In Your Pocketbook

Well HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEY everybody! Thanks for hitting up the Geoff Lott Blog Machine, where I'll be playing the blog until the blog drops its blog on it's girlfriend's brand new blog! SPLOOOOSH!

Tag, You're Jolanta!
Last night I stopped into a gas & grab, throwing down a couple Washingtons on a Lo-Carb Monster and some nicotine cookies. It's true, you can gain weight when you quit smoking.
The on-duty employee was a blonde gal who was pretty soft-spoken, until I realized that her "spoken" was not English. She spoke in those tones of "I think this is what I'm supposed to say, American big head male." Fine, she's not from here, that's cool by me. Somebody has to work the jobs I don't wanna get held-up at gun point for.

I glance at her name tag to see if she's got a lot of C's and Z's and out of place Y's or L's. Nope. Her name tag read "Jolanta M."
It was all I could do to hold in my laughter. Jolanta M. HA! See, NOW I'm laughing, but fawk... Jolanta M.
I thought "Jolanta M? Is the M necessary? Does the Rose Hill Pump & Dump have more than one Jolanta under surveillance here?"
Disgruntled Patron: I wanna make a formal complaint against that Jolanta that can't speak English!
Fat Manager Thing: Good Luck, Miss. We have like four Jolantas that can't speak English. Did you get a last name or initial?
Disgruntled Flustomer: No... but she couldn't speak English... and she was a white gal...
Fat Manager Lumps: OH! The WHITE Jolanta... she's from another country, miss. Phew, I thought this was gonna turn into a race thing!

Thanks to the M, now it never will!
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Coming Up Later...
The relationships between Politics, Government and Tax Payers via Pie,
and Why You Aren't Calling Him Again.
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Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

And Another Thing

The Strangler is officially the most thematically incestuous publication in the history of print. The only entertainment to be derived from the paper is Celebrity I Saw U, Savage Love (usually), and Police Beat.

Okay, we get it... Seattle and it's unoffical SceneRag are Gay Friendly to the point of ejaculating rainbows.
Okay, the skinnier the lead singer, the more likely the band will knock my mismatched (on-purpose!) socks out of my Chuck Taylor's (on methadone!).
Got it, Republicans want me dead and the Monorail is going to stop the spread of Sudden Infant AdoptedByStraightParents Syndrome.

Part of being hip, cool, with-it, and/or down is that there is no "scene," which is what people who want to seem hip, cool, with-it, and/or down call whichever place they stand around looking bored. You can spot them while they ask the bartender if they have Sumatran Ginger Wine or if the DJ could play the latest EP from the Thomas Fehlman side-project. Unique, great! Pompously peripheral? I SAW U... getting run over and I laughed.

Wallow in your ironically-chosen domestic beers and clove cigarettes, you colon statue of a scene rag, The Stanker.
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Take Me Home

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What... You Had to Click a Link? Troglodyte.

For the better part of the month I have been harangued by a number of bosses who seem to believe that having a bump in title has also boosted their abilities to communicate without words. So far I can tell when they are confused, ignorant, and over compensated for their work, so I guess their new skills are coming in handy.

There is a push to communicate faster, quicker, now NOW TOO LATE! in our society. Your movies, food, messages, e-mails, gossip, and insulin cannot be delivered fast enough, until it is automatically downloaded into your cerebral cortex and the chip in your spine releases the hormones that signal you just ate, watched yet another Ben Stiller movie, and found out who's been stealing your Us Weekly from the mailbox.

It's moving faster, sure, but it's running down-hill, too. Anything moving downhill reaches a speed at which the acceleration of gravity down the plane surpasses the ability to maintain control of the physical object. It usually takes force from a brake pad, a sail, a rubbery band, some good strong thighs, netting, a creek, rocks, or a bouncer to halt or slow the descent. But until that force kicks in, it's all flailing arms and whitening knuckles in hopes of surviving the crash without being all gross and lizard-looking.

Technology is on that slope, and slippery it is. You don't know you want the next iPlod, which will have songs your favorite artists haven't ever recorded, until you see and read and hear about the next iClod, which has the power to destroy the cellular structure of Ashlee Simpson's vocal chords. You see it and say "YES, that is what I want, and I will have it by next HOLY Lincoln Logs, is it really $675? I better eBay my 2 month-old iBlob ASAP so I can get this new fangled one." Faster. Now. Come on... you're waiting.

Working in the mobile communications industry, I see this all the time. It's one of the factors that leads to burnout in this industry: TECHNOLOGICAL CHURN. That phone you just got, the one with the camera, web access, downloaded ringtones, and for-shit reception? Yeah, it's out of date already. But you got it for like $3 and a decent rate plan, so why not, it's all you need right now, huh? Wait until you see the Nokeepa ON-X1!
It uses the electrical currents in your brain to dial people. You think of someone's name or face, your phone reads it and calls them immediately! It will help you solve so many problems, because even if you hate the person, it will send them death threats, and there's no end to what it can do with the amount of porn it accesses from the internet to send to people you're fantasizing about. A record is kept and sent to you at the end of the month, showing everyone you thought of, what you thought of, and how often they were contacted by your new phone you didn't know you needed until 2 minutes ago. It's already activated, you activated it by thinking of it. You are now running headlong into the future... a Future of Telepathic Communication, interplanetary waste storage, and loss of body hair and functional genitals. Welcome aboard.

Every point of communication filters out some of the original message. Throw in a language barrier, loud music, 2 drunken frat boys, and sprinkle it with some ego, you are missing a fair amount of the message. Few people truly appreciate subtle and intelligent humor anymore, because they are conveyed with a look or a pun or nod. TV is dumbing people down instead of pushing the envelope of mental evolution. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to e-mail a video of Ashlee Simpson getting gang-Cleveland Steamered by the roadies for Slayer.

But you already knew that, because you sent it to me last night.
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Take Me Home

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Valentine's Day: When You Care Enough To Give A Rip

It's Valentine's Day. An antiquated day that is perpetuated by lovesick secretaries and the Hallmark's and Yankee Candle Companies they split time between on Friday nights.

Love is not now nor should ever be a once-a-year thing. You should be showing people you love and care for them every Tuesday if not twice a week. What's your problem? You want some ass, don't you? Get in the game, but be subtle. Raising an eyebrow when asking, "So... wanna, you know... see a movie?" is the '05 equivalent of flashing. People have gotten lazier, so you have to go one notch over that. Still waters run deep, but so do a big girl's drawers. I've learned so much from my Grampa. Grampa The Butt. Grampa Bay F*ckaneer. The Gromper! Beer me!

You're not out of love, you're not lost without me.
You wanna know what love is, you want me to show you.

First off, you have to love yourself. If you don't love yourself, you're not going to be able to share it with anyone else. Do you love yourself? You should. Because if you don't love yourself, then nobody does, and that's a sad life to live.
Second, do you even WANT to be involved with someone? When I met my girlfriend, I didn't have a choice, I was going to be with her whether or not she had pepper spray left. But sometimes you get taken by surprise in that you have spent the last 3 evenings hanging out with someone. You didn't realize it until someone pointed out to you "Hey, that's a really gross hickey." So if you are enjoying the company of someone, don't get rattled. Just make sure you are fed and rested and properly bathed and groomed in the event there is a need to box your truffles.
Thirdth, get that hickey looked at, gaack.
Fourdth, identify and write down what you absolutely will NOT put up with in a relationship. Count them up. You're really picky, huh? Now toss that and pass your "interest" some of your biscuits on the second date, Maude. Is it going to get weird? What, like you don't know, after all the havoc you've wrought in people's love-lives? Yeah, it's gonna get weird, especially when you suggest "Why don't you put this on?" (reaching for the Lando Calrissian mask)
Fifth, get so drunk that you hallucinate about crapshack rats and call it a night. You're a mess, you hickey-ripened Billy Dee Williams ho-bag.
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Happy Valentine's Day.

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Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Good Morning Class

Your nation has 100,000 coins.
You owe another nation 200,000 coins, and they want it back. Like before breakfast last Thursday.
So you have to mint more coins in order to pay off some of the debt AND keep coins in circulation. More coins, however, means that they aren't as valuable. Printing another 100,000 coins makes 1 coin worth only half as much as before the coin supply doubled.
Now your currency is devalued, BUT you get to start paying off your debt. But the goods your citizens must buy in order to live haven't changed in price, and your government is not about to drop the prices, because they already gave breaks to the companies selling those goods, and damnit, Government needs it's money to buy more ninja stars and smoke-screen bombs.

Costs seem to go up, but it's mostly because the coin you pay with is worth only half as much because of the doubled supply and the lack of interest in coins with pictures of citizens and stars from syndicated sit-coms on them. Costs aren't up, the coin is down in worth. And holy crapsadillas, that debt! THAT FRIGGIN' DEBT!

So 100,000 coins go to the debt, but they're worth only 50,000 of the original debt, so another 50,000 is owed, and more coins get printed, and we all know what happens when a market is saturated with people who think they're funny... I mean, saturated with coins. The value of comedy, excuse me, golly-polly! The value of CURRENCY drops. The currency isn't worth much, the goods they use to buy aren't being purchased, jobs are lost in the manufacturing sector, and then people get checks from the government. Checks they can exchange for the worthless coins they weren't being paid.

Before the society begins to crumble, there are a few things that can happen to save it:
1 - the debt is forgiven by the creditors, thereby freeing the debtee to generate goods that can be sold and build up their reserves, or feed their hungry, or buy some ninja stars
2 - the nation is weakend to a point that a wealthy benefactor can despotically take the reigns through force or through politics, depending on the community's fear factor when it comes to being hit face-wise with a ninja star, or being told that other nations want to throw ninja stars at its face and its up to the nation to choose a ninja star-shielding superexpert to protect, all while the ninja star-shielder continuously throws ninja stars at other nations faces
3 - Jose Canseco injects steroids into the nation to make it's currency stronger, yet more volatile in a bar fight
4 - the nation quits manufacturing anything of worth and starts getting booked out as a feature comic without knowing what the hell it's doing, and taking any gig it can get for any amount, thereby killing the market price for good comics
5 - the nation spends a weekend at Neverland Ranch, drinks some Jesus Juice, gets its Gross National Product checked out, sells a script deal to USA
6 - the nation allows a tsunami to hit it, thereby taking care of its population control AND financial rebuilding efforts all at the same time

And that's how James Brown beats women and still gets applause on the Grammy Awards Show.
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Last year I went to a Halloween Party for Cats. It was thrown by a cat, in an apartment paid for by a couple of cats, who apparently are doing quite well for not being able to speak English or drive or open a nail salon.
At this Halloween Party for cats, I was surprised at how many of them were dressed like unattractive secretaries.
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Once I decided to stop dating girls, I met a woman. I highly recommend that.

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I can't believe a guy from Klamath Falls was almost able to organize a Mass Suicide over the internet. Just invite them to Klamath Falls and let 'em work it out on their own.
Point B, was anybody going to miss this guy, besides whomever he borrowed the Lord Of the Rings box-set from?



Take Me Home

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For The Lovers

With Monday being Valentine's Day, a day perpetuated by the candy and card companies of the world so they stay in business between Christamases, I wanted to give to you a couple pieces of the finest, most sensual words ever committed to the catalogs of historical sexuality. Get a towel, 'cause it's about to get damp...

I give you... TENACIOUS D!

"Fuck Her Gently"

This is a song for the ladies

But fellas listen closely...

You don't always have to fuck her hard

In fact sometimes that's not right to do

Sometimes you've got to make some love

And fuckin' give her some smoochies too

Sometimes ya got to squeeze

Sometimes you've got to say please

Sometime you've got to say hey

I'm gonna Fuck you

softly

I'm gonna screw you gently

I'm gonna hump you

sweetly

I'm gonna ball you discreetly

And then you say hey I bought you flowers

And then you say wait a minute sally

I think I got somethin in my teeth Could you get it out for me?

That's fuckin teamwork!

Whats your favorite poz-ish?

That's cool with me It's not my favorite But I'll do it for you

Whats your favorite dish?

I'm not gonna cook it But ill order it from Zanzibar

And then I'm gonna love you completely

And then I'll fuckin fuck you discreetly

And then I'll fucking bone you completely

But then I'm gonna fuck you hard

Hard
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(for those of you who are into team sports)
"Double Team"

[spoken] Damn, a hard day's rockin'.

Better slip off ma shoes.

Maybe give a little stretch, and a bend.

Dip m'toe inna jacuzzi, behbeh.

Slip out this book: The Buttress of Windsor.

Ho ho ho, who's this? How's it goin'?

[sung]

That's the first thin' I say to you. How's it goin'? Are you flowin'?

Listen honey, Thinkin' 'bout a couple things to say to you,

Showin', growin'.

Man I'd like to place my hand upon your fuckin' sexy ass and squeeze.

And squeeze!

Take off your blouse, And yo' UNNAH PAY-ANTS,

Then take a look,

'Cause here me and KG come naked, Out of the side-hatch,

With the oils and perfume and incense.

Now you're groovin', Put on a cool '70s groove.

A funky groove to fuck to. A funky groove to fuck to.

Me, me and KG, It's all about sex supreme,

We likes to cream jeans. (sex)

Have you ever been worked on

By two guys who are hot for your snatch? (sex)

That's what I'm offerin' you.

You step into our room, And then you smell the perfume,

You lay upon our roundish bed,

And then you feel a tickling on your head. It's KG with the feather

and the French tickler, Look out baby he got the tools.

And then you feel sumpin' down by your feet.

It's me, it's JB, I'm suckin' upon your toes.

We don't mind sucking on toes!

Good luck finding a boyfriend who sucks toe, ow!

Havin' sex with me and KG,

Now you're talkin' double team supreme.

Let's roll! Oh! Ahh, oh!

What! Yeah!

Huh! Nah!

Oh! Ah, that's it, that's right, ohmygah,

oh-I-think-I'm-gonna,

Ohh!

Deht!

Deht!

Eeee!

Splooge!

MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!

And if anyone was offended by the subject matter or words used in this blog, I'm sorry.

Sorry you're such a BORING sack-monkey.

Maybe you need to cut that talk and drop the wok, get into a little hot-n-heavy stir fry of your own, quit judging everyone else for seeing the majestic peaks that are Rage-Kage and the JaBles. Go get your knobs polished.

May you have more screws than a Home Depot. Get drilled.

"Bloggingly-Relevant Sign Off" You stray butthair!

================

Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Thursday's Blog Is Boxer Brief

Is President Bush Really All THAT Bad?
This is from an AP news report on a speech given by a governmental leader and Islamic fundamentalist in Iran:
"Will this nation allow the feet of an aggressor to touch this land?" Khatami asked at the crowd. "If, God forbid, it happens, Iran will turn into a scorching hell for the aggressors."
His statements drew chants of "Death to America!" from the crowd.
Khatami is widely recognized as a leader of a moderate faction in Iran.

Khatami doesn't mention the U.S. once in his speech, which is a smart political move, as he knows it's going to be recorded and broadcast for the world to see. Well, the world outside of Iran, which is in the middle of a 327 day telethon to raise money for tsunami victims. Pledge now to see your wife get horse-whipped, the whore.

The crowd starts chanting "Death To America!" This is where I get pissed off. The President, whomever at whatever point in history, is the Ideal of Americanism broadcast to the world. It's been over 40 years since we've had a President that could draw a nation together. It traces back to Viet Nam, and even Korea, as we fought "Communism." (btw, you can't fight a theory, right "terrorism fighters?") The crowd hates our leaders, and thinks that we actually control who gets into office. Wow, they are as disillusioned as the rest of us. As of November 4, 1963, the President is not the Nation.

Lastly, this guy's a MODERATE in Iran. The hardliners have been rather mum. A "moderate" leader, this guy is neither a left hand-chopper nor right wife-beating hander, he's more of a wife banisher, maybe even prone to a good smiting. This is over Nuclear Weapons, by the way. When you see someone filling up water balloons, it's best to let them see you grabbing the hose, and filling your water balloons with urine. If you pre-empt their intent with a "Don't fill those" or "Don't throw those at me," you're just going to incite some sort of "shut up." Then again, if your neighbor is a crowd-riling megalomaniac with a penchant for misogyny and rigging Hyundais to go Kablooey, you may wanna cut his water off yesterday.

Damned if ya do...
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
I am currently so busy at work that I had to come in on a day where I originally told my bosses I would be gone. This is so they will leave me the F alone for a few hours and I can finish the projects they have asked of me.
Literally, they are asking if we can turn an Apple into an Orange, and they've asked for an Assessment of the project. I am so sure that we cannot do this that I want place a wager on it, it would go as follows:
If I lose, and find out that Apples and Oranges ARE interchangeable, then I will donate $200 to the charity of their choice.
If I win, they have to give $200 to the charity of my choice, OR wear a t-shirt emblazoned with the words "I Am Grossly OverPaid," for all of Monday. Seeing as how we just recently received 5 boxes (for a total of 60) ball-point pens for the first time in 4 months, I'm going to get working on the T-shirt.
I'm not concerned with money, it's humiliation that motivates me... at least when it comes to my bosses. And my Friday nights.

"Big And Menacing Sign-Off" YOU WEENIEHOUNDS!
=====================
Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Some Perspective

I ended the previous blog by saying I would leave work at 2pm.
I'm still here.
For the past year my job has been so mindless and underloaded (that's not, but should be, a crap euphemism) that I am actually fretting that I may be here until as last as 4:15.

I'll be answering a Yes/No question for a "Director" in the form of a 3 page project assessment. Basic question, can you take Apples and Make them Be Oranges?
It will take me until Monday to explain the answer to people making upwards of $90,000 a year. Overkill, sure thing. But if you give your customer more than they expect, they'll quit f*cking asking for stuff.

Seriously though, this does beat looking for a job at the moment. Because I am friggin' TOASTED on Crown Royal right now, you penis!


Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

News You Can Abuse

Much of this came from the Q13 News website. They do care about us, afterall.
=+=+=+=
Starting off Right:
Get Spyware off Your PC Now!
Spybot is great at doing this, it's helped me in times of trouble.
=======================
LIST OF "SCHWAN'S" PRODUCTS NOW BEING RECALLED, JUST IN TIME FOR THE CHINESE NEW YEAR!
Recalled products that were sold in grocery stores nationwide may contain harmful pieces of glass, as opposed to the more beneficial organic shards.
=-=-=-=-=
-20 ounce packages of Tony's Pizza Twists in Sausage andPepperoni, each package bears the date code 384313.
-Eleven ounce packages of Pagoda white meat chicken egg roll.Each package bears the date code 384313.
-Eleven ounce packages of Pagoda Savory pork and vegetable eggroll. With the date code 384313
-Eleven ounce packages of the Pagoda Sweet and sour chicken eggroll, with the date code 384-313.
-6-point-4 ounce packages of Pagoda savory pork mini egg rolls,with the date code 384314.
-6-point-4 ounce packages of the Pagoda white meat chicken miniegg rolls, with the date code 384314.
-And eleven ounce packages of the Pagoda Southwest style Chicken eggrolls, with the date code 384313.
=-=-=-=-=
Considering that you're eating frozen eggrolls, along with the unmentioned frozen mini-tacos, you're likely not concerned about mixing glass into your diet. My fave is the last one.
Pagoda... Southwest Style... Chicken... eggrolls. Pagoda = Japanese. Southwest = Mexican. Chicken = Urban. Eggrolls = Safeway China Express. It just doesn't fit.
=====================
We Report to You:
Home Test Warning The Food and Drug Administration is warning people that certain home tests for pregnancy, HIV and drugs may not be legitimate. The test kits are made by Globus Media, based in Canada. They are not approved for sale in the U.S. If you've used these kits, get retested, (then sterilized):
Rapid H-I-V;
Rapid Syphilis One Step Cassette Style
Cocaine Test One Step Cassette Style
Marijuana One Step Cassette Style
Amphetamine Rapid
Dengue Fever One Step Midstream Urine test (??? are you shitting me???)
Pregnancy Test
Find out more at http://youaresooooof*cked.org
===============
A teen in Idaho was recently scalped.
I wish I was kidding. A 16 year-old girl was scalped by a 26 year-old woman who had deemed some of the 16 year-old's behavior as disrespectful of women.
The 16 year-old, who had a mohawk haircut before the close shave, and the 26 year-old, now facing possibly 14 years of prison sex, were both part of a group that deemed the mohawk a sign of strength and respect for one's self and their group. The 16 year-old did "something" and the 26 year-old made violently sure there would never be a mohawk on that girl's head again.
Make all the jokes you want, please, because I can't think of any that really sum up how weird this whole story is. I've seen a number of haircuts that made me want to shave someone's head, but never have I pulled a Lakota Sioux DaySpa on a person.

In related news...
The British Open will allow Transsexual golfers. Yep, the Ladies British Open will allow transsexual golfers to compete. Well, openly transsexual women, is what it should say.
Tee up your jokes now.
First submission: "It's the only way to lose a club and two balls, and still get a hole in one!"
=============
Uh... Believe it or Not. I Don't Care.
When Penis Met Vagina
GERMANY -- A local couple went to a fertility clinic here in Lubek when they were unable to have children. After a battery of tests showed they were both fertile, doctors finally discovered the problem: The ultra-religious pair had never copulated and had no idea how it was done. "We're not talking about retarded people here," said one doctor of the husband, 36, and wife, 30. "They were simply unaware, after eight years of marriage, of the physical requirements necessary to procreate." This discovery also helped clear up a lot of the problems the not-so-bright couple were having earlier with their toaster.
(ed. note: NOW try and debate the fact that Germans are aliens)
==============
Net Job
UNITED KINGDOM -- It's hard to meet women in bars, and prostitutes can be rather iffy. So a British teenager went another route when he wanted to pop his cherry: David Vardy, 19, auctioned off his virginity on the Internet. The Bournemouth University student received more than 7,000 hits from women around the world, and bids reached nearly $11,000. "The ideal situation would be if it was a really nice woman," said Vardy.
(ed. note: Good for him. He's not giving it away free to some randy Pre-Trig T.A. like these American kids. Europe's way smarter than us.)
============
And Finally...
Today is really gorgeous out. Sunny. Clear blue skies. And we in the Puget Sound area are stuck at desks, indoors, and if you're like me, listening to yet another discussion about Caesarean vs. Vaginal birth. I work for a Mobile Communication Company, BTW, so yeah, that fits. 1/3rd of the office is sick as a frat pledge on Seis de Mayo. They're not out of the office, mind you, they're just ill and coughing, sniffling, sneezing, running, dripping, horking, snorfing, wheezing, aching, and oozing like a similie/metaphor-laden comedy routine.

I'm going to leave my desk at 2pm today, and not return, most likely, until Friday morning. There really isn't much more I can do to divert this company's progress. My new boss, however, is all about holding up progress. I wrote a 2-page proposal at his request. He now wants to meet tomorrow afternoon at 2:30 to discuss it. Wow, this "Open Door Management" has seriously pussy-willowed managers these days. He's got the power to fire me for no reason, yet he cannot make a decision that costs zero dollars to affirm or negate.

Right-click, Save As... "timewaste.dic"
=========
Take Me Home

The Blog About My Dad

Dearest Ashlee...

Simpson.

About 17 minutes ago I woke up on the floor, thinking I was in Heaven. There was your voice, in my head, like it always is. But it was not Heaven. It was merely my parent's basement, and I'm still alive. I am your biggest fan, and at 37 years old, probably your oldest. I have numerous personality disorders, from paranoia to schizophrenia to being your biggest fan to paranoia. And something you said tonight on your show made so much sense to all three of us.

You said that after the world accused you of lyp-singing on Saturday Night Live you were worried that your career would be over. You said these words, that you "had worked really hard for everything you have." I am so happy you said that, because the world now knows the truth. All this time the world has mistakenly thought that you had merely rode your sister Jessica's (or as I call her, "the first to die on our wedding night") wave of fame. The world thought you had been pushed into the big world of fame and riches without having any real talent. The world thought you had been handed the keys to the money car on rich time street by your dad, who is the second one to die on our wedding night. The world thought you couldn't sing without a backup track backing up your singing. But you told them "NO!" And that gets a big "YES" from me.

Even when 80 thousand people booed at you during the Orange Bowl, you haven't given up. Even with all the media ignoring you and what you do, you still get out there and stir things up by breaking up with Ryan Caberra (third to die on our wedding night) and being ready to come to me when you are ready. No matter how much the world doesn't care about you, you will show them you DO care about being a singer, as it was what you were BORN to do. You could not do anything better than you do when you sing. Like when I'm translating your songs into Klingon for my basement karaoke that you will sing with me on our wedding night, it's what is the most right and natural thing to do.

So don't listen to people who don't like you, even if they would be happy if you'd never record another song. They are going to die when we have our wedding night. You are the amazing singer, better than Britney, who NEVER writes back and ALWAYS calls the cops too fast, even if we're just sleeping on her porch and being totally quiet. So keep recording songs, because I feel like you are speaking to us when you do, like we have something in common.

sÿ(¹¿KLYß!!! ("Marry Me!!!" in Klingon, but you already knew that from the dictionary I wrote for you),
R.T. Fullenbush

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Ashlee Simpson IS America. Delusional yet blindly confident in non-existent talents. And rich as a mofo. I can't wait until she gives William Hung herpes at Carson Daly's "Raising The Big JC" Easter blow-out.
And if you think I'm the only one blowing smoke, check THIS out!
The Stop Ashlee Petition!
And at the same time, how would it feel to have over 300,000 people publicly denouncing your career, and often, your existence, while you have yet to hit your 20th birthday?

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=


Take Me Home

The Blog About My Dad

Hippé Neuveau (Earth Lover, Man Hater)

I feel like backhanding a four-earringed bearded guy and his sweatpantalooned, Birkenstocker girlfriend right about now.

This morning I went to Whole Foods on 65th & Roosevelt to grab some grub on the way to work. It was about ten minutes to 8, but people were walking in at their leisure. I grabbed a parking spot near the door, managing to squeeze my car, defiantly, into a spot that the 2003 Honda Accord Coupe behind me was likely trying to disallow by parking "almost" too close to the stop sign. I could parallel park a riverboat in a bathtub, BoogerFinger, don't test my chest.

I throw the Cirkus in park and glance up to notice a person glaring at me, seated inside Whole Foods, mouth opening and closing quickly, dominating a conversation about masculine devils and how Ani is all you should ever listen to TOFU TOFU GODDESS VAGINA FULL OF LOVE FOR THE EARTH AS LONG AS IT'S NOT MALE. Maybe she was singing, I was three panes and 60 feet away, point taken. So I grab my mobile phone, and step out of the car, glancing around at all of the people standing outside. There are people inside... and people outside... so the store's open and these folks are standing around in the 37 degree weather?

Whole Foods specializes in natural, organic foods and products. These foods are believed to be healthier for all organisms they come in contact with, as well as for the environments they represent, from agricultural to retail. And I'm all for a store that charges a few cents more here and there for something that isn't mass produced, and selling bean curd, kefir, and chicken meat that were fed, bred, and killed humanely. However, many people wear their Vegetarian Badge like, well, a badge of honor, snootily reaching for a 3 gallon jug of Odwalla, looking about to see who's watching them. That's when they lock eyes with me, ingesting Emergen-C the way it was intended: through a kelp straw, nasally railing pack after pack until I can see Ciscoe in the Free Range Tofurkey. It's all about your health. Check out Ciscoe's "Recipes" link.

Which is why I was laughing when I saw 20-something 20-somethings standing outside, breathing white into the morning shade, 2/3rds respiration, 1/3rd Big Tobacco Cigarette smoke. The "ultra hip" greenjeans were loading their chambers with butted smokes, nobody was rolling their own in defense of the environment and "little tobacky." To each their own, and I owned my laughter. Too much irony in the water.

After grabbing a few items, I make for one of the 2 open registers, each one snaking a dredlocked line of 6-10 people with as much of their real hair as cat hair on their fleece. I'm getting looks, too, at my shirt. It's a retro-western style, black with a light blue yoke on the shoulders and cuffs, people staring at me with frumped if not grunty faces on. Nearly every one of them is wearing sandals (gawd), socks (double gawd), fleece pants, fleece vest, sweatshirt, scarf, and a knit cap. And I'm being looked at funny? Apaprently they'd never seen someone who doesn't give a shit how much fiber and/or pot brownies they ingest during a Red Dwarf marathon, the cowboy shirt guy just wants his water and almonds and an escape route.

On the way out I lock eyes again with the staring mouth-gaping parking voyeur. She has a weird look on her face, like she suspects me of using the last of her Bert's Bee's Labial Moisturizer. Her hair is short, face free of makeup, blemishes and all, eyes burning, hands stuffed into zip-up sweatsuit jacket. As I near her I ask "Yes?"
She says "Nothing. Nice shirt."
As I start to thank her, feeling a jerk, her whispered word slides in...
"... poseur."

Thank you Whole Foods, Organic Agriculture, Rainbow Stickers, Hemp clothing makers, and Ani! Your peaceful ways have created judgmental, prejudicial, self-righteous burnouts with less style than their waning substance. Grab your labial balm and take a seat in the back of the Vanagon, we're going to KFC, lovers. Only bludgeoned meat can cure this.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Take Me Home

My Non-Funny Blog.

Like School On A Saturday: Needs A Good Cleaning

A couple days into 31 years, and I've seen some really neat things already. One thing that was hammered into my head last night over 3 hours was that money doesn't buy class, nor does age equate to social suaveness. Also, karaoke in the International District is not as friendly to the, how you say, "national."

Friday Night:
As Alicia and I sat to enjoy dinner at the Queen City Grill, home of apparently the best motherslapping New York steak of all time... seriously, it was so good I would have killed the cow with my bare hands and a 2lb. mallet to get at that cut ... we found ourselves in a bay of human jellyfish. As a rocky outcropping protects a shoreline from being eroded on the leeward side, the windward side will be drilled wave-wise until your house slides into your guest house and that slides into your island. As we enjoyed dinner, we were getting hammered by the constantly crashing voices of 4 adults, 2 of whom were auditioning for the role of "HUMAN DENTIST DRILL" in the off-Ballard production of "Magnificent Decibels of Murder."

It wasn't just that we were hearing the waves cut through the wafting smells of seared meat, peppercorns, and that one guy's drug store cologne. Thriller-Drill was getting looks from patrons right under her volume-amp'ing nose, as if to say "Excuse me, Sack of Trash? Yeah, we're paying in the $200 range for this dinner, so how's about reposing at the Bad JuJu until the check drops?" And yet money solved nothing here, since it all comes back to people. You don't need money to be classy. You just need class. And the lack of restraint to tell someone to shut their flap.

Next was ZigZag behind the Market. The place was packed with two parties. First was a large birthday-like group, some of whom didn't feel the need to say "pardon me" when pushing past me in threes, and tortured the cocktailers by asking for separate checks (18 people). Second group was a late-30s / mid-40s gang who didn't feel the need to say "pardon me" until realizing they had just pushed past me in fives, and that I didn't really care where they got botoxed, 'cause roses really smell like poo-ooh-ooh-ooh. Party One threw attitude like elbows in the Octagon, as if the rest of the bar were in their way, crowding their air, killing them softly. Party Two didn't give a Swarovski shit-statue about anybody, they were gonna have issues within their own gang, and didn't really f*cking-A care who heard or saw what was going on. Party Two was comprised of doctors and lawyers and whomever they left their second marriages for, all quite well dressed, acting with all the aplomb of alternative high school sophomores trying to figure who said what about who's dye/hand/primer-job.

There was money all over the place, you could smell it over the affected cigars and cutting looks of the new wives. One woman was cast out for being talked-to by someone's new husband. Two fellows circled one drunken stork without removing their overcoats, ready to go Dracula on her virture the moment her knees wobbled over Ipecac-thinned legs. In a non-related group, a man old enough to know someone who just got a new hip tried desperately to charm and molest an early-20's femme d'argent, or however you say "Chick drinking on someone else's tab" without consulting an on-line French dictionary. The old-timer nearly fell over twice while trying to pick her up... FEATS OF STRENGTH WILL WIN HER PANTIES!... and we left about ten minutes prior to his incontinence kicking in after the bun-hoist. At last glance he was droopy-eyed and swaying back and forth as the open door's breeze waved his quickly-lowering Levitra flag.

I guess that I'm seeing behavior in others that I can identify with, and therefore, must work to correct in my repertoire. People I spend a lot of time with tell me positive things that I do, yet do not recognize. I know that people are not always the way they are acting, especially when alcohol is involved. Booze amplifies traits you wish you could continue hiding. So be yourself, and let everyone see the real, mothersnogging, annoying You!

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Take Me Home

My Non-Funny Blog.