Leggo My Ego

This ought to be fun, once I get around to writing it. Until then, remember the words of my late, great-great-great grandfather:
"Your women are working half as hard as your horses, and smell twice as bad."
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Moderate update at 12:25a.m.
My ego has me in Eagle Scout knots at times, tying me to the notion that Comic A is doing what I'm not, and Comic B is already surpassing me, and Comic C is still believing that there's a shot when that shot left the barrel a long time ago, and could barely even plink-chip a pint glass. And it's THAT, right there, the negative aspect that my ego is telling me that I'm lagging, yet good enough, but not good enough yet, to do what I ought to be doing. And not doing what I ought, that's just a waste of time and talent. Then the anxiety sets in like moths to a flame to a cigarette, and something's gonna die in that chain.

Then I stop pulling so hard against the knots. Ego keeps pacing around the room, shaking its giant head on its narrow shoulders, splintering a calm solliloquy with a shot at Esteem. Come on Ego, I say, you know my penchant for self-deprecation. If Ego had been stroking itself the whole time, I'd be disgusted, but the moment I quit fighting and started wriggling to myself, shick shick shick... those knots started loosening up like I'd been pouring wine and lies down its throat since Happy Hour. Go ahead, tell me again what a sinkhole I am. What do you know, besides fear and whatever somebody that nobody has heard of told nobody you've ever heard of about you, who nobody has ever heard of.

And in that Universal anonymity I am free. Pay me a compliment, and Ego steps forth on a short leash, salt in one hand, one ear covered by the other. Spew forth a vomitorious edict about my thin hair, flaccid set, choice of spiritual pursuit, or how your mom doesn't like me and I'll laugh. Considering the source, it sounds like somebody's Ego is defending the indefensible position. Anger, jealousy, fear, are each and all weapons of the Ego. My hands are free, and while many people would tell me "throttle the shittor," I'd prefer to stand right in your face until you either bite me or kiss me. Either way, Ego is a little scared kid trying to be the dad it never had to the sons/daughters other people never were.

What do I know? I'm just a comic.
And in closing, my client would greatly appreciate it if anybody reading this happen to light a firecracker after 11pm on July 4th would tape one to their toothbrush, and jam it directly asswise, lit, and recite the Pledge Of Allegiance. You are a useless cockhole, and your mom will be barely sad when the hospital calls her to come identify both of your earrings and armband tattoo, you impacted colon of wasted life energy.
And you're car is really high off the ground YEAH I SAID IT.

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Just Thinking...

I feel it is vital that we work to break down stereotypes.
In a world where African-American comics often go to a hackneyed line about "black people got bad credit..."
We're not breaking it down by forgiving African debt.

If numerous nations can forgive trillions of dollars in debt, what's stopping banks in this country from doing the same? It's mostly a bunch of 1's and 0's these days, anyway. Oh right, because this country has a lot of white people, and they got the money to pay for everything, which is stereotyping and prejudicial. How about a lottery where 1% of the population has their debt zeroed? Who pays for it?
I'm thinking "somebody else." I don't really care.

The 2nd biggest cause of personal bankruptcy in this country is the cost of medical care. $76 office visits, and rarely are you seen for more than 10min. So where's the f*cking wait time coming from? Trying to figure out what country you're from to charge accordingly.

On the bright side, Africa will be really really grateful for having their debt forgiven. Then we can go back to helping them with the face-flies and shit ditches.

Oh world, you so crazy!

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Body Of Work

The female of the species we call Human Beanies has got it pretty rough. First there was the sending them away when they were menstruating... comment withheld... and these days it's back around to sexual identity. Life is difficult enough without wondering how you look through a pair of night-vision goggles. I blame women themselves. Not "WOMEN" in general, but a blame that is as much as I blame men for each of our own issues. And if you're pissed right now, take a friggin' Midol and whatever pill makes you accountable to yourself and relax.

Oh wow, the "women's magazines" throw out all these terms like "LEAN" and "TONE" and "FLAT" and "BULIMIA" and "RENAL FAILURE." Then don't F'ing buy them. You can get every recipe, workout tip, and list of "Top 10 Secret Hollywood Crushes" off the internet for free. (btw, the only common factor in all 3 of those is Steve Buscemi) Have you seen a men's health-oriented magazine? Not Maxim, which may or may not be the Wall Street Journal for Acquaintance Rapists. Men's magazines talk about how you should be wearing this Armani jacket with these Ferragamos, running this interval workout in between pushing your new Aston Martin when you can't make it to the gym because you have to be on the jet to Milan in an hour, and hey, wear condom when you arrive because you are getting tons of ass, right? Luckily, I can't read.

Yeah, guys have to go to Europe now to get women who aren't as concerned with their bodies. Why? Because in America, the media has thrown around so many images of what "sexy" is, that after a while, somebody believes it. And if a woman has even one extra inch of unf*ckable flesh to her, then NOPE, sorry, she just ain't gonna be popular enough to make out with before closing time. HORSE'S SHIT. Confidence is sexy. Confidence in the swing on the back porch is even sexier.

Get an eyeful, readers, it's called "Jenny McCarthyism." Blonde, blue eyed, boobily-inflated Jenny sprung up a decade ago and was immediately the "it" girl. Recently, she had a procedure done that removed a peanut M&M-sized, flesh-colored mole from the bridge of her nose. That was her "it." But it's in some jar on her nightstand next to the TrimSpaz, Absolut, and nightly eye cream. Bye-bye mole. Why? Oh hell, how about VANITY? Did you know it was there? No, because you were too busy looking at her fake tits and airbrushed bikini line and ass. What you see isn't what you get. And she chopped it off. It was her only endearing quality.

It's not what you're eating, it's what's eating you. Discipline. Dedication. Brazilian. Monobrow. Happy Trail. Flatulence. One testicle. Size of an apple. That can see your future. Lactose intolerance. Abcessed choad. Nobody is perfect. Nobody you see. Nobody you saw. Nobody you fooled around with. That's what's so great. If we were all perfect, we'd know better than to have that next 3 martooners and lock lips and hips now and again. There'd be no stories or lessons to learn and then lock away out of shame. What happens in Vegas, stays at Planned Parenthood. Stop that groaning shit RIGHT NOW.

I think my biggest impetus for writing this was my trip to the gym last night. I was really pushing around some heavy iron, for what reason, I don't know. I've never been half-way through writing cross-formulas and needed to rep-out some military presses. Never had my raise hinge on a one-rep deadlift. No matter how hard that hardbody is working on that body, there are no reps to build "likeability." Long-story slightly longer, there are more magazines with "perfect" bodies on the cover because there's no way to sell Personality. Perfection is in the eye of the beholder. Personality is in the heart. And pants.

Now drop your top.

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Marked, Noted, and Streaked

I am officially astounded by the number of guys not using the ass-gasket sheet when hittin' second gear in the men's rest room. Each day I've been in the can there's been at least one dude bare-backing the seat as if it is his Own Private Idahole.

There hasn't been so much as a clearing wipedown of the seat, just a shutting of the stall, trou-drop, and touch down of mancakes, extra flabby. As if the only other person in there all day was their dominatrix, just click, zip, flap. This is conquered frontier, guys! It's one small step for evolution, one giant leap for common courtesy. Just like keeping your eyes closed when the clown pees on you, SAFETY FIRST.

And let's all revive the Courtesy Flush, can we? That's the flush you make for others so that any noises, from groaning to ripping to splash-down, are covered by the rushing waters of civilization. There's enough shame associated with being in the can without total disregard for germs AND decibel level. It's not for you, it's for everyone else. Welcome to America.

I'm mad about other people's poopin' habits! Grrrrrrr! MAD MAD MAD!

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Peter Johnson would prefer you call him Pete from now on.
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Snappy Judgment

Some poor kid is stuck at work all day with a parent. The kid is up on this floor going through his Star Wars knowledge as if it's currency for puddin', and my dearest of friends know what puddin' be to me, and I want to tell him...

"Kid, never lose that enthusiasm. Never lose sight of the fact that the only interesting thing in corporate America is the imagination of a virgin working in IT. Your dad here is a cockwad. I've never worked with him, but that many earthtones in one outfit is a pretty fair indicator of boredom in top-siders. You'll never be a professional athlete. One of my grandmas is dead. Your pets will die. And no matter what happens, the next 6 years of your life will be formative, intense, jerkin'-filled, and above all, total bullshit. Accept it now. If you can get through it with a unique personality intact, the only thing you'll be missing is your virginity. Make sure you call your mom to wish her a Happy Pride weekend. Do you smoke?"

Hindsight is 20/20. Hindusight is way better. Chrissie Hynde can kick your ass.


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Oh, THIS One Is THAT Issue...

Seattle's most frighteningly incestuous street-rag, The Stranger, has declared that This Week's Issue is the Gay Issue.

How is it different, you ask?
Dunno. Maybe that it's out of the closet for a week, while the Seattle Weekly stands by and says "Yeah, we know. You're blocking the keg."

I would say that it's an attempt by The Stroker to sell more issues, but it's free, so it's an attempt by The Stringer to troll for some of that hot Weekly-on-Weekly action you can only find in Belgium.

You may be asking yourself if you are gay for reading this week's edition. Only if you read it while planted firmly on Dan Savage's column and/or face and/or maypole.
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Give In

The point I am nearly at is the point where I am the only thing that matters in my world. And I say "thing" like I am not even a person, because I want to exclude all nouns, 'cep' for me. My Aquarian nature is to help, help, help others, for the simple reason that help is needed. And I have been fighting that part of the program for the better part of 3 months now.

Almost weekly I feel like I need to Not Do for anybody else. But Doing is what I do. Fighting it is a Fear Response. You may ask "Fear of What, Geoff?" Or you may ask "Was that you?" It probably was. Sorry, it's the broccoli/Clamato cocktails. The FEAR of Doing For Others is that I'm Not Doing For Me. Giving away, not just giving. Giving in a way that is not going to be appreciated. Giving away to a point of poverty. That's how Fear works, it slow-dances you into a corner by the punchbowl until you realize the party is over. Being at the party is cool. You were there, you didn't get drunk or spill anything. You didn't risk the foolish play of setting your ass kitchen-sinkward and asking the host "Hey, does your garbage disposal work?" You walked home alone, while Fear stuck around to cockblock. Why did you even go? To PARTY, yes, friend, that's the whole reason you are there. Let go. Hang it out there. Suck it dry.

And to Not Do, when it's simply part of who I am, is to fight the force that helps me get through days I don't feel like belly-crawling through. Fear held me back from so many things in life that I really should have gone after. There's a term out there, Fear Of Success, that is actually, in my mind, misleading. It's Fear Of Failure with it's arms open. Hug or smother, it's your call. Success is not to be feared. Failure is not to be feared. My fear is that I will give so much that I will have nothing for myself. That has NEVER been the case, and is actually "deprivation thinking" which leads to diminished returns. The key is to let go, and when Fear comes around, throw a shot of Jack down it's gullet, bend it couch-wise, and give Fear a proper kneading of the dough.

Somebody had to get to Oprah's level, it just happened to be Oprah. Scared people to do not Go Oprah. Carson Daly, who is dating his vaginal equivalent in Vanessa Carlton (first date banter: "You like Vanilla Frozen Yogurt, too? Mass."), and Carson Daly has no discernible talent. Ashton is, at the very least, caulking Demi Moore's hot-tub. But Carson Daly isn't afraid of failure. He simply said "I am going to be on TV." And there he is. He has aimed for, and gained, a high-level of mediocrity, per his goals. Fearless.

So here I go again, on my own. Going down the only road I've ever known. I am To Give. Simple as that. I will Give, fearlessly. Friendship, love, moustache rides, advice of dating, advice on dating a clown, advice on moustache riding a clown. Do what it is you do. And do it until it is done in a way that doing it let's others know that you Can Do.


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A Crap-Ton Of Shitballs

First off, Verizon, your DSL service can lick the back of my fundle.
It wasn't hooked up when you said it would be.
I called to report it and got locked into a retardo-matic convo with someone obviously just following procedure, but that procedure is RETARDO.
She asked me, and I shit thee not, "Where do the phone lines come into the house?"

Dear reader, that is as broad a question as it can get. In my mind there are 100 ways to answer it, bit since I knife-fight with Occam's Razor, I replied with...
"From the lines outside."

Her response was "No, like are they in through the wall, or a pipe, or under ground?" I hadn't ever seen them at this new place, so I said I didn't know, because outside is where the hug monster lives and he wants me to be his lap-cowboy. She also wanted me to put filters on all the phone lines and test the DSL connection again. I told her I couldn't as I was talking to her from a landline. Her reply...
(silence)
(more silence)
(dumbfounding silence)
(acceptance that technology's ease is a wash compared to techtards)
"Okay, so you can't plug filters into all the outlets?"
No, because I'd have to disconnect this call, and that would be fun, but unproductive.

My favorite instance was being told that they could get somebody out to fix the problem on Tuesday, some time between 8am and 5pm. I replied "That's pretty broad, can we narrow that down?"
"Like what, with an appointment?"
Yeah, if you make them, an appointment. I can't take an entire day off of work for internet access.
"Yes, we can make an app..."
At that point my brain white-noised with the words 'THEN OFFER THAT AT THE BEGINNING, YOU DIPSHIT.

I'm going with cable instead, as it's the only access I have in the office at my place. I'm not sure why I'd even do all this. The internet bores me. I'm more into my education than my entertainment.

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Today is the Summer Solstice. If you've noticed people being a bit weirder, edgier, or more hyped up than usual, today has a lot do with that. It's the end-day of the upswing cycle of your year's purpose. In other words, you're gonna get in a fight before the end of the day, and blow your load, and get f*cking on with life. It owes you nothing, so keep moving. This line has places to go.
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When in doubt, shut up.
When in the right, speak up.
When in Bothell, shoot up.
When near my cube, smell my braap.
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That's Pretty Coup

With tons of good intent and some heavy chrome clankers, I am attempting to pull off a sort of a coup on behalf of HAX TV. Fingers crossed, and more to come on that whole deal.

I have had the last two days off of work in order to get my life together after the move and painting and unpacking and what-not. It's a pile right now. I feel like I packed up some of my friend's crap, as if they brought their troll dolls and half-bottles of Pert over to screw with my inventory and thin theirs. I am going to simplify my life quickly, or go crazy trying. Either way, I'm getting a nap and some Tylenol PM.

I found myself today accepting, again, my penchant for internalized judgment. Guilt would, in the past, wash over me when I had a negative thought about someone in particular. But I'm finding that the detractions are held in check until somebody does something truly dumb, selfish, blind, or Republican, which includes but is not limited to: Wearing sunglasses inside, not saying "Thanks" when the door is held open for them because they're on the Nokia, taking an already-crying child into a grocery store, telling me that marriage is the best thing that ever happened to them, dressing poorly, and withholding cleavage.

Today I was at a local bodega-type joint, 5th of 7 in line, and some moustachio'ed RX-7 jockey was trying to warm the plugs of the chica working the 10-3 shift. He's talking, and talking, taking longer than he needs. He's holding up 6 people's lives in an attempt to become the next guy that girl thinks is either "creepy," or at best,"nice, like Uncle Bert without the fanny grabs." Hey, God bless the guy's attempts to liven up the day, but his Yang to Richard Simmons's Yin was just too much. I couldn't decide what was funnier, him standing to the side to continue the forced conversation after his transaction, or my asking the girl behind the counter "Does he work here?" while he stood not 3 feet from me.

I really only feel bad about not yelling from the line "Hey Magnum, I have 75 square feet of low-pile, high-density olefin that has a better chance of getting laid this weekend than you do. Hit your PIN and get back to bending metal. Please. Thanks." If nothing else, we all walk with a story to share.

"Hey honey, this cockholster in line at the Buy&Fly yelled at some Sam Elliott-lookin' fruit who was ..."

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Schnumerology

Last year I did a lot of nothing at work and a lot of a lot in my social life.

This year I'm buried to my fundle in work that doesn't mean jack to the progress of mankind.

A friend directed me to a numerology website and I fig'red, what the heck, I have 8 seconds free. With no bulls to ride (thanks to my co-worker's involvement with PETA), I did myself up fancy with a numerology reading for how my year's a-gonna go.

I found it HERE. Karen Cornell, btw, is, yes, the Mother Cornell of the musical Cornells of Seattle notoriety.

You wanna know what Your Year is? Add your birthday month and day to 2005.
Here's mine: 2/4/2005.
2+4 = 6
2+0+0+5 = 7
6+7 = 13
1+3 = 4
So a 4 Year on the charts tells me....
4. Work-work-work! This is the opposite of last year! It is a real nose-to-the-grindstone year. One foot in front of the other. This is very slow moving energy. A real plodder! The good news is, you will accomplish a lot. The bad news is, you probably won't see much of your friends as you will be working so hard. It is very low physical energy and your immune system almost takes a nose dive as well, so taking care of yourself is really important. Stay positive and upbeat so all this doesn't get the better of you!

Last year was my socializing year. Next year is my Crazy Energy year. I guess these cycles also work in perspective. Fun, work, cutting loose.

So anywho, the most intensity of the year is felt from January 1st to June 21st, the Summer Solstice. That's a good thing, because I'm friggin' burned out on bullshit. There is a LOT going on that is all a directive towards great things, with the rebirth of HAX, my new place being painted and moved into, family, work, etc. I've got plenty to do to see it happen. But my attitude is much less "oh let's see if this flies." I'm feeling much more like "Do A, then do B, then C & D, call E, and voila! F!" I have no doubts about everything coming to fruition, and I've accepted the constant pace of my life's tempo matching up with a Ramones number. But within that parameter I face my greatest fear of all: Stagnation.

If it's not getting better, then at the very least... it's not getting better.
Changes on the horizon, but first I have a wall to knock down to better the view.
Done by Tuesday.
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Watch your Blogs.



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Now THIS Is More Like It

A little news for the ladies on this Hump Day.
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Ceaselessly Amazed

The pace of buying a home, moving out, storing, moving in, painting, gigs, work, car breakdowns, reading, writing, filming, crinkling my nose at co-workers wearing tear-away pants to work, and general, you know, boolshit has officially taken it's toll on me.

Not but a few weeks ago I felt concern for others. Now I'm back to not really giving a shit if you get your numbers or not. Did I dawdle at a yellow and make you miss a light? Blame your slapped-seven-times snooze button, shit pig. Six would've had you eight minutes ahead of your day, and you wouldn't be back there fuming. And I do so hope you are fuming.

I'm not saying I've lost faith in humanity. That happened long ago. Life ain't all home-makeover shows and winning Lotto tickets, is it? In fact, Life ain't even close, is it? No, Life gives greatly to a few, and randomly so, in order to make us wonder, "Hey, why did THAT shitpile get a new Mustang?" Because God knows that guy who has lost three marriages and 8 kids to drugs, jail, crime, and more drugs should have a sweet car to sell so he can pay, not child support, but for that final, life-ending speedball.

Wait a second... did I just sniff some fairness? Blow me if that dudn't smell like hot apple pie and multiple orgasms the day after your least favorite co-worker gets escorted from the building by turkish prison doctors.

I know it'll all come out in the wash, but I'm humoring myself with my own prickishness for a wee bit. I'm not going to hurt anybody. I'm not driving under the influence of Tom Leykis or teaching blind kids to mime. But I have done the following:
* Closed doors to overly-loud, non-Geoff-affecting meetings on a half-hourly schedule.
* Told people "no" on a regular and frequent basis when their request neither benefits my reputation nor provides them any substantial foothold in being cool.
* Have avoided talking with people who I like while I'm within the sepia-toned fog of a beer hangover.

What I would really like to do now is tell this particularly self-loathing yet self-involved woman at work, "Hey dear... that's quite enough of the stories that affect only you." Yesterday was a 45 minute diatribe in her boss's office (door open) about how raising kids is the hardest thing in the world, how hard it is to be a good mom, how being a mom is like being a Drill Instructor and a Teddy Bear all at the same time... On and on. What I heard was...
"My 4 year old twins don't understand all the hell I go through just to get home and care for them. Instead of just loving them the best I can by being a Parent, I'm going to assume the Martyr role and secretly harbor resentment towards them because, as you can know I am a twice-divorced woman (door's been open other times), men cannot be counted on to contribute to my happiness, regardless if they are drunk on a couch, drunk on a lawn mower, drunk on my sister, or just innocent little kids who will eventually resent women, or at the least, never leave home so they'll take care of me. It's the circle of my life, like the elastic waist in my stirrup pants. Yes, this is a cable-knit cardigan."
or
"Gawd, that guy around the corner should stop wearing headphones. He'd probably be able to hear how much he farts."

I guess it's all in the tone of voice, you had to be there. I literally HAD to be there.
In the meantime, I should sum it up by saying this ain't a pity party. I have too much perspective on my life to get down over the burn I'm feeling lately. I've had much worse come my way, mostly of my own doing, and always came out stronger. That doesn't replace the want to call somebody taking too long at the grocery store a "canopy-dwelling pygmy slow loris," but it is, time to time, a nice balm.
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In another part of the galaxy, Jay Leno continues to rack up points in Purgatory for his egomaniacal projects. You think Heaven would book Leno over Hedberg, Hicks, and Dangerfield? And even hell would say "Oh come on, we don't want him... It's already Hell."

Jay has pledged to ride his celebrity-autographed motorcycle 'round the U.S. to raise money for Tsunami relief. Okay, the tsunami... yeah, the big wave that killed hundreds of thousands of pairs of your favorite jeans in December... was horrible. It's a major wake-up call to the rest of the world to start reading their Bibles. Christianity is about as popular in Thailand as having sex with a legal-aged woman in Thailand. Look up. That's the bar for Tsunami jokes. I may be able to best that.

Here's what chaps my Shandling. Jay is doing something he loves to do (blather, annoy others), on a great motorcycle, during the nicest time of year in America. It's for a TSUNAMI RELIEF EFFORT! Tsunami! Waves! Water! Destruction! Death! It's not a thoughtful gesture to have Matt Lauer interviewing you every Thursday to see where in the states your chin has ended up. Shouldn't he have to jump a Bellagio fountain full of his Michael Jackson jokes to make it seem like an effort?

Then again, the Rockies right now? Gorgeous. At least somebody is doing SOMETHING to help those people affected by the Tsunami... 6 months later.
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Thanks. I feel better. I guess I needed to write a bit.
BTW, I have no opinion on Cupcakes v. Muffins. They are equally delicious. However, I have serious issues with any pastry that is overflowing their cup all sloppy.

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Sense Her Ship!

The previous Muffin-Cupcake post dealt with some pretty tough issues.

I see now that had I never mentioned race whatsoever, it would have challenged me to write more creatively, yet clearly, in order to get across the point.

So if anybody is upset that race was mentioned and talked about, lighten up, and I mean that in an existential mood-sense, and no other way than that. Sometimes, jokes happen, and those who are offended are usually those left behind or those asking "What? What happened there? Why do I always have to ask questions at movies? Where is my walking stick? I'm going to hunt a mastodon because I'm a primitive shit pile! I only call it 'mastodon' because that's what they'll call it thousands of years from now when my metaphorical charicature is used in a 'blog' by 'Geoff Lott,' whatever kind of beast that will turn out like. And never you mind why I'm in the movies! Probably because that 'Geoff' thing is on the train of thought, and he wants you to know that your nitpicking is getting old, REALLY old, so quit the nagging, you seat sniffer."

Hey, anybody know how much a thermostat for a 1999 Chrysler Cirrus and a Radiator flush usually run? Because that's what I'm paying for tomorrow morning around 11am. It's gonna suck dingles, Barry.

We got it together baby...
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Knowledge In Your Eye, Hand, Tummy

Does anybody out there know if the following is an already-prepped joke, and if so, by whom?

I'm not sure I'll ever do it on-stage, as it is a bit too cutesy, if not unfunny, for my sets, which lately have taken on an air of smarm with just a hint of Bourgoisie Masculinity. So here goes.

Muffins.
We call them "muffins" because, at 8:30 in the morning, nobody's gonna eat a Cupcake. You can jam all the blueberries you want in there, cake is cake, CarbLoader.
The only muffin that's actually a muffin is any muffin with Bran in it. You have never had bran cake, have you? And don't say you have just to try and ruin my muffin tirade. I'm not anti-muffin, I'm just anti-muffin naming.
Look, muffins are as much muffins as they are cupcakes, just depends on the situation. Morning, MUFFIN. Birthday party, CUPCAKE. Bedroom, BIKINI.
Like when that mulatto kid down the way is around his boys, he's "Urban." But the cops come around and oh boy, look who can't dance now? Be who you are, either muffin or cupcake. Accept that you may be both. But don't say Muffin when I can see your Chocolate Chips.
Call it what you will, but the truth is the truth. Muffins are for people who's dad would freak out if he caught them with cupcakes in the morning.

And their music is crap.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Consider that button Push-ed.

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Thankless Little Bastard

Dear Ma,

Thank you so much, again, for all of your help in the final move and clean on Monday... or Sunday. The days run together when I do that much hero... when I don't sleep much. You were a lifesaver, and showed your moxie and muscle with multiple table moves! I can't believe we still have that old dining room table. I used to sit at that thing and taunt Katie, the dog, and probably myself. I've done homework at it. With well over 14 gallons of lacquer coating that old hatchcover, it will surely be around long after the dog dies...

What?

Schatzi's DEAD? WHY DIDN'T ANYBODY TELL ME??? SHE WAS WHAT, LIKE 23? SO YOUNG!

Oh she died in 1997? -ish? Damn. I really miss her all of a sudden. Remember that time we were watching the Cosby show and I was constructing a diorama of the Last Supper out of glitter, macaroni, and my own blood, and Schatzi bit it right off the back of the couch? GAWD, she acted like she meant to do it, but what a hoot we had! She was a great dog. I sure will miss HEY I found $5 in my pocket!

Seriously though, you have shown a strength and resolve in the past year that can only be deemed as Spirited. With everything these Lotts have had put on our table, as well as those problems facing Sue and Grampa, this is where all of that love we've been banking can really be cashed in. I'm all for ya, Mom. Katie, not as much, she's a Cancer and what-not, but hey, I'm here if ya need me. Even though when I was 3 and I was watching the neighbor dog 'tween the slats in the fence and my big baby head got stuck and you helped me out.
AFTER laughing and taking a picture of me with a stuck big baby head. That's why I'm thinning up top now. Doctor said so.

Too bad Kates ain't got a blog.
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Honestly, the simple fact that my mom has done all she's done in the past 4 years as my dad's condition progressed is a feat of Love, Spirit, Strength, and she's done it all 100% sober. She is the anchor of our family. And if you ever want to stop smoking, just ask me to ask my mom to pray for you. You'll stop smoking right after an accident lands you in the hospital, swear to Charles Nelson Riley, it's happened twice.

Love you, Mom.
=====
I gotta go. I'm staying with Alicia, Tony, and Killorn for a couple days and Tony and Killorn want to use the computer so they can upload their latest "couples video." It's likely the one where Tony plays a plumber and Killorn's at home alone and Tony comes in and drinks all my vodka and then drops a 2-zee in the garbage disposal. Part 3. Pray for me.


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Many Thanks, and a Notice

Many many thanks to Alicia, Killorn, Shoogs, Tracy, and Farts Mosey-Moser (not her real name) for their help in the move this past weekend. It never got to the point of pending nor actual fisticuffs, but I did throw up out of exhaustion after realizing I moved the dresser down three flights of stairs without pulling the drawers nor the body parts therein - OUT.

DUMMY HEAD This guy, huh?

Also, I'm gonna be busy as Robin Williams at an Open Mic for the next while, but I'll write when I can. Yeah, big threat, I know you care tons and what-not, but I guess it goes like this:
There's a LOT of useless news and generally masturbatory crap being floated about in the blogosphere, comedy stages, and your mom's sock drawer.... bzzzzzzz...
It is my intent to write something worth reading, and not just flarping forth some slam-dunk essay on Paris Hilton (engaged to be divorced, so popular), drug side effects, hopelessness, STDs, Girl Scouts, and why black people are different from white people, which I'm still not sure the precise factors involved therein. Has something to do with dancing, clothes, talking with polices, and how big a girl can get before she's deemed "unattractive." (I think it's when she can't cover rent)

Stop furrowing your Botox field, if anyone other than a white guy had said it, they'd call it "edgy." I see the line in the sand just fine, thank you.

So anywho, racist stereotype comedy is always a crowd pleaser, I have two storage units that look like a top-down view of Tetris (on Crack!!!), and I'll be damned if Kidd Valley doesn't sog a bun every time around.

More to write when it's useful. Get a drink.

It'll Take Spinach, Lo-Carb Monster, and Chevy Flatbed

Aaaah, the joys of moving.
What are they?

Getting rid of old crap, that's about it. So far I've loaded at least 3 if not 17 50-gallon Hefty bags (not a plug) full of unused, two years-untouched crap such. Old shoelaces (huh?), 1/10th of a tube of men's body wash (yow!), and an empty bottle of Grey Goose (a plug).

I've yet to pack my kitchen, bedroom closet, or time management. In the meantime I'm closing on my condo tomorrow, and feeling really good about everything. I have written e-commitments from a couple of guys to help me move this weekend (standard pay scale, pizza & beer), and am about to call in and get my cable, phone, and Secret Service surveillance team changed to my new address. I've got plenty to do.

I'm at the point where most things are boxed up, except my TV and stereo, dishes, pots/pans, . And some things can't be boxed, like the entertainment center, couch, coffee table, desk, bed, dresser... holy sh... bedside table, book case, and multiple storage bins. It's all the big stuff, and odd as it sounds, this is the best I've ever packed. At THIS point, of course. That usually changes on that last day of the move prior to cleaning, where I'm running through the apartment at 11:53pm with a Bobcat front-loader, trailing a Zamboni machine loaded with OxiClean, SimpleGreen, Dasani, and toothpaste (double-action agent for ambient odors AND knicks in the drywall).

OH FAWK, the DRYWALL.

It's been a fun little journey, this homebuying thing. My housing payment is actually $70 LESS than my rent payment, for another 300sq-ft, an extra bedroom (don't tell Bradley Lewis), a small backyard (beer swing on backorder), and a kitchen and master bathroom I can gut and remodel. It's the start of what I hope will be a long line of real estate purchases. By 2015 I hope to own most of NorthEast KingCounty. Militia uniforms on backorder.

If I could share any part of my experience with you, it would be this: Do whatever you can to purchase some real estate. It appreciates immediately. It's not as expensive as you think. They don't want the whole $2.3mil for the place (oops, did I slip?) all at once. And if nothing else, you can do this the old fashioned way. It's been too long since we had a good case of squatter's rights.

Right now, I feel like I ought to just jack-up one side of my apartment and snow-shovel whatever's left inside into a dumptruck. Garage sale forthcoming. I have a custom-made bodywash cocktail that'll knock your socks off, and will leave you with that "Just did a rail" feeling!

==-=-=-=-=-=-=-==
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Do's and Don'ts of Crappy Customer Service

If you are ever wondering what you, an employee of the University of Washington Medical Center in Shoreline, can do to prove that you, and apparently ONLY you, have your head lodged ass-wise, do THIS!

First, when somebody makes an appointment with your clinic, do NOT update their information. Especially the phone number. That's how you could call them to tell them about the problem with the appointment they made.

Second, when somebody makes an appointment with a specialist in your clinic, do NOT mention that, in order to see a specialist, the patient must be referred to that specialist, and can be referred by general physician within your clinic, and ONLY a physician within your clinic.

Third, when somebody with an appointment that shouldn't have been made in the first place shows up, do NOT be present to explain the situation, even though you answered the phone not 3 minutes prior to the patient walking through the door. Leave your colleague to break the news and cover your ass, while offering to get the patient in with a doctor who can make the ever-so-precious referral within 90 minutes. Hide in the bathroom with what is likely a weak constitution and milky, clammy skin.

And call yourself Scott.
================
If you are a policy-maker for Safeway Grocers, or hell, for any company that has overhauled their Customer Service stance in the past year to include verbally mauling shoppers, and want to prove that you are out of touch with the shopper while thinking you are making a pre-emptive dent in the reputations of WalMart or Whole Foods... Do THIS!

First, hire an aggressive carnival barker to push your line of custom soups. Make sure he does not greet, but instead CONFRONTS, every passing customer with a "Have you tried this soup?" And please make it a pre-requisite that he is nasally loud, and moustachioed, and bushily so, like a walrus or a cop in a disco band.

Second, walk around in a tan shirt that is emblazoned with your store's logo, guaranteeing that you'll wear it with pride, in case your boss should ask how you wear it. Talk to people who aren't making eye contact with you, in order to break their train of thought of why they came into your store anyway... gawd, what was it? Flamethrower? Bear trap? No...

Third, keep those with the weakest grip on the region's native tongue stationed where they have to ask and answer questions of customers. Perhaps they can help a guy find... what the hell was it?

Finally, pretend that this IS your dream come true. It will keep you from draining another Bacardi Silver and trading salamis with the Soup Trooper.
==========

I remember a time when helpful people were available to help you, not waiting underfoot like discarded, yapping, wretched, hairless rat-dogs named Mr. Peanut who can't seem to get a website so... TORTILLAS! Damn, now I have to go back? No way. I'm eating my tacos the old-fashioned way: Drunk at 2:30a.m. from bag.

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Comforthing

So... James Wolcott wrote, in the most recent issue of Vanity Fair (the one with the stars of Dyspeptic Barmaids on it), about Stand-up Comedy being dead, and there being no edge left to it.

The blog-unfindable Lizzy first alerted my sector of the world to this article, so I fig'red it would be a good read. I found a copy of VF at the sto', but wasn't going to drop $4.50 when all I wanted was about 12 pages of the magazine. You know you're a maturing male when the articles are more interesting. I have an imagination, thank you, and whatever Teri Hatcher's doing to Marcia Cross with that Kitchen Aid mixer and a stomach pump whilst both don firefighter's overalls and little else, well, it idn't yer garsh dern bidnoose.

I miss my friend's blogs.

I found Wolcott's article on-line, and am preparing to read it as I type this. The first quote in the article is from Garry Shandling, saying how Johnny Carson, God rest his soul, was the first person Shandling ever craved the approval of. I can understand that. It has to get edgier for references, I hope. Garry Shandling?

Wolcott lives in Manhattan, and is a book, TV, movie, and general pop culture critic, while doubling duty as a moderate weirdouche. He has 3 cats, and appears to have written a poof-piece about a the dating scene in Manhattan that rips of Jane Austen, "The Catsitters." For the love of Street Jokes, the guy writes for VANITY FAIR. I sense that most of Britney's videos illicited a change in heart rate for Wolcott. I'll find out more after I read his stuff.

Review of reviewer to be released as soon as time, packing, and my being on hiatus allows.


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Before I Go -- Sometimes "Haters" Aren't Hatin', Just Wonderin' "Why?

This is hysterical to me. I've never heard of San Francisco 49ers' receiver Brandon Lloyd. This is an article from YahooNews I just couldn't pass up.

News
49ers' wide receiver Brandon Lloyd has recorded a rap album. "I'm trying to show people what it is to be in my shoes, who I am, what I do," Lloyd told the Mercury News of his second career. (whew! Good, wow! can't wait to hear a song about playing special teams and acting bored around 19 year-old community college chicks) The third-year receiver admits that his main profession eliminates some of the material other rappers use. "I can't talk about drugs and shooting people," he said. "That's not what I'm doing. So I rap about my experiences and traveling and just hanging out." (gripping. check out the undergound single "This Morning I Had A Vitamin") Lloyd will release the material under the name B.Lloyd. (names NOT chosen: B-Lo, Bloyd, Branlo, Skids, NightGas, StrapSnarfer)

Views
Fantasy owners are hopeful that Lloyd will have more to rap about next offseason after he finishes his third season. Brandon is not listed in our top-40 offseason wide receiver rankings, nor do we expect his album to crack the top-40 charts. (Verdict: as a rapper, he makes a moderately decent wide receiver)


You understand, of course, I'm going to download this...

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Hiatus

Dear Reader,

Thank you for stopping by and checking things out. I think I have some of the funniest, most creative readers in the house. Thanks for everything up to this point. I'm sure more will follow.

In the meantime, I've got lots going on, so I'm-a take a break on the writing thing. Check out my archives, though, and see where I was a year ago.

When I return, I'm aiming to deliver something worth reading every time I post, something that will make you laugh until you pee, then realize that you get so turned on by watersports that you have found a new level of eroticism, and can't help but thank me for it. Or something that will rile you into action against your drug dealer.

I'm out. Take care.
Peace.

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A Police Presence, Kind of Like A Fart

Sad to say, last night during the Mariners - Yankees Game, a man by the name of John Douchebag broke into my girlfriend's car. Smashed in the passenger window, mauled the dash in an attempt to make off with the stereo, and instead left with a handful of CDs. Hours of inconvenience, caused in a few moments, raising insurance rates for all of us. Oh yeah, and don't get me started on the Insurance Industry just yet.

Thievery Douche-ola didn't make off with nearly enough of my girlfriend's belongings to make worthwhile the hassles of getting a new window and all the paperwork handled. But she did call the police in order to get a report and a case number. From all accounts, the officer was a total dickhole.

I know that car burgles ain't all that exciting to cops. Got it. Mostly just paperwork and But this guy was a wad. I hope that it's not reflective of the police force as a whole. Sheesh, that guy's probably my counterpart on his job: Grumpy and Rumpled and ready to move on. But after the shit's gone down, he tells my girlfriend "You shouldn't leave stuff in your car." Thank you, Officer. Sorry to interrupt your shaking down of prostitutes.

That's right, people. Every crime enacted against you is your fault. I have forgotten that so many times. Every time I was bullied, my fault for making the bully mad. Every time a car was broken into, my fault for parking somewhere other than where I could stay up all night and stare at it. Every time a woman is followed into a dark alley, that whore... And every time your pension fund is raided, or your identity is stolen, or you are molested via e-mail... It is YOUR fault, and you must exact the proper measures so that NEVER AGAIN is the line you are in cut into by someone who feels they are the only person that matters.

Is it that the police are no longer "peace keepers?" They are Law Enforcement Officers, damn you, and will be respected as such. It is is VITAL to their well-being to treat every situation, from a cat stuck tree-ward to a drunken man firing a submachine gun at his adopted immigrant workforce children stuck tree-ward, the SAME. You MUST be in control. Show no compassion. Show no weakness. Show your mustache and flat-top. And speak in short sentences.

A police presence wouldn't stop crime, by the numbers. It would just flush it to other areas. The only thing that can stop crime is, quite simply, vigilante justice. Arm yourself with alarms, firearms, explosives, and cobras. Imagine that... somebody breaks into your house while you're at Eric Clapton's Rehab Island and all they hear is "ssssssssssss." Right until the SPROING! YEAH CRIMINIAL, YOU GOT A COBRA ON YOUR EYE!!! For many years I have wanted to create a car alarm system that reacts in the following way:
All electronics are wired to a main system that is dis-armed when the key is in the ignition. The main system is then wired to low-grade explosives or a flamethrower. If any item on the dashboard is disengaged from the BoomBoom-GL and the key is not in place... well... BLAM. The car blows up. Look, if you're gonna break into my car, let's have a f*cking SHOW. My insurance will go up $25 a quarter either way. Bye bye criminals.

Got any stories of dis-enchanted cops? Here's another one. Three years ago I'm at the stoplight at Denny and Westlake, behind two cruisers, side by side. Heading Northbound, away from the station, I figure these guys are just on-shift at 10pm. They're talking out their windows to each other. The light turns green, they chat a few seconds more as a MiniVan RUNS the red light heading East, right in front of the cops. They watch the MV, look at each other, shrug, and carry on. No harm, no foul, I guess.

Let's hear your stories of police officers wrapped up in being a Cop more than being a helpful person in the public eye.
Police are not the enemy, they are people who have to make decisions about whether to shoot or beat the minority first, then assess the situation. What are we gonna do?

However, they maced, gassed, and beat living hell out of the Hippies back around the WTO situation, so they've got that going for them. Oh, and crowning the meatheads during the Seattle Mardi Gras melee was STELLAR, although their presence didn't help for that young man who was beaten to death.

I'm gonna need a good lawyer.
====================
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REVIEW OF... Star Wars III: The End Of The Beginning

I have to make this quick, because this nasally-clogged idjit a few seats away from mine is gale-force blowing tsnotsunamis one after the other. 10 seconds yielded 7 expulsions, one of which was most of my breakfast.

Last week I won passes to see the latest and lastest Star Wars movie, Star Wars III: The Chronic '05 Fah Tha Streetz. I admit that I have not seen the previous 2 movies, which I heard were horrible. I was hoping I could follow along.

I won the passes through work, as did a lot of folks. Nothing makes a person feel good about themselves quite like the sight of their co-workers miserable lives. Nobody dressed up like Star Wars characters. A few people dressed up like boring assholes. Nobody appreciated my Vulcan ears and nerve pinchings. Married couples stared off into space. A girl showed a lot of cleavage because her gut stretched her shirt downward with gusto and beer. The woman... yeah, woman to my left nearing not only the 500lb mark, but also the 6'6" mark. Pro-wrestler size, wow. It was awesome.

Before we could even get into the theater we were required to leave all cell phones in the car. No audio capabilities, no picture-phoning. This was good because most of my carrier's phones don't work indoors. Still, had to take the phone to the car. After the movie, in the restroom, a guy who sat a row behind me was on his phone while having a wizz, so security was great.

A director of another department spoke prior to the movie to let us know about how, a year ago, her team flew to the Skywalker Ranch to discuss a branding tie-in with this latest Star Wars movie. Skywalker Ranch was also going to be a salad dressing, but no real Star Wars fan is going to put salad dressing on their Darth Bugles nor their Obi Wan Kenoodles, nor anywhere near a vegetable. Dang, another $2,000,000 into the escape hatch. Moving on, the director lady said "It is because of your work in the past year that our promotion has gone so well. Without you, we could never have done this." No, I'm pretty sure it would have gotten done without my spreadsheets, seeing as how that woman could have been a paid extra in a bad suit and frizzy hair-don't and I wouldn't have been the wiser.

Then we watched the movie. The Wookiees are kick-ass but don't get enough screen time. The low-points of the movie include any moment where the guy playing Anakin Skywalker is talking to Natalie Portman instead of eating food off of her, and needing to take a squirt with 30 minutes left. I'll give it away to you right now...
The movie just ENDS. Done. What about all the other people? Where the hell is the Darth guy, and the emporer who looks like the Queen of England? ZERO friggin' resolution to this movie, other than General Grievous dying and the cameo of a very green, very Jewish Woody Allen.

This movie is SHIT.

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What I Meant To Blog Was...

I have figured out why I dislike hearing people talk on their cell phones in public, and why I, too, hate doing so.

If you have a vital conversation you find a place that is quiet, isolated from noise so that you don't miss any of the info that's going on.

A couple weeks ago on the way home from Spokane, sitting at the gate in airplane-waiting position, a gal sat behind me jabbering at top volume. She also had a nervous tic that made her look like a yawning dog, and was ill enough to be snorking back snot like it was cut on a mirror at Studio 54. She was telling somebody on the other end "At the airport... gate C... ten minutes... about 15... we leave in an hour... I think it's a double prop plane." Uh, hey... maybe giving coordinates of the plane and a passenger list would suit her better. And holy moly, what a dynamic personality! Mark my words, pretty soon, for the sake of security, the Transportation Safety Administration is going to outlaw the use of cell phones once you get past security, because I'll have been shoving phones ass-bound.

But every other cellphone conversation that I am thrown under is usually just an exercise in banality. Whenever possible, I'm going to follow people on cell phones in public, pull out a small notepad, and write down everything they say.

What? Invasion of privacy? Nope, sorry, it's a public place, ladies bathroom or not.
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General Mayhem & Captain Grunderflaps

This evening, the Princess and Count Braapula (me) are taking the X-Wing (1999 Chrysler Cirkus) to a sneak-preview of "STAR WARS III: This Space for Rent" down in Redmond, WA. The past 10 years has taken Redmond from "The New Silicon Valley" to "Nerds With Benefits Highlands." I won the tickets through a drawing at work, and I doubt we have the entire theater just for members of the Blob a l'Orange gang. This shouldn't stop anyone from wearing doing "The Robot" while asking where "R2 has gotten off to."

In the meantime, when you hear reports of somebody walking around doing a "Vulcan nerve grip" on annoyed patrons, think of me.

Tommorrow's blog! Full review of Star Wars III: Bigger & Blacker, complete with awards for biggest dork, coolest hair, and loudest Wookiee growl (which is actually just a bear).

Oh, and this one ain't got no Ewoks, so NYEAH!

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Juxtaperspective

First up, to those who have left comments, thank you for reading and input. It's cool that this little blogosphere is connected to people.
I did check out www.jacksonayala.com, a slickly intertwined 'podge of ideas, pics, quotes, and the Not But Should Be Famous "Crazy Black Names." I offer up the name of an offensive tackle on the Virginia Cavaliers, Mr. D'Brickashaw Ferguson. Am I lying? Also, Jackson's quotes & bio page notes range from Dave Attell to Sophocles to Farrakhan, and just when you think it's time to get all up in your own ass about what he means by putting all these crazy things out there for y'all to read... he quotes Popeye. So take a breath and relax. He hates blogs, by the way.

I should be asleep, by the way.

A few times while blog-a-blog-blog-blogging away here I've used the term "perspective." I refer to it's importance as a tool that helps you appreciate what you have, see, or are experiencing. Perspective, which I guess could go Snap-On (not an endorsement) with "Juxtaposition." It's the Bizzarro world you are living in, the Parallel Universe where the Atkins Diet is a fast and Carson Daly was dumpster-jobbed at birth.

Why are Perspective and Juxtaposition important? First off, they'll be tabbed P&J from here on out. Second, P&J are important to help me appreciate what I have going. The ability to see the FlipSide is invaluable to me in many situations. If I'm down to my last $5,000 in checking, fretting, sweating, well heck, I COULD be down to my last $4,000... or $209. Or -$209 AFTER the payday loan. So I should appreciate and take care of what I have, because it could be worse.
This is a good thing to have in a relationship, too. I know a guy who is married, and, more or less, is a neanderthal with a driver's license. Let's call him Larry. I dated a gal who is a friend of his, and she once said "You're really kind of sensitive sometimes." But she didn't mean it like I get my feelings hurt easily. She meant it like "you can be a puss... sometimes." She clarified that for me right after the first comment. I cocked my head and said, with a smile, mind you, "Sometimes, yes, I can be. Sorry bitch. I can Larry it up for you, bitch, if you f*cking want me to." She got the point, but I had to point it out for her, because she had no perspective of chivalry. Gosh, ask permission before putting in the thumb and all good deeds hit pot-bottom.

Moderately autobiographical, some embellishment, you know what I'm getting at. Things could be worse. Things could be better. So what will I gravitate to? I'm trying to stay as positive as I can, ignoring the fire but letting the heat push me forward to cooler times, and laying off the flammable underwear. But still, there are times when being brutally honest and forthcoming is expected and rewarded, and I'll take those opportunities on with all the gusto of a fourth date, and we all know what happens on the fourth date. All I'm saying... BBQ Sauce.

Y'ever realize that the kid in the corner yelling about how he's leaving and doesn't want to be looked just wants attention, then you realize it's not a kid at all, but a full grown adult and you stop caring what they're yelling about and instead just go about your business and then you realize, WOW, you're really better off ignoring all the yelling in the corners? Yeah, me neither.


That's my time everyone, thanks for stopping by. This microphone smells like streetjokes.

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Headline Monday

All Thanks Be To The Highest of Love And Creation!!!
"Everybody Loves Raymond" is going off the air. Did anybody even watch that sack of shit show? I watched a total of 3 minutes in the 28 years it's been on TV. Unfunny is unfunny, which is exactly what unchallenged America loves.

Comedy Recap:
Telling young teens the truth is always a good way to start a set

Television Recap:
Next week's Season Finales of "Housewives" and "Grey's Anatomy" to be uninterrupted by phone calls and bathroom breaks

Chappelle Speaks!:
From his South Africa retreat, Chappelle gives remarks on stress, drive, money, and how he'll surely have enough material for a few more episodes

Chivalry Is Alive, Women Don't Get It:
Chivalry is always in style, as is being respectful - Perspective is the polishing rag of human interaction

How To Screw A Waiter:
...who is trying to screw your date

News to follow. Good Monday Morning, Monkies!
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He's Tired, Bitch!

Well... those waiting for another season of The Chappelle Show on Comedy Central gonna have to wait until Dave gets out the bin.

Poor foo' done gone and exhausted himself. The third season is only 4-5 taped sketches old, and ran into a ton of issues. The gang there was citing problems with creativity, illness, partying, and people constantly asking "Hey man, where the hell that Season 3 at?"

In the meantime, HAX-TV has reportedly been poised to usurp the throne of sketchy comedy shows. So heads up... Late June? I won't know until the last guest leaves the fundraising party tonight at Pegasus Pizza, thrown by Captain Morgan and Tylenol PM.

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Blog

I'm not quite sure what to write about today.
Nothing stands out much in my mind as to what may be exciting or provocative, other than Oprah Winfrey being on the cover of every friggin' issue of her magazine. Just laying about in her own O-ness, being the O, live the O. Get O-ver yourself. Opers needs a writer, a good one, a Judy Gold or a Sarah Silverman. Well, to stay current, I'd have to nominate Killorn, who is a great writer, but her frequency is spottier than an anorexic's cycle. Oprah's really in love with being Oprah, and her efforts on the show has been pared down to the unwitty comment in that "yeahyounumsayngurrrl?"-corner-mouthed voice to get a laugh, and giving things to crying women. I guess she's worked hard to make hers the number one talk show in America. She found Dr. Phil, also, and hey, that's unforgivable.

Yeah, not much to talk about, other than wrapping up the purchase of a condo. First-time homebuyer here, a bit nervewracking but overall I think I'm keeping it together. I haven't cried thsi afternoon, fer-instance. The thought of investing in a something is cool, but the montly payments are going to jump up and bite me ass-wise. Oh well, at least I'll be able to paint the colors into my world as I see fit. Good bye off-white, hello Viking Mural. I will finally be able to resurrect my talents as the #8-rated Van Mural Artist on the West Coast. Vikings? Got 'em. Serpents? Don't insult me. Carson Daly getting Hot Carl'ed by Emmanuel Lewis in a HoneyBucket at KUBE Summer Jam? Can you stammer out "STANDARD?" I have to get some homeowner's insurance, ASAP.

I'm clueless as to where I should start here. I started writing some new material that I'm looking forward to honing. It's got some opinion, some goof, some weird, some titillation, mmmmm, I said it... It's going to have to get worked out on stage and on paper, but at first glance it's some of my best work yet. Not saying much for a guy who opened his sets early in 2004 by singing the Quizno's Subs screechy theme song made famous by the furry tumor pups.

I learned a valuable lesson yesterday as El Naranjo Blobbo celebrated having 50 million customers yelling into phones. The lesson?
Never reward monetarily what can be rewarded with free pizza. Cash comes and goes, but having the Hot Pocket studs from Network Security pawing at a deep-dish supreme, now that's forever. One of their ilk ate an entire box of Cheez-its in one day, washed down with Mountain Dew. So, not LESS genetic engineering, MORE. Put an enzyme in the foods purchased mostly by the trash sectors of society, an enzyme that, when a certain amount is ingested over a one month period, automatically sterilizes the ingestor. Whatever they eat most, give it a shot of something to kill reproduction. You could do with with Mt. Dew, Ripple chips, any flavor of Rind, PBR, Malt Liquor, and of course, boogers.

I guess I should just wrap this up and stop staring at the keyboard.


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Tony Danza, The Mayor Of Spokane, And Car Batteries

What are...
What are things that are falling over, gay, or dead, Alex?

Tony Danza's go-kart flipped while taping a segment for his show, produced by "Slow Learner" studios. Check it out HEEEEEEEEEEEERE.

I'll write more when I have time. For now, the Mayor of Spokane wants to cruise me 0n-line. I've seen Spokane, and there's a reason it's called "Washington' balloon knot."


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Mondayne

Hey, how's it going?
Good, good.

This weekend was all over the place. My girlyfriend and I saw "Sahara" starring Penelope Cruz, Steven Zahn, and Matthew McConaghey's (spelling? like it matters) body. Thrill-a-minute, but a few scenes did test my "Willing Suspension of Disbelief." When I write my first action movie, it's going to be rife with henchmen stopping just short of peering around a corner, as their henchmates call them over to check something out.

Alicia and I killed time by checking out the Barnes & Noble store. Yeah, I'm pretty white sometimes. But anywho, we're checking it out and I realized how little I know about investing. I'm 31, and my nature has always been to save as much as I can, then use it to pay for a vacation or some sort of box-set. I have to change that. It's basically a change in values, wanting to be totally out of debt, operating "in the black" (which I rented on Saturday, WOW), and financially secure MORE than I want some sort of impulse-purchase. I doubt I'll be miserly, but I sure as hell don't need to go buy a new car when fencing a few hot rides will do just fine.

I want to be a millionaire. I know there are many people who say "money isn't everything." No, it's not. It IS, however, a tool with which to build and leverage certain opportunities in life with. I want to travel the world at some point, and last I checked, that's not totally free for non-military personnel, or "Civs" as we're called. I'd like a nice set of tools to use to create business and career opps for myself. If you can't say something nice, suck it dry.

I wrote a bunch of new jokes this weekend, too. Stuff has really come to me easily, from Special Effects in movies to Greeting Cards to my involvement with a religious sect in my younger days. Now I'm in the exhilirating mode of finding elements within them to riff from and write within parameters of. It's the most challenging part of writing for me, because I usually let it flow when I talk through a bit outloud in my living room. To sit and pull it out and stick it on paper can be weird. But I need to get back to what I know is my strongest talent: cold-cocking dickwads who step to me wrong. Also, last night I said Tom Hanks when I meant to say Tom Cruise, because my tongue wants me to stop getting laughs.

As the NBA Playoffs, Round 2: Revenge of The Fans kicks off this week, we get to hear the hyperbole of professional athletes, basketballers this time, talking about competition at this level. My favorite, that I've heard twice already, is "This is gonna be a war." Yes, it is. Just like the Vietnam War but with millionaires who leave the "battlefield" in $150 shoes and sleep in 4-star hotels and get pulled out of the "shit" in their Benzo SLk-350 and don't die, that kind of war. Yeah. Just like a war. Gawd, what an asshole. "Rasheed Wallace drives the lane... BOOOOOM... and trips the Bouncing Betty. What's left of his upper body will go to the line." Iraq War veterans vs. NBA Egos, next on ESPN-Mexico.

I gotta go do some stuff. Have a good Monday.
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Happy Mother's Day

I wanted to wish the Mom's of the world "Happy Mother's Day." You shouldn't have to cram all the attention into one day. For that matter, none of us should. Let's spread out some joy and/or chunky peanut butter of kindness over the toaster waffle of this great nation of ours in the next year.

Happy Mother's Day!
Pam, Stacy, Babs, Sue, Sunny, Amy, Judy, Judy, Judy, Sandie, Sonya (soon), Katie Amer, Karen, Marilyn, Jean, Weece, Michelle, Joanne, Wendy, Nancy, Sandy, Maggie, Chrissy, Kim, Melody, and to your mom, too, unless she's a harpy.


Aaaaaaand, in parting, any attempts by Killroy O'Hooterhan to blog a Mother's Day tome at this hour would be contrived. Michelle's on her way, and it's enough that you've cleaned the extra bedroom and flushed your body of toxins and meat, both of which are euphemisms I use for Tony "Born With A Tail" Moser.



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9 Months, And This Is How You Thank Her?

For those of you who were wondering what you forgot, here are a few reminders:
Backseat: The BABY! OH CRAP!
Home: Lunch, meds, flush
Work: Lunch, vodka, pants
Weekend: Mother's Day!

This year is going to be a different Mother's Day for my family. If you've read here before, my family's New Normal is completely different than anybody thought it would be a year ago, let alone two years ago. The past 2 years, in fact, feel much like a giant transition. A lot of changes, a lot of growth, and frankly I'm ready to see if the wings can take the beating once we're out of the cocoon.

My mom has been rather heroic this past year. In the wake of losing the man she married, she found a deeper love for her husband. She has honored the commitment to my dad that she made nearly 35 years ago: In sickness and in health. Instead of spending more time traveling the world with my dad, she travels 15 minutes every day to spend time with him in scenic South King County! She has taken on the finances of health care, house payments, pension plans, and long-term care for her husband. Of course, it would be great if it never needed to go like this. I usually blur my eyes with tears when I think of how my kids will not get to meet their grandfather, the way I never met my dad's dad, or how the day I get married will be different for all involved. But my mom has found some peace, and more strength in it all. It is our "new normal."

My dad has always loved her. She's a strong woman, and has always had a compassion for people who work through adversity, often helping them through spiritual guidance and favors above and beyond the call of friendship. The love and outpouring of friendship my family has received in the past year is a testament to how they've lived and treated others.

Usually I see Holidays as reasons for a fancier-than-tuna wrap dinner opportunity, or an extra weekend night to do comedy and sleep in. Why should I have to save all my jingoism for Arbor Day when I can go dress in a Bunny Suit TODAY and have most kick-ass Flag Day of all time? So, with Sunday being Mother's Day, I am reminded to not wait for just one day to come around to take Mom to Applebee's and spring for some sort of cobbler. Make your mom a cobbler whenever you feel like it. Call her. Take her to lunch next week. And apologize for that thing in Junior High, you know what I mean, the one with the hole in your jeans.

To the Amers, , Myers, Cedar Downs Andersons, Holmes, Falks, Sweigers, Fredricksons, Ms. Lemmel, Mastersons, the MVP family and everyone else who has given of themselves in the past year, you helped us get through the toughest, earliest stages of our New Normal.
Never will I be able to thank you enough for the love you have shown my family in the past year. I feel in your debt. Thank you.

For what it's worth, and because I can say it, there have been a few people who have backed away from my family in the past year, and these are people who my parents had been quite close with for the better part of two decades. For whatever reasons they are not around anymore, that's really too bad. My dad knows who his friends are, and often wonders why he doesn't see those people any more.

So as Mother's Day plans are made all over the nation, don't let one day sum up all that your mom means to you. Spread it over the year, so you won't have to drop big dough on one gift.

==--==--==
Side Note:
For what it's worth... Gene Simmons is a Republican. His tongue, presumably, is still Libertarian, and surely HIV-positive.

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5-5-5-CINCO DE MAYO!!!

It's 05/05/05, the only time in our lives it will be such a date. This calls for a celebration. I'd say "meet me at the local" but all these other folks are celebrating Cinco De Mayo today. Cinco De Mayo is, of course, the Mexican Independence Day, as they fought and won their independence from the oppression of France.

Wow... even Mexico beat the French. Snnrf.

And what better way to celebrate the struggle and bloodshed, the ending ofan era and the beginning of the proud nation of Mexico than with their own time-honored tradition of Half-Priced Coronas?! ARRIBA! I awoke this morning to find somebody had left some nachos out to welcome me to this great day. What, no chicle?

I have far too much to do to type right now. I was up until 3am doing some worky work, which is a hysterical, sad juxtaposition compared to where I was this time last year. I was up at 3, probably telling my neighbors "no, YOU BE QUIET! QUIT YELLING OFF YOUR BALCONY! (firing my cap pistol into the air)" I'm-a catch a quick nap, then get some coffee, then tip tequila until I can understand just what the ese is so great about liquid cheese that we can't stop importing it.

ARRRRRRRRRRRRIB...zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

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Clean Up Your Box

Lots of changes, lots of transition going on in the world.

First Lady Laura Bush is apparently "the funny one" in the relationship. Seeing as how she's married to a glorified gas station manager, who's best friend (Cheney) is a minion of the Dark UnderLord (Carson Daly), it's not too tough. She's got good material/writers, but her presence needs work. She has clout to carry the opener; sheesh, the woman had sex with the President! Then again, Clinton nailed more tail than a taxidermist (ba-dum-bum).
Note to Laura: Although the President is a comedy bullseye (here come the black suits and earpieces), you have more insight than anybody. Sit with Judy Gold for a spell, get a few more open mic sets under your belt, and you'll kill every time. Cripes, you even got the Red states laughing!

Iraq is trying to figure out who does what and when and for how much of our money. Oddly enough they're splitting it between religious sects, their Whigs and Tories dividing the rebuilding efforts. The Red States say "You're Welcome." The Blue States say "Please take Richard Gere." So do the Red States, actually. A long time ago a man older than I wrote something to the effect of:
"A democracy can last only as long as the voting public is unaware of their share of the public coffers. When voters realize they can vote themselves a dip into the public treasury, democracy tumbles, and soon thereafter a Dictatorship comes forth to harshly restore order."
He was writing about an ancient Greek society, btw. Realizing that Greed is the scale-tipping emotional impetus behind many people's actions, he saw that eventually, sharing will bother those who share the most (upper tax brackets). Greed can be wanting more than your fair share, an unrealistic gauge of your fair share, or even miser-ing every little cent so that not even YOU are enjoying your fair share. You can't take it with you, so you may as well load it into an RPG launcher and fire it through a crowd of protestors.

Creatively, another transition period. This entire first 1/3rd of the year has felt like a gathering wave, and people are paddling out to it. Some local comics are finalizing plans to get the F out of Seattle. I wish them all of the luck and opportunity in the world. The plans for each of us are different, so I don't really wind my clock too much about what other people are doing. I have some great opportunities in front of me, creatively, that require my efforts. There is no "lucky break" for me right now, just a matter of walking through open doors. Sometimes, however, open doors lead Out. Hey Dr. Phil, suck the juice out of that one! So the wave is gathering, and some may ride a smaller crest back in. That's cool. I'm challenging myself to ride a bigger one, however. I can't enjoy the little breaks forever.

Last night I made some turkey chili that is clawing out of me in every way possible. My

"Thinking outside the box" assumes that one could think inside of it to begin with. And that's not something I've seen in a while. In the high-stakes world of IT metrics analysis, where my only weapons are cunning, instinct, and spreadsheets, I find myself playing their game. Keep your friends close, but your co-workers closer, especially if they have access to cool pens or good candy. And none of that hard-butterscotch puck BS, I can get that on my own. You get some Hershey's Minis in here, set me aside some Special Dark. I'll be cleaning my box in the meantime.


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I've Had Less Stress, And Less Fun

In the past week, I've had a ton of great things come way. A lot of doors to knock on, many RSVPs to-which I must R, etc. And yes, it is ETC, short for Et Cetera, which is Latin for "And the nasal singer of Chicago." But you already expected that, dincha?

I put an offer on a 2-bed, 1.5-bath condo, a really great value buy. The offer was accepted. Shortly thereafter the ass-tightening began. Not so much about becoming a homeowner, as Real Estate is a feat and an achievement in many circles, unless it is filled with jerks. Or Native Americans who weren't doing anything with it anywho. (eat a humor dog) My housing payment may increase as much as 40%, but I'll be ownin' a great place. I'll be there for a good year, until I actually build my savings up again and have some disposable income.

Though I am a poor Crazy-8's player, I did clean-house at open poker over the weekend. Caught some good hands, got lucky, knew how to play 'em. Even BETTER:
FILMA-A-LICIOUS
There was much filming done for some parody commericals in Semi-Ah-Moo this weekend.

Oh crap, I better get it together and get on with my day. Gotta go sell some sperm, if I can remember where I put it.






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Retrospectator Sport

Last year was almost a null year for me. The first 9 months of it felt like a total wash.

My dad's diagnosis was the first time I'd really cried in years. I spread my time amongst pointless endeavors. I didn't do as much comedy as I could have. I sat back when I should have sprung forward. And I have some regrets.

People who say they live with "no regrets" are usually giant a-pipes, or very boring. I have a conscience, especially when it comes to doing things that primarily screw ME over. I feel like a pretty young 31 year-old at times. But this is where I am. I'm working on this whole "progress" concept at times, realizing that, in order to do it, I can't get caught up in staring at the passing window shoppers and coffee huts. In that sense, when I feel a slow-down in the mix, I find that I get more than a little chafed.

It's the same with road rage, long lines, and being the 4th of 5 dogs leading the sled. The view never changes, I didn't ask for this, but what can I do to make it better? Well, for one, I can make it better for one other dog, at least, by keeping my business to myself, even if they have a decent view of my undercarriage. I hate to stagnate. It feels like death to me. That's one reason my job is almost unbearable. (the other reason is commonly known as "co-workers") There's no opportunity for advancement here at the big OJ Splatterberg's, my raise wouldn't cover the cost of the network space that the e-mail announcing it was sent through, and yet the dog in front of me finds it necessary to slow down the whole sled by wanting to talk about where we're going.

Turns out, it's Nowhere. I'm gnawing at my harness as we speak.

And I have found that the more I shake things up, the settling of those things is usually to my benefit. Unless it's pool, I suck at pool.

The last 3 months of last year were much better for me. I felt progression, I felt growth, I felt Mexico in my veins. Or was it dysentery? I have much more to accomplish before I'll be satisfied, and anything standing in the way of that pursuit, whatever category of Noun it may be, will meet the same fate as most of my toilet paper: It will thrown into the trees of my high school prinicipal's retirement cottage.

This place has more inside jokes than a Gyno's office. I'm leaving.
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Another Reason To Hate The Media

It's not even our media, but here's a great example of how the media can really F over a great lot of us.

It's called "Happy Slapping" and it's likely not very popular here in America. Kids/Teens attacking other people and filming it with their mobile phones. Evidence of an assault, brilliant.

So do what I do. When you see a teen or three, get pre-emptive and drive a boot heel into their kneecap. When they drop, and they will, start raining blows to their head and yell "Back to school, Tommy! BACK TO SCHOOL!!!" And then blame the media.

They have to be held accountable for something, right?


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Conference Cold-Call

I have been applying for jobs recently, doing the best I can to network in my own weird avenues. My networking skills are nearly null because I have a problem of asking for help. It's a man thing, it's a wiring deal in my head where asking for help equates to admitting weakness and defeat. Like saying "Hey, I can find a job where I don't know anyone on my own! I don't need you! (crying) I don't need this hat, or this nametag! (really crying, some snot) I don't even like being a Parking Enforcement Officer!" I guess I don't want to think that I can't do it all on my own. It's much easier with some help, but I don't always ask because I wonder if my asking will be seen as giving up and just hoping on the charity of others.

But I've been doing it more lately. I've been asking people "Hey, I hate to bother you, but I did lend you $50. Can you correlate the formulas on this spreadsheet? Wake up. Can you... wake up." By asking people to help, you may find a fresh perspective, a compatriot, or at the very least and perhaps most valuable, and accomplice. And a few great people have stepped forward to lend a hand, a website, a phone number, and at one point, this advice: "You got something right here, go like this" (flicking nose)

Another recent favorite activity of mine? Telling people "No." As in "I reviewed and studied your request. No. It can't be done. Let me rephrase. It CAN be done. It will cost another $8,000 a year, plus a new laptop, three weeks of DBA training, and... wake up..." Telling people "no" as a means of righteous defense has been exhilirating. When I really need to, I tell someone "no." Why drag out the pain for everyone involved when you can shut it down early? The dragging out is only fun when you're not that into the person you're dating and they're being a putz.

And thusly, I've been slowly building a reputation amongst my new team. The reputation, however, varies. To my co-workers I am "assertive and staunch." To the people who got promoted above me without my input, I am "capable, but sometimes difficult." Being difficult with corporate management means that you're not wagging your tail and saying "Okay, I'll do it!" Bureaucracy has its place. It is a byproduct of one person favors going unpaid for too long. Next thing you know, your request for a report about a team that dropped the ball takes 5 days instead of 30 minutes, because your previous request included the words "And NOW, got it?"

For a long time, the "bosses" around here have had meetings to talk about meetings they should be talking about. When the meeting is over, they call us into meetings to discuss what meetings they've had, and what they discussed. Next, a discussion of what type of meetings would be most helpful to people. My usual response is "fewer, and if that's not possible, none." Oh my, the classics are classic for a reason!

The world has never been conquered in meetings, except for one between Dan 'Larry The Cable Guy' Whitney and some sort of Minion or possibly Underlord. Meetings disrupt the flow. I go with that flow, but the more meetings I have, the more I need in order to figure out what in the hell that last e-mail was referring to. With a subject line of "Meeting Tuesday: For Words The California Blue," I'm bright, but I can't see through "illiterate." Is this a Mars Volta EP? I guess we'll talk it over.

I applied for a position today with a company I've always admired, and they asked for my website address. I included it with my info, knowing full well that a fair amount of my input has referred to a great dislike of my "co-workers," as they are referred to in my handbook of diversities in which to respect. I respect race, creed, color, national origin, and personality. Your sexuality is your own business. Walking around the office while jokingly and loudly singing, I wish were kidding, "The Macarena," well that is MY business. That same person just blurted "No soup for you" and set to laughin', oh just a'LAFFIN'!

So as I network my way into a career where I can grow and flourish and be far away from Sandie and her lack of tact, make-up, and an "indoor voice," I ask that I, too, be respected. I cannot and will not hide from my writing here. I won't censor it or retract it, because it's how I'm feeling when I write it that shows through like Rhandira's software vendor t-shirt under his off-white Oxford button-down, and those kick-ass white socks with almost ankle-reaching slacks. This outlet, there are far fewer people who need to ask me "what I'm thinking" via "meeting." And my writing is a reflection of my mood while working for a company that doesn't need me.

My neighbor just sneezed... with a mouthful of yogurt.

On a more personal note, yesterday felt like a day of clarity. I have been funked for a while, like 2 months, undermotivated, underenthused, under there. Under where? Gotcha!
Calm down, seriously... Something turned on or off yesterday. I feel like a good thing is a-brewin' here. More to come as news and financial windfall warrant.

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Something To Feel This Way Or That About

The Seattle School District was holding hearings on the possible closings of 10... again, TEN... Seattle Schools due to lack of funding. This is the first year that students are required to pass a standardized test in order to graduate. College admission standards are rising.

And there will be outcries of prejudice, racism, and hypoglycemia as people will be held accountable for their work on all fronts. Who is to blame for a student's poor grades? Bad teaching or bad pupils? Environment or societal messages? Funding?

Cripes, I don't know. I come from a time when we didn't worry about that because we were drunk.

The State Senate worked all weekend to pass an $8.5 billion tax package which includes a 9.5... again, NINE-AND-A-HALF-CENT... gas tax. But that's not the whole story.

The money raised is being spread out over the state in order to fix a number of really high, free, by, and skyways. Potholes, cracks, stoplights, and oh yeah, teetering, shifting Viaducts running above the ferry terminals along the watery grave-edge of downtown.
It will get done... at some point. Either people will stop driving their kids to schools that won't be open, or home school them.

"Meanwhile, the marquee projects — the Alaskan Way Viaduct and Highway 520 floating bridge — receive only partial funding. They won't get started unless urban voters pass a regional transportation package to cover the rest."

The senate also passed a Child Neglect Bill, ironically. It was the result of the disturbing, tragic case of the two little boys who starved to death last year because the state workers didn't do their job and sterilize their mother. She was a raging alcoholic who was reaping state benefits, returning food to stores in exchange for cash, which was then spent on beer. Can you imagine that? Your money going for someone else's beer? Angry yet?
And a lot of people will say "The government should not be getting involved with how we raise children!" To which I say "first off, don't have kids. Second, eat a pile if you think parents shouldn't be held responsible for the welfare of children, and if they can't, that somebody should make sure the kid's basic needs are met. Finally, that transportation bill's pretty huge, so we'll need some good ol' child laboring to get it all done."

So anyway, Politics is all about the Big Announcement. It has very little to do with people. But people can't govern themselves (See: sporting events, girls going wild, prom) so somebody has to do it. It can either be a faceless group of people representing your "Best interests" when it starts but faltering to their own avenues... or you can bypass your parents and hope the government helps out.

We.
Are.
Screwed.


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Let's Kick It Off Right

I've been working from home for the better part of past 4 weeks. Stress is much lower, although dealing with whom and what I deal with carries it's own causes for a ten-count. Sunday night, and I'm getting ready to start downshifting so I can, sigh, work tomorrow. I have a lot to do. And I have zero interest in doing any of it. I am my own leader, so I can get plenty of work done on my own. OH WAIT, no I can't, becuase I have too much horsecrap through which to sift. Leadership is wearing a LOT of cologne and makeup, which is pointless when they are THAT far in the dark. Yeah, I can smell 'em coming, but it doesn't mean they brought a flashlight.

fffrrrrrrrrrrrp
'scuse me

Shitchya not, one day I received 9 e-mails prior to 10am regarding a subject I HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH, other than knowing of it. Imagine you ate cheese once. It agreed with you. Somebody had cheese out at a party, and you were seen eating from it. That was, say, 4 years ago. Now imagine getting 9 voicemails within 2 hours where somebody in another state that an Org Chart has deemed your "manager." The subject of those voicemails? Your manager is interested in making cheese. You were seen eating cheese four years ago. Therefore you must know about the process that resulted in your bringing lip-side a few cubes of smokey cheddar, and a bloop of gorgonzola-cranberry-walnut log to your crostini. Right?

So now, do you say that you could find out enough about cheese making to start your own business in your kitchen, risking further involvement in glorifying some other cheeseball... OR, do you just chuck a summer sausage (Summer: THE Sausage Season. paid for by Weird Sausage Lovers of Multnomah County) in their direction, pack your boxes, and start to separatin' curds & whey?

I'd rather be helping others, moving forward, giving back, like Ty Pennington sans Type-A personality and those "tendencies." But, shit yes, I'm bringing a toolbelt, because toolbelts are hot. Other things hot include good grout work, re-wiring your kitchen, and the inner surfaces of Maya Angelou's thighs. Sssssssssssssssssssssssssizzlin'!

I feel like I'm being taken-from. I am not stolen-from, as I am complicit in this transaction of effort and, sigh, money. I'm gathering the strength to throw double birds and say "NO SEVERANCE, NO PEACE." E-mailing the floor about donuts in the breakroom, then leaving two empty boxes from a local bakery and one-half a maple bar... whoa, it moved a little there. I would then sit there and edit old essays of mine, while waiting for someone's inner Carnie Wilson to send them gaping maw-long into that last fraction of a pastry. Then I'd take a picture, send it around with the caption "This person ate the last donut on [insert date of fun here]. Forever Piggy." Then I'd start packing my boxes, and go. The only thing it would do is cause a large, 4-week inconvenience to greater than 10 people, each making more than $100K. Then I may go for a long walk, and hope my erection would subside before I get to the next crosswalk. Think of it... I could leave behind those I non-like, and meet all new people to judge! What a fabulous time in which we live.

Sounds worth it to me. Fist me sleeping, how many times can I write about wanting to quit? It's getting as bad as telling everyone what's wrong with them.
If anybody needs a moderately well-read, enthusiastic, analytical mind to work for them, drop me a Message. It's a staring contest, and I'm pretty sure my adversary doesn't have the proper reptilian brain functions to remember to blink, or they've simply fallen asleep at the keyboard with their finger on the "Annoy" key. It's right but the FU2 key.
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My dear Aunt Judy, sister of my dad Gerry, is in town from Georgia. She told me that she has quite a few of her friends reading this, and for the promotion and new readership, I am very grateful.
If anything here offends you, or is rather "blue," feel free to e-mail me about it. If you need MORE blue material or MORE offensive stuff, oh wow, wait until Wednesday for my story with "Everything!" Paranoia, technology, physical tics, and everyone's favorite... costume SWASTIKAS!

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