More later, of course, but let me say this.
The more I see the way the world is going, the more I wish I would have invested in oil a long time ago. Not only does it continuously rake in huge profits off of the everyday workin' person in America, but it makes the every-day person SO ANGRY! GRRRR!!!
The other day I saw a woman washing her car at a gas station with the squeege near the pump. This was after her tirade about how high gas prices had gone (up 4-cents a gallon just on Thursday), and how we should "blow up the whole 3rd World!"
Either she didn't get it that 3rd World countries really have f*ck-all to do with gas prices, or she wasn't fully aware of the implications on further generations by this era's fat, rich, old white guys, much like those who had divorced her numerous times, slowly finding a way to make gas unloveable... all while trying to drive the price of biodiesel through the roof.
OR she did understand the implications and was just a giant bigot when she wasn't busy being a ghoulish gasbag. For the sake of Monoxide, SHE WAS WASHING HER CAR WITH A SQUEEGE.
The topper was hearing her say "Well I am NOT using their car wash!"
Right on. Way to stick it to the man, and make the water dirtier for anybody else who wanted to wash their windows after waiting for you to finish detailing your Ford Five-Hundred for 8minutes... while their engine idled behind you in line.
Nothing would have made me happier than to have been able to say, with all honesty and truth, "Thanks for shopping."
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Geoff Lott: Comedian, Writer, Philosoteur. I am here to amuse you, not entertain you. If not now, later. If not you, somebody else. If you can't laugh at yourself, that's just fine, too. I will do it for you.
Saturday, April 22, 2006
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Smoke Out
As a recovering smoker (ten years), I'd have to say that Seattle's smoking ban has helped me immensely. I wanted to quit for quite some time. I rarely smoked at home, and went through MAYBE 2 packs a week, including sharing among friends. Smoking and Me went together like Booze and Me. Or so I thought. Not smoking is one of the best decisions I was ever forced into by the Dark Lizard Gentry of... okay... sorry guys...
I've said too much.
I still drink. But not as much. Maybe I'm mellowing out a bit. I'm 32 with a mortgage, which makes me better than your average renter. I have more to lose, financially, so I don’t spend all night sitting in a bar talking it up with people. It helps that so many people are catastrophically, not to mention anatomically, BORING, which births me back into the evening and right on home to catch my TiVo. I don't have TiVo. No smoking. Not as much (frequent) drinking. But plenty of opinion on the smoking ban.
A lot of people use that "I only smoke when I drink" line to throw you off the scent that they are smokers. If you smoke on a regular basis, even if it's just the weekends, you're a smoker. Also, I'd like to suggest you look into your binge-drinking. Anything, not "Everything," in moderation, you lushy whore drunken lip-locking lush. You don't have to do Heroin "In moderation" to know why it's called "Heaven's Handjob." Pick your poison and take it easy on your bod. Before you know it the holidays will be here and you'll need a little extra stash around. This is what they mean when they say "the addiction starts in the family."
When I smoked I didn't want to be judged by my habit, but I'm sure I was, and that is WRONG to do. People are so uneducated on how to properly judge others. Judging others on their behavior is a terrible thing to do. When I judge, I judge on the by-products of a person's behavior! You can run around and call me dirty names, go for it! But if the by-product of your behavior is that you do it audibly, and the words offend me, I'm going to mount your face with my just-finished-5 Rounds-of-KaBong Fuy Knee Strikes-ManAss. If your kid wants to walk around all night and try to break into my yard, hey, Kids Will Kids! But I am NOT paying to have your carpets cleaned when they come home with 1.5 feet, and I have .5 foot in one of my spring-traps. For every action there is an Equal but Opposite and Annoying Whiner taking it Personally.
Do as you will. There are consequences. Your consequences should really only affect you, but they don’t always do that, huh? That's where Road Rage comes from. That's where Rage comes from, now that you mention it while rubbing my exposed thigh. Smokers want to smoke. It's what smokers do. It's not illegal. They take the brunt of the physical damage. HOWEVER, when I smoked I knew I wasn't warming a ReNuzit; I was throwing some stink to the wind and that byproduct may offend people. If people get offended by smoking, for any reason, then they have as much right to react to it as the smoker has to put on their big-boy underwear and ACCEPT THE REACTION. Nobody is forcing you to smoke... except your need for nicotine fueled by a lifetime of commercial imagery being force-fed into your frontal cortex, your rebellious nature, and not knowing what else to do with $6. And Frank. When he says smoke, you f*ckin' burn one, pronto.
What I'm saying is that Opinions are Like Assholes: Everyone's got one, and everyone's saving it for marriage. BOOOOOOO!
=========================
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
I've said too much.
I still drink. But not as much. Maybe I'm mellowing out a bit. I'm 32 with a mortgage, which makes me better than your average renter. I have more to lose, financially, so I don’t spend all night sitting in a bar talking it up with people. It helps that so many people are catastrophically, not to mention anatomically, BORING, which births me back into the evening and right on home to catch my TiVo. I don't have TiVo. No smoking. Not as much (frequent) drinking. But plenty of opinion on the smoking ban.
A lot of people use that "I only smoke when I drink" line to throw you off the scent that they are smokers. If you smoke on a regular basis, even if it's just the weekends, you're a smoker. Also, I'd like to suggest you look into your binge-drinking. Anything, not "Everything," in moderation, you lushy whore drunken lip-locking lush. You don't have to do Heroin "In moderation" to know why it's called "Heaven's Handjob." Pick your poison and take it easy on your bod. Before you know it the holidays will be here and you'll need a little extra stash around. This is what they mean when they say "the addiction starts in the family."
When I smoked I didn't want to be judged by my habit, but I'm sure I was, and that is WRONG to do. People are so uneducated on how to properly judge others. Judging others on their behavior is a terrible thing to do. When I judge, I judge on the by-products of a person's behavior! You can run around and call me dirty names, go for it! But if the by-product of your behavior is that you do it audibly, and the words offend me, I'm going to mount your face with my just-finished-5 Rounds-of-KaBong Fuy Knee Strikes-ManAss. If your kid wants to walk around all night and try to break into my yard, hey, Kids Will Kids! But I am NOT paying to have your carpets cleaned when they come home with 1.5 feet, and I have .5 foot in one of my spring-traps. For every action there is an Equal but Opposite and Annoying Whiner taking it Personally.
Do as you will. There are consequences. Your consequences should really only affect you, but they don’t always do that, huh? That's where Road Rage comes from. That's where Rage comes from, now that you mention it while rubbing my exposed thigh. Smokers want to smoke. It's what smokers do. It's not illegal. They take the brunt of the physical damage. HOWEVER, when I smoked I knew I wasn't warming a ReNuzit; I was throwing some stink to the wind and that byproduct may offend people. If people get offended by smoking, for any reason, then they have as much right to react to it as the smoker has to put on their big-boy underwear and ACCEPT THE REACTION. Nobody is forcing you to smoke... except your need for nicotine fueled by a lifetime of commercial imagery being force-fed into your frontal cortex, your rebellious nature, and not knowing what else to do with $6. And Frank. When he says smoke, you f*ckin' burn one, pronto.
What I'm saying is that Opinions are Like Assholes: Everyone's got one, and everyone's saving it for marriage. BOOOOOOO!
=========================
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Monday, April 17, 2006
What Took Him So Long?
Hey everybody who's hoping to have President Bush impeached, take heed. Read and heed. Heed it up like you've never heeded anything, let alone "up"wardly. It's a whole PANTSLOAD of "heeding" up in this kiddie pool.
Neil Young - Canadian, I believe - has recorded a song that calls for the impeachment of President George W. Bush. Well that oughtta do it. The final lean-and-squeeze to extricate the metaphorical whitehead from the carbuncle of the American Presidential system.
I'm pretty sure that every President has been targeted for impeachment.
I'm pretty sure America has been at war since before "I Traveled 183 Days With Scurvy And All I Got Was This Lousy Undergarment!" nightshirts made it back to Europe over 300 years back. Officially, America is but 320 years old. But the destruction of the White man is forever! We have THAT to hold on to, eh?
So if every President's an asshole, and every year we get into a new war (including the ones that don't get the press coverage), why is this any different?
In my honest opinion, we feel more strongly about this stuff because The Public has demanded that the governing bodies be more up-front about the goings-on of the Nation. And they are telling us what's going on, in as truthful a manner as they can. And to quote Jack Nicholson in the movie "A Few Good Men;" I don't know what kind of Panama hump-hump bar you learned to speak English in, but sell crazy somewhere else. We're all full-up here.
Paraphrasing, obviously. But remember, Opinions Are Like Assholes. Everyone's got one, and everyone's saving it for Marriage.
=========
Bad side, good side:
America is kind of in the shitter: At least people are talking about politics
Talking about politics is as much fun as talking about rectal surgery: Rectal Surgery can save your life
Your rectum is broken/diseased/home to many a festering virus: But now, the diagnosis will help you live longer
You have to live longer... on Earth: Earth is quickly gaining popularity as "Most Liveable Planet For Humans"
Sometimes people "spin" a story to look better than it really is: You can use your deductive reasoning to figure it out for yourself
There are as many half-truths as there are cable channels: You don't have to pay attention to the negative propaganda
You will end up a crack-pot street-corner screaming wild-eyed wonk: You don't have to worry about a mortgage or bills
You lack the initiative to handle the life of a responsible adult: You are "chasing your dreams"
Your dreams died and you're dragging their corpses around: No dream dies if you believe in it
You're walking around with your eyes closed to reality: All you're missing is Life
You're missing Life: ... yeah, but in America, where it's kind of in the shitter.
Impeach all comics still doing Neil Young impressions!
===
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Neil Young - Canadian, I believe - has recorded a song that calls for the impeachment of President George W. Bush. Well that oughtta do it. The final lean-and-squeeze to extricate the metaphorical whitehead from the carbuncle of the American Presidential system.
I'm pretty sure that every President has been targeted for impeachment.
I'm pretty sure America has been at war since before "I Traveled 183 Days With Scurvy And All I Got Was This Lousy Undergarment!" nightshirts made it back to Europe over 300 years back. Officially, America is but 320 years old. But the destruction of the White man is forever! We have THAT to hold on to, eh?
So if every President's an asshole, and every year we get into a new war (including the ones that don't get the press coverage), why is this any different?
In my honest opinion, we feel more strongly about this stuff because The Public has demanded that the governing bodies be more up-front about the goings-on of the Nation. And they are telling us what's going on, in as truthful a manner as they can. And to quote Jack Nicholson in the movie "A Few Good Men;" I don't know what kind of Panama hump-hump bar you learned to speak English in, but sell crazy somewhere else. We're all full-up here.
Paraphrasing, obviously. But remember, Opinions Are Like Assholes. Everyone's got one, and everyone's saving it for Marriage.
=========
Bad side, good side:
America is kind of in the shitter: At least people are talking about politics
Talking about politics is as much fun as talking about rectal surgery: Rectal Surgery can save your life
Your rectum is broken/diseased/home to many a festering virus: But now, the diagnosis will help you live longer
You have to live longer... on Earth: Earth is quickly gaining popularity as "Most Liveable Planet For Humans"
Sometimes people "spin" a story to look better than it really is: You can use your deductive reasoning to figure it out for yourself
There are as many half-truths as there are cable channels: You don't have to pay attention to the negative propaganda
You will end up a crack-pot street-corner screaming wild-eyed wonk: You don't have to worry about a mortgage or bills
You lack the initiative to handle the life of a responsible adult: You are "chasing your dreams"
Your dreams died and you're dragging their corpses around: No dream dies if you believe in it
You're walking around with your eyes closed to reality: All you're missing is Life
You're missing Life: ... yeah, but in America, where it's kind of in the shitter.
Impeach all comics still doing Neil Young impressions!
===
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Sunday, April 16, 2006
Friday, April 14, 2006
It Is A Good Friday
Since it's Good Friday, this is a good time to share what I know about it. It's not much, but if you want more theology and Holy Day smarts, you've come to the wrong place. I'll happily prepare a report of it for you, however. My going rate is $500/hour, with a set-up fee of $500. Get on board NOW.
Good Friday is the Christian holy day that marks the day of the Crucifixion of Jesus at Calvary. Some people say "Cavalry," but that's a military horse brigade, and the coordination of a horse army crucifixion is a little too much to wrap my head around. If you've seen, or even heard of, "The Passion Of The Christ," which I haven't, you'll understand why people believe so strongly in this day. It ended a week of spiritual, physical, and mental preparation by Jesus. He was betrayed by a long-haired conspirator for 30 pieces of silver, a man who led the authorities to Jesus' quarters. That man… Ted Nugent.
NO! It was actually another hard-core metal act, Judas. It was this day on which Christ was crucified and buried in the tomb. Three days later (Easter Sunday) he had risen from death, having atoned for the Sins of Man and ascended to Heaven. Accepting Jesus as your soul's Savior, believing he was sent by God, and treating others with dignity and respect is your jumping-off point to a happier life.
I'll admit, it takes a lot of faith and looking at it from the proper angle to accept the story. Believe what you want. That's your call. But here's what I believe:
Treating others as you want to be treated is the pivot point for your entire life. You don't need religion of any kind to be a kind person. To give, to sacrifice of yourself from time to time costs nearly nothing. Do good. To believe that one man was sent here by God to teach us to care for each other, to care for our communities, to drive out the corrupt and pointless is to believe that EACH OF US were sent here for the same reason. We can care about each other, treat each other well, and believe that we're here for a purpose. No, it's not a "rough and tumble" way to live. Lots of people live "rough and tumble," never takin' shit off nobody. They look so happy.
Now let's say you get to the end of life, you never followed nobody's rules, man. You weren't gonna let no Jesus talk get in the way of you living life the way you wanted to live. You did what you wanted, when you wanted, how you wanted. If somebody didn't like it, well they could KISS YOUR ASS. Yeah, man. That's how you lived. And then you're dead. Yes, even you. But you did it your way, yeah. You stepped up and kicked ass and stomped on those smaller than yourself and never did nothing to better yourself, because hey, the world wasn't gonna give YOU a break, so why do the world a favor? Oh, you had chances, but you skipped them. Do for YOU, take care of YOU first. Yeah. The world can kiss your ass for ever. [holding aloft two middle fingers] And then ya die.
As people stand over a body in the casket, assuming you didn't die in custody, and a few of them will say "HOLY SHIT, I thought this was the buffet. How'd this get in here? Who is this guy? Go through his pockets."
Some of them will say "Well at least he's not talking anymore."
And many will say "Well, that's it. Man, what a life he led. He set his own rules. He didn’t go around rummaging through the pockets of his spirit to give back to nobody. He played it low-key and cool. He didn't give what he had, because he worked hard for that shit. He taught me a lot about how to act, and he probably didn't even know it...
Man, what a dick. Died owing me $200 for that coffee table he Jimi Hendrix'ed at my mom's birthday party last year. Go through his pockets. I'm gonna grab a beer and move on his sister, [middle finger in the face of the deceased], so laters."
Maybe it seems like I'm passing judgment. I'm not, mostly because this is, what science refers to as, "A fictional scenario." But if it struck a chord with you that made you angry, is that a bad thing? I know that I have plenty to work on in my life and how I treat people on a daily basis. I can't make anybody do anything, all I can say is this:
Don't die a dick.
God Bless You, and Have a Blessed Easter.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Good Friday is the Christian holy day that marks the day of the Crucifixion of Jesus at Calvary. Some people say "Cavalry," but that's a military horse brigade, and the coordination of a horse army crucifixion is a little too much to wrap my head around. If you've seen, or even heard of, "The Passion Of The Christ," which I haven't, you'll understand why people believe so strongly in this day. It ended a week of spiritual, physical, and mental preparation by Jesus. He was betrayed by a long-haired conspirator for 30 pieces of silver, a man who led the authorities to Jesus' quarters. That man… Ted Nugent.
NO! It was actually another hard-core metal act, Judas. It was this day on which Christ was crucified and buried in the tomb. Three days later (Easter Sunday) he had risen from death, having atoned for the Sins of Man and ascended to Heaven. Accepting Jesus as your soul's Savior, believing he was sent by God, and treating others with dignity and respect is your jumping-off point to a happier life.
I'll admit, it takes a lot of faith and looking at it from the proper angle to accept the story. Believe what you want. That's your call. But here's what I believe:
Treating others as you want to be treated is the pivot point for your entire life. You don't need religion of any kind to be a kind person. To give, to sacrifice of yourself from time to time costs nearly nothing. Do good. To believe that one man was sent here by God to teach us to care for each other, to care for our communities, to drive out the corrupt and pointless is to believe that EACH OF US were sent here for the same reason. We can care about each other, treat each other well, and believe that we're here for a purpose. No, it's not a "rough and tumble" way to live. Lots of people live "rough and tumble," never takin' shit off nobody. They look so happy.
Now let's say you get to the end of life, you never followed nobody's rules, man. You weren't gonna let no Jesus talk get in the way of you living life the way you wanted to live. You did what you wanted, when you wanted, how you wanted. If somebody didn't like it, well they could KISS YOUR ASS. Yeah, man. That's how you lived. And then you're dead. Yes, even you. But you did it your way, yeah. You stepped up and kicked ass and stomped on those smaller than yourself and never did nothing to better yourself, because hey, the world wasn't gonna give YOU a break, so why do the world a favor? Oh, you had chances, but you skipped them. Do for YOU, take care of YOU first. Yeah. The world can kiss your ass for ever. [holding aloft two middle fingers] And then ya die.
As people stand over a body in the casket, assuming you didn't die in custody, and a few of them will say "HOLY SHIT, I thought this was the buffet. How'd this get in here? Who is this guy? Go through his pockets."
Some of them will say "Well at least he's not talking anymore."
And many will say "Well, that's it. Man, what a life he led. He set his own rules. He didn’t go around rummaging through the pockets of his spirit to give back to nobody. He played it low-key and cool. He didn't give what he had, because he worked hard for that shit. He taught me a lot about how to act, and he probably didn't even know it...
Man, what a dick. Died owing me $200 for that coffee table he Jimi Hendrix'ed at my mom's birthday party last year. Go through his pockets. I'm gonna grab a beer and move on his sister, [middle finger in the face of the deceased], so laters."
Maybe it seems like I'm passing judgment. I'm not, mostly because this is, what science refers to as, "A fictional scenario." But if it struck a chord with you that made you angry, is that a bad thing? I know that I have plenty to work on in my life and how I treat people on a daily basis. I can't make anybody do anything, all I can say is this:
Don't die a dick.
God Bless You, and Have a Blessed Easter.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
Sunday, April 09, 2006
Further Proof That America, And Not Its Government, Rules
Just finished watching another episode of Extreme Home Makeovers. If you're unfamiliar with it, the show is on ABC on Sunday nights.
What they do is accept submissions from families in need, from all over the country. The family usually is not just a "little sister's pregnant, mom's in the clink, dad's wearing mom's underpants" kind of "in need." We're talking people with serious illnesses or disabilities who don't have what they need to have their lives be made as normal as possible. Check it out Here.
I have watched probably 20 episodes over the past year, which makes at least 27 times that I've nearly cried. Once when the Seahawks won the NFC Championship, then three drunken and profanity-fueled times during the Super Bowl. Again when I was wishing I could have fully shared the Super Bowl with my dad. Then another time that involved some hard gas and a very stubborn bowl of oatmeal. I gave it 36 hours, then went in after it. ANYway...
I don't usually shill for things I get no recoupment from, but there is some poignancy to the subject matter of this posting. I've blathered long enough, so here you go.
FEMA needs to stop their operation and hand everything over to Ty Pennington. Funnel the money, the work, the hours, the goods and services all to ABC, let Ty take it on from there. It's as obvious as the now-unused trailers sitting in Louisiana and Mississippi that FEMA is incapable of doing simple things like watching the Weather Channel or Administrating the Management of Emergencies, Federally. The EH group gets a job, plans it, rolls in, and gets an entirely new house built and furnished. Them last two are done in ONE WEEK.
No magical debit cash cards that go to, surprise, people who LIE TO GET FREE MONEY! (gasp, I'm astounded, really? People lie? Who could've seen that coming? Oh right, it's FEMA. )
No trailers waiting around filling with hot and stink instead of people.
Putting volunteers and community-minded people to work for the good of their neighbors.
Making me cry.
Now think what they could do with TAXPAYER'S MONEY, and I don't mean the funds we've given to the coffers since Hurricane Katrina, 9-11, and everyone who accidentally watched more than 30 seconds of "Joey." Tragic.
FEMA:
F*cking Everyone Massively Affected
Forgetting Everything Marginally Affective
Forgetting Even Marginal Assignments
Funding Every Marginal Annoyance
Funneling Every Monetary Allotment
Funding Eternal Munificent Abscondence
I could go on for quite a while, but I won't, you're welcome. Besides, I had to go to the thesaurus for that last one, and a little pee was made.
We take care of each other better than Big Government does. Let's continue doing that. In the meantime...
Send Ty and the gang to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. ASAFP.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
What they do is accept submissions from families in need, from all over the country. The family usually is not just a "little sister's pregnant, mom's in the clink, dad's wearing mom's underpants" kind of "in need." We're talking people with serious illnesses or disabilities who don't have what they need to have their lives be made as normal as possible. Check it out Here.
I have watched probably 20 episodes over the past year, which makes at least 27 times that I've nearly cried. Once when the Seahawks won the NFC Championship, then three drunken and profanity-fueled times during the Super Bowl. Again when I was wishing I could have fully shared the Super Bowl with my dad. Then another time that involved some hard gas and a very stubborn bowl of oatmeal. I gave it 36 hours, then went in after it. ANYway...
I don't usually shill for things I get no recoupment from, but there is some poignancy to the subject matter of this posting. I've blathered long enough, so here you go.
FEMA needs to stop their operation and hand everything over to Ty Pennington. Funnel the money, the work, the hours, the goods and services all to ABC, let Ty take it on from there. It's as obvious as the now-unused trailers sitting in Louisiana and Mississippi that FEMA is incapable of doing simple things like watching the Weather Channel or Administrating the Management of Emergencies, Federally. The EH group gets a job, plans it, rolls in, and gets an entirely new house built and furnished. Them last two are done in ONE WEEK.
No magical debit cash cards that go to, surprise, people who LIE TO GET FREE MONEY! (
No trailers waiting around filling with hot and stink instead of people.
Putting volunteers and community-minded people to work for the good of their neighbors.
Making me cry.
Now think what they could do with TAXPAYER'S MONEY, and I don't mean the funds we've given to the coffers since Hurricane Katrina, 9-11, and everyone who accidentally watched more than 30 seconds of "Joey." Tragic.
FEMA:
F*cking Everyone Massively Affected
Forgetting Everything Marginally Affective
Forgetting Even Marginal Assignments
Funding Every Marginal Annoyance
Funneling Every Monetary Allotment
Funding Eternal Munificent Abscondence
I could go on for quite a while, but I won't, you're welcome. Besides, I had to go to the thesaurus for that last one, and a little pee was made.
We take care of each other better than Big Government does. Let's continue doing that. In the meantime...
Send Ty and the gang to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. ASAFP.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
From time to time...
I step back and look at my life and say...
I am very blessed.
For whatever reasons (family, friends, creativity, God), for however long, I am happy and blessed.
That's all. Thank you for stopping by. I am humbled and inspired that anybody reads this, and a hundred times-more that you would come back. I hope you enjoy reading even half as much as I enjoy writing.
Thank you.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
I am very blessed.
For whatever reasons (family, friends, creativity, God), for however long, I am happy and blessed.
That's all. Thank you for stopping by. I am humbled and inspired that anybody reads this, and a hundred times-more that you would come back. I hope you enjoy reading even half as much as I enjoy writing.
Thank you.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Yo, Dawg. Fo sho, you gotsta stay relevant!
Earlier today Marshall "Skittle" Mathers filed for divorce from his baby mama, Kim "Brown LipLiner" Whocares. They re-married three months ago.
Is it a calculated move by Reese's Piece to stay in the public eye, so that he doesn't get forgotten about while emerging rapping people like "The Contest!" and/or "T.O." step to the forefrizzle? Or is this really what it appears to be, a giant "and this effects anybody how?"
Because I sure as shit can't figure it out, with JellyBean being into black dudes.
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Is it a calculated move by Reese's Piece to stay in the public eye, so that he doesn't get forgotten about while emerging rapping people like "The Contest!" and/or "T.O." step to the forefrizzle? Or is this really what it appears to be, a giant "and this effects anybody how?"
Because I sure as shit can't figure it out, with JellyBean being into black dudes.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Monday, April 03, 2006
Five Months More
Tis now and for ten fortnights into current time
a season of bloom and forthward growing
as movement crawls and beards on chins sprout
and all the traffic processions are slowing
Baseball Season.
Five months more.
Take me to the ball game
So I may sit nearest nature's freak.
Asexual behemoth, bejerseyed and hot-dog killing
besmudged scorecard, cholesterol at a peak
Baseball Season.
Five months more.
Eighty-one to see, contested home
Contested away, eighty-one more
Pillar of the community. endorsing as a family man
To swing, to catch, then throw out of the hotel, a whore.
Baseball Season.
Five months more.
A time of year, bittersweet in weather fair
Fans in legion flood and swell the roads and bars
In cars, in jackets, in their sweatpants of class
Clogging traffic, take not transit but largest cars
Baseball Fans.
Five months more.
And now, the sun warms the green and clay
Line-up cards, pine tar, and tobacco spit
Out come the names and skills of training
For what it's worth, I give not a shit.
Baseball Fans.
Five months more.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
a season of bloom and forthward growing
as movement crawls and beards on chins sprout
and all the traffic processions are slowing
Baseball Season.
Five months more.
Take me to the ball game
So I may sit nearest nature's freak.
Asexual behemoth, bejerseyed and hot-dog killing
besmudged scorecard, cholesterol at a peak
Baseball Season.
Five months more.
Eighty-one to see, contested home
Contested away, eighty-one more
Pillar of the community. endorsing as a family man
To swing, to catch, then throw out of the hotel, a whore.
Baseball Season.
Five months more.
A time of year, bittersweet in weather fair
Fans in legion flood and swell the roads and bars
In cars, in jackets, in their sweatpants of class
Clogging traffic, take not transit but largest cars
Baseball Fans.
Five months more.
And now, the sun warms the green and clay
Line-up cards, pine tar, and tobacco spit
Out come the names and skills of training
For what it's worth, I give not a shit.
Baseball Fans.
Five months more.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
For The Record
Tonight I record my first Comedy CD.
Half of my brain is trying to get together this slick, tight set that has a perfect flow and no slow spots. Inside that half is more of my brain that wants to do nothing that may offend people.
The OTHER half of my circuits are telling me to just let it happen. I know where to start, and how to start the show tonight, and then let it kind of happen from there. That's when I do my best, anyway. And I'm not paying a professional crew to come tape me, so I may as well let it rip. I honestly doubt anybody will be offended. At least by me.
=========================
Oh.
My.
Gawd.
This work thing is killing me.
At my last job I wrote, sometimes at length, about the numerous co-workers who deserved to be shared with the world. Remember "No Makeup Sandie?" She had a breast reduction at some point. It was the one thing she could have done to make herself even LESS attractive. But she nailed it.
Her happiness and constant laughter inspired me, much like people are inspired when they're fired from the Post Office.
I wouldn't get violent in the work place. I don't have the temper nor the time management to properly plan it. But work, sheesh... I like my job, don't get me wrong.
What I don't like are a certain group of people. I call them, with sarcasm, "The Dynamo Club." The dead-eyed stare of somebody who not only doesn't realize that This Doesn't Matter, they barely know that they drove to work today. I wish they could take a second and see themselves I see them, and they will, if ever they find my sketchbook. (My favorite is "Brenda DuckWalk," she likes cableknits!)
It is a gift to put off any kind of Up energy to the world around you. Life has other ideas, sometimes. Diarrhea can put a stain on your day. Head aches are a pain in my ass. Hangovers make me wanna drink. Underage Drinking makes me miss Jr. High. So really, Life will always give you PLENTY of reasons to walk around looking like you're just running through the script for "Walk to Kitchen, Water In Cup, Drink" in your processor. I've been there. I got out.
This, again, is Perspective. It is how we know Black From White. Drunk From Sober. Flaccid From Semi-Flaccid. These people are necessary, and I don't know what I'd do without them.
Oh yes I do...
I'd be boring.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Half of my brain is trying to get together this slick, tight set that has a perfect flow and no slow spots. Inside that half is more of my brain that wants to do nothing that may offend people.
The OTHER half of my circuits are telling me to just let it happen. I know where to start, and how to start the show tonight, and then let it kind of happen from there. That's when I do my best, anyway. And I'm not paying a professional crew to come tape me, so I may as well let it rip. I honestly doubt anybody will be offended. At least by me.
=========================
Oh.
My.
Gawd.
This work thing is killing me.
At my last job I wrote, sometimes at length, about the numerous co-workers who deserved to be shared with the world. Remember "No Makeup Sandie?" She had a breast reduction at some point. It was the one thing she could have done to make herself even LESS attractive. But she nailed it.
Her happiness and constant laughter inspired me, much like people are inspired when they're fired from the Post Office.
I wouldn't get violent in the work place. I don't have the temper nor the time management to properly plan it. But work, sheesh... I like my job, don't get me wrong.
What I don't like are a certain group of people. I call them, with sarcasm, "The Dynamo Club." The dead-eyed stare of somebody who not only doesn't realize that This Doesn't Matter, they barely know that they drove to work today. I wish they could take a second and see themselves I see them, and they will, if ever they find my sketchbook. (My favorite is "Brenda DuckWalk," she likes cableknits!)
It is a gift to put off any kind of Up energy to the world around you. Life has other ideas, sometimes. Diarrhea can put a stain on your day. Head aches are a pain in my ass. Hangovers make me wanna drink. Underage Drinking makes me miss Jr. High. So really, Life will always give you PLENTY of reasons to walk around looking like you're just running through the script for "Walk to Kitchen, Water In Cup, Drink" in your processor. I've been there. I got out.
This, again, is Perspective. It is how we know Black From White. Drunk From Sober. Flaccid From Semi-Flaccid. These people are necessary, and I don't know what I'd do without them.
Oh yes I do...
I'd be boring.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Friday, March 24, 2006
Brad Pitt Angelina Jolie Sex Nude Sexing
As we all know, Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt had unprotected sex and now she’s carrying his baby. Apparently Brad couldn’t seed the Aniston fields while married. I can’t quite remember what the Pitt-Aniston disconnect was on the baby front, mostly because it’s none the dook of my business and it would probably make me feel dirty and horny at the same time, were I to sit and ponder those two gorgeous creatures engaged in a little Side-Saddle with a Reach-Around Bean-Fiddlin’. Anyway, Brad and Jen never got it together on the baby front. But everything happens for a reason. And that reason is about to be splorched-forth unto the Earth.
Angelina Jolie is hot. She’s not good-looking. She’s not attractive. Pretty is too minute for her. She’s incredible. Like if you tried to describe her, people who had never rotted their brain with a Hollywood product, be it movies or whatever Jonathan Antin puts in his forehead, would say “I deny that a person of such described beauty exists. But if they did, I would want to Feedbag them before a solid session of Wheelbarrowing.” I’ve seen her naked in a movie here or there. Truly a gorgeous woman. She’s the kind of hot that wouldn’t anger you if it were on your new couch, and she was passed out on it in her own urine and vomit. There would be no poo, because hotness that hot doesn’t poo, it expends every last calorie fueling the hot. And whatever style she wears her Hair Down-There in would be considered Fantastic, no matter if it stretched hip to baby-widened hip.
Brad Pitt is also hot. And I say this as a straight guy, Pitt is genetically blessed in the physicality department. He works out, sure, but he’s got good genetics, too. He’s also one of the better comedic actors who is often overlooked (see “13 Monkeys” or the subtleties of Tyler Durden) because, well, he is hot. Funny and hot rarely go together, although funny can make someone hot. Hot cannot make someone truly funny. He’s both. How hot is Pitt? Well, about 6 months ago he BARE-BONED ANGELINA JOLIE, if that’s any sort of indication. Then again, she blew Billy Bob Thornton, everyone’s favorite “High School Janitor-type.” But he couldn’t blow the kind of super-wad that it would take to match hotness to Jolie’s ova, which Pitt had packed away in a climate-controlled testicle-oid for just such an occasion.
Now we come to the baby situation. Jolie’s got a couple of adopted kids, a son and a daughter. Son Maddox is about 5, a Cambodian orphan. Daughter Zahara is about 2, born in Ethiopia, and orphaned after her parents died from AIDS. Africa is really in bad shape, people. So let’s band together and not go there. That’s what Bono is for. Digression! Apologies… So she’s got a couple of imports, showing not only that she has a heart for the world’s needy (see her long list of humanitarian efforts, like putting Thornton’s penis inside of her mouth), but also that she can out-accessorize anybody on the planet. So now she’s gone and trumped even herself by deciding to allow her uterus to carry the child of The Brad Pitt, which is NOT but could be a good nickname for her vagina, which is probably actually named Vagelina Jolie. Reaching, I know. Focus.
She HAS kids. She’s GOING TO have another one, which will officially be sent to Earth to destroy Kevin Federline’s son. But I have questions about it all.
For example, will the hotness amplify on the Jolie-Pitt child, but the child comes out with a professional athlete’s vocabulary? Or will it be the case of magnets with like-polarities, the child birthed as a gaze-averting abomination of nature, complete with a spiked tail, transparent skin, and red beak capable of breaking through a grown-man’s sternum… yet has a flawless mind that can solve every socio-economic problem known to humans long before it takes its first steps, granted that it is not whisked away at birth by the people at Weekly World News, sent by the parents of Jon-Benet Ramsey?
AND…
Will Angelina Jolie go through natural childbirth or go C-section and not risk blowing out her probably flawless and magnolia-scented Brad Pit?
I have to go with Natural, only because she’s a worldly woman. I mean natural as in drug-free, no make-up, hip-fracturing, squatting in a hut with an Aborigine woman chanting over the recently-dispersed amniotic fluid cupped in the hollowed-out shell of a turtle, 57 hours of labor, ass-ripping natural birthing of the Child Jolie-Pitt. Visceral. Animalistic. And somehow that would Up her hotness. She grapefruit-spooned her “Billy Bob” tattoo off, for the sake of Clooney, people!
As for the looks, I think the kid will be gorgeous, and probably go to Cambridge to study zymogenetics and hate everything about Hollywood. Or become a chef in a small Portugal fishing village, cooking meals and sharing the secret recipe of a magical healing pie that was never shown or taught to the child… they just somehow always knew it.
Yeah, so that’s what I was wondering.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Angelina Jolie is hot. She’s not good-looking. She’s not attractive. Pretty is too minute for her. She’s incredible. Like if you tried to describe her, people who had never rotted their brain with a Hollywood product, be it movies or whatever Jonathan Antin puts in his forehead, would say “I deny that a person of such described beauty exists. But if they did, I would want to Feedbag them before a solid session of Wheelbarrowing.” I’ve seen her naked in a movie here or there. Truly a gorgeous woman. She’s the kind of hot that wouldn’t anger you if it were on your new couch, and she was passed out on it in her own urine and vomit. There would be no poo, because hotness that hot doesn’t poo, it expends every last calorie fueling the hot. And whatever style she wears her Hair Down-There in would be considered Fantastic, no matter if it stretched hip to baby-widened hip.
Brad Pitt is also hot. And I say this as a straight guy, Pitt is genetically blessed in the physicality department. He works out, sure, but he’s got good genetics, too. He’s also one of the better comedic actors who is often overlooked (see “13 Monkeys” or the subtleties of Tyler Durden) because, well, he is hot. Funny and hot rarely go together, although funny can make someone hot. Hot cannot make someone truly funny. He’s both. How hot is Pitt? Well, about 6 months ago he BARE-BONED ANGELINA JOLIE, if that’s any sort of indication. Then again, she blew Billy Bob Thornton, everyone’s favorite “High School Janitor-type.” But he couldn’t blow the kind of super-wad that it would take to match hotness to Jolie’s ova, which Pitt had packed away in a climate-controlled testicle-oid for just such an occasion.
Now we come to the baby situation. Jolie’s got a couple of adopted kids, a son and a daughter. Son Maddox is about 5, a Cambodian orphan. Daughter Zahara is about 2, born in Ethiopia, and orphaned after her parents died from AIDS. Africa is really in bad shape, people. So let’s band together and not go there. That’s what Bono is for. Digression! Apologies… So she’s got a couple of imports, showing not only that she has a heart for the world’s needy (see her long list of humanitarian efforts, like putting Thornton’s penis inside of her mouth), but also that she can out-accessorize anybody on the planet. So now she’s gone and trumped even herself by deciding to allow her uterus to carry the child of The Brad Pitt, which is NOT but could be a good nickname for her vagina, which is probably actually named Vagelina Jolie. Reaching, I know. Focus.
She HAS kids. She’s GOING TO have another one, which will officially be sent to Earth to destroy Kevin Federline’s son. But I have questions about it all.
For example, will the hotness amplify on the Jolie-Pitt child, but the child comes out with a professional athlete’s vocabulary? Or will it be the case of magnets with like-polarities, the child birthed as a gaze-averting abomination of nature, complete with a spiked tail, transparent skin, and red beak capable of breaking through a grown-man’s sternum… yet has a flawless mind that can solve every socio-economic problem known to humans long before it takes its first steps, granted that it is not whisked away at birth by the people at Weekly World News, sent by the parents of Jon-Benet Ramsey?
AND…
Will Angelina Jolie go through natural childbirth or go C-section and not risk blowing out her probably flawless and magnolia-scented Brad Pit?
I have to go with Natural, only because she’s a worldly woman. I mean natural as in drug-free, no make-up, hip-fracturing, squatting in a hut with an Aborigine woman chanting over the recently-dispersed amniotic fluid cupped in the hollowed-out shell of a turtle, 57 hours of labor, ass-ripping natural birthing of the Child Jolie-Pitt. Visceral. Animalistic. And somehow that would Up her hotness. She grapefruit-spooned her “Billy Bob” tattoo off, for the sake of Clooney, people!
As for the looks, I think the kid will be gorgeous, and probably go to Cambridge to study zymogenetics and hate everything about Hollywood. Or become a chef in a small Portugal fishing village, cooking meals and sharing the secret recipe of a magical healing pie that was never shown or taught to the child… they just somehow always knew it.
Yeah, so that’s what I was wondering.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Out Of Office
I'm stuck at my desk at work.
Stuck. On many levels. I don't think I can take it. I'm sober, which is a good thing for everyone involved. I need to get up and get away from this stuff, I can't geek out to any more queries, LEFT OUTER JOINS, or nerd speak.
I can't...
I won't.
I'm trying to look on the bright side of everything lately. I see a downer, and immediately go to the flip-side of it, which can be uplifting. Let's try it a bit.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Stuck. On many levels. I don't think I can take it. I'm sober, which is a good thing for everyone involved. I need to get up and get away from this stuff, I can't geek out to any more queries, LEFT OUTER JOINS, or nerd speak.
I can't...
I won't.
I'm trying to look on the bright side of everything lately. I see a downer, and immediately go to the flip-side of it, which can be uplifting. Let's try it a bit.
- My job is boring. But, at least I have a job.
- I have to go to work five days a week to make money. But at least I'm making money.
- I work with a guy who looks like the human form of a fart. At least he's not farting.
- He's farting in meetings again. At least the meeting will be over soon.
- The meeting is running long because he won't shut up. But his experience may teach a lesson.
- He keeps trying to be funny and it's not funny. Funny is subjective, so let his humor roam.
- Why is he greeting people with "Wasssuuup?" His attempts at being hip are dated, but honest.
- I can't breathe, this is too much between his coffee breath and lactose intolerance. This will give you perspective to appreciate fresh air!
- Okay, that's it, I am now going to return fire. At least the stomach percolation will subside.
- Damn, I pushed too hard and now I'm touching cotton back here. I have given everyone a story to tell, AND the meeting is adjourned!
A pantsload to go with me, but at least I get to leave work! I can't believe it came to this but I needed SOMETHING. You can fake a seizure only so many times.
Look for my Cruise Diary in the coming weeks!
If anybody needs me I'll be in the can with a spatula.
==========Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Sunday, March 12, 2006
For My Grampa
My grandfather, William "Red" Rider, or "Bill" to his friends, and "Rider" to my gramma, his wife of 57 years, Sunny, has passed away. He went Home last Friday night following a stroke, his second, which occurred last Sunday evening. I was out of the country at the time, and didn't find out until late last night. I feel as though somebody has punched me in the gut. As usual, I hope to publish something here that when you're finished, you'll say "That was worth reading."
To see some pictures and read a bit more about him, please visit the MEM page for him Here.
==========
Poppy was one of the original Funny People in my life. He was a kidder, a teaser, and a giant of a man. He loved us grandkids just as big. He stood about 6'2" or so, lanky, and always giggling about something else that he thought was funny. He would ask me "Hey Geoffer, what's your favorite cartoon?" and I'd say "Super Heroes" or some such. His standard answer... "Nope, can't like it." Then he'd giggle about getting one over on me. Anything I liked, "nope, can't like it." It never stopped, and it is how I bond with people today: Humor.
I usually saw Gramma and Poppy in the Summer, as they would come out to visit for a couple of weeks. We always had fun, going to movies and toy stores, up to Mt. Rainier, into Seattle, and tons of other stuff I still do for fun from time to time. They lived in Michigan, where my mom grew up, and eventually brought my cousins out with them as they got older. Grams and Poppy were my conduit to the rest of my Michigan family.
Change jingled in his pocket when he strolled about; he never walked anywhere, he was always moseying. That change was fed into many video games by many of his grandchildren, 9 in all, plus 3 great-grandkids. Or as Poppy would say "I don't know what makes 'em so great, eh Heh heh heh." He always had a few quarters to keep us entertained.
He had a distinct smell, aftershave that I never smelled on anyone else as I was growing up. It wasn't until I was 13 that I found the bottle. Old Spice. To this moment and forever I will associate The Spice with Grampa Rider. He smelled good.
He was a stock car racer back before it was regulated, marketed, and commercial. He loved watching the races and taught me a little about what the drivers were actually doing, and going through, in a race. This was back before stock car racing became a punchline, and was pursued with a real passion. He loved cars and the auto industry, as anybody could see in his now epic collection of free t-shirts from auto parts stores, towing companies, and motor oil offers in the greater Kent County area.
As a Poppy, he was a teacher and a friend, keeping an eye on us and making sure we got along. He loved to kid us, called us "Looney Tunes," and was never cross with us unless we deserved it. I didn't see him nearly as much as I would like to have. His passing has given me another perspective of Living, of Family, and of Legacy.
Love ya, Poppy.
All love and prayers to my Gramma, Mom, Aunt Sandy, Aunt Sue, Sonya, Jenni, Amy, Brad, Katie (you owe me $10 from that one thing), Machelle, Chris, and Rich. Miss you guys.
==========
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
To see some pictures and read a bit more about him, please visit the MEM page for him Here.
==========
Poppy was one of the original Funny People in my life. He was a kidder, a teaser, and a giant of a man. He loved us grandkids just as big. He stood about 6'2" or so, lanky, and always giggling about something else that he thought was funny. He would ask me "Hey Geoffer, what's your favorite cartoon?" and I'd say "Super Heroes" or some such. His standard answer... "Nope, can't like it." Then he'd giggle about getting one over on me. Anything I liked, "nope, can't like it." It never stopped, and it is how I bond with people today: Humor.
I usually saw Gramma and Poppy in the Summer, as they would come out to visit for a couple of weeks. We always had fun, going to movies and toy stores, up to Mt. Rainier, into Seattle, and tons of other stuff I still do for fun from time to time. They lived in Michigan, where my mom grew up, and eventually brought my cousins out with them as they got older. Grams and Poppy were my conduit to the rest of my Michigan family.
Change jingled in his pocket when he strolled about; he never walked anywhere, he was always moseying. That change was fed into many video games by many of his grandchildren, 9 in all, plus 3 great-grandkids. Or as Poppy would say "I don't know what makes 'em so great, eh Heh heh heh." He always had a few quarters to keep us entertained.
He had a distinct smell, aftershave that I never smelled on anyone else as I was growing up. It wasn't until I was 13 that I found the bottle. Old Spice. To this moment and forever I will associate The Spice with Grampa Rider. He smelled good.
He was a stock car racer back before it was regulated, marketed, and commercial. He loved watching the races and taught me a little about what the drivers were actually doing, and going through, in a race. This was back before stock car racing became a punchline, and was pursued with a real passion. He loved cars and the auto industry, as anybody could see in his now epic collection of free t-shirts from auto parts stores, towing companies, and motor oil offers in the greater Kent County area.
As a Poppy, he was a teacher and a friend, keeping an eye on us and making sure we got along. He loved to kid us, called us "Looney Tunes," and was never cross with us unless we deserved it. I didn't see him nearly as much as I would like to have. His passing has given me another perspective of Living, of Family, and of Legacy.
Love ya, Poppy.
All love and prayers to my Gramma, Mom, Aunt Sandy, Aunt Sue, Sonya, Jenni, Amy, Brad, Katie (you owe me $10 from that one thing), Machelle, Chris, and Rich. Miss you guys.
==========
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Friday, March 03, 2006
Cruisin'
This evening I embark on a vacation with my lovely A-list Girlfriend. We're heading to Miami, then on to a cruise ship, and then circling the Carribean for the next week or so! I'm pretty excited for a couple reasons.
First off, I got my ass waxed. I figured it would make me sleeker when trying to outswim the land excursion "guides" who will be trying to gyp me for an extra couple bucks in tips. I know, why swim away from the land guides? Because they are ON LAND, that's why.
Second, after the past few weeks of mundane blathering that has been my life (losing weight, exercising more, saving $) I am beyond ready to take the hell off. A-List and I both and each need a vacation. What better way to do that than get on a boat in the middle of the Carribean? For a week. Together. No where to, you know... go.
Third, I need a rush of someplace new. I believe that a person gets better when they force themselves into new places and experiences BEFORE Life does it to them... yes TO, not FOR. A-List was awarded this trip for her hard work last year, and I'm lucky to be her man, AND hotstacking that pleasure with being the guest she chose to take on the trip! She rules.
Fourth, my old place of employment can now download a picture of my ass and then eat that picture. That has nothing to do with the vacation, but it was fun.
Fifth, I have been coming across more and more passages and articles about the importance of Happiness in life. You can choose to be happy, because of, or in spite of, your circumstances. For too long I lived with the "I'll be happier when..." and that When never fills to the top. It just keeps wallowing between Content and Blah. So I am Happy. The rest of it I will create.
Sixth, some nerd-load at work today tried to be nice to me. First time he ever has done so. He usually barely recognizes my existence. Today he did so, in his "I'm gonna try to be nicer to people" way, by seeing me and saying "Well HEY Tom, I haven't seen you in a while!" Sidestepping the fact that I was sitting 2 chairs away from him 5 minutes earlier in a department meeting, MY NAME IS NOT TOM. I said "Hey CrapSock, it's Geoff." He said, "Oh why did I call you Tom?" I bit my tongue, then he tried to save the moment with "I guess you look like a Tom." Toms have a look?
Apparently... and where that look lacks minorly in SEXY, it makes up for in HUNKY and BRUTISH. I'm devastating.
Seventh, I've dropped 12 lard-bricks this year so far. 6lbs a month of useless fat. My BF% has dropped, I can see an Ab!, and I plan to get in good enough shape where people demand I take my shirt off, but not in a gay way, even if it is in the window of "Jack Banana's Leather Strap Rodeo Roadhouse." Just because, dammit, I'm looking better.
Eight, because I invented motherf*cking INWARD SINGING, that's why!
Ninth, because I'm apparently the only comic in Seattle who blogs. Nobody has anything to write? Well then, I guess I'm the mumbling, disinterested voice of our scene, then. You can't write ANYTHING? Famous isn't waiting for you, GET ON IT.
Tenth, and finally, I'm excited because I get to go with someone I love, who loves me, and because we're ready to get away from everything and just enjoy each other's company. I'll bring ya back some rum or something, because you drink a lot and show your boobies.
Adios, Muchachos. Adios.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
First off, I got my ass waxed. I figured it would make me sleeker when trying to outswim the land excursion "guides" who will be trying to gyp me for an extra couple bucks in tips. I know, why swim away from the land guides? Because they are ON LAND, that's why.
Second, after the past few weeks of mundane blathering that has been my life (losing weight, exercising more, saving $) I am beyond ready to take the hell off. A-List and I both and each need a vacation. What better way to do that than get on a boat in the middle of the Carribean? For a week. Together. No where to, you know... go.
Third, I need a rush of someplace new. I believe that a person gets better when they force themselves into new places and experiences BEFORE Life does it to them... yes TO, not FOR. A-List was awarded this trip for her hard work last year, and I'm lucky to be her man, AND hotstacking that pleasure with being the guest she chose to take on the trip! She rules.
Fourth, my old place of employment can now download a picture of my ass and then eat that picture. That has nothing to do with the vacation, but it was fun.
Fifth, I have been coming across more and more passages and articles about the importance of Happiness in life. You can choose to be happy, because of, or in spite of, your circumstances. For too long I lived with the "I'll be happier when..." and that When never fills to the top. It just keeps wallowing between Content and Blah. So I am Happy. The rest of it I will create.
Sixth, some nerd-load at work today tried to be nice to me. First time he ever has done so. He usually barely recognizes my existence. Today he did so, in his "I'm gonna try to be nicer to people" way, by seeing me and saying "Well HEY Tom, I haven't seen you in a while!" Sidestepping the fact that I was sitting 2 chairs away from him 5 minutes earlier in a department meeting, MY NAME IS NOT TOM. I said "Hey CrapSock, it's Geoff." He said, "Oh why did I call you Tom?" I bit my tongue, then he tried to save the moment with "I guess you look like a Tom." Toms have a look?
Apparently... and where that look lacks minorly in SEXY, it makes up for in HUNKY and BRUTISH. I'm devastating.
Seventh, I've dropped 12 lard-bricks this year so far. 6lbs a month of useless fat. My BF% has dropped, I can see an Ab!, and I plan to get in good enough shape where people demand I take my shirt off, but not in a gay way, even if it is in the window of "Jack Banana's Leather Strap Rodeo Roadhouse." Just because, dammit, I'm looking better.
Eight, because I invented motherf*cking INWARD SINGING, that's why!
Ninth, because I'm apparently the only comic in Seattle who blogs. Nobody has anything to write? Well then, I guess I'm the mumbling, disinterested voice of our scene, then. You can't write ANYTHING? Famous isn't waiting for you, GET ON IT.
Tenth, and finally, I'm excited because I get to go with someone I love, who loves me, and because we're ready to get away from everything and just enjoy each other's company. I'll bring ya back some rum or something, because you drink a lot and show your boobies.
Adios, Muchachos. Adios.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Friday, February 17, 2006
For The Competitive Romantic In All Of Us
Recently I was paid a few very high compliments by comics and crowd members. It's nice to have a perspective from the outside that what I'm doing stands out a bit, or in the very least, is getting the job done well.
"The job," of course, is being really good with a cheese grater and a Shop-Vac (tkm) when some flunky Security Guard wants to ask questions of my friends, like why they were peeking in windows while dressed as Danny Partridge.
Honestly though, a bit of poignancy in the race to the top, from the husband of my favorite blogger, Dooce. Read it HERE...
=======
Also, this week being The Love Week... f*cking Hallmark & Jewelry stores, forcing a holiday upon us with all the commercialism normally reserved for the religious holidays... I found this story from Anderson Cooper on CNN.com.
In the story, he restates scientific findings that confirm what I've suspected all along.
Love Is A Drug. Between the paranoia, hanging out with people you dislike, the bloody noses, and paying for it from time to time, it's quite a lot like the Booger Sugar.
Love Is A Many Splendored... Mental Illness?
--
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
"The job," of course, is being really good with a cheese grater and a Shop-Vac (tkm) when some flunky Security Guard wants to ask questions of my friends, like why they were peeking in windows while dressed as Danny Partridge.
Honestly though, a bit of poignancy in the race to the top, from the husband of my favorite blogger, Dooce. Read it HERE...
=======
Also, this week being The Love Week... f*cking Hallmark & Jewelry stores, forcing a holiday upon us with all the commercialism normally reserved for the religious holidays... I found this story from Anderson Cooper on CNN.com.
In the story, he restates scientific findings that confirm what I've suspected all along.
Love Is A Drug. Between the paranoia, hanging out with people you dislike, the bloody noses, and paying for it from time to time, it's quite a lot like the Booger Sugar.
Love Is A Many Splendored... Mental Illness?
--
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Thursday, February 16, 2006
A Call To Humor!
The fact that more people aren't more into Emo Philips is a testament to the education system of this nation, much like the second season of "Joey" and 99% of MTV.
Below are three Emo mini-performances from the ComedySpeak website. Go to Paul Currington's column (link on the right) to see Russ Amer, circa 2001, with a special guest at the Comedy Underground!
Enjoy Your Emo-ment.
Don't Wear Fur!
The Joke's On Germany
Music Teacher
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Below are three Emo mini-performances from the ComedySpeak website. Go to Paul Currington's column (link on the right) to see Russ Amer, circa 2001, with a special guest at the Comedy Underground!
Enjoy Your Emo-ment.
Don't Wear Fur!
The Joke's On Germany
Music Teacher
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Monday, February 13, 2006
Hey Canada, Here's Your Nickelback!
I thought I was going to write a satire piece on the band Nickelback, touting their song writing and fashion and sound while being tongue-in-cheek about it, but I can't. And I have to get these words out or they will continue to gnaw at my optical nerves when they are not busy gnawing at my weiner ligaments.
A couple years ago we saw the glorious end of the band "Creed," who is now some other puss-rock band with a different lead singer who also happens to sound like farting into a coffee can. Creed was a band that came from Christian-rock roots, and even worse, Canada. Canada is not known for its rocking. If you start to say "What about Rush?" I will be elbow-deep in your ass before you get to the R.
Creed was not ever a good band. They were barely tolerable by rock standards. But somebody bought into them. Probably Dave Matthews Band fans who needed something edgier, but couldn't quite handle the deep lyrics of 3 Doors Down, who will be flayed later. Creed slid off the charts when their lead singer, Scott Stapp, decided to pursue other careers, like drunken slob, and/or yelling "I'M SCOTT STAAAAPP!" while being tazered by airport officials. Can we take you high-ah? No. Now finish detailing my car.
3 Doors Down and Creed were shat-forth around the same time. 3 Doors Down has gone on to record pretty much nothing but songs to be played at teen weddings in the Southern states. Perfect, since it was 3DD's music playing a few months prior to the wedding that night at the quarry, when a young tire technician met a tube-top full of daddy issues in a pool of beer. Much like the old saying about the 90 year old man who was asked how things were going, after losing control of his bowels and his ability to get an erection, "I'm not sure what it's called, but it sure ain't living." The flaccid shit-flood that is 3DD, it ain't music.
And now Nickelback... wow.
They answer the question "What would Michael Bolton sound like if he had an electric guitar, a smoking habit, and testicles?"
They answer the question "What should I listen to while I sit in my mini-truck outside the house of the girl I'm stalking?"
They answer the question "What would a band sound like if Metallica had sex with a caribou that just got t-boned by a tourist bus chock-full of under-medicated schizophrenics?"
From the overwrought vocals of the Lead Singer, "Chad The Disgusting" (again with the name, Chad is not the name of a rocking frontman, unless it's Chad Roberts) to the formulaic power ballad guitars of Dipass McSorley and Butt-Finger Groatman, Nickelback is officially on their way to the county fair circuit. Every song sounds the same, every song talks about the same crap, and after a while a person cannot be THAT negative and THAT sad about a life that never happened. These guys sound like a High School Funeral.
Canada has done a great disservice to the world by allowing that band to leave the borders. But then again, sometimes you're not "Presenting" something as much as you are "Kicking it the F out of the lean-to." I guess I would be less aggressive towards this band if they began slipping "Sorry, We're Under Contract" notices inside of every CD they press. Until that day, I shall think of Nickelback while doing shirtless push-ups in my basement, listening to Pantera, finishing my "Iron Maidin" tattoo... oh CRAP...
First person to vomit on Chad Kroeger gets $10, AMERICAN.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
A couple years ago we saw the glorious end of the band "Creed," who is now some other puss-rock band with a different lead singer who also happens to sound like farting into a coffee can. Creed was a band that came from Christian-rock roots, and even worse, Canada. Canada is not known for its rocking. If you start to say "What about Rush?" I will be elbow-deep in your ass before you get to the R.
Creed was not ever a good band. They were barely tolerable by rock standards. But somebody bought into them. Probably Dave Matthews Band fans who needed something edgier, but couldn't quite handle the deep lyrics of 3 Doors Down, who will be flayed later. Creed slid off the charts when their lead singer, Scott Stapp, decided to pursue other careers, like drunken slob, and/or yelling "I'M SCOTT STAAAAPP!" while being tazered by airport officials. Can we take you high-ah? No. Now finish detailing my car.
3 Doors Down and Creed were shat-forth around the same time. 3 Doors Down has gone on to record pretty much nothing but songs to be played at teen weddings in the Southern states. Perfect, since it was 3DD's music playing a few months prior to the wedding that night at the quarry, when a young tire technician met a tube-top full of daddy issues in a pool of beer. Much like the old saying about the 90 year old man who was asked how things were going, after losing control of his bowels and his ability to get an erection, "I'm not sure what it's called, but it sure ain't living." The flaccid shit-flood that is 3DD, it ain't music.
And now Nickelback... wow.
They answer the question "What would Michael Bolton sound like if he had an electric guitar, a smoking habit, and testicles?"
They answer the question "What should I listen to while I sit in my mini-truck outside the house of the girl I'm stalking?"
They answer the question "What would a band sound like if Metallica had sex with a caribou that just got t-boned by a tourist bus chock-full of under-medicated schizophrenics?"
From the overwrought vocals of the Lead Singer, "Chad The Disgusting" (again with the name, Chad is not the name of a rocking frontman, unless it's Chad Roberts) to the formulaic power ballad guitars of Dipass McSorley and Butt-Finger Groatman, Nickelback is officially on their way to the county fair circuit. Every song sounds the same, every song talks about the same crap, and after a while a person cannot be THAT negative and THAT sad about a life that never happened. These guys sound like a High School Funeral.
Canada has done a great disservice to the world by allowing that band to leave the borders. But then again, sometimes you're not "Presenting" something as much as you are "Kicking it the F out of the lean-to." I guess I would be less aggressive towards this band if they began slipping "Sorry, We're Under Contract" notices inside of every CD they press. Until that day, I shall think of Nickelback while doing shirtless push-ups in my basement, listening to Pantera, finishing my "Iron Maidin" tattoo... oh CRAP...
First person to vomit on Chad Kroeger gets $10, AMERICAN.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
It's Like, You Know, Uh...
One major event prior to the Super Bowl is "Media Day," where 20 players from each team sit and take question after question from reporters. These reporters are sent to the event from around the world. I asked myself this...
How must it feel to a guy holding a recorder, pen, and notepad, not to mention his degree in Journalism or English, to have to spend a week trying to interview grown men who are fumbling their way through their native tongue?
Last season, in a 30-second span of one interview with Terrell Owens, I counted 8 "you know"s, and 23 "Uh"s.
Football - 31
Education - 0
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
How must it feel to a guy holding a recorder, pen, and notepad, not to mention his degree in Journalism or English, to have to spend a week trying to interview grown men who are fumbling their way through their native tongue?
Last season, in a 30-second span of one interview with Terrell Owens, I counted 8 "you know"s, and 23 "Uh"s.
Football - 31
Education - 0
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
Assumption Of The Throne
Lately I have read a lot of words, heard a lot of words, and have yet to discount a lot of words, about me, my feelings, my future in comedy, and my own ideas on the injustices in the world. I usually don't tell people these kinds of things, but with all of the statements about my emotional state, the most important thing I can do at the moment is give thee a clearing-up of the sky in which I fly gracefully. It is here now that I tell you, dear reader, what I am talkin' about. Please pass this on to Arnold Jackson at your earliest convenience.
I normally have only 2 emotional gears; Rage, and Drunken Rage. But lately I've felt everything from disbelief to no-f*cking-way. I've also experienced "that guy is what happens when a bad idea has sex with a fart" as well as "and that lady smells it." Another emotion I got hit with was "ennui." It wasn't quite "languid," but overall I was okay with it.
Then I got a few messages from friends telling me that other people have been talking some sauce about the Geofferee, and frankly, that's just telling me that the bulls have taken their dumps. Here are some feelings and things I am not, regardless of what people are saying, blogging, or being retarded about:
Gay, nor any of its euphemisms.
Hateful, no matter how easy it can be.
Hopeful, no matter how little it's brought me.
Lazy, even though I'd like not do a damn thing for an entire 2 hours and just sleeeeeeeeeeep. Scared, even though Silent is often mistaken for Speechless.
Black.
Distraught, at least not about anything other than the Super Bowl.
Far-Right wing, even though a lot of the Left is beginning to represent poorly.
Doubtful, no matter how much crap it's delivered to me.
Bored, even though I'd rather not be at "work."
Presumptive, even though I have a good idea of what's coming.
Violent, and that's considering that a couple mouths could use a good punching.
Confined, but I could use a little more room to move.
Content, since it's more accurate that I am Happy.
Understood, since everyone's entitled to their opinion, especially when they're counter-arguing.
Argumentative, since I can see most everyone's point, until they can't admit the truth.
Pleased, since so many "bloggers" have nothing to say.
And lastly, I am not,
As Concerned as you think I am.
Drunk, now THAT I totally is.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
I normally have only 2 emotional gears; Rage, and Drunken Rage. But lately I've felt everything from disbelief to no-f*cking-way. I've also experienced "that guy is what happens when a bad idea has sex with a fart" as well as "and that lady smells it." Another emotion I got hit with was "ennui." It wasn't quite "languid," but overall I was okay with it.
Then I got a few messages from friends telling me that other people have been talking some sauce about the Geofferee, and frankly, that's just telling me that the bulls have taken their dumps. Here are some feelings and things I am not, regardless of what people are saying, blogging, or being retarded about:
Gay, nor any of its euphemisms.
Hateful, no matter how easy it can be.
Hopeful, no matter how little it's brought me.
Lazy, even though I'd like not do a damn thing for an entire 2 hours and just sleeeeeeeeeeep. Scared, even though Silent is often mistaken for Speechless.
Black.
Distraught, at least not about anything other than the Super Bowl.
Far-Right wing, even though a lot of the Left is beginning to represent poorly.
Doubtful, no matter how much crap it's delivered to me.
Bored, even though I'd rather not be at "work."
Presumptive, even though I have a good idea of what's coming.
Violent, and that's considering that a couple mouths could use a good punching.
Confined, but I could use a little more room to move.
Content, since it's more accurate that I am Happy.
Understood, since everyone's entitled to their opinion, especially when they're counter-arguing.
Argumentative, since I can see most everyone's point, until they can't admit the truth.
Pleased, since so many "bloggers" have nothing to say.
And lastly, I am not,
As Concerned as you think I am.
Drunk, now THAT I totally is.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
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