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So I got an e-mail this morning from AdSense, Google's advertising arm. Hey, they need to make a buck too, right?
Anyways, my AdSense account has been disabled. Evidently, I curse too much, or talk about drugs too much, or talk about getting totally fucked off in downtown Manhattan too much.
At this point, I'm pretty sure it's just another scheme by either UPS or FedEx to get me... they figure if I get paid, I can either 1) pay my hospital bills, or 2) continue to buy more protective equipment.
That, or the automobile manufacturers are behind it all, because I'm proving on the daily that you don't need a fucking car in New York City, a bike and the metro solves all problems...
Unfortunately, Google's advertising arm seems to be more like the Rovian Whitehouse than anything else. They won't state the actual reason why my account was disabled. I'm still thinking it's because the pro-capitalist fascists found out about my attempts to make money off of them, while undermining their basic philosophy... but I've been known for the occasional foray into the realm of bathos.
Fuck this post, I'm outta here!
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Why Are New Yorkers Suprised?
The big news around here... hell, 'round the country, is that Eliot Spitzer, the fine, fine former governor of New York, has resigned over a sex scandal in which he cheated on his wife, over the course of several years and to the tune of tens of thousands of dollars, with sex workers.
Yeah, I said sex workers, not hookers, not prostitutes. I don't demean the honorable men and women of the sex industry, who guarantee that even if you don't have a single redeemable trait, with a little cash, you can still get some. I think that important - how many Daumer's have been prevented by the occasional visit to the sex worker by the borderline case?
I don't think I'll get any research funding from my theories, but there it is: sex workers cut down on victim crimes... the only crimes I really think people should worry about / have laws concerning. I mean, really, do we need to spend all of this time and money concentrating on service personnel? Sex or drugs are the appetites, so long as there are appetites, there will be food provided.
I'm not here to defend Spitzer. I'm here to point out that the only true surprise should be that a former prosecutor paid someone to screw them. Most prosecutors get way too used to getting paid for screwing people.
Just my two cents.
Yeah, I said sex workers, not hookers, not prostitutes. I don't demean the honorable men and women of the sex industry, who guarantee that even if you don't have a single redeemable trait, with a little cash, you can still get some. I think that important - how many Daumer's have been prevented by the occasional visit to the sex worker by the borderline case?
I don't think I'll get any research funding from my theories, but there it is: sex workers cut down on victim crimes... the only crimes I really think people should worry about / have laws concerning. I mean, really, do we need to spend all of this time and money concentrating on service personnel? Sex or drugs are the appetites, so long as there are appetites, there will be food provided.
I'm not here to defend Spitzer. I'm here to point out that the only true surprise should be that a former prosecutor paid someone to screw them. Most prosecutors get way too used to getting paid for screwing people.
Just my two cents.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Last Migration from MySpace!
Saturday, March 01, 2008
All plans fail when they meet the enemy.
Or in this case, the facetious enemy.
So Stephen Colbert came by the office yesterday (picture posted to prove it, even though I've already received one commentary suggesting photoshop work). Interviewing the big boss of DPA, Ethan.
Naturally, in my mind, I've got some clever ish to say, to steal the show. Because I figure that fuckit, I've got the prison sentence, I've got the goddamn story here. Even if the interview was about "know your lobbyist" or something like that.
Stephen Colbert's crew is like a horde of busybodies, who are constantly up to something, but you can never be sure exactly what. They turned our conference room into the fucking Starship Enterprise (that's Star Trek humor for Robin), and a recently emptied office into an impromptu makeup room. I swear, there must be so many gay and genderqueer people in hollywood just because of the makeup influence. You can't go on t-v without makeup, it's like some commandment, probably one of the five that punk-ass Moses dropped on his toe and broke apart.
A while ago I had a discussing with a coworker about the Pirates vs. Ninjas debate, and sided with Ninjas due to the lack of the phrase "Butt-Ninja." However, at this point, I have to stand corrected. A butt-ninja is someone who gets into that ass without being noticed. Stephen Colbert is a butt-ninja. He was in and out of DPA so quick, you thought he'd gotten his leather shoes greased for the occasion.
And this was a man with a major fucking cold. I could barely understand him. My initial ploy was to accuse him of being an imposter, and a shitty one at that... but I got nervous, and he didn't look like he would enjoy any antagonization, especially from a fucking crook that looks like Captain Morgan. So instead I observed, and let his horde care to him. He got his makeup done while reading some material to prep himself, went into the conference room for the interview, and then my boss interceded my plan to "hang out" with some busy work.
I swear, my boss was trying to make me pay for some sin against him, but I have no clue what. So instead of hanging out while a segment of The Colbert Report is being taped, right under my fucking nose, I'm trying to discern how to set up a fucking accounting system that's fundamentally fucked, written by morons that don't like SQL from PERL. Morons very similar to myself, actually. I just realized that I couldn't tell the difference between SQL and PERL if you offered me hard cash, without first consulting the Oracle.
Anyways. After the interview segment was over, he was out of the office in under two minutes. Managed to stop him using a sneaky technique: the intern. Interns are great. They don't get paid, they don't get an opinion, and they're the first to go in harm's way. They're the cannon fodder. The intern went in first for the foto-op, and I followed close behind. My line: "A friend of mine from Sacramento said I needed to take a piece of you, or she'd kill me. So how about we settle with a photo, so that we both get to live?"
At this point, Stephen paused to read my t-shirt. I had worn, special for the occasion, my recently-acquired Reagan Youth t-shirt. Reagan Youth is some obscure punk band from the 80's. The t-shirt features a person with their head breaking off their body, VOID printed on the forehead, with the caption "I am not a number, I'm a free man!" (quote from the 60's TV series "The Prisoner"). Yes, I was being fucking ironic. Sue me.
After reading the t-shirt, and posing for the photo, I saw in the corner of my eye his eyebrow lifting, and decided I had to best him. Thus the foto was born.
He was out of DPA less than thirty seconds later. If you peep the folder, that's his backpack on his right shoulder. Yes, even with a posse, he still carries his own shit around the streets of New York. Must just be famous, not rich.
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My Blog from MySpace, v. 13 (Hit Score)
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Nevermind the Bollocks, the Peds are Vicious!
Current mood: crappy
Category: Life
So I'm riding my bike through downtown Manhattan again. Naturally, half of my stories begin this way, because disaster always looms on the horizon when you're riding a fucking bicycle in New York City. I'm pretty damn sure that there's a latent suicide urge still left from my early days as a manic-depressive teenager, which manifests by my fixed desire to roll through these dangerous streets on a device with as little personal protection (helmet notwithstanding) as possible. Regardless.
It's one of those fucking nights when everyone is driving crazy, so my brother and I (actually, I'm not trying to diffuse responsibility here, I fucking chose to go the wrong way down a one way back street) turn down Rivington Street, on the Lower East Side.
Everything's cool, until we get to Ludlow, when oncoming traffic has me pushed up to the curb, which normally isn't a problem, except there's a woman at this intersection, right next to the curb. It's a close shave, but I'm pretty damn used to those, and besides, I'm cruisin...
Right into her, as it turns out, because she makes a sudden turnabout, and steps right into the street, right in front of me.
They have a saying about what happens when a Jew with a hard-on hits a wall - he hurts his nose.
Well, this Jew crashed into a woman on the street, and let me tell you, the helmet didn't work for shit, because I hit my nose, along with my mouth, into the woman's forehead. Down I go (again)... but this time I hit the ground stumbling, so it's not a total wipe.
It is, however, a collision that left me a little dazed. Stumbling around, I got back to my bike, and checked on the woman: "you okay? Fuck! Totally my fault!"
She's looking at me like something out of the exorcist, and that's when I feel the blood pouring down my face. Damn. Her eyes are somewhat bugged out, and she keeps asking, "you okay? you okay?"
Naturally, I'm dazed n' confused, without the marijuana, just the semi-concussion - her head was like a rock - but I don't feel a thing. "I'm good, I'm good... sorry about that... you sure you're okay?"
At this point, she's touching my face.
Minor point of disclosure: I hate it when people I don't know touch me. It's a personal space thing. I don't care if it was Carmen Electra, I would still not want anyone to touch me without first being familiar with them. I'm picky like that.
However, at this particular instance, I'm dazed, confused, and feeling vaguely guilty because I hit a pedestrian while going the wrong way down the street. I shake off the urge to be rude, and say, "it's okay, I'm okay, just a bloody nose, no worries..." while my brother is handing me a handkerchief.
Split the inside of my lip on the top, and my nose is still swollen and sore.
On the scale:
UPS: 2.5 (trying, but getting nowhere)
FedEx: 4.5 (one good hit in, but no lasting or bothersome injury)
Woman at Ludlow: 8.5 (fucked me up pretty good)
Just so you know, o' private couriers: your competition is fierce, and on foot.
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Nevermind the Bollocks, the Peds are Vicious!
Current mood: crappy
Category: Life
So I'm riding my bike through downtown Manhattan again. Naturally, half of my stories begin this way, because disaster always looms on the horizon when you're riding a fucking bicycle in New York City. I'm pretty damn sure that there's a latent suicide urge still left from my early days as a manic-depressive teenager, which manifests by my fixed desire to roll through these dangerous streets on a device with as little personal protection (helmet notwithstanding) as possible. Regardless.
It's one of those fucking nights when everyone is driving crazy, so my brother and I (actually, I'm not trying to diffuse responsibility here, I fucking chose to go the wrong way down a one way back street) turn down Rivington Street, on the Lower East Side.
Everything's cool, until we get to Ludlow, when oncoming traffic has me pushed up to the curb, which normally isn't a problem, except there's a woman at this intersection, right next to the curb. It's a close shave, but I'm pretty damn used to those, and besides, I'm cruisin...
Right into her, as it turns out, because she makes a sudden turnabout, and steps right into the street, right in front of me.
They have a saying about what happens when a Jew with a hard-on hits a wall - he hurts his nose.
Well, this Jew crashed into a woman on the street, and let me tell you, the helmet didn't work for shit, because I hit my nose, along with my mouth, into the woman's forehead. Down I go (again)... but this time I hit the ground stumbling, so it's not a total wipe.
It is, however, a collision that left me a little dazed. Stumbling around, I got back to my bike, and checked on the woman: "you okay? Fuck! Totally my fault!"
She's looking at me like something out of the exorcist, and that's when I feel the blood pouring down my face. Damn. Her eyes are somewhat bugged out, and she keeps asking, "you okay? you okay?"
Naturally, I'm dazed n' confused, without the marijuana, just the semi-concussion - her head was like a rock - but I don't feel a thing. "I'm good, I'm good... sorry about that... you sure you're okay?"
At this point, she's touching my face.
Minor point of disclosure: I hate it when people I don't know touch me. It's a personal space thing. I don't care if it was Carmen Electra, I would still not want anyone to touch me without first being familiar with them. I'm picky like that.
However, at this particular instance, I'm dazed, confused, and feeling vaguely guilty because I hit a pedestrian while going the wrong way down the street. I shake off the urge to be rude, and say, "it's okay, I'm okay, just a bloody nose, no worries..." while my brother is handing me a handkerchief.
Split the inside of my lip on the top, and my nose is still swollen and sore.
On the scale:
UPS: 2.5 (trying, but getting nowhere)
FedEx: 4.5 (one good hit in, but no lasting or bothersome injury)
Woman at Ludlow: 8.5 (fucked me up pretty good)
Just so you know, o' private couriers: your competition is fierce, and on foot.
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My Blog from MySpace, v. 12 (Pious Portion)
Friday, February 22, 2008
Snow falling on Jabberwockies in the Metro
Current mood: awake
Category: Jobs, Work, Careers
It's finally snowing in New York City.
To being: New Yorkers hate snow. They hate how it screws up traffic, they hate that it's cold. They hate that it makes walking a bit more difficult. Most of all, they hate New York when there's anything other than 75 degrees, sunny with a fresh, but slight, breeze. They should move to Santa Barbara, like my brother did. Pretty much describes that place 24-7... except it also has some awesome beaches. Interestingly enough, it costs about the same to live in either place. Go figure.
So, no riding, no running, my other brother is riding the Metro with me. I rolled out of bed, got dressed and was out the door in under ten minutes. Would have missed the metro, but they're running late too, because somehow, even on rails, New Yorkers worry about the snow. I'm not a metro operator, so I don't know the intricacies of this, and I'm not quite cynical enough yet to assume they merely run behind schedule because they've got a good excuse to. I'm close to being that cynical though. Very close.
Anyways, everyone's in a bad mood on the Metro. See above for the reason. The two cats smiling about the whole situation are your's truly, and my brother, two California kids, loving the fact that we finally got some real snow. Like 3 inches. No jokes about endowments please, it's too early.
And speaking of too early, someone hit play on a human tape recorder. I'm not trying to be offensive to those that enjoy the proselytizing Xians. Just a personal opinion - I got to hear about fifty paragraphs of words, not one rational thought, and a bunch of hooey as we were passing over the Manhattan Bridge. The woman wasn't really speaking to anyone on a personal level, she was just speaking aloud... to everyone in the metro car. No one asked her to speak, and no one wanted her to speak... almost everyone is either listening to music on their iPods (fuck apple!), reading the newspaper (fuck Murdoch!), or watching porn on their iTouch phones (go porn!).
I had a brief discussion with my brother about the rudeness of the proselytizing, and wondered if we could take a couple of approaches:
1) doctors. We could both rush the woman, and exclaim, "stand back! We're doctors! This woman is suffering from diarrhea of the mouth!"
2) fellow proselytizers. Preaching the gospel of the Invisible Pink Unicorn, ensuring that everyone knows that if they do not tend their pastures, they shall be trampled underhoof, or outright gored.
However, having to worry about the feds, I decided to be a coward and do nothing. Story of my life.
We get to the Canal Street stop, which is in Chinatown, when finally some New Yorker had enough, "Jesus would love you off this FUCKING TRAIN!" Which starts a miniargument in the back of the car, and someone in the middle of the car exclaiming, "you don't want her on the train, you get off too!"
Brother at this point is laughing, and I'm trying to contain myself. Brother says, "It's a little early for Jesus, don't you think?"
"I never try to do Jesus, without first a cup o' Joe."
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Snow falling on Jabberwockies in the Metro
Current mood: awake
Category: Jobs, Work, Careers
It's finally snowing in New York City.
To being: New Yorkers hate snow. They hate how it screws up traffic, they hate that it's cold. They hate that it makes walking a bit more difficult. Most of all, they hate New York when there's anything other than 75 degrees, sunny with a fresh, but slight, breeze. They should move to Santa Barbara, like my brother did. Pretty much describes that place 24-7... except it also has some awesome beaches. Interestingly enough, it costs about the same to live in either place. Go figure.
So, no riding, no running, my other brother is riding the Metro with me. I rolled out of bed, got dressed and was out the door in under ten minutes. Would have missed the metro, but they're running late too, because somehow, even on rails, New Yorkers worry about the snow. I'm not a metro operator, so I don't know the intricacies of this, and I'm not quite cynical enough yet to assume they merely run behind schedule because they've got a good excuse to. I'm close to being that cynical though. Very close.
Anyways, everyone's in a bad mood on the Metro. See above for the reason. The two cats smiling about the whole situation are your's truly, and my brother, two California kids, loving the fact that we finally got some real snow. Like 3 inches. No jokes about endowments please, it's too early.
And speaking of too early, someone hit play on a human tape recorder. I'm not trying to be offensive to those that enjoy the proselytizing Xians. Just a personal opinion - I got to hear about fifty paragraphs of words, not one rational thought, and a bunch of hooey as we were passing over the Manhattan Bridge. The woman wasn't really speaking to anyone on a personal level, she was just speaking aloud... to everyone in the metro car. No one asked her to speak, and no one wanted her to speak... almost everyone is either listening to music on their iPods (fuck apple!), reading the newspaper (fuck Murdoch!), or watching porn on their iTouch phones (go porn!).
I had a brief discussion with my brother about the rudeness of the proselytizing, and wondered if we could take a couple of approaches:
1) doctors. We could both rush the woman, and exclaim, "stand back! We're doctors! This woman is suffering from diarrhea of the mouth!"
2) fellow proselytizers. Preaching the gospel of the Invisible Pink Unicorn, ensuring that everyone knows that if they do not tend their pastures, they shall be trampled underhoof, or outright gored.
However, having to worry about the feds, I decided to be a coward and do nothing. Story of my life.
We get to the Canal Street stop, which is in Chinatown, when finally some New Yorker had enough, "Jesus would love you off this FUCKING TRAIN!" Which starts a miniargument in the back of the car, and someone in the middle of the car exclaiming, "you don't want her on the train, you get off too!"
Brother at this point is laughing, and I'm trying to contain myself. Brother says, "It's a little early for Jesus, don't you think?"
"I never try to do Jesus, without first a cup o' Joe."
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My Blog from MySpace v. 11 (MILF)
And that would be Model, not Mom.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Union Square: I can’t order cream with my coffee
Current mood: catalyzed
Category: Food and Restaurants
You can blame it on my queer brother. He took me to the coffee shop right off of Union Square. From the outside, I was wondering why the hell we were going into some dive at a hip spot. Not my cup o' joe, yah dig?
We go inside, and I instantly notice how nice the place looks on the interior, in complete opposition to its outside. I also notice the three model-like women standing near the front divider of this place, which is essentially a coffee shop and bar with a middle divider between the two. They're laughing and joking, and I'm not trying to stare as I follow my brother and some waif of a waitress to our seats. We're meeting a friend of his, and just rode our bikes in, despite the 21 degree temperature and single-digits with the windchill fucking cold of NYC today.
I sit down next to him at a booth, and the waif-like waitress asks if we want some coffee. Her breasts, while small, are spilling out of her almost nonexistent top, because she's wearing a summer dress in the middle of winter. Two coffees, and brother orders some water too.
I look around, and damn if there aren't five different waitresses, and between the five of them, there probably isn't more than three hundred pounds collectively. It's too bad, because they're all attractive, just underweight - by a lot. I felt like I ought to be serving food to these women, rather than ordering from them.
Back to the present moment. I've got this waif, who's pretty damn cute, asking me if I want anything else with my coffee.. milk? cream? She's leaning over the table, threatening to spill out of her dress.
Mmmm....
Damn if I didn't feel like I was stuck in my dentist's chair, trying to pay attention to what she's saying, but totally distracted by the semi-clothed (even if underweight) body of the woman in front of me.
Words, words, words... "yeah... yeah..." I think I just ordered soy, half and half, and milk with my coffee. Luckily, my brother provides cover: "I want milk with my coffee."
"Yeah, I'll have the same." Thanks brother, at least I can pay attention to what you're saying.
Twenty minutes later, my brother is meeting with his friend, and I gotta go, I'm getting on the late side of getting to work... but damn if I didn't get ate up like a ham sandwich wouldn't by one of the models as I was on my way out the door.
I think I found a new hangout, even if I can't order cream with my coffee. Not, at least, with a straight face.
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Thursday, February 21, 2008
Union Square: I can’t order cream with my coffee
Current mood: catalyzed
Category: Food and Restaurants
You can blame it on my queer brother. He took me to the coffee shop right off of Union Square. From the outside, I was wondering why the hell we were going into some dive at a hip spot. Not my cup o' joe, yah dig?
We go inside, and I instantly notice how nice the place looks on the interior, in complete opposition to its outside. I also notice the three model-like women standing near the front divider of this place, which is essentially a coffee shop and bar with a middle divider between the two. They're laughing and joking, and I'm not trying to stare as I follow my brother and some waif of a waitress to our seats. We're meeting a friend of his, and just rode our bikes in, despite the 21 degree temperature and single-digits with the windchill fucking cold of NYC today.
I sit down next to him at a booth, and the waif-like waitress asks if we want some coffee. Her breasts, while small, are spilling out of her almost nonexistent top, because she's wearing a summer dress in the middle of winter. Two coffees, and brother orders some water too.
I look around, and damn if there aren't five different waitresses, and between the five of them, there probably isn't more than three hundred pounds collectively. It's too bad, because they're all attractive, just underweight - by a lot. I felt like I ought to be serving food to these women, rather than ordering from them.
Back to the present moment. I've got this waif, who's pretty damn cute, asking me if I want anything else with my coffee.. milk? cream? She's leaning over the table, threatening to spill out of her dress.
Mmmm....
Damn if I didn't feel like I was stuck in my dentist's chair, trying to pay attention to what she's saying, but totally distracted by the semi-clothed (even if underweight) body of the woman in front of me.
Words, words, words... "yeah... yeah..." I think I just ordered soy, half and half, and milk with my coffee. Luckily, my brother provides cover: "I want milk with my coffee."
"Yeah, I'll have the same." Thanks brother, at least I can pay attention to what you're saying.
Twenty minutes later, my brother is meeting with his friend, and I gotta go, I'm getting on the late side of getting to work... but damn if I didn't get ate up like a ham sandwich wouldn't by one of the models as I was on my way out the door.
I think I found a new hangout, even if I can't order cream with my coffee. Not, at least, with a straight face.
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My Blog from MySpace, v. 10 (Federal Edition)
Thursday, February 14, 2008
UPS Outsourcing, or Private Courier Conspiracy?
Current mood: intense
Category: Life
I can't decide if it truly was Brown trying to kill me as a personal vendetta, or professional animosity.
Today, that indecision, that lack of certainty was compounded.
First off: it's fucking freezing in New York City right now. Snowed Tuesday, was a wet goddamn mess on Wednesday, and today finally dried out... but stayed around freezing temperatures. Throw in a wind chill, and it's in the teens this morning.
Nonetheless, I decide that I'm going to ride my bike to work. Probably because I've got a lot of angst to work out. Or maybe because my new, low profile bike o' excellence really is a nice ride (though I need to work on the gearing, since my top end is not fast enough for rush-hour traffic in Manhattan). Or maybe because I'm not getting any action, and I need to vent somehow, and late-night porn sessions just don't satisfy anymore. Regardless of the reason, there I was, riding my bike to work again.
This time, I get some weird stick up the ole' you-know-what, and decide screw it, I'm taking the Brooklyn Bridge, instead of the Manhattan. There's two reasons for this bridge: it's got a better view, and it's a wood-plank covered bridge, which is fun to ride on. The Manhattan is really fucking boring.
Two disadvantages: it's really out of the fucking way, and drops you off in the middle of lower Manhattan, near Wall Street, which is a total fucking mess. Blame Stuyvesant, the peg-legged would-be dictator of Manhattas when it was a Dutch colony. His fucking street design was as good as his missing leg. Fucking Dutch bastard. But I digress.
I'm rolling Jay street, trying to find my way to Sixth Avenue. For those not in the know of NYC, below Houston (How-stun, don't ask me why it's pronounced that way, probably to spite Texas) the avenues all have different names, like Chystie, Bowery, etc. None of which I know jack or shit about. I try. Except this morning, I gave up, and decided to hit the west side, or greenway... a bike path that leads up the entire west side of Manhattan.
So, Jay to the greenway, and I'm just about to the last light, and I see the squeeze. Let me tell you what the squeeze is: traffic next to a parked vehicle. You have to navigate carefully, because you're in a narrow tunnel, and you can feel the vehicles squeezing you in.
Looking over my shoulder and around, Brown is nowhere in sight... I'm safe, right?
Fuck no!
FedEx, the magic fucking arrow is the vehicle to the right on the squeeze, and the van door comes flying open. Caught me in the shoulder, the bike on the right handlebar, and your's truly went flying into the left hand car of the squeeze. I bounced hard, and hit the turf.
Staring up at the clear blue sky. Legs, check. Arms, check. Head, check. Back, check. Breathing, check. Getting up. Fucking FedEx got me... but I live to see another day!
Fucking FedEx got me.
So did Brown outsource the job it couldn't get done by itself, or is there a vast courier conspiracy, to take me out, because I'm a cyclist with a messenger bag on my back?
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UPS Outsourcing, or Private Courier Conspiracy?
Current mood: intense
Category: Life
I can't decide if it truly was Brown trying to kill me as a personal vendetta, or professional animosity.
Today, that indecision, that lack of certainty was compounded.
First off: it's fucking freezing in New York City right now. Snowed Tuesday, was a wet goddamn mess on Wednesday, and today finally dried out... but stayed around freezing temperatures. Throw in a wind chill, and it's in the teens this morning.
Nonetheless, I decide that I'm going to ride my bike to work. Probably because I've got a lot of angst to work out. Or maybe because my new, low profile bike o' excellence really is a nice ride (though I need to work on the gearing, since my top end is not fast enough for rush-hour traffic in Manhattan). Or maybe because I'm not getting any action, and I need to vent somehow, and late-night porn sessions just don't satisfy anymore. Regardless of the reason, there I was, riding my bike to work again.
This time, I get some weird stick up the ole' you-know-what, and decide screw it, I'm taking the Brooklyn Bridge, instead of the Manhattan. There's two reasons for this bridge: it's got a better view, and it's a wood-plank covered bridge, which is fun to ride on. The Manhattan is really fucking boring.
Two disadvantages: it's really out of the fucking way, and drops you off in the middle of lower Manhattan, near Wall Street, which is a total fucking mess. Blame Stuyvesant, the peg-legged would-be dictator of Manhattas when it was a Dutch colony. His fucking street design was as good as his missing leg. Fucking Dutch bastard. But I digress.
I'm rolling Jay street, trying to find my way to Sixth Avenue. For those not in the know of NYC, below Houston (How-stun, don't ask me why it's pronounced that way, probably to spite Texas) the avenues all have different names, like Chystie, Bowery, etc. None of which I know jack or shit about. I try. Except this morning, I gave up, and decided to hit the west side, or greenway... a bike path that leads up the entire west side of Manhattan.
So, Jay to the greenway, and I'm just about to the last light, and I see the squeeze. Let me tell you what the squeeze is: traffic next to a parked vehicle. You have to navigate carefully, because you're in a narrow tunnel, and you can feel the vehicles squeezing you in.
Looking over my shoulder and around, Brown is nowhere in sight... I'm safe, right?
Fuck no!
FedEx, the magic fucking arrow is the vehicle to the right on the squeeze, and the van door comes flying open. Caught me in the shoulder, the bike on the right handlebar, and your's truly went flying into the left hand car of the squeeze. I bounced hard, and hit the turf.
Staring up at the clear blue sky. Legs, check. Arms, check. Head, check. Back, check. Breathing, check. Getting up. Fucking FedEx got me... but I live to see another day!
Fucking FedEx got me.
So did Brown outsource the job it couldn't get done by itself, or is there a vast courier conspiracy, to take me out, because I'm a cyclist with a messenger bag on my back?
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My Blog from MySpace, v. 9 (Dem Fuckin' Reds)
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
Color coordination: is New York attempting to make me gay?
Current mood: angsty
Category: Fashion, Style, Shopping
So I'm getting ready for work this morning, and I decide it's a Timberland Boots day. Probably because we're going to have torrential downpours and tropical storms. 63 degrees expected high today, it's already 50 degrees. Some fucking New York winter we're having - I'm wearing a t-shirt. Red, with slogan, "No More Drug War" plastered on the front.
Company shirt. It was free. I think I should get paid for all of the advertisement I wind up doing with their free shirts. I wind up running the streets of Manhattan and Brooklyn with a company shirt on, I make it a point to go to the halfway house with the company shirt on. I've got four of them, in different colors. I hadn't worn the red one yet, and needed to have that fresh-clean-new shirt feeling this morning. Don't ask, it wasn't a rough night or anything, just one of those feelings.
Anyways, when I'm putting on the t-shirt this morning, I'm thinking to myself, "goddamn, what do I have that goes with red?" Fucking black, that's what. Black goes with everything. Boots were black, with red designs - don't ask me what the design is, I'm staring at it right now and still don't have a clue... but it is a red design.
Cool, I'm matching. Throw on the baggy black jeans, because they're 1) comfortable, 2) black, which matches everything, and 3) on my bedroom floor, which means I get to clean up my room while getting dressed. This is a win-win-win situation for me.
Get to the Metro stop with my brother Gabriel, and he looks down, and says, "nice match there with the jeans, red threading and all... I couldn't have done better!" This bothers me. Why? Allow me to illustrate:
My brother Gabriel is queer as a three-dollar bill. The only thing detracting from his gayness is the fact he's in a rather committed relationship with a lesbian. I don't know how all of that works, I'm new to the realm of gender politics and identity. In my realm, he's gay like he could star in Brokeback Mountain. As in, gay like he listens to Merle Haggard and Lucinde Williams, and sings along while wearing a straw hat, pink tutu and leopard-print panties. That's fucking gay.
You can laugh only if it is kind-hearted. If you're mocking him, go to hell bastards, my brother is one of the dopest people on the planet. If you don't believe me, ask Lorretta Nall from Alabama, she's a great independent source of this particular truth. Those that know him will vouch for me. I digress.
That he thinks I'm doing a better job of matching is disturbing me, so I look down, and notice that he's right - I've got my pants cuffed, and the inside stitching... IS RED!
Goddamnit if New York isn't sinking in, and trying to make me Gay. Or at least a metrosexual. Fucking hell! I bit my lip while chewing gum from the shock of it all, and even now almost passed up eating a banana, because I felt like the plot was thickening...
6:58 AM - 3 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment - Edit - Remove
Color coordination: is New York attempting to make me gay?
Current mood: angsty
Category: Fashion, Style, Shopping
So I'm getting ready for work this morning, and I decide it's a Timberland Boots day. Probably because we're going to have torrential downpours and tropical storms. 63 degrees expected high today, it's already 50 degrees. Some fucking New York winter we're having - I'm wearing a t-shirt. Red, with slogan, "No More Drug War" plastered on the front.
Company shirt. It was free. I think I should get paid for all of the advertisement I wind up doing with their free shirts. I wind up running the streets of Manhattan and Brooklyn with a company shirt on, I make it a point to go to the halfway house with the company shirt on. I've got four of them, in different colors. I hadn't worn the red one yet, and needed to have that fresh-clean-new shirt feeling this morning. Don't ask, it wasn't a rough night or anything, just one of those feelings.
Anyways, when I'm putting on the t-shirt this morning, I'm thinking to myself, "goddamn, what do I have that goes with red?" Fucking black, that's what. Black goes with everything. Boots were black, with red designs - don't ask me what the design is, I'm staring at it right now and still don't have a clue... but it is a red design.
Cool, I'm matching. Throw on the baggy black jeans, because they're 1) comfortable, 2) black, which matches everything, and 3) on my bedroom floor, which means I get to clean up my room while getting dressed. This is a win-win-win situation for me.
Get to the Metro stop with my brother Gabriel, and he looks down, and says, "nice match there with the jeans, red threading and all... I couldn't have done better!" This bothers me. Why? Allow me to illustrate:
My brother Gabriel is queer as a three-dollar bill. The only thing detracting from his gayness is the fact he's in a rather committed relationship with a lesbian. I don't know how all of that works, I'm new to the realm of gender politics and identity. In my realm, he's gay like he could star in Brokeback Mountain. As in, gay like he listens to Merle Haggard and Lucinde Williams, and sings along while wearing a straw hat, pink tutu and leopard-print panties. That's fucking gay.
You can laugh only if it is kind-hearted. If you're mocking him, go to hell bastards, my brother is one of the dopest people on the planet. If you don't believe me, ask Lorretta Nall from Alabama, she's a great independent source of this particular truth. Those that know him will vouch for me. I digress.
That he thinks I'm doing a better job of matching is disturbing me, so I look down, and notice that he's right - I've got my pants cuffed, and the inside stitching... IS RED!
Goddamnit if New York isn't sinking in, and trying to make me Gay. Or at least a metrosexual. Fucking hell! I bit my lip while chewing gum from the shock of it all, and even now almost passed up eating a banana, because I felt like the plot was thickening...
6:58 AM - 3 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment - Edit - Remove
My Blog from MySpace v. 8 (Two)
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
Low Profile Excellence...
Current mood: amused
Category: Automotive
So, part and parcel to the three week tech support for my brother in SoCal, he sends me his special BMX bike. Special, mind you. As in, he's sunk hundreds of dollars into making this bike the best thing on wheels.
It arrived last Friday. I opened up the box, and found a bunch of rusty parts that appeared to all go together. I assembled it, amazing because I'm a fucking clutz, and only remotely capable in the field of software application management... in all other fields, I'm a dunce with an overinflated sense of ability, which also includes my personal blog, my various writing projects, and especially my driving record.
In fact, if it weren't for my phenomenal luck, I'd be dead right now, having crashed a Prelude in an attempt to dodge a rabbit on the road (I did succeed in dodging, but I hate to think how many died in my subsequent burnout into a roadside ditch). There are other examples, but the Prelude is the first to mind. It was a $500 lesson (lucky, should have been more) in how bad of a driver I am - excellent reaction time (this was over a decade ago, after all), no idea at all of how to use said reaction time.
Where was I? Oh yeah, rusty bike. All put together, and I'm looking at a rusted-out frame, handlebars, chain, and a brake that doesn't work... the cable rusted out as well. At this point, I'm thinking, "well, goddamn, I give this fucker some of the best tech service money can buy for free, and he gives me the most fucked up bike I've seen since the pedal broke off of my Huffy [see previous blog: Fuq Huffy]? What the hell!"
Don't get mad - he didn't do me wrong. Closer inspection revealed that the hubs were clean, as were the rims. While the cosmetic damage was extensive, this bike, when assembled, had a certain sturdiness about it. My brother mentioned over the phone that it could use a professional tune up, and that the crankset needed new spacers in order to work right, so take it to the shop and get it serviced.
Despite needing a tuneup, and new spacers for the crankset, this fucking thing FLEW down the road. If I had higher gearing, I could really crank out some speed on this thing, and my bike mechanic said it should work even better once the tuneup is done. This thing looks like a complete piece of shit. I could clean it up, by why entice the thieves?
I'm the proud new owner of a stealth fucking missile!
P.S. Hey Huffy: Fuck You!
6:59 AM - 2 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment - Edit - Remove
Low Profile Excellence...
Current mood: amused
Category: Automotive
So, part and parcel to the three week tech support for my brother in SoCal, he sends me his special BMX bike. Special, mind you. As in, he's sunk hundreds of dollars into making this bike the best thing on wheels.
It arrived last Friday. I opened up the box, and found a bunch of rusty parts that appeared to all go together. I assembled it, amazing because I'm a fucking clutz, and only remotely capable in the field of software application management... in all other fields, I'm a dunce with an overinflated sense of ability, which also includes my personal blog, my various writing projects, and especially my driving record.
In fact, if it weren't for my phenomenal luck, I'd be dead right now, having crashed a Prelude in an attempt to dodge a rabbit on the road (I did succeed in dodging, but I hate to think how many died in my subsequent burnout into a roadside ditch). There are other examples, but the Prelude is the first to mind. It was a $500 lesson (lucky, should have been more) in how bad of a driver I am - excellent reaction time (this was over a decade ago, after all), no idea at all of how to use said reaction time.
Where was I? Oh yeah, rusty bike. All put together, and I'm looking at a rusted-out frame, handlebars, chain, and a brake that doesn't work... the cable rusted out as well. At this point, I'm thinking, "well, goddamn, I give this fucker some of the best tech service money can buy for free, and he gives me the most fucked up bike I've seen since the pedal broke off of my Huffy [see previous blog: Fuq Huffy]? What the hell!"
Don't get mad - he didn't do me wrong. Closer inspection revealed that the hubs were clean, as were the rims. While the cosmetic damage was extensive, this bike, when assembled, had a certain sturdiness about it. My brother mentioned over the phone that it could use a professional tune up, and that the crankset needed new spacers in order to work right, so take it to the shop and get it serviced.
Despite needing a tuneup, and new spacers for the crankset, this fucking thing FLEW down the road. If I had higher gearing, I could really crank out some speed on this thing, and my bike mechanic said it should work even better once the tuneup is done. This thing looks like a complete piece of shit. I could clean it up, by why entice the thieves?
I'm the proud new owner of a stealth fucking missile!
P.S. Hey Huffy: Fuck You!
6:59 AM - 2 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment - Edit - Remove
My Blog from MySpace, v. 7 (You wanna Bunt who?)
Linux is the idler’s work...
Current mood: annoyed
Category: Web, HTML, Tech
I don't know why I have this drive to stop using Windows, and an embedded hatred for all Apple products.
I don't actually hate Microsoft. I'm dismissive of them. Like they're some vastly overgrown cow that's just in the way. I don't hate them, but feel vaguely annoyed, and like somehow, this fucking bovine creature needs to get the fuck outta dodge, so I can get some real work done.
I don't know why I beef with Apple, but it's beef. Maybe it's one too many "my iPod died" stories, maybe it's leftover angst from the Mac SE/30 days (don't ask if you don't know, it's some true geek ish), or maybe it's because everything they do is so fucking overpriced, you think it's either conspicuous consumption, or the realm of effite snobs. Their new wave of smarmy advertisements aren't helping this distaste, nay, utter disgust, that I have for Apple.
So here I am, working with Ubuntu, debian-based build of the linux OS. First off: everyone's experience will vary, and hell, my experience varies. I installed it graphically to one computer, with no problems at all. My brother in SoCal tried to install a bad copy, and a three-week tech job ensued, that he's still recovering from (of course, he didn't fucking listen to me when I told him to back everything up before installing a new operating system, but no one listening to me is pretty standard). Sorry, didn't mean to gripe. My bad.
I realize now that the last paragraph is probably greek for everyone who actually bothers to read my blog. (There's a tally sheet, but I'm pretty sure that the numbers are inflated from me looking at myself, like a proper egoiste). So, to all three of you: what I'm saying is that linux is the idler's work, because even when an installation goes smoothly, like mine, there's still more and more work to be done. Right now, I'm trying to get my dual-layer DVD burner to work, so I can "back up" my DVDs. The drive is recognized, the media is recognized, and I have a copying program. Does it work? Nope.
Why? That's becoming a major fucking project. As in, might take me a week or two, with a commitment of an hour or two a day, to figure out.
This is probably why most people wind up with a Mac or Windows computer, because they don't have the time or energy to commit to their computer. Which makes the next line obvious:
I'm a fucking GEEK. And not even a smart one, or I'd be copying DVDs by now.
6:49 AM - 2 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment - Edit - Remove
Current mood: annoyed
Category: Web, HTML, Tech
I don't know why I have this drive to stop using Windows, and an embedded hatred for all Apple products.
I don't actually hate Microsoft. I'm dismissive of them. Like they're some vastly overgrown cow that's just in the way. I don't hate them, but feel vaguely annoyed, and like somehow, this fucking bovine creature needs to get the fuck outta dodge, so I can get some real work done.
I don't know why I beef with Apple, but it's beef. Maybe it's one too many "my iPod died" stories, maybe it's leftover angst from the Mac SE/30 days (don't ask if you don't know, it's some true geek ish), or maybe it's because everything they do is so fucking overpriced, you think it's either conspicuous consumption, or the realm of effite snobs. Their new wave of smarmy advertisements aren't helping this distaste, nay, utter disgust, that I have for Apple.
So here I am, working with Ubuntu, debian-based build of the linux OS. First off: everyone's experience will vary, and hell, my experience varies. I installed it graphically to one computer, with no problems at all. My brother in SoCal tried to install a bad copy, and a three-week tech job ensued, that he's still recovering from (of course, he didn't fucking listen to me when I told him to back everything up before installing a new operating system, but no one listening to me is pretty standard). Sorry, didn't mean to gripe. My bad.
I realize now that the last paragraph is probably greek for everyone who actually bothers to read my blog. (There's a tally sheet, but I'm pretty sure that the numbers are inflated from me looking at myself, like a proper egoiste). So, to all three of you: what I'm saying is that linux is the idler's work, because even when an installation goes smoothly, like mine, there's still more and more work to be done. Right now, I'm trying to get my dual-layer DVD burner to work, so I can "back up" my DVDs. The drive is recognized, the media is recognized, and I have a copying program. Does it work? Nope.
Why? That's becoming a major fucking project. As in, might take me a week or two, with a commitment of an hour or two a day, to figure out.
This is probably why most people wind up with a Mac or Windows computer, because they don't have the time or energy to commit to their computer. Which makes the next line obvious:
I'm a fucking GEEK. And not even a smart one, or I'd be copying DVDs by now.
6:49 AM - 2 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment - Edit - Remove
My Blog from MySpace, v. 6 (Looker's Leap)
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Yesterday’s Near Faceplant.
Current mood: ashamed
Category: Life
So there I am, running to work one bite-ass cold January morning.
Actually, this was yesterday.
Nevermind that I was already running late, having left the house about fifteen minutes behind schedule - this didn't mean I was going to run any faster. It's hard enough to do 8 miles first thing in the morning, but 8 miles fast, 8 miles first thing, 8 miles in the cold... none of them are something I'm particularly interested in doing.
Anyways, things were going smoothly enough, until I hit Union Square. I was sabotaged, and saved, by two paradoxical traits I have:
1) I'm extremely clumsy. Anyone who knows me knows this is true. It's part and parcel to my blatant fear of small children... I'm quite convinced that one day, I'll accidently step on one, and never live it down.
2) I'm extremely lucky. Most people find this one hard to believe, considering how much time I spent in prison, but it's true. I could have caught a judge that wouldn't think twice about giving me life, as the prosecution had requested. Instead, I got the judge that gave me a mandatory minimum, which he felt he had to do in accord with law.
The combination of these two factors led me to almost merging my face to the sidewalk. A one inch gap turned out to be three inches, so clumsy me caught the tip of my shoe in the ledge, twisting the ankle and sending me flying towards the pavement.
And then, promptly, my luck kicked in, and I was back on my feet, still running foward. I had managed to hit the turf with my hands, roll over my right shoulder, the brunt of the fall hitting my right hip as I rolled up back to a standing & moving position. Lucky for me, because I didn't even know I was falling until I was already back up and running.
Gloves? Trashed. Shirt? Sidewalk grease smudge. MP3 player? Turned itself off, but no damage done. Pride? That one is going to sting for a while.
And they told me that riding a BIKE was dangerous in New York City...
11:16 AM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment - Edit - Remove
Yesterday’s Near Faceplant.
Current mood: ashamed
Category: Life
So there I am, running to work one bite-ass cold January morning.
Actually, this was yesterday.
Nevermind that I was already running late, having left the house about fifteen minutes behind schedule - this didn't mean I was going to run any faster. It's hard enough to do 8 miles first thing in the morning, but 8 miles fast, 8 miles first thing, 8 miles in the cold... none of them are something I'm particularly interested in doing.
Anyways, things were going smoothly enough, until I hit Union Square. I was sabotaged, and saved, by two paradoxical traits I have:
1) I'm extremely clumsy. Anyone who knows me knows this is true. It's part and parcel to my blatant fear of small children... I'm quite convinced that one day, I'll accidently step on one, and never live it down.
2) I'm extremely lucky. Most people find this one hard to believe, considering how much time I spent in prison, but it's true. I could have caught a judge that wouldn't think twice about giving me life, as the prosecution had requested. Instead, I got the judge that gave me a mandatory minimum, which he felt he had to do in accord with law.
The combination of these two factors led me to almost merging my face to the sidewalk. A one inch gap turned out to be three inches, so clumsy me caught the tip of my shoe in the ledge, twisting the ankle and sending me flying towards the pavement.
And then, promptly, my luck kicked in, and I was back on my feet, still running foward. I had managed to hit the turf with my hands, roll over my right shoulder, the brunt of the fall hitting my right hip as I rolled up back to a standing & moving position. Lucky for me, because I didn't even know I was falling until I was already back up and running.
Gloves? Trashed. Shirt? Sidewalk grease smudge. MP3 player? Turned itself off, but no damage done. Pride? That one is going to sting for a while.
And they told me that riding a BIKE was dangerous in New York City...
11:16 AM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment - Edit - Remove
My Blog from MySpace, v. 5 (Beta Bureaucrat)
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Banality of Bureaucracy
Current mood: bored
Category: News and Politics
Or, What Happened at the Social Security Administration's Card Center at 7:30 in the Morning.
I first tried to get my social security card at 3:00 pm on last Friday, but Social Security, due to some weird homeland security crap, now individually checks out each person trying to get into the building, with the full airport rigamarole. I thought it was some sick joke, standing in a line of 50 people, until I realized, after them taking three minutes to process one person, that they would continue at their snail's pace. I didn't have enough time to get in and get my biz handled.
So I left, vowing never to return, to instead handle all things with the government via mail (and thus staying a safe distance away from them in the process).
My vows are so easily broken. Probably why I'm never getting married. But I digress.
I returned Tuesday morning, thinking (correctly, because I'm a fucking genius) that no one messes with bureaucrats before noon. Place opened at 7 a.m., and I ride up at 7:30-ish.
There are two sets of double-doors to get in the place. Naturally, I choose the wrong set... not that they're labelled. There's a roped-off lane for the furthest right door, and I'm directed by security to use that single door, since the left-hand side of the double-door is locked (the other double doors were both open, but whatever).
It's empty. I mean, fucking ghost town empty. Yet three security guards at the ground floor. 3 minutes later (they're almost like clockwork, must be a social security thing, like their checks), I'm on my way up to the sixth floor, where the actual office is (security checkpoint is on the first floor).
Empty. Ghost town. Two security guards at the front of the lobby area. Glass encased office fronts all around, about thirty stations total. Roped off area for a line, but there's no one here.
Nonetheless, a security guard is up on me. "You gotta have a number ticket," and he's punching something into a computer terminal near the door I just walked through. A paper receipt is printed, and he hands it to me.
Slightly bewildered, "you're kidding, right? There's NO ONE HERE!"
He looks at me gravely, "No, no I'm not. And stay between the gray and black roped area - that's the line. I'll escort you there."
Yes, yes folx, he escorted me to the line, and then instructed me to go to the front of the line, and wait to be called. While tempting, I didn't ask if he'd send me to the back of the line if I cut, or went around the roped area.
I get the call before I hit the front of the non-existant line, "I'll take you here..."
Nice lady, I think, and walk up.
"I need your ticket number."
"Uhh... there's no one else here."
"Don't care, have to see if you're next."
I look around the still empty lobby. The security guard is already back to the front, and conversing with his coworker. "You're kidding, right? There's no one here!"
"Don't care. Give me the ticket, or you're not getting service."
Goddamn. I hand her the ticket, and it's back to pleasant mode. Three minutes later, I'm done handling my business... just in time to see another bewildered person enter the lobby, and get directed to the line, even though there's still no one waiting in the line, and 10 open offices.
Nothing like procedure.
12:45 AM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment - Edit - Remove
Banality of Bureaucracy
Current mood: bored
Category: News and Politics
Or, What Happened at the Social Security Administration's Card Center at 7:30 in the Morning.
I first tried to get my social security card at 3:00 pm on last Friday, but Social Security, due to some weird homeland security crap, now individually checks out each person trying to get into the building, with the full airport rigamarole. I thought it was some sick joke, standing in a line of 50 people, until I realized, after them taking three minutes to process one person, that they would continue at their snail's pace. I didn't have enough time to get in and get my biz handled.
So I left, vowing never to return, to instead handle all things with the government via mail (and thus staying a safe distance away from them in the process).
My vows are so easily broken. Probably why I'm never getting married. But I digress.
I returned Tuesday morning, thinking (correctly, because I'm a fucking genius) that no one messes with bureaucrats before noon. Place opened at 7 a.m., and I ride up at 7:30-ish.
There are two sets of double-doors to get in the place. Naturally, I choose the wrong set... not that they're labelled. There's a roped-off lane for the furthest right door, and I'm directed by security to use that single door, since the left-hand side of the double-door is locked (the other double doors were both open, but whatever).
It's empty. I mean, fucking ghost town empty. Yet three security guards at the ground floor. 3 minutes later (they're almost like clockwork, must be a social security thing, like their checks), I'm on my way up to the sixth floor, where the actual office is (security checkpoint is on the first floor).
Empty. Ghost town. Two security guards at the front of the lobby area. Glass encased office fronts all around, about thirty stations total. Roped off area for a line, but there's no one here.
Nonetheless, a security guard is up on me. "You gotta have a number ticket," and he's punching something into a computer terminal near the door I just walked through. A paper receipt is printed, and he hands it to me.
Slightly bewildered, "you're kidding, right? There's NO ONE HERE!"
He looks at me gravely, "No, no I'm not. And stay between the gray and black roped area - that's the line. I'll escort you there."
Yes, yes folx, he escorted me to the line, and then instructed me to go to the front of the line, and wait to be called. While tempting, I didn't ask if he'd send me to the back of the line if I cut, or went around the roped area.
I get the call before I hit the front of the non-existant line, "I'll take you here..."
Nice lady, I think, and walk up.
"I need your ticket number."
"Uhh... there's no one else here."
"Don't care, have to see if you're next."
I look around the still empty lobby. The security guard is already back to the front, and conversing with his coworker. "You're kidding, right? There's no one here!"
"Don't care. Give me the ticket, or you're not getting service."
Goddamn. I hand her the ticket, and it's back to pleasant mode. Three minutes later, I'm done handling my business... just in time to see another bewildered person enter the lobby, and get directed to the line, even though there's still no one waiting in the line, and 10 open offices.
Nothing like procedure.
12:45 AM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment - Edit - Remove
My Blog from MySpace, v. 4 Mouthy Mush
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Hideous? Will you be my dentist?
Current mood: amorous
Category: Life
So once again I'm at the dentist.
It happens a lot to me, because I spent about seven years not taking care of my teeth, then I started taking care of them, and wound up with the worse dental care for about seven and a half years. My mouth is the true veteran of the drug war. Que sera, sera, right?
First off: my dentist and oral surgeon are both too fucking hot for a hetero like myself to really go to. While it's rare for me to derive a health benefit from some beautiful woman giving me pain (I'm quite used to beautiful women giving me pain, but it's usually emotional rather than physical), such is the case with both of them. This is not my point - my point is that it's really fucking hard to get your grill worked on, while trying to check out your health care provider.
It's probably why so many women think men are pigs - it doesn't matter that I want to scream in pain from the needle dig into my jawline, or the first drilling session because I'm a little resistant to novacaine, I'm STILL trying to check out my dentist (or oral surgeon, but she was doing the root canal).
I mean, I'm quite sure I could be having my leg SAWED OFF by my oral surgeon, and I would be thinking in my head "well, shit, I bet that'll increase the available positions..." or something else that's truly inappropriate.
And it makes me stupid... "so, do you want me to [go on a date with you] try and prep a crown, or prep an extraction and think about getting a post and implant?"
"Yes!"
"Well... which one?"
"Oh yeah, my bad. Let's try to cap it."
"Gold for durability, or porcelain for cosmetic appearance?"
"Yes! I mean, damn, uhh.. gold. I don't care about matching teeth."
I'm not that vain, after all - just strike dumb by beautiful women. I swear, next time, I'm asking if they're ugly first. "Hideous? Sign me up!"
6:45 PM - 2 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment - Edit - Remove
Hideous? Will you be my dentist?
Current mood: amorous
Category: Life
So once again I'm at the dentist.
It happens a lot to me, because I spent about seven years not taking care of my teeth, then I started taking care of them, and wound up with the worse dental care for about seven and a half years. My mouth is the true veteran of the drug war. Que sera, sera, right?
First off: my dentist and oral surgeon are both too fucking hot for a hetero like myself to really go to. While it's rare for me to derive a health benefit from some beautiful woman giving me pain (I'm quite used to beautiful women giving me pain, but it's usually emotional rather than physical), such is the case with both of them. This is not my point - my point is that it's really fucking hard to get your grill worked on, while trying to check out your health care provider.
It's probably why so many women think men are pigs - it doesn't matter that I want to scream in pain from the needle dig into my jawline, or the first drilling session because I'm a little resistant to novacaine, I'm STILL trying to check out my dentist (or oral surgeon, but she was doing the root canal).
I mean, I'm quite sure I could be having my leg SAWED OFF by my oral surgeon, and I would be thinking in my head "well, shit, I bet that'll increase the available positions..." or something else that's truly inappropriate.
And it makes me stupid... "so, do you want me to [go on a date with you] try and prep a crown, or prep an extraction and think about getting a post and implant?"
"Yes!"
"Well... which one?"
"Oh yeah, my bad. Let's try to cap it."
"Gold for durability, or porcelain for cosmetic appearance?"
"Yes! I mean, damn, uhh.. gold. I don't care about matching teeth."
I'm not that vain, after all - just strike dumb by beautiful women. I swear, next time, I'm asking if they're ugly first. "Hideous? Sign me up!"
6:45 PM - 2 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment - Edit - Remove
My Blog from MySpace, v. 3 The Jewish Chronicles
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Baruch Big Willie Town, Holla!
Current mood: anxious
Category: Religion and Philosophy
I've been told before: fear Jewish armies, and Italian Gangsters.
However, as I've said so many times before, I've been lied to my
entire life. You gotta fear them Jewish Gangsters, because
they're out there, and they're ready for some serious trouble.
They're easy to spot - all gangs are. They got them brimmed hats,
dress in their gang color - black, and all have the same
hairstyle, a miracle since curly forelocks just don't exist on
normal people with straight hair. They even have their own gang
slang. "Baruch Atoh Adonai, Elahaynu, Melech Ho-Alum" "Shalom,"
and "Sheimah, Israel!"
Hasidim are Jewish Gangsters.
They roll Williamsburg thick. Day in, day out, they hit the
streets like a pack of wolves, in sheep's clothing. They're
neither nice nor rude, with an air of polite indifference to
everyone around them.
I know what's going on though - behind the closed doors, after
the sun sets, at the Schuyl - the brims tip sideways, the fat
gold chains come out, and it's top shelf wine, glocks and gats,
waving blunts and lighters in the air, "Wessyde, Brooklyn!"
I know what "Shalom, Manishmah" literally means - "Peace, Man."
But I can translate from their gang-speak: "Piece, man." As in,
"you fuck with us Hasidim, you're gettin' a piece of a glock,
goy," or "You wanna PIECE of this black badass brim, bitch?"
I keep my head low in Big Willie Town, home of the original
Hasidim gunclappers. No eye contact, and keep it movin'.
And I keep a Star of David around my neck, in case of emergency.
It's my Jewish ghetto-pass.
6:01 AM - 3 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment - Edit - Remove
Baruch Big Willie Town, Holla!
Current mood: anxious
Category: Religion and Philosophy
I've been told before: fear Jewish armies, and Italian Gangsters.
However, as I've said so many times before, I've been lied to my
entire life. You gotta fear them Jewish Gangsters, because
they're out there, and they're ready for some serious trouble.
They're easy to spot - all gangs are. They got them brimmed hats,
dress in their gang color - black, and all have the same
hairstyle, a miracle since curly forelocks just don't exist on
normal people with straight hair. They even have their own gang
slang. "Baruch Atoh Adonai, Elahaynu, Melech Ho-Alum" "Shalom,"
and "Sheimah, Israel!"
Hasidim are Jewish Gangsters.
They roll Williamsburg thick. Day in, day out, they hit the
streets like a pack of wolves, in sheep's clothing. They're
neither nice nor rude, with an air of polite indifference to
everyone around them.
I know what's going on though - behind the closed doors, after
the sun sets, at the Schuyl - the brims tip sideways, the fat
gold chains come out, and it's top shelf wine, glocks and gats,
waving blunts and lighters in the air, "Wessyde, Brooklyn!"
I know what "Shalom, Manishmah" literally means - "Peace, Man."
But I can translate from their gang-speak: "Piece, man." As in,
"you fuck with us Hasidim, you're gettin' a piece of a glock,
goy," or "You wanna PIECE of this black badass brim, bitch?"
I keep my head low in Big Willie Town, home of the original
Hasidim gunclappers. No eye contact, and keep it movin'.
And I keep a Star of David around my neck, in case of emergency.
It's my Jewish ghetto-pass.
6:01 AM - 3 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment - Edit - Remove
My Blog from MySpace, ver. 2
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Banality of Bureaucracy
Current mood: bored
Category: News and Politics
Or, What Happened at the Social Security Administration's Card Center at 7:30 in the Morning.
I first tried to get my social security card at 3:00 pm on last Friday, but Social Security, due to some weird homeland security crap, now individually checks out each person trying to get into the building, with the full airport rigamarole. I thought it was some sick joke, standing in a line of 50 people, until I realized, after them taking three minutes to process one person, that they would continue at their snail's pace. I didn't have enough time to get in and get my biz handled.
So I left, vowing never to return, to instead handle all things with the government via mail (and thus staying a safe distance away from them in the process).
My vows are so easily broken. Probably why I'm never getting married. But I digress.
I returned Tuesday morning, thinking (correctly, because I'm a fucking genius) that no one messes with bureaucrats before noon. Place opened at 7 a.m., and I ride up at 7:30-ish.
There are two sets of double-doors to get in the place. Naturally, I choose the wrong set... not that they're labelled. There's a roped-off lane for the furthest right door, and I'm directed by security to use that single door, since the left-hand side of the double-door is locked (the other double doors were both open, but whatever).
It's empty. I mean, fucking ghost town empty. Yet three security guards at the ground floor. 3 minutes later (they're almost like clockwork, must be a social security thing, like their checks), I'm on my way up to the sixth floor, where the actual office is (security checkpoint is on the first floor).
Empty. Ghost town. Two security guards at the front of the lobby area. Glass encased office fronts all around, about thirty stations total. Roped off area for a line, but there's no one here.
Nonetheless, a security guard is up on me. "You gotta have a number ticket," and he's punching something into a computer terminal near the door I just walked through. A paper receipt is printed, and he hands it to me.
Slightly bewildered, "you're kidding, right? There's NO ONE HERE!"
He looks at me gravely, "No, no I'm not. And stay between the gray and black roped area - that's the line. I'll escort you there."
Yes, yes folx, he escorted me to the line, and then instructed me to go to the front of the line, and wait to be called. While tempting, I didn't ask if he'd send me to the back of the line if I cut, or went around the roped area.
I get the call before I hit the front of the non-existant line, "I'll take you here..."
Nice lady, I think, and walk up.
"I need your ticket number."
"Uhh... there's no one else here."
"Don't care, have to see if you're next."
I look around the still empty lobby. The security guard is already back to the front, and conversing with his coworker. "You're kidding, right? There's no one here!"
"Don't care. Give me the ticket, or you're not getting service."
Goddamn. I hand her the ticket, and it's back to pleasant mode. Three minutes later, I'm done handling my business... just in time to see another bewildered person enter the lobby, and get directed to the line, even though there's still no one waiting in the line, and 10 open offices.
Nothing like procedure.
12:45 AM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment - Edit - Remove
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Hideous? Will you be my dentist?
Current mood: amorous
Category: Life
So once again I'm at the dentist.
It happens a lot to me, because I spent about seven years not taking care of my teeth, then I started taking care of them, and wound up with the worse dental care for about seven and a half years. My mouth is the true veteran of the drug war. Que sera, sera, right?
First off: my dentist and oral surgeon are both too fucking hot for a hetero like myself to really go to. While it's rare for me to derive a health benefit from some beautiful woman giving me pain (I'm quite used to beautiful women giving me pain, but it's usually emotional rather than physical), such is the case with both of them. This is not my point - my point is that it's really fucking hard to get your grill worked on, while trying to check out your health care provider.
It's probably why so many women think men are pigs - it doesn't matter that I want to scream in pain from the needle dig into my jawline, or the first drilling session because I'm a little resistant to novacaine, I'm STILL trying to check out my dentist (or oral surgeon, but she was doing the root canal).
I mean, I'm quite sure I could be having my leg SAWED OFF by my oral surgeon, and I would be thinking in my head "well, shit, I bet that'll increase the available positions..." or something else that's truly inappropriate.
And it makes me stupid... "so, do you want me to [go on a date with you] try and prep a crown, or prep an extraction and think about getting a post and implant?"
"Yes!"
"Well... which one?"
"Oh yeah, my bad. Let's try to cap it."
"Gold for durability, or porcelain for cosmetic appearance?"
"Yes! I mean, damn, uhh.. gold. I don't care about matching teeth."
I'm not that vain, after all - just strike dumb by beautiful women. I swear, next time, I'm asking if they're ugly first. "Hideous? Sign me up!"
6:45 PM - 2 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment - Edit - Remove
Just saw in the Stranger...
Current mood: argumentative
Category: Blogging
BOOZE: Not Even One Sip.
7:45 AM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment - Edit - Remove
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Baruch Big Willie Town, Holla!
Current mood: anxious
Category: Religion and Philosophy
I've been told before: fear Jewish armies, and Italian Gangsters.
However, as I've said so many times before, I've been lied to my
entire life. You gotta fear them Jewish Gangsters, because
they're out there, and they're ready for some serious trouble.
They're easy to spot - all gangs are. They got them brimmed hats,
dress in their gang color - black, and all have the same
hairstyle, a miracle since curly forelocks just don't exist on
normal people with straight hair. They even have their own gang
slang. "Baruch Atoh Adonai, Elahaynu, Melech Ho-Alum" "Shalom,"
and "Sheimah, Israel!"
Hasidim are Jewish Gangsters.
They roll Williamsburg thick. Day in, day out, they hit the
streets like a pack of wolves, in sheep's clothing. They're
neither nice nor rude, with an air of polite indifference to
everyone around them.
I know what's going on though - behind the closed doors, after
the sun sets, at the Schuyl - the brims tip sideways, the fat
gold chains come out, and it's top shelf wine, glocks and gats,
waving blunts and lighters in the air, "Wessyde, Brooklyn!"
I know what "Shalom, Manishmah" literally means - "Peace, Man."
But I can translate from their gang-speak: "Piece, man." As in,
"you fuck with us Hasidim, you're gettin' a piece of a glock,
goy," or "You wanna PIECE of this black badass brim, bitch?"
I keep my head low in Big Willie Town, home of the original
Hasidim gunclappers. No eye contact, and keep it movin'.
And I keep a Star of David around my neck, in case of emergency.
It's my Jewish ghetto-pass.
6:01 AM - 3 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment - Edit - Remove
Friday, January 11, 2008
The Media Whore Strikes Again!
Current mood: amused
Category: Blogging
http://www.latimes.com/news/opinion/la-oew-vohryzek11jan11,0,4162314.story?coll=la-opinion-center
One Love
8:08 AM - 2 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment - Edit - Remove
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Fuq Huffy!
Current mood: infuriated
Category: Goals, Plans, Hopes
So I'm trying to get home again last night, and lo and behold, a random dude on a bike has a flat.
Being an uber-geek, I've got my kit handy... got his flat fixed in about ten minutes, which is pretty fucking fast when you're on a lower Manhattan street, trying to watch your back and fix a flat at the same time.
He rides off (I refused compensation, I'm trying to be good like that) with a "Thanks, Malakkar!" and I figure my karma's good for the night.
Five blocks later, my fucking crank arm snaps off, and I'm stuck trying to one-side peddle my ass up the Manhattan bridge. It's already close to 7, when the bike shop on Vanderbilt closes, so lower Manhattan and downtown Brooklyn is entertained by the dipshit breaking all traffic rules on a jalopy bike, who's sweating bullets.
Get to the bike shop, and it's closed, but the karma pays off - the guy was still there, and let me drop the bike off. Looking at the pedal, and the crank arm, it looks like Huffy decided to make at least the inside of the arm (not the shell of it) out of DIE CAST METAL!
Hey Huffy: Fuck You!
6:06 AM - 1 Comments - 1 Kudos - Add Comment - Edit - Remove
Banality of Bureaucracy
Current mood: bored
Category: News and Politics
Or, What Happened at the Social Security Administration's Card Center at 7:30 in the Morning.
I first tried to get my social security card at 3:00 pm on last Friday, but Social Security, due to some weird homeland security crap, now individually checks out each person trying to get into the building, with the full airport rigamarole. I thought it was some sick joke, standing in a line of 50 people, until I realized, after them taking three minutes to process one person, that they would continue at their snail's pace. I didn't have enough time to get in and get my biz handled.
So I left, vowing never to return, to instead handle all things with the government via mail (and thus staying a safe distance away from them in the process).
My vows are so easily broken. Probably why I'm never getting married. But I digress.
I returned Tuesday morning, thinking (correctly, because I'm a fucking genius) that no one messes with bureaucrats before noon. Place opened at 7 a.m., and I ride up at 7:30-ish.
There are two sets of double-doors to get in the place. Naturally, I choose the wrong set... not that they're labelled. There's a roped-off lane for the furthest right door, and I'm directed by security to use that single door, since the left-hand side of the double-door is locked (the other double doors were both open, but whatever).
It's empty. I mean, fucking ghost town empty. Yet three security guards at the ground floor. 3 minutes later (they're almost like clockwork, must be a social security thing, like their checks), I'm on my way up to the sixth floor, where the actual office is (security checkpoint is on the first floor).
Empty. Ghost town. Two security guards at the front of the lobby area. Glass encased office fronts all around, about thirty stations total. Roped off area for a line, but there's no one here.
Nonetheless, a security guard is up on me. "You gotta have a number ticket," and he's punching something into a computer terminal near the door I just walked through. A paper receipt is printed, and he hands it to me.
Slightly bewildered, "you're kidding, right? There's NO ONE HERE!"
He looks at me gravely, "No, no I'm not. And stay between the gray and black roped area - that's the line. I'll escort you there."
Yes, yes folx, he escorted me to the line, and then instructed me to go to the front of the line, and wait to be called. While tempting, I didn't ask if he'd send me to the back of the line if I cut, or went around the roped area.
I get the call before I hit the front of the non-existant line, "I'll take you here..."
Nice lady, I think, and walk up.
"I need your ticket number."
"Uhh... there's no one else here."
"Don't care, have to see if you're next."
I look around the still empty lobby. The security guard is already back to the front, and conversing with his coworker. "You're kidding, right? There's no one here!"
"Don't care. Give me the ticket, or you're not getting service."
Goddamn. I hand her the ticket, and it's back to pleasant mode. Three minutes later, I'm done handling my business... just in time to see another bewildered person enter the lobby, and get directed to the line, even though there's still no one waiting in the line, and 10 open offices.
Nothing like procedure.
12:45 AM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment - Edit - Remove
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Hideous? Will you be my dentist?
Current mood: amorous
Category: Life
So once again I'm at the dentist.
It happens a lot to me, because I spent about seven years not taking care of my teeth, then I started taking care of them, and wound up with the worse dental care for about seven and a half years. My mouth is the true veteran of the drug war. Que sera, sera, right?
First off: my dentist and oral surgeon are both too fucking hot for a hetero like myself to really go to. While it's rare for me to derive a health benefit from some beautiful woman giving me pain (I'm quite used to beautiful women giving me pain, but it's usually emotional rather than physical), such is the case with both of them. This is not my point - my point is that it's really fucking hard to get your grill worked on, while trying to check out your health care provider.
It's probably why so many women think men are pigs - it doesn't matter that I want to scream in pain from the needle dig into my jawline, or the first drilling session because I'm a little resistant to novacaine, I'm STILL trying to check out my dentist (or oral surgeon, but she was doing the root canal).
I mean, I'm quite sure I could be having my leg SAWED OFF by my oral surgeon, and I would be thinking in my head "well, shit, I bet that'll increase the available positions..." or something else that's truly inappropriate.
And it makes me stupid... "so, do you want me to [go on a date with you] try and prep a crown, or prep an extraction and think about getting a post and implant?"
"Yes!"
"Well... which one?"
"Oh yeah, my bad. Let's try to cap it."
"Gold for durability, or porcelain for cosmetic appearance?"
"Yes! I mean, damn, uhh.. gold. I don't care about matching teeth."
I'm not that vain, after all - just strike dumb by beautiful women. I swear, next time, I'm asking if they're ugly first. "Hideous? Sign me up!"
6:45 PM - 2 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment - Edit - Remove
Just saw in the Stranger...
Current mood: argumentative
Category: Blogging
BOOZE: Not Even One Sip.
7:45 AM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment - Edit - Remove
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Baruch Big Willie Town, Holla!
Current mood: anxious
Category: Religion and Philosophy
I've been told before: fear Jewish armies, and Italian Gangsters.
However, as I've said so many times before, I've been lied to my
entire life. You gotta fear them Jewish Gangsters, because
they're out there, and they're ready for some serious trouble.
They're easy to spot - all gangs are. They got them brimmed hats,
dress in their gang color - black, and all have the same
hairstyle, a miracle since curly forelocks just don't exist on
normal people with straight hair. They even have their own gang
slang. "Baruch Atoh Adonai, Elahaynu, Melech Ho-Alum" "Shalom,"
and "Sheimah, Israel!"
Hasidim are Jewish Gangsters.
They roll Williamsburg thick. Day in, day out, they hit the
streets like a pack of wolves, in sheep's clothing. They're
neither nice nor rude, with an air of polite indifference to
everyone around them.
I know what's going on though - behind the closed doors, after
the sun sets, at the Schuyl - the brims tip sideways, the fat
gold chains come out, and it's top shelf wine, glocks and gats,
waving blunts and lighters in the air, "Wessyde, Brooklyn!"
I know what "Shalom, Manishmah" literally means - "Peace, Man."
But I can translate from their gang-speak: "Piece, man." As in,
"you fuck with us Hasidim, you're gettin' a piece of a glock,
goy," or "You wanna PIECE of this black badass brim, bitch?"
I keep my head low in Big Willie Town, home of the original
Hasidim gunclappers. No eye contact, and keep it movin'.
And I keep a Star of David around my neck, in case of emergency.
It's my Jewish ghetto-pass.
6:01 AM - 3 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment - Edit - Remove
Friday, January 11, 2008
The Media Whore Strikes Again!
Current mood: amused
Category: Blogging
http://www.latimes.com/news/opinion/la-oew-vohryzek11jan11,0,4162314.story?coll=la-opinion-center
One Love
8:08 AM - 2 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment - Edit - Remove
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Fuq Huffy!
Current mood: infuriated
Category: Goals, Plans, Hopes
So I'm trying to get home again last night, and lo and behold, a random dude on a bike has a flat.
Being an uber-geek, I've got my kit handy... got his flat fixed in about ten minutes, which is pretty fucking fast when you're on a lower Manhattan street, trying to watch your back and fix a flat at the same time.
He rides off (I refused compensation, I'm trying to be good like that) with a "Thanks, Malakkar!" and I figure my karma's good for the night.
Five blocks later, my fucking crank arm snaps off, and I'm stuck trying to one-side peddle my ass up the Manhattan bridge. It's already close to 7, when the bike shop on Vanderbilt closes, so lower Manhattan and downtown Brooklyn is entertained by the dipshit breaking all traffic rules on a jalopy bike, who's sweating bullets.
Get to the bike shop, and it's closed, but the karma pays off - the guy was still there, and let me drop the bike off. Looking at the pedal, and the crank arm, it looks like Huffy decided to make at least the inside of the arm (not the shell of it) out of DIE CAST METAL!
Hey Huffy: Fuck You!
6:06 AM - 1 Comments - 1 Kudos - Add Comment - Edit - Remove
My Blogs from MySpace
Monday, January 07, 2008
UPS is trying to kill me.
Current mood: contemplative
Category: Dreams and the Supernatural
They keep asking, "What Can Brown Do For You?"
My answer will always be the same: stop trying to kill me. You think I don't notice, out of the corner of my eye, as you're sliding up into the bike lane, knowing damn well I can't hear you above the roar of downtown Manhattan traffic.
I saw. You think I hop onto the sidewalk to show off? Not bloody likely, I'm inherently lazy, and not trying to impress the hordes that wade the walks like schools of fish.
They must be krill, or plankton, to my guppy, to the car's sharks, to your goddamn whale. Whales aren't supposed to be trying to eat guppies, damnit.
And don't think I don't notice that when you miss me, because I'm on the sidewalk, you slow down, waiting for me to hit that lane again, so you can brake and turn abuptly in front of me.
Brown? Why don't you just start throwing your package bombs out the back, like some sordid mature-audience-only videogame, and get it over with? I mean, if you're not going to respect my request not to kill me, at least kill me with some grace, some style, so that in my casket, I can have my dignity, in the very least (though I'm quite convinced that I've sacrificed even that by wearing a bicycle helmet). Do me a favor, and make it a large package, so I can die, and at my funeral, they can say something truly profound, something that sounds a lot better than:
"He was hit by a big brown UPS truck."
Can you do that for me, Brown?
9:22 AM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment - Edit - Remove
UPS is trying to kill me.
Current mood: contemplative
Category: Dreams and the Supernatural
They keep asking, "What Can Brown Do For You?"
My answer will always be the same: stop trying to kill me. You think I don't notice, out of the corner of my eye, as you're sliding up into the bike lane, knowing damn well I can't hear you above the roar of downtown Manhattan traffic.
I saw. You think I hop onto the sidewalk to show off? Not bloody likely, I'm inherently lazy, and not trying to impress the hordes that wade the walks like schools of fish.
They must be krill, or plankton, to my guppy, to the car's sharks, to your goddamn whale. Whales aren't supposed to be trying to eat guppies, damnit.
And don't think I don't notice that when you miss me, because I'm on the sidewalk, you slow down, waiting for me to hit that lane again, so you can brake and turn abuptly in front of me.
Brown? Why don't you just start throwing your package bombs out the back, like some sordid mature-audience-only videogame, and get it over with? I mean, if you're not going to respect my request not to kill me, at least kill me with some grace, some style, so that in my casket, I can have my dignity, in the very least (though I'm quite convinced that I've sacrificed even that by wearing a bicycle helmet). Do me a favor, and make it a large package, so I can die, and at my funeral, they can say something truly profound, something that sounds a lot better than:
"He was hit by a big brown UPS truck."
Can you do that for me, Brown?
9:22 AM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment - Edit - Remove
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