I was reading something on the internet recently - exactly what it was escapes me, and it's irrelevant. The author was talking about some group of people he dislikes, or disagrees with, and said (I'm paraphrasing here) that "the time has come to rebute them!" It took a moment, but I figured that the author must have meant either "rebuke" or "refute," mixed them up, and shat out that gem. But I looked it up, and, lo and behold, it really is a word, though I still think the author got lucky. Hell, the word has little red squiggles underneath it as I type this update. Then my eyes seized on the little bit that I've highlighted in this image.
Yep. Usually, Merriam-Webster dot com won't define the word, since it's in the premium, unabridged, paid dictionary. But for this trial period, lowly plebeians like myself can learn all about the secrets of rebute. If I like it, well, I can pay for a subscription, and enjoy the definition of rebute, and 300,000 other premium words, anytime I please!
As one might expect, my first, knee-jerk reaction was indignation and fury. I mean, are they serious? This is 2012, goddammit, and you want me to pay for information I can find in the dictionary? This was followed by a deep sadness.
I feel really bad for Merriam-Webster, and Britannica, and companies like that. Hundreds of years in business, how else can M-W possibly make money anymore? Not only can I find just about any bit of information on any topic, at a moment's notice, whenever I want, I have become entitled to it! The very idea of paying for information like this is utterly laughable.
It's just like pornography. Porn used to be sacred. Over the course of his teen years, from about age 12 up, a boy would pore over books and magazines, looking for a stray nipple, scour the library (what's that?) for sex instruction books that might have a stray diagram of the female reproductive system,and watch scrambled late-night cable transmissions, dick in hand, desperate for some identifiable female pube action. And now, within milliseconds, he can be watching Anal Black Shemale Public Fisting, if he so chooses. Where's the fun in that? Where's the love anymore?
Friday, December 21, 2012
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
Really? She was flirting?
Writing the last little update was good for me - it reminded me of so many great public transportation stories I have.
As background, you should know that I'm not particularly perceptive when it comes to social cues.I sometimes need things explained to me like I'm a slow child, at least the first time. For example, I changed schools between 8th and 9th grades - from elementary school to high school.Nobody knew me at the new school, and I thought I could "start fresh," and not be such a Dorkus Malorkus all the time. First week of the new semester, I was passed a note in class by some girl. "My friend thinks you're cute!" My response? "Tell her to tell me herself." Yeah, I was a virgin until I was 23.
Point is, I miss some obvious social things.
I remember being on the bus with my wife, this time definitely AFTER we were married. 14-Mission line, standing room only, next to a younger, attractive hipster-looking chick, vintage late 90s-early 2000s. As an aside, I have words burned into my arms - something like this, but on my arms, long-healed so not red and raw, and not stupidly advertising some band. I'm not sure how the conversation started, but at some point, Cute Hipster Girl looked at my arms and said, "You scar well!" There might even have been some touching of my scars - the details are hazy, and I don't remember much else about the whole interaction. Mrs. Arone grabbed me by the arm and said "Our stop, let's go!", and we debarked almost immediately.
I kinda thought my wife was going to rip out Cute Hipster Girl's throat with her teeth. Apparently, in San Francisco, "You scar well" is obvious flirtation, though I had no idea. "Can you believe the balls on her, I was standing right there! You have your wedding ring on! Bitch, that's MY man!" And I honestly don't think I'm making that last sentence up.
She's gotten over it, though, and she sometimes comes up, rubs my arms, and says in a sultry voice, "Oooh, you scar well!"
As background, you should know that I'm not particularly perceptive when it comes to social cues.I sometimes need things explained to me like I'm a slow child, at least the first time. For example, I changed schools between 8th and 9th grades - from elementary school to high school.Nobody knew me at the new school, and I thought I could "start fresh," and not be such a Dorkus Malorkus all the time. First week of the new semester, I was passed a note in class by some girl. "My friend thinks you're cute!" My response? "Tell her to tell me herself." Yeah, I was a virgin until I was 23.
Point is, I miss some obvious social things.
I remember being on the bus with my wife, this time definitely AFTER we were married. 14-Mission line, standing room only, next to a younger, attractive hipster-looking chick, vintage late 90s-early 2000s. As an aside, I have words burned into my arms - something like this, but on my arms, long-healed so not red and raw, and not stupidly advertising some band. I'm not sure how the conversation started, but at some point, Cute Hipster Girl looked at my arms and said, "You scar well!" There might even have been some touching of my scars - the details are hazy, and I don't remember much else about the whole interaction. Mrs. Arone grabbed me by the arm and said "Our stop, let's go!", and we debarked almost immediately.
I kinda thought my wife was going to rip out Cute Hipster Girl's throat with her teeth. Apparently, in San Francisco, "You scar well" is obvious flirtation, though I had no idea. "Can you believe the balls on her, I was standing right there! You have your wedding ring on! Bitch, that's MY man!" And I honestly don't think I'm making that last sentence up.
She's gotten over it, though, and she sometimes comes up, rubs my arms, and says in a sultry voice, "Oooh, you scar well!"
Monday, December 17, 2012
They say romance is dead?
I don't think about my looks very often - I'm a guy, and we're trained from birth to let the womenfolk worry about that stuff. But for as long as I can remember, when I have thought about my looks, the thoughts have been negative. I'm a fat guy, and I don't like it. But I've been losing weight recently, and I happened to pass a mirror the other day, and thought, "Y'know, Cheech, you're not the worst looking guy out there. And that reminded me of something that happened ages ago.
My wife and I - though this happened before we were married, I believe - were riding the SF Muni, specifically the J Church line, inbound toward the city, after running errands or something. Pretty full streetcar, some standers, all seats occupied. I was in the aisle seat of a 2-seat bench, next to my wife. As people board and debark, there is necessarily a lot of jostling in the aisle - the sheer volume of humanity made it unavoidable. I was reading a book or magazine, trying to just chill out and enjoy the ride.
I remember it was at the Dolores Park stop. During the rush of people to get off the train, my hand and reading material were suddenly kind of manhandled and knocked around, way more than necessary. "What the fuck, man?" is what I said out loud, I'm pretty sure. I tried to see who had knocked into me, but he/she/it was gone, out the door, I never even saw them. A second later, I notice that a piece of paper had been shoved into my hand. I've committed the message to memory:
"Hi There!
I really like redheads and "YOUR TYPE!" Call me!
Shephan 415-123-4567"
I don't remember the phone number, but the words are verbatim. At the time, I looked very much like this, so I assume that "YOUR TYPE" meant "fat."
It brightens my day a little to think that, no matter how ugly I think I am, someone out there is home alone, beating off, wishing they had someone just like me.
My wife and I - though this happened before we were married, I believe - were riding the SF Muni, specifically the J Church line, inbound toward the city, after running errands or something. Pretty full streetcar, some standers, all seats occupied. I was in the aisle seat of a 2-seat bench, next to my wife. As people board and debark, there is necessarily a lot of jostling in the aisle - the sheer volume of humanity made it unavoidable. I was reading a book or magazine, trying to just chill out and enjoy the ride.
I remember it was at the Dolores Park stop. During the rush of people to get off the train, my hand and reading material were suddenly kind of manhandled and knocked around, way more than necessary. "What the fuck, man?" is what I said out loud, I'm pretty sure. I tried to see who had knocked into me, but he/she/it was gone, out the door, I never even saw them. A second later, I notice that a piece of paper had been shoved into my hand. I've committed the message to memory:
"Hi There!
I really like redheads and "YOUR TYPE!" Call me!
Shephan 415-123-4567"
I don't remember the phone number, but the words are verbatim. At the time, I looked very much like this, so I assume that "YOUR TYPE" meant "fat."
It brightens my day a little to think that, no matter how ugly I think I am, someone out there is home alone, beating off, wishing they had someone just like me.
Saturday, December 15, 2012
Comcast = Stupid People
Sorry for the strong language in the title. If any of my young nieces are reading this, I apologize for using a bad word like "stupid." to describe the people at Comcast. But really, they are complete fucking morons.
I've been watching less TV lately, ever since this internet thing has arrived on the scene. But make no mistake, I am a fan of television, as is my wife. We don't have much "appointment viewing," but she definitely loves to watch, among a few other pet shows, "Project Runway." What can I say? That's a stop on her journey through life, and I'll try not to judge her for it. Point is, she has a DVR subscription to record the show weekly, and our DVR recently shit the bed. I called Comcast, from whom we receive cable, internet, and phone service, explained the problem, and set up an appointment for (IIRC) the next day, for a technician to come and examine the box, and either repair or replace it. Four hour time window, from noon to 4 PM.
Now, I know you, and you're pretty smart. You're thinking, "I see, the technician will be late, or not show up, leading to an angry Cheech Arone!" You're right - the technician never showed, and Mrs. Arone had to schlep her ass downtown to pick up a box in person the next day, since her show was on, and all appointment slots were taken for that day. Major clusterfuck. But that's not the issue.
After the four hour window expired, I gave a fifteen-minute courtesy window, and then called Comcast. They said that they called to confirm the appointment several times that morning and afternoon, and got no response, so they cancelled the appointment.
"But, wait a minute! I've been here all day, and the phone hasn't rung once!"
"I'm sorry sir, that's what the paperwork says."
"What number did they call?"
"(559) 564-ABCD."
"What? No, That's the number from when we lived in East Bumblefuck, four hours away from here."
"What is the new phone number, sir?"
"Wait, what? The new phone number? We've lived here for five years. You installed our cable, and you need our phone number? Wait a minute, DON'T YOU PROVIDE OUR PHONE SERVICE?? Are you fucking kidding me?"
"I'm sorry, sir. What's the new number?"
And the angels wept.
I've been watching less TV lately, ever since this internet thing has arrived on the scene. But make no mistake, I am a fan of television, as is my wife. We don't have much "appointment viewing," but she definitely loves to watch, among a few other pet shows, "Project Runway." What can I say? That's a stop on her journey through life, and I'll try not to judge her for it. Point is, she has a DVR subscription to record the show weekly, and our DVR recently shit the bed. I called Comcast, from whom we receive cable, internet, and phone service, explained the problem, and set up an appointment for (IIRC) the next day, for a technician to come and examine the box, and either repair or replace it. Four hour time window, from noon to 4 PM.
Now, I know you, and you're pretty smart. You're thinking, "I see, the technician will be late, or not show up, leading to an angry Cheech Arone!" You're right - the technician never showed, and Mrs. Arone had to schlep her ass downtown to pick up a box in person the next day, since her show was on, and all appointment slots were taken for that day. Major clusterfuck. But that's not the issue.
After the four hour window expired, I gave a fifteen-minute courtesy window, and then called Comcast. They said that they called to confirm the appointment several times that morning and afternoon, and got no response, so they cancelled the appointment.
"But, wait a minute! I've been here all day, and the phone hasn't rung once!"
"I'm sorry sir, that's what the paperwork says."
"What number did they call?"
"(559) 564-ABCD."
"What? No, That's the number from when we lived in East Bumblefuck, four hours away from here."
"What is the new phone number, sir?"
"Wait, what? The new phone number? We've lived here for five years. You installed our cable, and you need our phone number? Wait a minute, DON'T YOU PROVIDE OUR PHONE SERVICE?? Are you fucking kidding me?"
"I'm sorry, sir. What's the new number?"
And the angels wept.
Thursday, December 13, 2012
I Love Living in the Internet Age
I know that there is a stereotype of men hating to shop, but damned if it isn't true in my case. I just can't stand shopping. There's nothing new to say about it - dig up Henny Youngman's corpse for that stuff. But I was recently reminded of a humorous shopping incident that happened to me and my wife a few years ago
It was at Walgreens. Drug stores depress me. They're always laid out in a weird way - never simply parallel aisles like a grocery store, but a layout like Kowloon Walled City, directing me into dead ends and secret glory-holes. I can never find anything, and all I ever want to do is leave.
Anyway, my wife and I were at Walgreens, doing what must have been some holiday shopping. In the cart were greeting cards and a perfume set (White Shoulders? Something like that), as well as standard fare - Kleenex, Advil, soda, etc. And sex lube. No need to laugh, we're all adults here, more-or-less. We needed lube, so we threw it in the cart with the other stuff, and didn't even give it a second thought.
After about eleven years, we were ready to check out. Holiday lines stink, but this was a big Walgreens, with about a half-dozen checkers, all in use, and we managed to make it to the cashier without incident. Beep - Kleenex - $2.99. Beep - Advil - $5.69. Beep. Beep. Beep. Item not scanning. So the cashier grabs her phone and pushes the PA button to make a storewide announcement :
"Kenny, can we have a price check on the Kama Sutra Love Liquid?"
Silence. Crickets. Even the Muzak went mute for our Special Moment. Perhaps I'm dramatizing, but time stopped. The cashier looked like a fish, mouth opening and closing as if she'd lost all speech ability once she realized what she'd announced. I just said, "Great, thanks," and shot myself in the head.
No, not really. But would you blame me? After a second of silence, there was some laughter, but people mostly just got on with their business. That's nice of them, but I know full well that if I'd heard that announcement, about someone else, I'd have wet myself with laughter. And then when I saw that the victim was a 350-pounder with a Grizzly Adams beard like I had at the time? Forget about it, I'd've been done.
And that's why we buy lube online now.
It was at Walgreens. Drug stores depress me. They're always laid out in a weird way - never simply parallel aisles like a grocery store, but a layout like Kowloon Walled City, directing me into dead ends and secret glory-holes. I can never find anything, and all I ever want to do is leave.
Anyway, my wife and I were at Walgreens, doing what must have been some holiday shopping. In the cart were greeting cards and a perfume set (White Shoulders? Something like that), as well as standard fare - Kleenex, Advil, soda, etc. And sex lube. No need to laugh, we're all adults here, more-or-less. We needed lube, so we threw it in the cart with the other stuff, and didn't even give it a second thought.
After about eleven years, we were ready to check out. Holiday lines stink, but this was a big Walgreens, with about a half-dozen checkers, all in use, and we managed to make it to the cashier without incident. Beep - Kleenex - $2.99. Beep - Advil - $5.69. Beep. Beep. Beep. Item not scanning. So the cashier grabs her phone and pushes the PA button to make a storewide announcement :
"Kenny, can we have a price check on the Kama Sutra Love Liquid?"
Silence. Crickets. Even the Muzak went mute for our Special Moment. Perhaps I'm dramatizing, but time stopped. The cashier looked like a fish, mouth opening and closing as if she'd lost all speech ability once she realized what she'd announced. I just said, "Great, thanks," and shot myself in the head.
No, not really. But would you blame me? After a second of silence, there was some laughter, but people mostly just got on with their business. That's nice of them, but I know full well that if I'd heard that announcement, about someone else, I'd have wet myself with laughter. And then when I saw that the victim was a 350-pounder with a Grizzly Adams beard like I had at the time? Forget about it, I'd've been done.
And that's why we buy lube online now.
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
My Plans For Tomorrow
Despite the fact that I KNOW the lottery is a tax on being bad at math, I like to daydream about what I'd do if I happened to win. No, I don't really play, even when the jackpot is high. If the opportunity presents itself, I'll throw a fiver in the pot. But since the Powerball jackpot (not even sold in my state) is around a half-billion dollars, I thought I'd write down my spending plan for that size jackpot, which comes to about $225 million, after lump sum penalty and federal / state taxes, assuming my wife goes along.
This comes to $135 million. We have $90 million left. My dilemma is this : I have two pet projects. Do I spend the entire enormous budget on one, or split the budget in half and execute two merely huge projects instead? Here are the options:
- Houses for my family and all of our close friends and relatives, budgeted at $500,000 each - $10 million.
- College education for anyone on the same list as above who wants it - some kind of money-earning fund with a starting budget of $5 million.
- Pay off all debts of same list - wild guess, budget at $5 million to make sure there is a huge margin for error.
- Cash gift to each individual on the above list, $50,000 each - enough to have fun, not enough to kill yourself with drugs unless you straight-up OD - budget $5 million, to include future children of each member of the group, bestowed at graduation of High School or age 18, whichever comes first.
- Discretionary giftable money, $5 million each for me and my wife, to give to anyone or any cause we see fit.
- Investments - $100 million.
This comes to $135 million. We have $90 million left. My dilemma is this : I have two pet projects. Do I spend the entire enormous budget on one, or split the budget in half and execute two merely huge projects instead? Here are the options:
- Survivalist compound deep in the forest - With even the smaller budget, I could build an excellent underground bunker, fully provisioned and armed, ready for the inevitable scenario out of The Day After Tomorrow. Or, if you insist, zombie apocalypse. With the larger budget, the same, just bigger, deeper, and more secure.
- Cat sanctuary - Huge fenced area, like the size of a Six Flags amusement park, expressly designed and landscaped as a full-service cat sanctuary. Full veterinary services, accepts all unwanted felines. Most cats get free roam of about 75% of the land, the rest in designated areas for contagious disease carriers, medical cases, behavior issues, whatever. Fully staffed, daily full park inspections for safety (and cat / human interaction).
Actually, as I've been writing this, the correct answer has become clear. Do the most good possible now, and have fun now, don't prepare for "What if?" I'll go $5 million on the compound, $85 million on the cats.
Sunday, November 25, 2012
Urban Safari
"Oh my god, Cheech, there's another cat in the house!"
It was a weird day yersterday - warm, but cold, and very windy. The blinds in the bedroom always shake around like crazy when the wind is up, because we keep the windows cracked a few inches. So it was not unusual at all for a lot of noise to be coming from the area. Maybe 15 minutes later, there was a commotion in the hallway. Our three cats were acting strange and restless, and fighting amongst each other. This was a little more unusual. They fight, but only in pairs - I couldn't remember a Wrestlemania like this between all three at once ever happening. Still, it was just our cats fighting in the hall, no biggie. My wife broke it up, and we went on with our lives. Then, she had to use the bathroom, and when she came out, glanced into the bedroom.
"Oh my god, Cheech, there's another cat in the house!" So I speedily (Ha!) hefted my ass off the couch and investigated. I wish I had gotten a picture, but what I saw was very much like this, except with far more dirty drawers on the bed. A beautiful, big, fully black male cat just totally chillin' on the bed. "Hey, big guy, how ya doin'?!" Very friendly-like, I slowly reached out, he let me scratch his head, and I knew he was fairly tame. I told my wife to go knock on the neighbors' doors and ask if anyone lost a cat, while I stayed with him. As she was opening the door, there was a dude walking down the hall with his son. Our new upstairs neighbors, the ones with the bowling alley, or possibly piano moving business, operating out of their 500-square-foot apartment above our heads. Kitty got out onto the fire escape and found a nice warm bed one floor down, it seems.
I'm considering some demotions among our feline security force, however.
Monday, November 19, 2012
Trojan Horse
I recently got into an internet argument (that is, an utterly pointless pissing contest) with another poster on a message board I frequent. The person asked if there were any truth to the rumor (which I had never heard before) that babies can't breathe through their mouths, and would die if you hold their noses. Since I'm not a complete knuckle-dragging fool, I replied "Seriously? Don't you think that if babies could be suffocated by just holding their noses shut, it would be a BIG, WELL KNOWN DANGER!!! and not a rumor?" Not surprisingly, he defended his position - anyone would, even if they were wrong. But to my horror, other posters came to his defense! "Well, babies don't LIKE to breathe through their mouths!" "Babies only breathe through their mouths when in distress!" Blah blah blah.
Look, I don't give a tiny little rat's ass about the physiology of infant humans. But when I get a ration of shit for pointing out that yes, babies can breathe through their mouths, I get a little upset for the world. Do I really have to accept ANY outlandish thing someone says as a sacrosanct belief, unassailable and reasonable? It's bad enough that I have to accept everyone's kooky religion (yes, they're all kooky, even if god does exist). Is every single utterance something that needs to be defended to the death? And people wonder why I like to stay inside all day and avoid society?!
My problem is that I so very much want to avoid confrontation in my life. That's what's going to send my heart into seizure, the rage that's stored up because, in real life, I don't release it in measured doses. For example, I know a lot about old coins. I'm not an expert, but quite knowledgeable. At work once, a coworker mentioned how he thought he had found an error coin - a coin that was damaged while minting, but accidentally released anyway. These can be very valuable. He showed me his coin, and, unfortunately, it had what is called Post-Mint Damage - that is, it was damaged AFTER being released, and thus worth its face value only. Despite the fact that my coworker KNEW I knew coins, and specifically asked me my opinion BECAUSE HE TRUSTED IT, he didn't believe me, got all pissy, and bragged to other coworkers how he was going to make hundreds or thousands of dollars. Instead of arguing with him (which, honestly, would have been fruitless anyway), I just smiled and said, "OK, good luck!"
Then I beat up a puppy on the way home. Well, not really. I just bottled the anger up, to be released later in reaction to a commercial for vibrators or something. It's really the only reasonable solution.
Look, I don't give a tiny little rat's ass about the physiology of infant humans. But when I get a ration of shit for pointing out that yes, babies can breathe through their mouths, I get a little upset for the world. Do I really have to accept ANY outlandish thing someone says as a sacrosanct belief, unassailable and reasonable? It's bad enough that I have to accept everyone's kooky religion (yes, they're all kooky, even if god does exist). Is every single utterance something that needs to be defended to the death? And people wonder why I like to stay inside all day and avoid society?!
My problem is that I so very much want to avoid confrontation in my life. That's what's going to send my heart into seizure, the rage that's stored up because, in real life, I don't release it in measured doses. For example, I know a lot about old coins. I'm not an expert, but quite knowledgeable. At work once, a coworker mentioned how he thought he had found an error coin - a coin that was damaged while minting, but accidentally released anyway. These can be very valuable. He showed me his coin, and, unfortunately, it had what is called Post-Mint Damage - that is, it was damaged AFTER being released, and thus worth its face value only. Despite the fact that my coworker KNEW I knew coins, and specifically asked me my opinion BECAUSE HE TRUSTED IT, he didn't believe me, got all pissy, and bragged to other coworkers how he was going to make hundreds or thousands of dollars. Instead of arguing with him (which, honestly, would have been fruitless anyway), I just smiled and said, "OK, good luck!"
Then I beat up a puppy on the way home. Well, not really. I just bottled the anger up, to be released later in reaction to a commercial for vibrators or something. It's really the only reasonable solution.
Sunday, November 18, 2012
Talking Box
I have writer's block. I guess that's what they call it. I think I should call it "not being an asshole." I have a strong case of not being an asshole. I used to write. When I was a child. Now, as an adult, I know that I have nothing to say that hasn't been said better and more eloquently by someone a hundred years dead. What balls I must have had to think that there would be anyone in this world that wants to read what I have to say!
If Andy Rooney had never been born, I'd have a sterling career ahead of me! My head is full up to here with his style of pointless outrage. I can't get myself really worked up about Benghazi, or whatever the fuck the newscasters are on about, but by God, if I see that cartoon bear with dingleberries again, I'm going to lose it!
I have a filthy mind. If Larry Flint could look in there, he'd exclaim, "My goodness, Chi, that's disgusting! By the way, would it be too much if I actually showed her cervix in the centerfold of next month's Barely Legal?" But when I'm watching TV, I'm shockingly prudish. Actually, "Prudish" is imprecise. I just want decency in my TV commercials. For example, I know exactly what diapers are for. I know that they are sometimes leaky, and that can be gross. But I don't need to see a commercial for Luvs in which the concept is that there are babies on stage for a pageant, and the winner of the pageant is the baby who shits the most into their diaper! I mean, seriously, they're about to shower the crowd in feces! And don't get me started on tampon commercials. We're all adults here, and I am fully aware of how the human reproductive cycle works, but dammit, I know for a fact that my wife doesn't want to "celebrate" her period. Sometimes I think she'd pay me to kick her in the head to take her mind off the cramps. Sometimes I want to pay her for the same service. But no talking box is going to make anyone around here celebrate.
Hmmm. Maybe I'll send a resume to 60 Minutes...
If Andy Rooney had never been born, I'd have a sterling career ahead of me! My head is full up to here with his style of pointless outrage. I can't get myself really worked up about Benghazi, or whatever the fuck the newscasters are on about, but by God, if I see that cartoon bear with dingleberries again, I'm going to lose it!
I have a filthy mind. If Larry Flint could look in there, he'd exclaim, "My goodness, Chi, that's disgusting! By the way, would it be too much if I actually showed her cervix in the centerfold of next month's Barely Legal?" But when I'm watching TV, I'm shockingly prudish. Actually, "Prudish" is imprecise. I just want decency in my TV commercials. For example, I know exactly what diapers are for. I know that they are sometimes leaky, and that can be gross. But I don't need to see a commercial for Luvs in which the concept is that there are babies on stage for a pageant, and the winner of the pageant is the baby who shits the most into their diaper! I mean, seriously, they're about to shower the crowd in feces! And don't get me started on tampon commercials. We're all adults here, and I am fully aware of how the human reproductive cycle works, but dammit, I know for a fact that my wife doesn't want to "celebrate" her period. Sometimes I think she'd pay me to kick her in the head to take her mind off the cramps. Sometimes I want to pay her for the same service. But no talking box is going to make anyone around here celebrate.
Hmmm. Maybe I'll send a resume to 60 Minutes...
Friday, November 16, 2012
Staring Into the Eye of Darkness
I have cats. There, I said it. I like dogs just fine, but I am a cat person. I daresay that, given the resources and space, I'd be a crazy cat man. One thing I've always had in my head as something to do when I hit the Ultra Bucks, or whatever lotto jackpot, is to open a cat sanctuary. Open to all unwanted cats, with acres of land, veterinarians, etc. A giant no-kill shelter, but more like a farm for cats. I'd have the run of the place, zipping around in a little golf cart, visiting the cats and hittin' a fatty. I'd do some work around the place, but as a multimillionaire, I have employees who do the real work.
Cats looooove being scratched. Given their physical limitations, cats can't really lick or scratch much of their spine, from their head down to the tail, and they seem to love that. In particular, Lisa (on the left) loves it when I scratch her back right at the base of the tail. It's kinda gross and creepy, because she starts to bite the air and get a weird spacey look in her eyes when I do it. I've always assumed that, nasty as it was, she must be getting some kind of sexual thrill out of it..
Well, today was the last straw. I was on the couch, looking out the staring window, just watching cars blow through the stop sign on the corner, when Lisa came up to me and started making her weird little bird-peeping calls that mean she wants attention. So I let her up on to the arm of the couch and start scratching her head and back. When I got to the base of her tail and scratched her back there, I happened to glance up, and her whole anus was puckered out like she was about to blow me a kiss. It was utterly fucking repulsive, all white and red, like a beached jellyfish. I made a kind of gargling sound, and as I stopped scratching, it deflated to normal starfish-size.
Not ever again, Cheech.
Cats looooove being scratched. Given their physical limitations, cats can't really lick or scratch much of their spine, from their head down to the tail, and they seem to love that. In particular, Lisa (on the left) loves it when I scratch her back right at the base of the tail. It's kinda gross and creepy, because she starts to bite the air and get a weird spacey look in her eyes when I do it. I've always assumed that, nasty as it was, she must be getting some kind of sexual thrill out of it..
Well, today was the last straw. I was on the couch, looking out the staring window, just watching cars blow through the stop sign on the corner, when Lisa came up to me and started making her weird little bird-peeping calls that mean she wants attention. So I let her up on to the arm of the couch and start scratching her head and back. When I got to the base of her tail and scratched her back there, I happened to glance up, and her whole anus was puckered out like she was about to blow me a kiss. It was utterly fucking repulsive, all white and red, like a beached jellyfish. I made a kind of gargling sound, and as I stopped scratching, it deflated to normal starfish-size.
Not ever again, Cheech.
Is This Thing On?
I kind of feel like King Douchebag sitting here typing things from my feeelings, but I think that it's time to start writing again.
I used to write a couple of zines. They were like blogs, but on paper. I had to write or type on an actual typewriter, cut the paragraphs out of the pages, and lay them out in an aesthetically pleasing format. Then I literally pasted in humorous or illustrative pictures onto the paper itself. When I had an entire magazine-length amount of material, I had to use some kind of Devil's Math to figure out how to lay out the pages so that the finished product looked like a real thing, and not a slow monkey's BM diary. If you look at any magazine or catalog that's held together with staples, you'll see that the pages are actually as large as two pages, and have four page surfaces per piece of paper. Page one, on the left half, is also the last page, page 2 is also the inside back cover, etc. Well you can see the problem already. I'm good at math, and somewhat intelligent in general, and I felt like an infant trying to paste-up the zine. And the resulting feeling of pride when it all came together was wonderful. I haven't felt that kind of real creative satisfaction in a very long time, and I think I should.
Anyway, that's what I had to do to get people to hear me back in the 1990s. Now, my last fried egg fart has a blog, with 40 readers. It's crazy how widespread everyone's opinions can reach these days. Might as well add to the deluge.
I used to write a couple of zines. They were like blogs, but on paper. I had to write or type on an actual typewriter, cut the paragraphs out of the pages, and lay them out in an aesthetically pleasing format. Then I literally pasted in humorous or illustrative pictures onto the paper itself. When I had an entire magazine-length amount of material, I had to use some kind of Devil's Math to figure out how to lay out the pages so that the finished product looked like a real thing, and not a slow monkey's BM diary. If you look at any magazine or catalog that's held together with staples, you'll see that the pages are actually as large as two pages, and have four page surfaces per piece of paper. Page one, on the left half, is also the last page, page 2 is also the inside back cover, etc. Well you can see the problem already. I'm good at math, and somewhat intelligent in general, and I felt like an infant trying to paste-up the zine. And the resulting feeling of pride when it all came together was wonderful. I haven't felt that kind of real creative satisfaction in a very long time, and I think I should.
Anyway, that's what I had to do to get people to hear me back in the 1990s. Now, my last fried egg fart has a blog, with 40 readers. It's crazy how widespread everyone's opinions can reach these days. Might as well add to the deluge.
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