The new standard in lighting for home and some industry seems to be Energy Star light bulbs/fluorescent tubes; that seem about right? 75% less heat than your run-of-the-mill incandescent bulb, they seem to save money from what I've heard -- that, I imagine is a true statement. They are said to last longer.
Some are swirly, pretzel-curved, spiral tubes emitting less energy, but yet the same, even greater brightness to light a room; others are a collection of smaller LED lights that still conserve and get the job done.
My question from these seemingly pointless statements is, when does it get to the point when electric companies aren't pulling in the same profits for their services they used to and decide, hey, you're not using as much energy, electricity to light your homes, it's about time for a rate hike. The big thing anymore for the auto industry, and most notably because President Obama has asked and campaigned for this, is to make automobiles more fuel economical, as well as pushing for more electric vehicles. All to quell our dependency on gasoline. But doesn't it seem right that the same greedy lusting for oil will spill into a renewed dependency for electricity?
My chair is uncomfortable. Computer, and those desk-chairs from my high school seem to always be ungodly strenuous on my back.
Wind-power, solar energy reserves, dams -- all clean resources of electricity that happen to be our best answers for gathering and storing the needed electrical cells to power our everyday lives. Yuck! Sounds sappy. Sounds a bit too convenient. Sounds like bullshit; of course it's just that easy. You take those recharging stations for instance.
We open on a mall parking structure, reconfigured to house recharge stations for every parking spot in that whole stinkin' complex. The accidental deaths from electric shock continue to rise; wrong -- you go in to the mall, do some shopping for the afternoon, fill up on electricity, you telling me that's free? What, you feed it like a meter? Maybe you have an electricity card only good for charging your energy cell consumption. I don't know, it already begins to sound like more of this, we're expanding the power-grid in urban areas, we have to make up that cost somehow, why not hike up the cost of electricity?
I wrote this blog post late last year and never published it. Just sat here in my iron maiden of a computer chair and read over what little I had of this post over and over again. A black guy came in to work to do who the fuck cares -- A black guy oooooooo, sarcastically -- and him and his friend sat and talked the whole time, subject matter mostly consisting of, "God I miss my girl, she's not in town, I don't know when I'll see her. She's cool. I mean, she fucks good. Sucks my dick." Tell the world! And why couldn't you just say I'm falling in love with my woman-friend? Nope, she's only good for two things; a good fuck every once and awhile, and sucking my smelly cock. They don't engage in sex, it sounds more like they like to play rape. Whenever he feels like it, he sneaks up behind her, force-ably pulls her pants along with her panties down and goes right into full-on intercourse. He's gotta show-off. He can't admit tender feelings for her, just the inappropriate fucking they probably haven't engaged in because she's more than likely some "tramp" he's stalking online through myYearbook.
The stock market will never be fixed. Our need for oil won't be quelled, more like hunger; our human hearts never full. Get over fixing it. Gingrich claims he'll drop the price of oil. So did Barack, and the price did remain pretty low there the first 2-3 years of his term, and now that's back up. Santorum and Romney want to push the abortion issue. We've seen this before in the form of same-sex marriage, trying to get our government to oversee and control a private matter. So you love a guy and you're a guy, so you're a woman in love with a woman, let that be your choice. Abortion is your choice. You start down this fucking path where the government is telling you what to do, let's think of it like this. Your religious right should be government regulated. No more choice in the matter, you're now a Christian. Any practicing Muslims for example, will have their mosque raided, their practitioners arrested and charged for disobeying the law. You might as well, right, I mean, they control who you marry, and succeeding in your right to terminate your own pregnancy, let's take more of your liberties away.
You have no right to murder an individual... nope, nope, just stop right there. That's an issue where you consider the advancement of science and more importantly civilization where it's become more difficult to hide a body or get away with the vary act of murder. Science can already narrow down the culprit, and then that's if the person committing the murder hasn't thought of all the variables for a perfect murder. Just because the Bible says thou shall not kill, and our laws forbid it, doesn't mean those two things stop murder. It's not right, but it happens. It's all whether you choose to do so. Choice. And that's the word.
Friday, February 03, 2012
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Nobody
I have been very fortunate in my life to meet and be friends with some amazing people. I have the misfortune -- whenever I see a few of these people out'n'about, in public -- of them simply acting as though they don't know me. Given, a lot of the times, I haven't been in contact with these individuals for maybe five years, so you're probably saying to yourselves, "they don't recognize you." Yes they do.
I was drinking and having a blast playing some PS3 and watching some late night programming buzzed over at a friend's apartment, and I swore a guy there, who was a friend of a friend of the person who's apartment we were intoxicated in, was the same person I had gone to high school with. It's late in the evening, getting close to midnight, and we had all been playing and finishing off a case, and someone asks the guy I recognize if he wouldn't like a ride home, since I suppose he hadn't driven to where we were at. He agreed, being nowhere near eligible to handle the road had he driven there, and the person offering him the lift home is disgruntled because they have to drive further into Hutch, yet it wasn't that big of deal to them, they would do it to see their friend arrive safely home. The guy I recognized says that getting to his house is actually a lot easier than his friend imagines because he's in South Hutch, and that there's no turn-offs, and strange back-roads, you could take the highway for forty-to-forty-five minutes and get off in South Hutch, and then it's less than a few minutes from there. The friend driving concluded that it still was a ways from where he lived, which was Lyons. He lived near Lyons if I remember correctly.
I chose to use this bit of information to ask the guy I recognized how long he had lived in South Hutch. He said around ten years, give or take, so I figured perhaps he went to school in South Hutch knowing he was a few years younger than myself. He said he went to Hutch. So I asked him what about high school, same district as Hutch, or did he choose to transfer? He said he went to Haven. Cool beans. I still believe he's the same kid I know from high school, and the more I thought of it, it made sense. Back to when I was in high school, a friend of mine and myself were asking where he had transferred from, him being a new member of the NHS concert band -- I believe I was either a junior or senior at the time -- and this individual had transferred from Haven to Nickerson, and, being as popular as I was, I knew a few people who went to Haven, and I had asked him if he knew of them as well, where he had said he did not. That was pristine and clear in my mind, after this guy I recognized in my friend's apartment said he had went to Haven.
It dawned on me what this guy's last name was, so I asked him, was his last name Blankiddiboo? Yes, it was. So I said the first name I had in my memory, and he said no, was not him. Then, did he have a relative, like a cousin perhaps or brother with that name? Nope, and from his answers now, my inquiries were starting to annoy him. I then went ahead and gave up, but still I knew it was him, I told him then that he looked an awful lot like this kid I knew. He shrugged it off, or maybe said something along the lines of, "I get that a lot," or, "I'm always being mistaken for someone else." I wanted to retort, "Maybe you should stick to going by your first name (insert guy I recognized-real name) instead of your middle name, (insert name guy I recognized is using) That might be why so many people claim they know you."
Was he in witness protection, or what the hell? Why lie to a stranger about your name? For that matter, he had my other mutual friends believing he was this other person, and a good friend of mine who was introduced to him that night believing he was Humperdink Blankiddiboo, when I knew the moment I spotted him, heard that raspy, obnoxious laugh of his, that he was Kenovassa Blankiddiboo.
I had once entered a successful national pizza chain in Minas Tirith, Middle-Earth; a fictional location obviously, so none of you fuckers can connect the dots on who I'm talking about in this ledger. A person I considered a friend unlike an acquaintance, or, a person you might run in to occasionally, was working tables and our eyes met. I smiled and waved, my friend however, ignored the gesture and continued cleaning. I ended up being sat in his section, and my hostess took my drink order, and since I already knew what I wanted without the assistance of a menu, I ordered my meal with the hostess as well. Refills should have went through my friend, or the asshole I recognized as a friend I used to know well, instead as I was watching him work, he had gone to the back and talked to a co-worker who happened to end up being my waitress who refilled my drink, brought me a plate before my pizza came, and delivered the pizza to my table once it had been prepared and removed from the oven. I waited a long time until he finally dropped by to bring me my receipt in the PRECIOUS receipt trapper-keeper. He placed it on the table quickly, with a, "pay up at the register when you're finished," acting as though he had to rush to get back to the kitchen in order to get his helmet and oxygen tank on over a heavy, flame-retardant uniform, and get to the inferno before the orphanage burned down. I stopped him. "Hold on, Gale, right? Gale Benningtonston..."
"Yeah..." You know that sounding yeah drawn out, cautious of how you know them.
"It's Austin. Smith." He knew who I was. "I worked with Fangora for like half a year. I used to party at your place..." I could've listed everything I did with this person, which was a pretty decent list, he reacted friendlier, but unlike someone who hadn't recognized you and this being the first time it clicked, he wasn't surprised. He was more concerned with ending this stop and chat to get back in the kitchen where he proceeded to bullshit around with his co-workers. He did nothing, but talk back there.
Let's talk about five years ago. I assume a lot of shit has happened in everyone else's life in those few years, but that also shows how overwhelming all the information and jargon -- two categories I'll stick with in comparing the information surge we don't necessarily notice about, oh I don't know, television programming, Internet searches, complications in every day life, to name a few -- has cluttered and replaced other memories. What am I trying to say? I feel like all the changes our lives have made just in the last half-decade or so, citing an example, how more of us carry cellphones now than we used to, we just simply forgot easier than we used to. Homeless people, surprisingly, carry around cellphones. Don't ask me why or how this is possible, I've witnessed it more than just one rare occurrence. And all that you can do with a cellphone anymore, it's no wonder people treat an electronic device like a personal assistant with all that's going on in their world. I feel like we bog our brains with shit, for what, to entertain ourselves, waste time. Maybe our priorities or what we perceive as our "priorities" contribute to a river of information entering one ear, that might be processed within our processor, or might just spill out the other ear, culminating in some people perceiving five years as more like ten, twenty years. Daily, we absorb a week's worth of information. This might be why Gale Benningtonston treated me like a stranger. Could I be that forgettable?
I can't account for other people's behavior. It seems awfully ignorant to play coy with something so commonly referred to as a courtesy to say hello to a person you recognize out in public. It's not like I'm a stock broker and he was a drum circle leader in an Occupy Wall Street protest. I like the whole "let's get out there and do something about it" attitude from these people. Having said that, I don't really buy the video of a protester getting his leg ran over by a police motorcycle-defense. Here's a guy screaming his head off, "they're running over my leg!" If you haven't seen the video, I'd search douche bag acts like he's hurt; from what I could tell, he was purposefully sticking his leg under a police motorcyclist who was trying to get through the crowd of people blocking a busy Oakland street? Was it NYC? So, he stuck his leg under the wheel of the motorcycle, started screaming and thrashing around, while someone with their cellphone camcorder recorded the whole ordeal, the police officer noted the guy's leg was gonna get smashed if he didn't move it, even stopped his motorcycle to help get the guy's leg out from under his vehicle, but persistently the guy continued to just lie there screaming bloody murder, continuing to stick his leg under the wheel of the bike. How about the morons who lock arms and chant, while a brigade of armored police officers charge them with trespassing, and try to break loose the chain-gang to hull most of the like to jail, and they're screaming, "You have no right to arrest me! Why are you cuffing me!? This iniquitous imprisonment is beyond convoluted!" You're blocking a public street. They don't want you there, and so you're trespassing, plus whatever other shit they want to slap you with for being a public nuisance. You're also, or at one time, were living in a park. Your next crib is the subway tunnels because winter is approaching, you hobos. Statistically maybe 1% of those working Wall Street embezzled. You realize you're preaching to grunts just trying to get to work, right? The real bad-guys just flip to cartoons when the news stations begin to show footage of your protest.
I was drinking and having a blast playing some PS3 and watching some late night programming buzzed over at a friend's apartment, and I swore a guy there, who was a friend of a friend of the person who's apartment we were intoxicated in, was the same person I had gone to high school with. It's late in the evening, getting close to midnight, and we had all been playing and finishing off a case, and someone asks the guy I recognize if he wouldn't like a ride home, since I suppose he hadn't driven to where we were at. He agreed, being nowhere near eligible to handle the road had he driven there, and the person offering him the lift home is disgruntled because they have to drive further into Hutch, yet it wasn't that big of deal to them, they would do it to see their friend arrive safely home. The guy I recognized says that getting to his house is actually a lot easier than his friend imagines because he's in South Hutch, and that there's no turn-offs, and strange back-roads, you could take the highway for forty-to-forty-five minutes and get off in South Hutch, and then it's less than a few minutes from there. The friend driving concluded that it still was a ways from where he lived, which was Lyons. He lived near Lyons if I remember correctly.
I chose to use this bit of information to ask the guy I recognized how long he had lived in South Hutch. He said around ten years, give or take, so I figured perhaps he went to school in South Hutch knowing he was a few years younger than myself. He said he went to Hutch. So I asked him what about high school, same district as Hutch, or did he choose to transfer? He said he went to Haven. Cool beans. I still believe he's the same kid I know from high school, and the more I thought of it, it made sense. Back to when I was in high school, a friend of mine and myself were asking where he had transferred from, him being a new member of the NHS concert band -- I believe I was either a junior or senior at the time -- and this individual had transferred from Haven to Nickerson, and, being as popular as I was, I knew a few people who went to Haven, and I had asked him if he knew of them as well, where he had said he did not. That was pristine and clear in my mind, after this guy I recognized in my friend's apartment said he had went to Haven.
It dawned on me what this guy's last name was, so I asked him, was his last name Blankiddiboo? Yes, it was. So I said the first name I had in my memory, and he said no, was not him. Then, did he have a relative, like a cousin perhaps or brother with that name? Nope, and from his answers now, my inquiries were starting to annoy him. I then went ahead and gave up, but still I knew it was him, I told him then that he looked an awful lot like this kid I knew. He shrugged it off, or maybe said something along the lines of, "I get that a lot," or, "I'm always being mistaken for someone else." I wanted to retort, "Maybe you should stick to going by your first name (insert guy I recognized-real name) instead of your middle name, (insert name guy I recognized is using) That might be why so many people claim they know you."
Was he in witness protection, or what the hell? Why lie to a stranger about your name? For that matter, he had my other mutual friends believing he was this other person, and a good friend of mine who was introduced to him that night believing he was Humperdink Blankiddiboo, when I knew the moment I spotted him, heard that raspy, obnoxious laugh of his, that he was Kenovassa Blankiddiboo.
I had once entered a successful national pizza chain in Minas Tirith, Middle-Earth; a fictional location obviously, so none of you fuckers can connect the dots on who I'm talking about in this ledger. A person I considered a friend unlike an acquaintance, or, a person you might run in to occasionally, was working tables and our eyes met. I smiled and waved, my friend however, ignored the gesture and continued cleaning. I ended up being sat in his section, and my hostess took my drink order, and since I already knew what I wanted without the assistance of a menu, I ordered my meal with the hostess as well. Refills should have went through my friend, or the asshole I recognized as a friend I used to know well, instead as I was watching him work, he had gone to the back and talked to a co-worker who happened to end up being my waitress who refilled my drink, brought me a plate before my pizza came, and delivered the pizza to my table once it had been prepared and removed from the oven. I waited a long time until he finally dropped by to bring me my receipt in the PRECIOUS receipt trapper-keeper. He placed it on the table quickly, with a, "pay up at the register when you're finished," acting as though he had to rush to get back to the kitchen in order to get his helmet and oxygen tank on over a heavy, flame-retardant uniform, and get to the inferno before the orphanage burned down. I stopped him. "Hold on, Gale, right? Gale Benningtonston..."
"Yeah..." You know that sounding yeah drawn out, cautious of how you know them.
"It's Austin. Smith." He knew who I was. "I worked with Fangora for like half a year. I used to party at your place..." I could've listed everything I did with this person, which was a pretty decent list, he reacted friendlier, but unlike someone who hadn't recognized you and this being the first time it clicked, he wasn't surprised. He was more concerned with ending this stop and chat to get back in the kitchen where he proceeded to bullshit around with his co-workers. He did nothing, but talk back there.
Let's talk about five years ago. I assume a lot of shit has happened in everyone else's life in those few years, but that also shows how overwhelming all the information and jargon -- two categories I'll stick with in comparing the information surge we don't necessarily notice about, oh I don't know, television programming, Internet searches, complications in every day life, to name a few -- has cluttered and replaced other memories. What am I trying to say? I feel like all the changes our lives have made just in the last half-decade or so, citing an example, how more of us carry cellphones now than we used to, we just simply forgot easier than we used to. Homeless people, surprisingly, carry around cellphones. Don't ask me why or how this is possible, I've witnessed it more than just one rare occurrence. And all that you can do with a cellphone anymore, it's no wonder people treat an electronic device like a personal assistant with all that's going on in their world. I feel like we bog our brains with shit, for what, to entertain ourselves, waste time. Maybe our priorities or what we perceive as our "priorities" contribute to a river of information entering one ear, that might be processed within our processor, or might just spill out the other ear, culminating in some people perceiving five years as more like ten, twenty years. Daily, we absorb a week's worth of information. This might be why Gale Benningtonston treated me like a stranger. Could I be that forgettable?
I can't account for other people's behavior. It seems awfully ignorant to play coy with something so commonly referred to as a courtesy to say hello to a person you recognize out in public. It's not like I'm a stock broker and he was a drum circle leader in an Occupy Wall Street protest. I like the whole "let's get out there and do something about it" attitude from these people. Having said that, I don't really buy the video of a protester getting his leg ran over by a police motorcycle-defense. Here's a guy screaming his head off, "they're running over my leg!" If you haven't seen the video, I'd search douche bag acts like he's hurt; from what I could tell, he was purposefully sticking his leg under a police motorcyclist who was trying to get through the crowd of people blocking a busy Oakland street? Was it NYC? So, he stuck his leg under the wheel of the motorcycle, started screaming and thrashing around, while someone with their cellphone camcorder recorded the whole ordeal, the police officer noted the guy's leg was gonna get smashed if he didn't move it, even stopped his motorcycle to help get the guy's leg out from under his vehicle, but persistently the guy continued to just lie there screaming bloody murder, continuing to stick his leg under the wheel of the bike. How about the morons who lock arms and chant, while a brigade of armored police officers charge them with trespassing, and try to break loose the chain-gang to hull most of the like to jail, and they're screaming, "You have no right to arrest me! Why are you cuffing me!? This iniquitous imprisonment is beyond convoluted!" You're blocking a public street. They don't want you there, and so you're trespassing, plus whatever other shit they want to slap you with for being a public nuisance. You're also, or at one time, were living in a park. Your next crib is the subway tunnels because winter is approaching, you hobos. Statistically maybe 1% of those working Wall Street embezzled. You realize you're preaching to grunts just trying to get to work, right? The real bad-guys just flip to cartoons when the news stations begin to show footage of your protest.
Friday, November 04, 2011
A.O. Baldist fuckin' Sports
Alex Ovechkin is an unintelligent, hot-headed, dirty Russian! Somebody should skate up behind him and nail him in the head with a brick oven mitt! If I ever saw Alex Ovechkin in public, I'd stomp with full force on the back of his knee, and cripple his ass -- I may even wear a skate...alright, that's about enough. So he really doesn't deserve being crippled. Maybe just target a sling shot right to the back of his neck, pull back, and let fly a metal jackstone...
Why don't I like this guy? Probably because he's a dirty-ass Russian with missing teeth. I was watching his Washington "Capitalists" take on Carolina -- I guess a combination of North and South into a super-state called the Carolina that wears, like a trucker cap, the state of Virgina as a malformed Ushanka with a popular backwards bill, and stabs Buffalo Sabres fans up the butt hole with a penis shaped sabre every time that they meet up for a hockey match.
They say the keeper of the net has a hand-sewn in pocket in his jersey for a switchblade.
Another way Alex Ovechkin could be brutalized would be to beat him unmercifully with a goalie's mask. Huh? Hhuuhhhh? Instead of a quick skate-by stabbing, we just catch him off guard with a goalie's mask broken against his head.
Why shouldn't a hockey team like Washington be high in the standings? Boudreau is a premier coach, with a hell of a team just about every year. And boy did he send the right message on Thursday by benching Ovechkin's ass in the tail end of the game. Big Russian baby didn't like it either; flew an expletive towards his coach, and really, abandoned his team that night because he felt it was unfair towards him to be pulled from the ice. We get a serving of elitism -- I can do better than you do, stick your head in doo-doo -- head-case mentality with the Russia #1, but this is fantastic I get paid this much over seas for my lousy half-talent. He's so inconsistent. A Kobe Bryant mentality on less talent.
I was always disappointed with myself when I was benched, and boy was I benched! I recorded 45 seconds I was on the court in junior high basketball, then I sat out the rest of the game. Fuck you, Mr. Wetig! He was a bald loser. So fuckin' bald as a young person, man, before that I never knew men could go bald at such a rapid perplexity, like the hair was chanting, "gone, gone, gone, gone,-gone, gone, gone, gone," as it receded back. Good thing he married young. Turtle-wax for Christmas when he was nineteen, is not your way of strutting your shit. The "my-forehead-is-as-shiny-as-a-bowling-lane" "I-can't-go-to-the-beach-my-head-reflects-sunlight-in to-the-eyes-of-parasailers" "I-didn't-shave-my-head-like-this-on-purpose-although-some-might-have-thought-I-did-(ME!)-thought-it-was-for-a-joke, or-he-lost-a-bet, swore-the-Browns-would-beat-the-Titans-this-time-and-if-not, then-you-must-shave-your-head-to-look-like-a-ronin-samurai" forehead probably makes it a lot harder for his wife to orgasm during their pathetic love-making session every seven months he can get it up.
All Ovechkin could do was bitch to the press about sitting out, while the rest of his team pulled out a win.
You see, Alex doesn't realize this, and never will because he's so fucking stubborn, that he's inconsistent. The fucker was born to skate, and with phenomenally stellar puck handling, but because of his Russian-temper and a tendency to get sloppy the moment he's up to the goal, and with 3 guys on him and maybe 6 janitors with mops, with the soaked woolen ends frozen to resemble a hockey stick, yelling obscenities and maddened by their brains slowly ate away along with their livers from copious intake of moonshine in the janitor's closet, he crashes into the boards, and so he's forced to rocket the puck with a cannon of a slap-shot. Butterfly goalies love it for the saves they get off those bullets -- he's just a dufus and fuckers like the announcers aboot fall head over heals for essentially his skating skills and swing.
So that Russian sat on his hands, and cheered them on from the side-line, without the aid of his hands, I suppose, sitting on them and all. I should retract; he was there for his Capitals, just not their captain at this moment. His third-string helmsman did just fine, kept them alive to go on to an OT win where guess who scored? Ovechkin! So keep your trap shut about being pulled. It must have been the right decision, your team did win, and you came back for a final knock-in. It shows that you're too concerned for yourself. Or, you're a cold person, predatory, a change I've seen in other players, different sports, sometimes a whole team full of them, and yet still on the subject of hockey with that one, Vancouver; a lot of over-aggressive bullying as a part of winning from the whole team -- but also individual players, that simply get carried away. Heat of the moment, eh, from the world's fastest sport.
He seems, or as I perceive things, comes off as a really warm guy off the ice. I'm sure he's charitable with his money. You'd be a moron not to be, helping propel your soft image and hey, it makes you feel good, helping others, along with it being a tax right-off so you can launder through that legality your beyond millions-salary. Consider your future, Mr. Ovechkin, creepy-vibed Doc Brown on his time-traversing locomotive cast-off to the character "Jennifer" in Back to the Future III, if you're being sat now for a squad that you've built in Washington, and have contributed leadership to, why, it reminds me of another person milked dry and tired, who was also in Washington in his career; Michael Jordan. Decide which way you're gonna go. Jordan had an excuse, a tenured veteran with the Bulls in fantastic years of basketball, whereas you should be barely out of your prime, or was your 3-hat-trick a mere glimmer of another great hall of famer, Gretzky?
Do you like it that we have a comparison for every sport, be it basketball with Jordan, or hockey with Wayne, how we seek out the top of them all-player? It casts a shadow on current players who are still scoring, still rolling, damn I'm liking the way those Oilers are playing style on rolling along, kicking ass. Fuckin' right, I want them in contention. Give it time, if Washington isn't already numero uno in the standings, they certainly will be. Boudreau cannot afford to let them slide off the tracks a second year.
We've got some hockey going on here, and praise them clearing a path through NBA's lockout. Factions or no factions, what was with them releasing bullshit like that. So a few players agree with owner's on the subject, others choosing the league, sticking with them because they just might be a chairman, or player's rights activists who are head of the player's union, snapping a loose sliver from the pie.
Why don't I like this guy? Probably because he's a dirty-ass Russian with missing teeth. I was watching his Washington "Capitalists" take on Carolina -- I guess a combination of North and South into a super-state called the Carolina that wears, like a trucker cap, the state of Virgina as a malformed Ushanka with a popular backwards bill, and stabs Buffalo Sabres fans up the butt hole with a penis shaped sabre every time that they meet up for a hockey match.
They say the keeper of the net has a hand-sewn in pocket in his jersey for a switchblade.
Another way Alex Ovechkin could be brutalized would be to beat him unmercifully with a goalie's mask. Huh? Hhuuhhhh? Instead of a quick skate-by stabbing, we just catch him off guard with a goalie's mask broken against his head.
Why shouldn't a hockey team like Washington be high in the standings? Boudreau is a premier coach, with a hell of a team just about every year. And boy did he send the right message on Thursday by benching Ovechkin's ass in the tail end of the game. Big Russian baby didn't like it either; flew an expletive towards his coach, and really, abandoned his team that night because he felt it was unfair towards him to be pulled from the ice. We get a serving of elitism -- I can do better than you do, stick your head in doo-doo -- head-case mentality with the Russia #1, but this is fantastic I get paid this much over seas for my lousy half-talent. He's so inconsistent. A Kobe Bryant mentality on less talent.
I was always disappointed with myself when I was benched, and boy was I benched! I recorded 45 seconds I was on the court in junior high basketball, then I sat out the rest of the game. Fuck you, Mr. Wetig! He was a bald loser. So fuckin' bald as a young person, man, before that I never knew men could go bald at such a rapid perplexity, like the hair was chanting, "gone, gone, gone, gone,-gone, gone, gone, gone," as it receded back. Good thing he married young. Turtle-wax for Christmas when he was nineteen, is not your way of strutting your shit. The "my-forehead-is-as-shiny-as-a-bowling-lane" "I-can't-go-to-the-beach-my-head-reflects-sunlight-in to-the-eyes-of-parasailers" "I-didn't-shave-my-head-like-this-on-purpose-although-some-might-have-thought-I-did-(ME!)-thought-it-was-for-a-joke, or-he-lost-a-bet, swore-the-Browns-would-beat-the-Titans-this-time-and-if-not, then-you-must-shave-your-head-to-look-like-a-ronin-samurai" forehead probably makes it a lot harder for his wife to orgasm during their pathetic love-making session every seven months he can get it up.
All Ovechkin could do was bitch to the press about sitting out, while the rest of his team pulled out a win.
You see, Alex doesn't realize this, and never will because he's so fucking stubborn, that he's inconsistent. The fucker was born to skate, and with phenomenally stellar puck handling, but because of his Russian-temper and a tendency to get sloppy the moment he's up to the goal, and with 3 guys on him and maybe 6 janitors with mops, with the soaked woolen ends frozen to resemble a hockey stick, yelling obscenities and maddened by their brains slowly ate away along with their livers from copious intake of moonshine in the janitor's closet, he crashes into the boards, and so he's forced to rocket the puck with a cannon of a slap-shot. Butterfly goalies love it for the saves they get off those bullets -- he's just a dufus and fuckers like the announcers aboot fall head over heals for essentially his skating skills and swing.
So that Russian sat on his hands, and cheered them on from the side-line, without the aid of his hands, I suppose, sitting on them and all. I should retract; he was there for his Capitals, just not their captain at this moment. His third-string helmsman did just fine, kept them alive to go on to an OT win where guess who scored? Ovechkin! So keep your trap shut about being pulled. It must have been the right decision, your team did win, and you came back for a final knock-in. It shows that you're too concerned for yourself. Or, you're a cold person, predatory, a change I've seen in other players, different sports, sometimes a whole team full of them, and yet still on the subject of hockey with that one, Vancouver; a lot of over-aggressive bullying as a part of winning from the whole team -- but also individual players, that simply get carried away. Heat of the moment, eh, from the world's fastest sport.
He seems, or as I perceive things, comes off as a really warm guy off the ice. I'm sure he's charitable with his money. You'd be a moron not to be, helping propel your soft image and hey, it makes you feel good, helping others, along with it being a tax right-off so you can launder through that legality your beyond millions-salary. Consider your future, Mr. Ovechkin, creepy-vibed Doc Brown on his time-traversing locomotive cast-off to the character "Jennifer" in Back to the Future III, if you're being sat now for a squad that you've built in Washington, and have contributed leadership to, why, it reminds me of another person milked dry and tired, who was also in Washington in his career; Michael Jordan. Decide which way you're gonna go. Jordan had an excuse, a tenured veteran with the Bulls in fantastic years of basketball, whereas you should be barely out of your prime, or was your 3-hat-trick a mere glimmer of another great hall of famer, Gretzky?
Do you like it that we have a comparison for every sport, be it basketball with Jordan, or hockey with Wayne, how we seek out the top of them all-player? It casts a shadow on current players who are still scoring, still rolling, damn I'm liking the way those Oilers are playing style on rolling along, kicking ass. Fuckin' right, I want them in contention. Give it time, if Washington isn't already numero uno in the standings, they certainly will be. Boudreau cannot afford to let them slide off the tracks a second year.
We've got some hockey going on here, and praise them clearing a path through NBA's lockout. Factions or no factions, what was with them releasing bullshit like that. So a few players agree with owner's on the subject, others choosing the league, sticking with them because they just might be a chairman, or player's rights activists who are head of the player's union, snapping a loose sliver from the pie.
Friday, August 19, 2011
Mr. President, I Think You're Doin' Just Fine!
| President | Vacation Days | Favorite
Destinations |
|---|---|---|
| Barack Obama | 90 in first two years | Martha's Vineyard, Mass.; Kailua, Hawaii |
| George W. Bush | 1,020 in eight years | Crawford, Texas; Camp David, Md. |
| Bill Clinton | 152 in eight years | Martha's Vineyard;
the Hamptons, N.Y. |
| George H.W. Bush | 543 in four years | Camp David, Md.; Kennebunkport, Maine |
| Ronald Reagan | 335 in eight years | Santa Barbara,
Calif. |
| Jimmy Carter | 79 in four years | Plains, Ga. |
Thursday, August 04, 2011
The Equivalent of a Big Dump, Like Forcing a Midget Down a Toilet!
There's a new movie coming out called Real Steel -- basically think rock'em sock'em robots with Hugh Jackman. His character sort of reminds me of Lincoln Hawk, Sylvester Stallone's character in the 80's arm-wrestling movie Over the Top, which was a perfect name for that movie because it was over-the-top. Jackman plays a promoter with a prize-fighter mentality who thinks he's got a good thing with a discarded robot he hopes he can train as a fighter in a near-future where humans make these giant, behemoth robots, programming them to fight in the ring for them why they hang back in a simulator. A lot like two kids who have just dusted off their old rock'em sock'em robots (let's face it, these aren't kids, they're more like adults reliving some old times with this discarded toy) -- one person controls the red robot, the other the blue one. Of course, that's not all this movie brings to the table. Jackman's character discovers he's got an 11-year-old kid, who's role in the film is to find out who his father is. Over the Top had a kid in it, as well, Lincoln Hawk's son, who also was looking for affection from his father.
What else is coming out at the theaters in the next few months, as if I already didn't have a plan to segue off into another tangent, oh that's right, a movie based off the seafaring strategy game Battleship, where humans are yet again fighting against an alien threat. Look it up, it's-a comin' down the pike.
Here's an idea for a movie. Four mice of differing ethnic backgrounds are forced to build an all-powerful machine (Ooooo!) whose designer is the ruler of a twisting and turning labyrinth of a world where the mice first meet each other, and are on a journey to find the missing pieces in order to finish the construction of this grand, menacing machine, and none of the talking mice-men have a clue as to what the machine will accomplish, or why it's being built in the first place, until the final cogs are in order, and the machine is functioning properly. The ruler of this world is a sinister brute, a real shit; most likely a scraggly looking older mouse who everyone fears because he's so mean and conniving (Boo! Hiss!)
The movie ends with the four mice defeating the older mouse and establishing rule over the kingdom, but not before the machine is completed by the parts they found in the labyrinth. The machine actually turns out to be a world annihilator, created to destroy their world once it has been completed, and the four mice were sent out to find the missing pieces to it, which were scattered throughout their world in nondescript locations, thus the mice thinking they were on a quest for good actually were the resulting factor in their world being destroyed, a lot like mice seeking out cheese and getting caught in...wait for it...a mouse-trap. Yes, you see this movie is also based off of a childhood board game called... (I'm so giddy) ...MOUSE TRAP! It's so fucking pathetic, can't anyone come up an original fucking thought, we've gotta make movies based off of FUCKING board games! Are you kidding me!? I know you aren't really kidding me because I've seen the FUCKING TRAILERS TO THESE GOD DAMN MOVIES, AND I DON'T FUCKING LIKE IT!!!
What else is coming out at the theaters in the next few months, as if I already didn't have a plan to segue off into another tangent, oh that's right, a movie based off the seafaring strategy game Battleship, where humans are yet again fighting against an alien threat. Look it up, it's-a comin' down the pike.
Here's an idea for a movie. Four mice of differing ethnic backgrounds are forced to build an all-powerful machine (Ooooo!) whose designer is the ruler of a twisting and turning labyrinth of a world where the mice first meet each other, and are on a journey to find the missing pieces in order to finish the construction of this grand, menacing machine, and none of the talking mice-men have a clue as to what the machine will accomplish, or why it's being built in the first place, until the final cogs are in order, and the machine is functioning properly. The ruler of this world is a sinister brute, a real shit; most likely a scraggly looking older mouse who everyone fears because he's so mean and conniving (Boo! Hiss!)
The movie ends with the four mice defeating the older mouse and establishing rule over the kingdom, but not before the machine is completed by the parts they found in the labyrinth. The machine actually turns out to be a world annihilator, created to destroy their world once it has been completed, and the four mice were sent out to find the missing pieces to it, which were scattered throughout their world in nondescript locations, thus the mice thinking they were on a quest for good actually were the resulting factor in their world being destroyed, a lot like mice seeking out cheese and getting caught in...wait for it...a mouse-trap. Yes, you see this movie is also based off of a childhood board game called... (I'm so giddy) ...MOUSE TRAP! It's so fucking pathetic, can't anyone come up an original fucking thought, we've gotta make movies based off of FUCKING board games! Are you kidding me!? I know you aren't really kidding me because I've seen the FUCKING TRAILERS TO THESE GOD DAMN MOVIES, AND I DON'T FUCKING LIKE IT!!!
Friday, July 15, 2011
Young Minds
I was reading my last post -- you know, the one about reviewers with egotistical mindsets in relation to Barbies, and then my ignorance out there in full-view on topic with what's going on in Washington. Those reviewers though; I just can't get the thought of Barbies out of my head. The female reviewer there at the last comparing the other parent's raising of her child with Barbies to What About Bob? when Dr. Leo Marvin played perfectly the hypertensive persona, by character-actor for most of his career, the one-the only Richard Dreyfus tries to communicate in the film with his 17-year-old daughter with a puppet that looks exactly like him -- this thread leader on the discussion board has a daughter who is maybe 6, 7, or 8 years of age, pretty vast difference between 17 and 6, oh fuck yeah, 17 with 8, my land, still a remarkable maturity differentiation. Don't try to rush your child's comprehension of the world by talking to them like they are adults, you don't want to scare your kids.
There is something to be said about the doll-method. You still put up a barrier, a mask if-you-will in having the dolls talk for you. You are still listening and wanting to crack the mind of your 6, 7, 8 year-old, right, like they'd rationally hold back anything had you raised them well enough to not feel like they couldn't tell you the world; that is what we do as functionally adult human beings, even if some of us aren't parents yet. There is effort in the "doll-method" to effortlessly talk openly with your sibling at a young age, maybe first teaching them the importance of being honest and trustworthy. That is the way to open a kid up, to let them know, make them feel that they are trustworthy, that they can trust you and that they learn and find value in becoming able to accept trust from others.
Which leads me to another point I wanted to make now that you know I'm here to point out things. Kids these days...
I'm starting to believe that perhaps they are growing up too quickly. Oh yeah, now that you've all lined up to go down the slide! Here we go. Elaboration. I feel like kids are talked to matter-of-factly, to put it the way that last woman put it, and it sort of makes me sick. I can remember witnessing a conversation that I, as a child, had a lot of questions about which led the conversation to teeter and eventually become awkward due to the questions I asked, and feeling like the adults in the situation were stammering to correctly relate to me, in a childish-way, what was happening in the adult situation. Like explaining Columbine to first-graders. Okay, by the way, these individuals who are referred to as adults were teachers, and they're paid to respond to kids, part of their pay comes from responding to kids, and I can't say it's an easy accomplishment given that I would've faltered in explaining what it was the adults were explaining to me in my scenario, and teachers explaining why Columbine happened and who would want to shoot students, and not even mentioning that students were killing other students and faculty. Try it matter-of-factly and you risk horrifying young minds. Judge me if you will, but I'm thinking that's a pretty risky parenting decision, given that adulthood in children pretty much leads to them finding out about sex with the opposite sex, the same sex, and they'll go about that by how much you taught them about it. You really think overstimulating a mind's growth and maturity by what information is accessible to your children right off the bat is the right way to go about it?
There is something to be said about the doll-method. You still put up a barrier, a mask if-you-will in having the dolls talk for you. You are still listening and wanting to crack the mind of your 6, 7, 8 year-old, right, like they'd rationally hold back anything had you raised them well enough to not feel like they couldn't tell you the world; that is what we do as functionally adult human beings, even if some of us aren't parents yet. There is effort in the "doll-method" to effortlessly talk openly with your sibling at a young age, maybe first teaching them the importance of being honest and trustworthy. That is the way to open a kid up, to let them know, make them feel that they are trustworthy, that they can trust you and that they learn and find value in becoming able to accept trust from others.
Which leads me to another point I wanted to make now that you know I'm here to point out things. Kids these days...
I'm starting to believe that perhaps they are growing up too quickly. Oh yeah, now that you've all lined up to go down the slide! Here we go. Elaboration. I feel like kids are talked to matter-of-factly, to put it the way that last woman put it, and it sort of makes me sick. I can remember witnessing a conversation that I, as a child, had a lot of questions about which led the conversation to teeter and eventually become awkward due to the questions I asked, and feeling like the adults in the situation were stammering to correctly relate to me, in a childish-way, what was happening in the adult situation. Like explaining Columbine to first-graders. Okay, by the way, these individuals who are referred to as adults were teachers, and they're paid to respond to kids, part of their pay comes from responding to kids, and I can't say it's an easy accomplishment given that I would've faltered in explaining what it was the adults were explaining to me in my scenario, and teachers explaining why Columbine happened and who would want to shoot students, and not even mentioning that students were killing other students and faculty. Try it matter-of-factly and you risk horrifying young minds. Judge me if you will, but I'm thinking that's a pretty risky parenting decision, given that adulthood in children pretty much leads to them finding out about sex with the opposite sex, the same sex, and they'll go about that by how much you taught them about it. You really think overstimulating a mind's growth and maturity by what information is accessible to your children right off the bat is the right way to go about it?
Monday, June 27, 2011
Nest Eggs (Our Economy)
It seems cliched, but I've got good news and bad news on the economy, or at least that's how I've always imagined it feels like when something new and disastrous is in store. The bad news: no matter what the panelists say, it's only going to get worse, even if Fox News says your wrong if you think that way. The good news: as long as we run our proposals, in order to right this ship, through the parameters that money doesn't mean anything, how great the losses, we're gonna be out of this recession in 10 years. Just print all the beautiful paper with dead presidents on it you want without gold or basically any value backing it, or, how it's being done now, imagine you've already got the paper, just raise the rate of a number, and our national debt is fixed.
That's right, you see, the American government wants to raise the limit on our national debt in hopes that it will fix our financial problems. We spend too much, that's the problem. So, because we spend so much and made a "boo-boo," let's raise the national debt 1 trillion annually -- that'll cover our asses, or more so the asses of the people who led us into this mess, then we cut more departments, programs and promotions on the federal and state levels, for each state willing to cut their funding to their arts-programs or let's say education budgets, just hacking off huge chunks of money that once went to aid those departments, the more cut the more of a fraudulent write-off it becomes in hopes that the federal government will step in and possibly reward such behavior.
Now that tens of thousands of retirees have lost their social security that they were promised and collected up over the many years they labored for those in the private sector, let's do that same to the veterans who fought for this country's interests in foreign territories; those who might have been injured in the line of duty, let's take their nest eggs to fund this disturbing American greed, and then have the director of social security extend letters of apology out to those expecting a check in the mail, "Sorry, but your money is kinda on hold (not coming) and will be on hiatus (being transferred into another bank account)" Next words should be what are you going to do about it? We've elected leaders who have appointed crooks to the highest departments of the government, and they have in-turn robbed us as was the plan, so they could insure their own prosperity and leave us all holding our dicks, even the girls...with dicks.
See, they're not going to be in office for very long, so they need to assure they'll make money once they're out of office. Al Gore did it. He put his mouth to work advocating a healthy planet, which he received lobbyist kick-backs because that's what he essentially is, a big, green lobbyist -- he's got his nest egg, and it's ever-growing. Legislation enacted by the support of other advocates for a greener Earth, and boom, more money for Al. People aren't interested in bettering our planet, they're interested in bettering their nest eggs.
That's right, you see, the American government wants to raise the limit on our national debt in hopes that it will fix our financial problems. We spend too much, that's the problem. So, because we spend so much and made a "boo-boo," let's raise the national debt 1 trillion annually -- that'll cover our asses, or more so the asses of the people who led us into this mess, then we cut more departments, programs and promotions on the federal and state levels, for each state willing to cut their funding to their arts-programs or let's say education budgets, just hacking off huge chunks of money that once went to aid those departments, the more cut the more of a fraudulent write-off it becomes in hopes that the federal government will step in and possibly reward such behavior.
Now that tens of thousands of retirees have lost their social security that they were promised and collected up over the many years they labored for those in the private sector, let's do that same to the veterans who fought for this country's interests in foreign territories; those who might have been injured in the line of duty, let's take their nest eggs to fund this disturbing American greed, and then have the director of social security extend letters of apology out to those expecting a check in the mail, "Sorry, but your money is kinda on hold (not coming) and will be on hiatus (being transferred into another bank account)" Next words should be what are you going to do about it? We've elected leaders who have appointed crooks to the highest departments of the government, and they have in-turn robbed us as was the plan, so they could insure their own prosperity and leave us all holding our dicks, even the girls...with dicks.
See, they're not going to be in office for very long, so they need to assure they'll make money once they're out of office. Al Gore did it. He put his mouth to work advocating a healthy planet, which he received lobbyist kick-backs because that's what he essentially is, a big, green lobbyist -- he's got his nest egg, and it's ever-growing. Legislation enacted by the support of other advocates for a greener Earth, and boom, more money for Al. People aren't interested in bettering our planet, they're interested in bettering their nest eggs.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Egotistic Reviews, and later, Our Economy
What's the point of always making a point of things? Having YOUR say with everything? Yep, I'm really going to start things like that, fuckin' hypocrite, but I'm tellin' ya, the barging in with your own opinion, or commanding, apprehending, or directly intruding on a topic to voice your own just doesn't settle right with me. Now I'm going to do something I've done in the past, where I've copy and pasted some actual reviews on this blog that don't belong to me -- they're just out there, ready to be plucked. The reviews from others will be in italics, and then I'll comment on why these are so irksome to myself. The topic that these reviews relate towards was Barbie's -- how many is too many for my daughter, considering I buy 6 Barbies for her for Christmas and her birthday, within 10 years that's 120 Barbies. That seems like a lot.
Well, yeah, sounds like you have it all planned out, but you may be forgetting one thing...whether your daughter actually likes Barbies...hehe =D
When I was growing up I got those dreadful things all the time, and hated them. My brother played with them more then me. I really loved stuffed animals, but my parents would always say I didn't need any more, but like clockwork every b-day or christmas I got at least one dang barbie doll, if not more.
My daughter, on the other hand loved Barbies, and she had lots of them and the clothes to go with them. And a lot of Barbies is like, 40! 100 seems like a lot to me, but hey if your daughter does in fact like them and want that many, go for it.
Also, as much as my daughter loved them, she out grew them at 8. She boxed them all up and gave them to a set of kindergarten twin who squealed with delight.
I'm not sure what kind of teaching you are talking about, but I do know that after about the age of 7 or 8 children just want you to talk to them straight up. At least that's how my kids are. My kids do have a much larger vocabulary then most of their peers, and I think it's because I explain things to them all the time and never use a "dumber" way of talking to them then I do adults...But of course, I'm not familiar with what exactly it is that you want to teach with the dolls, so it may work beautifully for you. Good luck! =D
Starts off alright, complimentary, which is positive in giving your 2 cents, but notice the next time she uses YOUR is like the third paragraph; everything else is ME, I, MY. What's even more ignorant, okay the woman's daughter must love Barbies if she's consistently asking for six of them for Christmas and Birthday's. Yes, that's the daughter ASKING for six, the mother didn't start that, and bullshit to those who don't agree. When I wanted to get a friend of mine's kid started on Legos I didn't up and buy him 5 or 6 fucking sets, tear open all the bags, and pour them into a tub and say, "Have at 'em, Johnny!" "Put as many of them in your mouth as you can fit!" I bought one medium-sized set with bigger pieces because he was still only a few years old -- having the toy kill him was not the idea I had in mind, I wanted that kid building and having as much fun with the Legos as I remember having as a child, but the off-chance he despised building shit out of blocks, I didn't waste a gob of money on something he wasn't going to tinker with no mo'. Why would this reviewer even question whether the girl actually liked Barbies, did she not understand the point of the original, she was commenting on how she wasn't enthused over buying so many Barbies, for a child I perceived who LOVED Barbies...Speaking of teaching, somebody should teach this bitch to be humble, and not be so domineering to direct the subject back to yourself all the time. That's being egotistical.
I'm also with Siddova - I HATED Barbies. They just sat on my shelf. My sweet Grandma gave me 2 and made a bunch of outfits for them. She even bought a child size suitcase to put them in! My stuffed animals on the other hand, I had "sleeping spots" for each of them. Now, I have lots of real animals instead of the stuffed ones. lol
My 8 yo daughter has not played with the few Barbies she has. She has got about 5 given to her from about age 5-8 and she's only played with the animals they've come with. The Barbies just sit on the shelf.
I also agree with talking to your kids matter-of-factly and using a larger vocab to teach them. I dunno, but this reminds me of a scene from "What about Bob" when Dr. Marvin is "talking" with his 17 yo dd, Anna, about their feelings, by using puppets that look just like them. LOL!
Good luck also!
I don't know if I agree with using a larger vocab to teach them. A kid is either going to understand the words you are using, or not, and let's hope you have the patience to translate each "new" word you decide to use with them, and that you yourself are intelligent enough to know the full meaning of the word(s) and when they are appropriately used in language. Another person who didn't pay attention to the topic when they were supposed to be reading and comprehending what it is they're READING. Her daughter likes Barbies. YOU didn't, that's why you intruded with your own little piece of life shit, and fuck you for doing so! For all purposes, I don't think I've met a person yet who would care to remember your dislike for Barbies as a kid, you dumb cunt. That wasn't the reply she was looking for! Now, relating that you have 200-300 Barbies yourself is sending the message, it's okay to have 120 Barbies in 10 years, I have this many Barbies (venereal diseases) so your kid won't be the first to reach 120 by 10, I've done better. Egotistical.
Our Economy....
Well, yeah, sounds like you have it all planned out, but you may be forgetting one thing...whether your daughter actually likes Barbies...hehe =D
When I was growing up I got those dreadful things all the time, and hated them. My brother played with them more then me. I really loved stuffed animals, but my parents would always say I didn't need any more, but like clockwork every b-day or christmas I got at least one dang barbie doll, if not more.
My daughter, on the other hand loved Barbies, and she had lots of them and the clothes to go with them. And a lot of Barbies is like, 40! 100 seems like a lot to me, but hey if your daughter does in fact like them and want that many, go for it.
Also, as much as my daughter loved them, she out grew them at 8. She boxed them all up and gave them to a set of kindergarten twin who squealed with delight.
I'm not sure what kind of teaching you are talking about, but I do know that after about the age of 7 or 8 children just want you to talk to them straight up. At least that's how my kids are. My kids do have a much larger vocabulary then most of their peers, and I think it's because I explain things to them all the time and never use a "dumber" way of talking to them then I do adults...But of course, I'm not familiar with what exactly it is that you want to teach with the dolls, so it may work beautifully for you. Good luck! =D
Starts off alright, complimentary, which is positive in giving your 2 cents, but notice the next time she uses YOUR is like the third paragraph; everything else is ME, I, MY. What's even more ignorant, okay the woman's daughter must love Barbies if she's consistently asking for six of them for Christmas and Birthday's. Yes, that's the daughter ASKING for six, the mother didn't start that, and bullshit to those who don't agree. When I wanted to get a friend of mine's kid started on Legos I didn't up and buy him 5 or 6 fucking sets, tear open all the bags, and pour them into a tub and say, "Have at 'em, Johnny!" "Put as many of them in your mouth as you can fit!" I bought one medium-sized set with bigger pieces because he was still only a few years old -- having the toy kill him was not the idea I had in mind, I wanted that kid building and having as much fun with the Legos as I remember having as a child, but the off-chance he despised building shit out of blocks, I didn't waste a gob of money on something he wasn't going to tinker with no mo'. Why would this reviewer even question whether the girl actually liked Barbies, did she not understand the point of the original, she was commenting on how she wasn't enthused over buying so many Barbies, for a child I perceived who LOVED Barbies...Speaking of teaching, somebody should teach this bitch to be humble, and not be so domineering to direct the subject back to yourself all the time. That's being egotistical.
I'm also with Siddova - I HATED Barbies. They just sat on my shelf. My sweet Grandma gave me 2 and made a bunch of outfits for them. She even bought a child size suitcase to put them in! My stuffed animals on the other hand, I had "sleeping spots" for each of them. Now, I have lots of real animals instead of the stuffed ones. lol
My 8 yo daughter has not played with the few Barbies she has. She has got about 5 given to her from about age 5-8 and she's only played with the animals they've come with. The Barbies just sit on the shelf.
I also agree with talking to your kids matter-of-factly and using a larger vocab to teach them. I dunno, but this reminds me of a scene from "What about Bob" when Dr. Marvin is "talking" with his 17 yo dd, Anna, about their feelings, by using puppets that look just like them. LOL!
Good luck also!
I don't know if I agree with using a larger vocab to teach them. A kid is either going to understand the words you are using, or not, and let's hope you have the patience to translate each "new" word you decide to use with them, and that you yourself are intelligent enough to know the full meaning of the word(s) and when they are appropriately used in language. Another person who didn't pay attention to the topic when they were supposed to be reading and comprehending what it is they're READING. Her daughter likes Barbies. YOU didn't, that's why you intruded with your own little piece of life shit, and fuck you for doing so! For all purposes, I don't think I've met a person yet who would care to remember your dislike for Barbies as a kid, you dumb cunt. That wasn't the reply she was looking for! Now, relating that you have 200-300 Barbies yourself is sending the message, it's okay to have 120 Barbies in 10 years, I have this many Barbies (venereal diseases) so your kid won't be the first to reach 120 by 10, I've done better. Egotistical.
Our Economy....
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Injuries
My sciatica is kicking my ass again this year. The sciatic nerve being that pesky string like that of a yo-yo string that keeps my sitting position in check. Seriously, you move a leg wrong when it's acting up, and you get a sharp pain like the buzzing on the game-board for Operation! Fuck, didn't know I couldn't stretch my legs out anymore on the couch, or cross them for that matter while sitting upright. Ever get stuck hunched over drying your legs after taking a bath -- lower back, you'd much prefer to stay in this uncomfortable position than to let me straighten; I would think this would be worse (FOLD YOURSELF IN THE MIDDLE) I'll just go to work like this, bare ass naked and still partially wet.
This affliction is one I've weathered ever since I was too young to be incapacitated with a back-injury such as this; it comes and goes, either resulting in me finally biting the bullet and going to my fattist chiropractor for a treatment, or myself remaining so fucked and miserable. It occurred to me that being down in the back as I am is not necessarily the shittiest injury that pesters oneself, in fact, more than anything else in the world, this includes myself being tied and thrown over the Royal Gorge bridge, I would hate to be a basketball star whose excuse for not playing is a lousy finger, or a pitcher, let's call him Jorge De La Rosa, and let's say he plays for the Colorado Rockies, whose nagging pursuer, and rationalization for his lousy pitching that's not blamed on being left handed (Round up all these lefties and take them to concentration camps) is a blister that's bugged him. A blister.
So it's on his pitching hand, so what if it's even located on the joint of his middle finger, maybe even the tip, and arguably on the most important finger used in throwing a baseball, you remain partially on the DL because of a blister. Sorry I couldn't make it to jury duty yesterday, my earlobe was red. I had an ingrown hair on the inside of my ear.
What if Mike Tyson would've told Frank Bruno -- no question regarding Bruno as the best British fighter EVER -- but Mike had to cancel the fight at the last moment saying; "Ss'ary B'uno, but whilst I's workout 's'morning, I got'a ssscratch on my b'ssscep, and it bled for like three minutesss. I gotta bow out'f the fight." 1989 Mike Tyson in the clear peak of his game and he quits the match to Bruno giving up his Heavyweight title, and one of the best surges-to-a-knockout against a legend we'll probably ever witness all because of a fucking scratch; please! That's like finding out all along that Superman was wearing a silk teddy under his uniform.
And poor Kobe...honestly, you're a cheat if you have to wear a brace on your finger every game in order to straighten your shot -- oh, but it's a petulant finger sprain. Now I hear he's playing in game 5 after the foot injury he suffered last Sunday -- to what, make up for being a wuss, no clearly the man was faking. Jesus...
I end this quell of sports posts, two, by relating some stupidity. You can't say NO THANK YOU at the drive-thru. You can blatantly and bluntly say, "NO!" A 'no' which resides within it, "what are you, fuckin' stupid!?" Not even if you space the two phrases a great distance away from each other as in, "No... (three seconds) ...thank you." Whatever you have just declined you will get. I made the mistake of say, "No, I don't believe I will," when asked if I wanted sauce at a Taco Bueno. I should have known by a lengthy pause and the muttering of, "O-kay," from the drive-thru attendant that there was a miscommunication. I get my order, with a cup of brown sauce I've never seen or tasted in my life from a fast food chain. It was spicy and it had meat in it. They had given me a cup of grease. It was literally run-off from the pan, skillet, contraption they cooked the beef in. And I ate it.
I begin this curious story like I do all my regular posts. Just a moment ago, I received a call of inquisitiveness by a woman already enrolled in one of our computer workshops the library offers each month. She wanted to know the time, and whether the date on her calender was correct in regards to the class. The date I gave her, this Thursday, corresponded to the one circled or notated on her calender. Then she asked if the class were held still upstairs in the computer lab, or, "where exactly are we to go for this class," in which I told her the basement where we have a separate training-lab, that's the name of it, The Training Lab. She further reiterate whether it was the basement, and oh, how she had never been in the basement. It's a sub-level, not Disney World; not EPCOT. There's no free sub and soft drink with the purchase of a greater or equal sub involved here! I said yes, the basement.
"Well then, how do I get downstairs?"
"The elevator between adult fiction and the children's department, on the south wall will allow you access to the basement, and the training lab is maybe three feet and to your left, in front of you out of the elevator."
"Oh, so out a-ways from the bathrooms, and to my left; alright, well I'm glad I called and asked that."
Wait, how do you know the bathrooms are to the left from the elevator in the basement, didn't you just say you've never been in the basement?
So then I wondered, maybe she meant from her left in the elevator on the first floor, there's bathrooms located a little ways from the ones in the basement, on top of each other, but perhaps more askew. But then why out from the bathrooms and to the left, why not down away from the bathrooms, or perpendicular to the elevator. The way she said how it was from the bathrooms, the emphasis being "out", or "down" "away" from the bathrooms. There's something there. Why would she lie about being in our basement before?
Does it appear that restricted? I guess the employees do look a bit stealthy, conspicuous like spies when we flash our identity badges over the scanner-lock on the door, and slink down the steps to the break room located in the basement once cleared and given access. I'd feel uncomfortable pressing the letter B button in the elevator for basement, or at least a bit uneasy...no I wouldn't. Your just riding the elevator to the sub-level of the library for a free computer class.
This affliction is one I've weathered ever since I was too young to be incapacitated with a back-injury such as this; it comes and goes, either resulting in me finally biting the bullet and going to my fattist chiropractor for a treatment, or myself remaining so fucked and miserable. It occurred to me that being down in the back as I am is not necessarily the shittiest injury that pesters oneself, in fact, more than anything else in the world, this includes myself being tied and thrown over the Royal Gorge bridge, I would hate to be a basketball star whose excuse for not playing is a lousy finger, or a pitcher, let's call him Jorge De La Rosa, and let's say he plays for the Colorado Rockies, whose nagging pursuer, and rationalization for his lousy pitching that's not blamed on being left handed (Round up all these lefties and take them to concentration camps) is a blister that's bugged him. A blister.
So it's on his pitching hand, so what if it's even located on the joint of his middle finger, maybe even the tip, and arguably on the most important finger used in throwing a baseball, you remain partially on the DL because of a blister. Sorry I couldn't make it to jury duty yesterday, my earlobe was red. I had an ingrown hair on the inside of my ear.
What if Mike Tyson would've told Frank Bruno -- no question regarding Bruno as the best British fighter EVER -- but Mike had to cancel the fight at the last moment saying; "Ss'ary B'uno, but whilst I's workout 's'morning, I got'a ssscratch on my b'ssscep, and it bled for like three minutesss. I gotta bow out'f the fight." 1989 Mike Tyson in the clear peak of his game and he quits the match to Bruno giving up his Heavyweight title, and one of the best surges-to-a-knockout against a legend we'll probably ever witness all because of a fucking scratch; please! That's like finding out all along that Superman was wearing a silk teddy under his uniform.
And poor Kobe...honestly, you're a cheat if you have to wear a brace on your finger every game in order to straighten your shot -- oh, but it's a petulant finger sprain. Now I hear he's playing in game 5 after the foot injury he suffered last Sunday -- to what, make up for being a wuss, no clearly the man was faking. Jesus...
I end this quell of sports posts, two, by relating some stupidity. You can't say NO THANK YOU at the drive-thru. You can blatantly and bluntly say, "NO!" A 'no' which resides within it, "what are you, fuckin' stupid!?" Not even if you space the two phrases a great distance away from each other as in, "No... (three seconds) ...thank you." Whatever you have just declined you will get. I made the mistake of say, "No, I don't believe I will," when asked if I wanted sauce at a Taco Bueno. I should have known by a lengthy pause and the muttering of, "O-kay," from the drive-thru attendant that there was a miscommunication. I get my order, with a cup of brown sauce I've never seen or tasted in my life from a fast food chain. It was spicy and it had meat in it. They had given me a cup of grease. It was literally run-off from the pan, skillet, contraption they cooked the beef in. And I ate it.
I begin this curious story like I do all my regular posts. Just a moment ago, I received a call of inquisitiveness by a woman already enrolled in one of our computer workshops the library offers each month. She wanted to know the time, and whether the date on her calender was correct in regards to the class. The date I gave her, this Thursday, corresponded to the one circled or notated on her calender. Then she asked if the class were held still upstairs in the computer lab, or, "where exactly are we to go for this class," in which I told her the basement where we have a separate training-lab, that's the name of it, The Training Lab. She further reiterate whether it was the basement, and oh, how she had never been in the basement. It's a sub-level, not Disney World; not EPCOT. There's no free sub and soft drink with the purchase of a greater or equal sub involved here! I said yes, the basement.
"Well then, how do I get downstairs?"
"The elevator between adult fiction and the children's department, on the south wall will allow you access to the basement, and the training lab is maybe three feet and to your left, in front of you out of the elevator."
"Oh, so out a-ways from the bathrooms, and to my left; alright, well I'm glad I called and asked that."
Wait, how do you know the bathrooms are to the left from the elevator in the basement, didn't you just say you've never been in the basement?
So then I wondered, maybe she meant from her left in the elevator on the first floor, there's bathrooms located a little ways from the ones in the basement, on top of each other, but perhaps more askew. But then why out from the bathrooms and to the left, why not down away from the bathrooms, or perpendicular to the elevator. The way she said how it was from the bathrooms, the emphasis being "out", or "down" "away" from the bathrooms. There's something there. Why would she lie about being in our basement before?
Does it appear that restricted? I guess the employees do look a bit stealthy, conspicuous like spies when we flash our identity badges over the scanner-lock on the door, and slink down the steps to the break room located in the basement once cleared and given access. I'd feel uncomfortable pressing the letter B button in the elevator for basement, or at least a bit uneasy...no I wouldn't. Your just riding the elevator to the sub-level of the library for a free computer class.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
More to Come Shortly
I couldn't think of anything to write, and it had been a while since I wrote anything. I figured, why not a sports-post? I've done so in the past and it seemed to work, so without further a due, my two cents on the NBA.
Checking out the scores for the games last night on the ol' ESPN, I caught an editorial piece on who benefited the MELODRAMA, the Knicks or the Nuggets. The general consensus, which matches my belief as well, is that the Nuggets are rolling where as the Knicks are also rolling, down a fucking hill and into a swamp with a bullet in their gut.
The Nuggets have streaked, and immediately after acquiring Felton, Chandler, and Gallinari, 7 games right after the fact the trade cost them more than Melo, but their leader and spiritual, inspirational center, Chauncey Billups. Well, at least their franchise and the icing to their cookie-crunch; some people might argue their coach George Karl is their center. He's the fulcrum to their wins-and-losses teeter totter, just look at the Finals last year when Karl was absent due to a third round of chemo to battle throat cancer, where they bit it in the first round of the Western Conference Playoffs -- All in the past for a team who beat the San Antonio Spurs last night by 3 for the first time all season.
What's changed? Well, for starters, the Nuggets are second in the league in defense behind Chicago. Last night, Al Harrington was playing lights-out. If you guard Felton, and Lawson is in, the two play off each other, so you sacrifice ground by planting two guys on him, and a third watching the wing, but Nene or Harrington is going to take the inside. Go ahead and foul, they'll make up the points either way.
Manu Ginobili commented that the Nuggets are a deeper team that will give you a game until the end. I don't understand, San Antonio is the same way, perhaps Gregg Popovich isn't smart enough to give some of his bench warmers a chance on the floor because I've always considered the Spurs to be one of the deepest teams. You've got Anderson, Bonner, Blair, Neal, Tony Parker when he's playing, and Splitter. Then there's Duncan who is injured. I put Parker in the back-up bracket because of his increasing limited minutes on the court.
Side bar for a split second: I think you Spurs need to speed up your game. Just a bunch of old and slow basketball All-Stars waiting for their Centrum Complete to kick in, or that Aleeve they took before the game. This coming from a guy who still says the Spurs will be holding that trophy at the end of May, but you leave yourselves open for a loss to Denver like this now, and it's gonna be a uphill battle when you meet them in the second or third round of the playoffs, I'm just sayin'. Although, the way OKC is playing like a separated Siamese-twin of the Celtics with newly acclimated center Perkins, and Westbrook taking time in the off-season to enter boot camp with the same trainer MVP candidate, and let's face it, winner Derrick Rose has, shaping Russell into a more consistent, dominating player. Look out for that fuckin' Durantula to own your game -- I'm getting really excited for these playoffs, more so in the west than east, and that's saying something Lebron, Bosh, Wade, Howard, K.G., Allen, Carmelo, Billups, Rose. But hey, perhaps they're resting up.
Checking out the scores for the games last night on the ol' ESPN, I caught an editorial piece on who benefited the MELODRAMA, the Knicks or the Nuggets. The general consensus, which matches my belief as well, is that the Nuggets are rolling where as the Knicks are also rolling, down a fucking hill and into a swamp with a bullet in their gut.
The Nuggets have streaked, and immediately after acquiring Felton, Chandler, and Gallinari, 7 games right after the fact the trade cost them more than Melo, but their leader and spiritual, inspirational center, Chauncey Billups. Well, at least their franchise and the icing to their cookie-crunch; some people might argue their coach George Karl is their center. He's the fulcrum to their wins-and-losses teeter totter, just look at the Finals last year when Karl was absent due to a third round of chemo to battle throat cancer, where they bit it in the first round of the Western Conference Playoffs -- All in the past for a team who beat the San Antonio Spurs last night by 3 for the first time all season.
What's changed? Well, for starters, the Nuggets are second in the league in defense behind Chicago. Last night, Al Harrington was playing lights-out. If you guard Felton, and Lawson is in, the two play off each other, so you sacrifice ground by planting two guys on him, and a third watching the wing, but Nene or Harrington is going to take the inside. Go ahead and foul, they'll make up the points either way.
Manu Ginobili commented that the Nuggets are a deeper team that will give you a game until the end. I don't understand, San Antonio is the same way, perhaps Gregg Popovich isn't smart enough to give some of his bench warmers a chance on the floor because I've always considered the Spurs to be one of the deepest teams. You've got Anderson, Bonner, Blair, Neal, Tony Parker when he's playing, and Splitter. Then there's Duncan who is injured. I put Parker in the back-up bracket because of his increasing limited minutes on the court.
Side bar for a split second: I think you Spurs need to speed up your game. Just a bunch of old and slow basketball All-Stars waiting for their Centrum Complete to kick in, or that Aleeve they took before the game. This coming from a guy who still says the Spurs will be holding that trophy at the end of May, but you leave yourselves open for a loss to Denver like this now, and it's gonna be a uphill battle when you meet them in the second or third round of the playoffs, I'm just sayin'. Although, the way OKC is playing like a separated Siamese-twin of the Celtics with newly acclimated center Perkins, and Westbrook taking time in the off-season to enter boot camp with the same trainer MVP candidate, and let's face it, winner Derrick Rose has, shaping Russell into a more consistent, dominating player. Look out for that fuckin' Durantula to own your game -- I'm getting really excited for these playoffs, more so in the west than east, and that's saying something Lebron, Bosh, Wade, Howard, K.G., Allen, Carmelo, Billups, Rose. But hey, perhaps they're resting up.
Thursday, January 06, 2011
Frustration
I just got off the phone with a woman asking about computer classes for the month of January that my place of business offers to the public. Here's, word-for-word, the banter between myself and the caller:
Me: "Computer lab, how may I help you?"
Caller: "Are you offering any 'Basics' classes this month?"
Me: "No we are not. We usually have two sessions every month, the beginning of every month, but this month the instructor focused on classes relating to specific operating systems, and must have decided not to include a basics session or sessions for this month."
Caller: *pause* -- which, by the way, should have just been a long, drawn out sigh. Frustration should be the topic of this post, I'll add.
Caller: "Why aren't you doing the Basics class this month?"
Me: "The instructor must not have wanted to, I don't know. I don't make up what classes are offered, I only sign the people up for them. Plus, I've heard she (the instructor, for you readers) just had surgery, so that might have something to do with it."
Caller: "Oh." *another pause*
"Will you be offering a Basics class for February?"
Me: "I am not sure, but the Basics class is a staple of our workshops, whereas, we tend to hold it every month, usually around the beginning of each month."
Caller: "Can you tell me when those are?"
Me: "New schedules come out every third Wednesday. We won't know until then."
Caller: *longer pause then previous* "You don't know the days for those Basics classes?"
Me: "Nope. I won't see that schedule until you see that schedule when it is ran in the newspaper the third Wednesday in this month."
Caller: *pause* "I'll have to call back then I suppose?"
Me: "Yes, and in fact, let me tell you the exact date in which you can call back."
At this point I checked on a calender of when that schedule would be out.
"It'll be the 19th. On January 19th we will have the February schedule out."
Caller: *pause* "And I can't sign up for a Basics class for next month?"
Me: "I don't know when or if we will be holding a Basics class for next month, nor do I know the times for each session. That schedule hasn't even been made-up or printed. I would advise calling back on the 19th, when we can register you."
Caller: *pause* "O^-kay..."
Me: "You seem confused on the information I've just given you."
Caller: "I am confused. You're saying I 'can't' put my name down for a spot in next month's class?"
Me: "That class hasn't been created..."
Caller: "But you could take my name down and number, and once it's 'created' move me into the class."
Me: "So how are you supposed to know when to come in?"
Caller: *pause* "I give you my number..."
Me: "Fair enough, but that's not our policy. The sign-up policy for our classes states that you, the patron, must call us when the schedules are released to the public. Every third Wednesday of every month, a new schedule comes out. That is when you can call and schedule an appointment."
Caller: *pause* "I'll call back on the 19th. Thank you..."
What did she want me to say!? Christ, I fucking told you, Jan-UARY nine-teenth, the February classes are released to the public. I don't have that schedule in front of me, and I'm not aware of what is being offered February or the coming months in the future. If I could predict the future, I'd probably join President Obama and his strong-breath abilities, and we would go fight crime together. Call back January 19th, or after that date for the February classes. A lot like next month, if you were to show further interest in what we offer to the public, you'd call in around the middle of the month of February (just my assumption) j.m.a.
People like to hear yes, get their way, or walk all over whoever they are dealing with, most often because the chaos they create in their own lives embitters them or has pushed them over that brink between a sane person and a bat-shit crazy person.
Another load of crap! Are you the type of person who prints out an important document which lists your bank account number and social security number, along with other extremely viable personal information, then you wait to pick it up at the printer at a public place where anyone can print their documents retaining to some importance? Well, you're a moron.
Patron: "I just printed some statements from my bank, and it said it would be three pages, but looking at what's left at the printer, I only got two sheets, and I'm missing the first sheet...which has my social security number and bank account number on it."
Previous to her coming up to my desk, I watched her click her mouse on the print screen, and the printer ran off her copies, as it did copies for other patrons printing the same time as she did. Two patrons came up to the printer to retrieve their shit; I was answering a patron's question while also taking money for other people's prints. There was a fifteen minute delay wherein she could have picked up her papers. COULD + HAVE. I would have printed off such an important thing as a bank statement at home, but in a public place, let's say I didn't have a printer at home, I would have timed it where, once I hit print on the print screen at the public place, I'd get my ass out of my chair and over to the printer to avoid the dilemma she just put herself in.
Me: "Scheisse...is there any way you could print off the first page again?"
Remember, I was in the middle of doing shit, busy work, and her complaining was falling on deaf ears -- ears that were dead to the world around them on a head with a brain in it that was fed up at this point by other people's chaos.
Patron: "It has my personal information on it...and I don't know where that sheet went..."
Me: "I see your point...check the recycle just in case it was stuffed in there by someone else; matter of fact, check the trash cans as well. If whoever picked it up on accident realizes that wasn't one of their prints, they could have trashed it."
She checks. It doesn't seem to be in those two locations.
Patron: "You know, the guy on computer N picked up the sheets at the printer right before I went up there to get mine. I'll check with him."
Me: "Good idea. I was in the middle of something and couldn't tell who picked up what."
She checks with him, and he's oblivious to her request. She bugs me a third time.
Patron: "He says he doesn't have it, but I know he has to have it, he picked up the sheets that wore up at the printer."
Me: "Well, you did exactly what I would have done, which was ask him if he may have taken the page. I can't really do anything else. I can't search him -- that's not appropriate."
Oh course, by now she's pissed at me because I wouldn't do anything. I couldn't. I can't lay a finger on these people, or reach in their pockets, and really, what's the point of asking him to empty his pockets. It's a privacy issue nonetheless, he doesn't have to cooperate.
Again, to reiterate, what should she have done? After pressing print, and hearing the printer warm up and gather the essential materials, ink, strength to poop out said ink on the page, whip the gremlins to stir them around to work the moving parts, to feed the paper through the machine and get you your print, this brod should've gotten off her ass, and strolled on over to the printer. I mean, a bank statement -- important fucking shit!
What adds to my definition of frustration is that this person was not the only person who had a problem with retrieving their printouts after printing them. It's not my job to sit at my desk and monitor whether the correct person picks up their printouts, or simply walks out of here with someone else's. Be fucking responsible for your own things. Didn't Sesame Street do a segment on that vary topic? Not frustration because I'd bet Oscar the Grouch would have a thing or two to do with that, considering he lives in a dumpster, but responsibility for your property. Be responsible. Act like you have a brain. Use common sense...wait, THAT is what's missing, huh?
Me: "Computer lab, how may I help you?"
Caller: "Are you offering any 'Basics' classes this month?"
Me: "No we are not. We usually have two sessions every month, the beginning of every month, but this month the instructor focused on classes relating to specific operating systems, and must have decided not to include a basics session or sessions for this month."
Caller: *pause* -- which, by the way, should have just been a long, drawn out sigh. Frustration should be the topic of this post, I'll add.
Caller: "Why aren't you doing the Basics class this month?"
Me: "The instructor must not have wanted to, I don't know. I don't make up what classes are offered, I only sign the people up for them. Plus, I've heard she (the instructor, for you readers) just had surgery, so that might have something to do with it."
Caller: "Oh." *another pause*
"Will you be offering a Basics class for February?"
Me: "I am not sure, but the Basics class is a staple of our workshops, whereas, we tend to hold it every month, usually around the beginning of each month."
Caller: "Can you tell me when those are?"
Me: "New schedules come out every third Wednesday. We won't know until then."
Caller: *longer pause then previous* "You don't know the days for those Basics classes?"
Me: "Nope. I won't see that schedule until you see that schedule when it is ran in the newspaper the third Wednesday in this month."
Caller: *pause* "I'll have to call back then I suppose?"
Me: "Yes, and in fact, let me tell you the exact date in which you can call back."
At this point I checked on a calender of when that schedule would be out.
"It'll be the 19th. On January 19th we will have the February schedule out."
Caller: *pause* "And I can't sign up for a Basics class for next month?"
Me: "I don't know when or if we will be holding a Basics class for next month, nor do I know the times for each session. That schedule hasn't even been made-up or printed. I would advise calling back on the 19th, when we can register you."
Caller: *pause* "O^-kay..."
Me: "You seem confused on the information I've just given you."
Caller: "I am confused. You're saying I 'can't' put my name down for a spot in next month's class?"
Me: "That class hasn't been created..."
Caller: "But you could take my name down and number, and once it's 'created' move me into the class."
Me: "So how are you supposed to know when to come in?"
Caller: *pause* "I give you my number..."
Me: "Fair enough, but that's not our policy. The sign-up policy for our classes states that you, the patron, must call us when the schedules are released to the public. Every third Wednesday of every month, a new schedule comes out. That is when you can call and schedule an appointment."
Caller: *pause* "I'll call back on the 19th. Thank you..."
What did she want me to say!? Christ, I fucking told you, Jan-UARY nine-teenth, the February classes are released to the public. I don't have that schedule in front of me, and I'm not aware of what is being offered February or the coming months in the future. If I could predict the future, I'd probably join President Obama and his strong-breath abilities, and we would go fight crime together. Call back January 19th, or after that date for the February classes. A lot like next month, if you were to show further interest in what we offer to the public, you'd call in around the middle of the month of February (just my assumption) j.m.a.
People like to hear yes, get their way, or walk all over whoever they are dealing with, most often because the chaos they create in their own lives embitters them or has pushed them over that brink between a sane person and a bat-shit crazy person.
Another load of crap! Are you the type of person who prints out an important document which lists your bank account number and social security number, along with other extremely viable personal information, then you wait to pick it up at the printer at a public place where anyone can print their documents retaining to some importance? Well, you're a moron.
Patron: "I just printed some statements from my bank, and it said it would be three pages, but looking at what's left at the printer, I only got two sheets, and I'm missing the first sheet...which has my social security number and bank account number on it."
Previous to her coming up to my desk, I watched her click her mouse on the print screen, and the printer ran off her copies, as it did copies for other patrons printing the same time as she did. Two patrons came up to the printer to retrieve their shit; I was answering a patron's question while also taking money for other people's prints. There was a fifteen minute delay wherein she could have picked up her papers. COULD + HAVE. I would have printed off such an important thing as a bank statement at home, but in a public place, let's say I didn't have a printer at home, I would have timed it where, once I hit print on the print screen at the public place, I'd get my ass out of my chair and over to the printer to avoid the dilemma she just put herself in.
Me: "Scheisse...is there any way you could print off the first page again?"
Remember, I was in the middle of doing shit, busy work, and her complaining was falling on deaf ears -- ears that were dead to the world around them on a head with a brain in it that was fed up at this point by other people's chaos.
Patron: "It has my personal information on it...and I don't know where that sheet went..."
Me: "I see your point...check the recycle just in case it was stuffed in there by someone else; matter of fact, check the trash cans as well. If whoever picked it up on accident realizes that wasn't one of their prints, they could have trashed it."
She checks. It doesn't seem to be in those two locations.
Patron: "You know, the guy on computer N picked up the sheets at the printer right before I went up there to get mine. I'll check with him."
Me: "Good idea. I was in the middle of something and couldn't tell who picked up what."
She checks with him, and he's oblivious to her request. She bugs me a third time.
Patron: "He says he doesn't have it, but I know he has to have it, he picked up the sheets that wore up at the printer."
Me: "Well, you did exactly what I would have done, which was ask him if he may have taken the page. I can't really do anything else. I can't search him -- that's not appropriate."
Oh course, by now she's pissed at me because I wouldn't do anything. I couldn't. I can't lay a finger on these people, or reach in their pockets, and really, what's the point of asking him to empty his pockets. It's a privacy issue nonetheless, he doesn't have to cooperate.
Again, to reiterate, what should she have done? After pressing print, and hearing the printer warm up and gather the essential materials, ink, strength to poop out said ink on the page, whip the gremlins to stir them around to work the moving parts, to feed the paper through the machine and get you your print, this brod should've gotten off her ass, and strolled on over to the printer. I mean, a bank statement -- important fucking shit!
What adds to my definition of frustration is that this person was not the only person who had a problem with retrieving their printouts after printing them. It's not my job to sit at my desk and monitor whether the correct person picks up their printouts, or simply walks out of here with someone else's. Be fucking responsible for your own things. Didn't Sesame Street do a segment on that vary topic? Not frustration because I'd bet Oscar the Grouch would have a thing or two to do with that, considering he lives in a dumpster, but responsibility for your property. Be responsible. Act like you have a brain. Use common sense...wait, THAT is what's missing, huh?
Monday, December 13, 2010
Insertion Points
"Monetary stimulus doesn't create jobs or economic growth, but does increase government power and reduce individual freedom." -- James A. Dorn, Cato Vice President for Academic Affairs.
Just a little something I wanted to share, considering the passage of the Bush tax cut extension, and another year of the bullshit stimulus packages (fuckin' hand outs!) I'll be letting the business manager where I work know that I want to take that much more out for federal during this next year. You know, see how much we're supposed to "get" and marginalize how much a month should be deducted or sent back because I don't want anything to do with stimulus.
How does that even help anyway? Sure, you meet the 2% federal target for inflation, or I suppose you do, how are we informed about what happens in the High Castle without alternative media and anti-government conceal-and-carry card holder bloggers (insert chuckles from like-minded Americans) That was a joke, btw. And that inflation-thing, not always correct to what I've just illiterate, but a hell of a lot better than the 5.6% we saw in July 2008 or the 10% average in the year 1974. But enough of that soap-box rant, I want to talk about absurd abbreviations.
Ftw, rtfo; I bring this to light, as I have in a past blog because for the better part of this year, when these two phrases were synonymous to I'm so cool I keep up with Twitter lingo, I seriously thought these two expressions were some arbitrary purposeful misconfiguration of what the fuck (wtf) and rolling on the floor laughing (rotfl, or once more shortened to rotf) Ftw is short for For The Win.
It didn't make sense to me why someone would say fuck the what, and I'm guessing ? after that phrase, as if to say, "I'm going to fuck the what?" Maybe it's appropriate to sport one of these !? to emphasize shock-value. Rolling the floor on -- maybe cute if you were Superman's mirrored evil-doer Bizarro and you flew backwards and said hello when you left a room. I don't mind this expression considering it actually stands for Rocking the fuck out, which I do...rock the fuck out...I'm a rockin' stud...like a rock...with my cock out.. ... .... (laughing) somebody change the subject now, please, so I don't lose face.
Humility, lady and gentleman, my one reader or perhaps he's brought a girl to join us, not so much because we're gonna tag-team fuck her; I like to think I'm entertaining, I like to think he thinks I'm entertaining, maybe I'm so thought of as entertaining he's brought a friend to view my blog, maybe they're both chicks, dammit, I really need to end this sentence.
Does this sound familiar? I hope so. It's an almost complete word-for-word of my other abbreviation post. How do I know this? Patience, quality, humility, and calculation, with hope as the whip-topping, even though pie is better as pie, fuck that a la mode, x-times dessert preference, you've got pie, there's your dessert. Four pieces of a pie that I formulate makes us some cool-ass civil people. Patience, a huge word with many meanings, many things come into account when being patient. Quality, or care, forethought, stringing together with appreciation, and gratitude. That's correct, this shit's string-theory! It truly spreads out to more great and greater things. Humility because we have to accept short-comings (I have a dirty mind when it comes to short-comings) Sometimes, our flaws are pointed out to us, and we begin calculation, or review/inner-reflection (breaking ourselves down)
I say that last thing like everyone is so lethargic these days that that's what we do anymore instead of analysis; our mind's just tear ourselves down. It can't be that bad, right? I mean, it's not like we're losing interpersonal communication between one another due to popular social networks, that now when you want to mingle, it's a few clicks and you're on the internet with your buddies. Wanna socialize and interact with your buddies? Go to the newest installments of the Xbox or Playstation. Depending on who the person is to you, we don't actually care what happens to them. A friend you met while playing Call of Duty isn't going to be missed if they get killed in a car accident, just another person you use in order to play a certain map (get something you want) that again, because that person isn't there with you, personally, it's cool to go out driving and purposefully annoy the other people around you; cut them off in traffic because they got in your way, and there's no way they might try to retaliate, like that news story of the teenager who got shot in the head at a red light for looking at the driver beside him, supposedly the wrong way at looking toward that other individual. Unintentional wrong looks in traffic get you killed. Do we really care about one another anymore, most of us?
Listening to people. I might nod, perhaps look unenthusiastic, I might rub my eye, look off in another direction; I'm still listening. In fact, question me if you must -- what was I just fucking telling you? That velociraptor's make the best talk-show hosts. Why was that? Because unlike all the other theropod dinosaurs, the velociraptor looks the most like Johnny Carson without a sport coat, unless, of course, you dress the dinosaur up and give him a wig...
Just a little something I wanted to share, considering the passage of the Bush tax cut extension, and another year of the bullshit stimulus packages (fuckin' hand outs!) I'll be letting the business manager where I work know that I want to take that much more out for federal during this next year. You know, see how much we're supposed to "get" and marginalize how much a month should be deducted or sent back because I don't want anything to do with stimulus.
How does that even help anyway? Sure, you meet the 2% federal target for inflation, or I suppose you do, how are we informed about what happens in the High Castle without alternative media and anti-government conceal-and-carry card holder bloggers (insert chuckles from like-minded Americans) That was a joke, btw. And that inflation-thing, not always correct to what I've just illiterate, but a hell of a lot better than the 5.6% we saw in July 2008 or the 10% average in the year 1974. But enough of that soap-box rant, I want to talk about absurd abbreviations.
Ftw, rtfo; I bring this to light, as I have in a past blog because for the better part of this year, when these two phrases were synonymous to I'm so cool I keep up with Twitter lingo, I seriously thought these two expressions were some arbitrary purposeful misconfiguration of what the fuck (wtf) and rolling on the floor laughing (rotfl, or once more shortened to rotf) Ftw is short for For The Win.
It didn't make sense to me why someone would say fuck the what, and I'm guessing ? after that phrase, as if to say, "I'm going to fuck the what?" Maybe it's appropriate to sport one of these !? to emphasize shock-value. Rolling the floor on -- maybe cute if you were Superman's mirrored evil-doer Bizarro and you flew backwards and said hello when you left a room. I don't mind this expression considering it actually stands for Rocking the fuck out, which I do...rock the fuck out...I'm a rockin' stud...like a rock...with my cock out.. ... .... (laughing) somebody change the subject now, please, so I don't lose face.
Humility, lady and gentleman, my one reader or perhaps he's brought a girl to join us, not so much because we're gonna tag-team fuck her; I like to think I'm entertaining, I like to think he thinks I'm entertaining, maybe I'm so thought of as entertaining he's brought a friend to view my blog, maybe they're both chicks, dammit, I really need to end this sentence.
Does this sound familiar? I hope so. It's an almost complete word-for-word of my other abbreviation post. How do I know this? Patience, quality, humility, and calculation, with hope as the whip-topping, even though pie is better as pie, fuck that a la mode, x-times dessert preference, you've got pie, there's your dessert. Four pieces of a pie that I formulate makes us some cool-ass civil people. Patience, a huge word with many meanings, many things come into account when being patient. Quality, or care, forethought, stringing together with appreciation, and gratitude. That's correct, this shit's string-theory! It truly spreads out to more great and greater things. Humility because we have to accept short-comings (I have a dirty mind when it comes to short-comings) Sometimes, our flaws are pointed out to us, and we begin calculation, or review/inner-reflection (breaking ourselves down)
I say that last thing like everyone is so lethargic these days that that's what we do anymore instead of analysis; our mind's just tear ourselves down. It can't be that bad, right? I mean, it's not like we're losing interpersonal communication between one another due to popular social networks, that now when you want to mingle, it's a few clicks and you're on the internet with your buddies. Wanna socialize and interact with your buddies? Go to the newest installments of the Xbox or Playstation. Depending on who the person is to you, we don't actually care what happens to them. A friend you met while playing Call of Duty isn't going to be missed if they get killed in a car accident, just another person you use in order to play a certain map (get something you want) that again, because that person isn't there with you, personally, it's cool to go out driving and purposefully annoy the other people around you; cut them off in traffic because they got in your way, and there's no way they might try to retaliate, like that news story of the teenager who got shot in the head at a red light for looking at the driver beside him, supposedly the wrong way at looking toward that other individual. Unintentional wrong looks in traffic get you killed. Do we really care about one another anymore, most of us?
Listening to people. I might nod, perhaps look unenthusiastic, I might rub my eye, look off in another direction; I'm still listening. In fact, question me if you must -- what was I just fucking telling you? That velociraptor's make the best talk-show hosts. Why was that? Because unlike all the other theropod dinosaurs, the velociraptor looks the most like Johnny Carson without a sport coat, unless, of course, you dress the dinosaur up and give him a wig...
Monday, November 22, 2010
The Trickledown Effect
I suppose that title is appropriate. I will be talking about urine again, as well as airport security.
I've been to a few airports myself. It has never been a big deal when approaching a security terminal for a "pat-down" -- isn't it a great day for a frisking, it's always a great day for a full-body scan! Some people invoke the awkward stares or the much dreaded temporary set back, such as being detained for wearing baggy black jean shorts that ride down to your ankles, with chains embedded in the fabric; also adding to the goth-trend, metal rings which line the hemmed lining of the pants. Dress down for the airport. Skin tight is preferred (I'm not serious)
Obviously don't wear something that's going to standout. Only a moron would be that absentminded to dress with metal sewn in to their clothes before undertaking a metal-detector walk-through.
These people at the terminals are trained members of a disorganized hierarchy. Why you were patted down? Something set them off. Get your fucking basket, start loading it with the required items that need scanning -- electronic devices, carry-ons, your shoes -- there's three right there. Do not loiter. Standing around like a baffoon, unless you're on the other side of that security station, stand around, walking around; you've been scanned, you are now labeled safe. Just keep moving down the line until you are finished. Ask questions if you must, but don't go in telling every official you see working in the airport that you:
a.) have a request
b.) have a problem with the rules provided
c.) complain that if you are touched in a certain spot on your body a bag of urine will burst (or that the seal on your urostomy bag can be dislodged easily while you endure a pat-down in progress)
Go in with everything you will need to present to the airport officials. Let's say my name is Tom Sawyer of Romulus, Michigan. I've got a urostomy bag strapped to the side of my hip that I know is going to be a problem. I mean let's narrow it down to it's general form, but not it's most general form, a plastic bag of waste, more so a bag of liquid. It's my understanding liquids and powders are prohibited. Best case scenario, I should have a medicinal postulation from my physician, proof that my word that I've had bladder cancer is not false, that I should further bring this to light of airport security before entering the terminal. I can remember my grandma being worried that she wouldn't be able to walk from her plane at one end of the airport, to her boarding terminal clear across the way, so what does she do, she asks for assistance. Liaisons amongst the sea of passengers are there to be guidance to the many novice travelers milling about the airport. Let them approach security officials to take the proper action.
Now to bring you all up to speed on what this post is about. A man from Michigan who had undergone radiation and survived the bladder cancer that afflicted him happened to be traveling this past weekend. His bladder, depleted by the deadly cancer and more than likely a surgery or two he had undergone, if that was his path in fighting his cancer, that route or radiation, and so nowadays he's got a bag he carries on his belt that holds his urine, acting as a replacement bladder. Now that the TSA standards in airport security have been heightened due to the terrorism scare with those transported packages let's say two months ago on the east coast, it's a bitch, sort of speak, to fly these days. Tom Sawyer, if I didn't already state his name above, I did, I remember using it in my little scenario...entered the security lanes in order to gain clearance to board his airplane. He walked up, stated he had a urostomy bag on his belt that the official should watch for, as they began patting him down for weapons, contraband, bags of urine...When the patting became rougher due to the airline official probably feeling as well as now fully aware something was bulging from the side of this individual's pants, Mr. Sawyer made it aware that if they continued knocking the bag on his hip around, the seal would break and he'd be covered in urine. He was whisked away to a detachment room, now soaked in his own urine because they did in fact break the seal.
I want it to be clear that the reason security officials at the airport come off as pricks is because they are a minority. They are trained by someone higher up than them on the regulations, they in turn enforce the regulations, it's really just a matter of better training protocols for such an event as another Mr. Sawyer coming in with another similar medical disability. The sooner these reporters at these media conglomerates realize that the better. Although, is that really the best solution?
Here's a thought: instead of tacking on more clauses and paragraphs to already confusing, shitty regulations, let's be practical. The safety of the passengers, the comfort felt by our passengers and air travelers alike should be the concern, not whether we are ignoring or allowing the next would-be terrorist to act on his or her motives. Do you have any medical conditions we should know about before you proceed to security? There's a starter question because we already have in-place signs that point out what you'll need ready while waiting. We're not fucking cattle! Treat us with respect and stop assuming. The only exercise some people get is jumping to conclusions, running down their friends, side-stepping responsibility, and pushing their luck! On the side of the officials, people need to exert common sense. As far as the side saying the TSA is at fault, take into consideration that these are people with jobs. The paranoia and anxiety of past events are going to take precedence in matters of security and what to look for. Body language says a lot. Get informed, ask for assistance, get on the side of those officials. It's a smoother transaction that way...
I've been to a few airports myself. It has never been a big deal when approaching a security terminal for a "pat-down" -- isn't it a great day for a frisking, it's always a great day for a full-body scan! Some people invoke the awkward stares or the much dreaded temporary set back, such as being detained for wearing baggy black jean shorts that ride down to your ankles, with chains embedded in the fabric; also adding to the goth-trend, metal rings which line the hemmed lining of the pants. Dress down for the airport. Skin tight is preferred (I'm not serious)
Obviously don't wear something that's going to standout. Only a moron would be that absentminded to dress with metal sewn in to their clothes before undertaking a metal-detector walk-through.
These people at the terminals are trained members of a disorganized hierarchy. Why you were patted down? Something set them off. Get your fucking basket, start loading it with the required items that need scanning -- electronic devices, carry-ons, your shoes -- there's three right there. Do not loiter. Standing around like a baffoon, unless you're on the other side of that security station, stand around, walking around; you've been scanned, you are now labeled safe. Just keep moving down the line until you are finished. Ask questions if you must, but don't go in telling every official you see working in the airport that you:
a.) have a request
b.) have a problem with the rules provided
c.) complain that if you are touched in a certain spot on your body a bag of urine will burst (or that the seal on your urostomy bag can be dislodged easily while you endure a pat-down in progress)
Go in with everything you will need to present to the airport officials. Let's say my name is Tom Sawyer of Romulus, Michigan. I've got a urostomy bag strapped to the side of my hip that I know is going to be a problem. I mean let's narrow it down to it's general form, but not it's most general form, a plastic bag of waste, more so a bag of liquid. It's my understanding liquids and powders are prohibited. Best case scenario, I should have a medicinal postulation from my physician, proof that my word that I've had bladder cancer is not false, that I should further bring this to light of airport security before entering the terminal. I can remember my grandma being worried that she wouldn't be able to walk from her plane at one end of the airport, to her boarding terminal clear across the way, so what does she do, she asks for assistance. Liaisons amongst the sea of passengers are there to be guidance to the many novice travelers milling about the airport. Let them approach security officials to take the proper action.
Now to bring you all up to speed on what this post is about. A man from Michigan who had undergone radiation and survived the bladder cancer that afflicted him happened to be traveling this past weekend. His bladder, depleted by the deadly cancer and more than likely a surgery or two he had undergone, if that was his path in fighting his cancer, that route or radiation, and so nowadays he's got a bag he carries on his belt that holds his urine, acting as a replacement bladder. Now that the TSA standards in airport security have been heightened due to the terrorism scare with those transported packages let's say two months ago on the east coast, it's a bitch, sort of speak, to fly these days. Tom Sawyer, if I didn't already state his name above, I did, I remember using it in my little scenario...entered the security lanes in order to gain clearance to board his airplane. He walked up, stated he had a urostomy bag on his belt that the official should watch for, as they began patting him down for weapons, contraband, bags of urine...When the patting became rougher due to the airline official probably feeling as well as now fully aware something was bulging from the side of this individual's pants, Mr. Sawyer made it aware that if they continued knocking the bag on his hip around, the seal would break and he'd be covered in urine. He was whisked away to a detachment room, now soaked in his own urine because they did in fact break the seal.
I want it to be clear that the reason security officials at the airport come off as pricks is because they are a minority. They are trained by someone higher up than them on the regulations, they in turn enforce the regulations, it's really just a matter of better training protocols for such an event as another Mr. Sawyer coming in with another similar medical disability. The sooner these reporters at these media conglomerates realize that the better. Although, is that really the best solution?
Here's a thought: instead of tacking on more clauses and paragraphs to already confusing, shitty regulations, let's be practical. The safety of the passengers, the comfort felt by our passengers and air travelers alike should be the concern, not whether we are ignoring or allowing the next would-be terrorist to act on his or her motives. Do you have any medical conditions we should know about before you proceed to security? There's a starter question because we already have in-place signs that point out what you'll need ready while waiting. We're not fucking cattle! Treat us with respect and stop assuming. The only exercise some people get is jumping to conclusions, running down their friends, side-stepping responsibility, and pushing their luck! On the side of the officials, people need to exert common sense. As far as the side saying the TSA is at fault, take into consideration that these are people with jobs. The paranoia and anxiety of past events are going to take precedence in matters of security and what to look for. Body language says a lot. Get informed, ask for assistance, get on the side of those officials. It's a smoother transaction that way...
Tuesday, November 09, 2010
The Hundred Post
I didn't want to make my 100th post anything, but a message I received loud and clear. That message was:
Manu: Hey, how would you fancy some new Gmail themes?Jake: Sure, I would love that! How usable are they?Manu: ...
Gibberish to you, perhaps dialogue in a teleplay or script if it at all resembles anything in your mind. I'm feeling inclined to explain why this sentence has touched me, while its beginnings aren't as important.
I was going to first check an online comic, but then I jumped to Gmail instead. Before signing in I happened to glance down on the page and noticed that sentence. Why it struck me the way it does to relate it to you in a blog -- to even bring the topic up at all.
Now I'm just going to jump into it. Let me first explain the origins of that sentence further. Manu Cornet is a software engineer for Google. They in turn just released new themes for Google blog, and the engineering team behind it created tutorials demonstrating how the themes could be used. He must have a friend named Jake.
I have a friend named Jake. I wrote a screenplay about his persona, mirroring him, but not necessarily his lifestyle, same first name, different and perhaps better last name (Lipshits) all set in the late 50's-early 60's, and on top of that, outrageously zany!
Now I'm completing a book, mirroring only slightly towards a parallel universe of my old newspaper comic Cecil and Jake, with two living humans Cecil and Wade, who live with a refugee robot named Showalter. Cecil Mamou and Wade (Jake) Ilgauskas. Again, mirroring a cartoon character nobody has ever heard of based on a friend of mine, but only merely his overall look and a tad of the demeanor -- they're major characters on a minor scale. That's beyond coincidental to have Jake and Manu close to Mamou in the same sentence, conversational as it is.
This has me remarkably absorbed in my work on that book and I'm hoping the next few weeks will yield some rewarding pages, out of such peculiar circumstances. Hell, might as well take advantage of fate ; ) yeah yeah, I'm not that impressionable.
I feel that if you can change the mood of a tale within a page, it keeps you on the edge as a reader. Page 147 and on!
Manu: Hey, how would you fancy some new Gmail themes?Jake: Sure, I would love that! How usable are they?Manu: ...
Gibberish to you, perhaps dialogue in a teleplay or script if it at all resembles anything in your mind. I'm feeling inclined to explain why this sentence has touched me, while its beginnings aren't as important.
I was going to first check an online comic, but then I jumped to Gmail instead. Before signing in I happened to glance down on the page and noticed that sentence. Why it struck me the way it does to relate it to you in a blog -- to even bring the topic up at all.
Now I'm just going to jump into it. Let me first explain the origins of that sentence further. Manu Cornet is a software engineer for Google. They in turn just released new themes for Google blog, and the engineering team behind it created tutorials demonstrating how the themes could be used. He must have a friend named Jake.
I have a friend named Jake. I wrote a screenplay about his persona, mirroring him, but not necessarily his lifestyle, same first name, different and perhaps better last name (Lipshits) all set in the late 50's-early 60's, and on top of that, outrageously zany!
Now I'm completing a book, mirroring only slightly towards a parallel universe of my old newspaper comic Cecil and Jake, with two living humans Cecil and Wade, who live with a refugee robot named Showalter. Cecil Mamou and Wade (Jake) Ilgauskas. Again, mirroring a cartoon character nobody has ever heard of based on a friend of mine, but only merely his overall look and a tad of the demeanor -- they're major characters on a minor scale. That's beyond coincidental to have Jake and Manu close to Mamou in the same sentence, conversational as it is.
This has me remarkably absorbed in my work on that book and I'm hoping the next few weeks will yield some rewarding pages, out of such peculiar circumstances. Hell, might as well take advantage of fate ; ) yeah yeah, I'm not that impressionable.
I feel that if you can change the mood of a tale within a page, it keeps you on the edge as a reader. Page 147 and on!
Monday, November 08, 2010
Realism
Have people turned against Barack Obama because he doesn't have super powers!? What if he had strong-breath -- not too warm of breath...on the back of your neck; not too cold of breath, for whatever reason, maybe he's an ice cream fanatic...again, on the back of your neck from out of the shadows of your darkened apartment whilst you fumble around for a light switch -- but strong-breath, that could push away and change the direction of the colliding winds of a hurricane (perhaps the next Katrina) or enough of a violently strong breath that could blow clear a rock slide that a commuter train is barreling at max speed towards. Barack Obama sails through the clouds on his breath-boost, his regular means of travel.
Maybe the American voters were assured he was a superhero, and when disaster struck as it did in the form of an oil-line blow out and leak that happened in those Haliburton-owned oil drills in the gulf, they figured, "Fuckin' piece of cake! We'll just get Obama to travel down to the gulf and blow that oil out of the water, hell, maybe his powers work in the reverse way, he'll suck all that oil up and spit it into the last of the H2 hummers to blast and burn it out in a competitive hummer drag-racing spectacle held in Alabamie!" "Fuckin' I'll get tanked on wood finish and a 24 cube a-DA-DE-DANGA-DUH-D-D-DY-ANG'L Bama gonna blow dar oyle out d'gulf, I'll tell you what!" Instead of being the savior we all thought he'd be, he did what any person in his power will do, and tried reassuring people and hugging and making the nice with the fishermen and women of the gulf by touring the coast and delivering solace speeches. The man had nothing for you. He wasn't a driller, or the head of BP who you placed in front of the firing squad. Nobody seemed to fathom the severity of it all.
So the Democrats rammed Health reform down our throats; we had expert Medicare defrauder assholes making a business off the cracks and seepage already rampant and exploited within the system; that's where I stop on the whole health care reform because it wasn't necessary and that's about all I care to know that was wrong there, and people thought the economy should have been first to bat. Think of that reform as your house after a party that got way out of hand, with hundreds of people in your house and outside your house, and you're finding red cups of God knows what in the tank of the toilet or smashed under a mattress or amongst your mother's fine china. There's more of a mess, and you've decided to draw all your house cleaning skills and attention towards finding all the weird hiding places with evidence of what happened that weekend stuffed in those benign locations like someone's car keys at the bottom of the fish tank lying next to a half-eaten Baby Ruth, and just you fucking wait until you find where someone puked. Then you realize the party extended way into the back yard and wooded area behind your house, oh fuck me more trash and cups and loads of vomit and which one of my dickhead friends started a fire! God damn! That's our economy compared to passing a health care reform bill.
That's it, two years in order to correct the catastrophe that was the Bush Administration, really? I saw a junk email that had been passed around more times then 4 bowls passed around a full room of stoners in a party-house's attic, depicting Obama standing in the forefront of mass destruction as if the end of the world just occurred, he had caused it, lived through it, and relished it, with a speech bubble stating, "Well, my job is done." I would have interpreted it a different way. One man standing, responsible for cleaning up a mess left for him. "This is fuckin' bullshit, for ALL THIS! This back here, this rubble, New York, Washington left to waste...this is New York, D.C., not Detroit or Los Angeles, my lord (not Allah) I get a broom and a bucket, while you all in the bicameral house and senate sit around thumbing each other off, name-calling, spit wads, blowing vuvuzelas whenever a rival party affiliate takes the podium."
My next post is the big 100. And I was amazed I reached 50.
Maybe the American voters were assured he was a superhero, and when disaster struck as it did in the form of an oil-line blow out and leak that happened in those Haliburton-owned oil drills in the gulf, they figured, "Fuckin' piece of cake! We'll just get Obama to travel down to the gulf and blow that oil out of the water, hell, maybe his powers work in the reverse way, he'll suck all that oil up and spit it into the last of the H2 hummers to blast and burn it out in a competitive hummer drag-racing spectacle held in Alabamie!" "Fuckin' I'll get tanked on wood finish and a 24 cube a-DA-DE-DANGA-DUH-D-D-DY-ANG'L Bama gonna blow dar oyle out d'gulf, I'll tell you what!" Instead of being the savior we all thought he'd be, he did what any person in his power will do, and tried reassuring people and hugging and making the nice with the fishermen and women of the gulf by touring the coast and delivering solace speeches. The man had nothing for you. He wasn't a driller, or the head of BP who you placed in front of the firing squad. Nobody seemed to fathom the severity of it all.
So the Democrats rammed Health reform down our throats; we had expert Medicare defrauder assholes making a business off the cracks and seepage already rampant and exploited within the system; that's where I stop on the whole health care reform because it wasn't necessary and that's about all I care to know that was wrong there, and people thought the economy should have been first to bat. Think of that reform as your house after a party that got way out of hand, with hundreds of people in your house and outside your house, and you're finding red cups of God knows what in the tank of the toilet or smashed under a mattress or amongst your mother's fine china. There's more of a mess, and you've decided to draw all your house cleaning skills and attention towards finding all the weird hiding places with evidence of what happened that weekend stuffed in those benign locations like someone's car keys at the bottom of the fish tank lying next to a half-eaten Baby Ruth, and just you fucking wait until you find where someone puked. Then you realize the party extended way into the back yard and wooded area behind your house, oh fuck me more trash and cups and loads of vomit and which one of my dickhead friends started a fire! God damn! That's our economy compared to passing a health care reform bill.
That's it, two years in order to correct the catastrophe that was the Bush Administration, really? I saw a junk email that had been passed around more times then 4 bowls passed around a full room of stoners in a party-house's attic, depicting Obama standing in the forefront of mass destruction as if the end of the world just occurred, he had caused it, lived through it, and relished it, with a speech bubble stating, "Well, my job is done." I would have interpreted it a different way. One man standing, responsible for cleaning up a mess left for him. "This is fuckin' bullshit, for ALL THIS! This back here, this rubble, New York, Washington left to waste...this is New York, D.C., not Detroit or Los Angeles, my lord (not Allah) I get a broom and a bucket, while you all in the bicameral house and senate sit around thumbing each other off, name-calling, spit wads, blowing vuvuzelas whenever a rival party affiliate takes the podium."
My next post is the big 100. And I was amazed I reached 50.
Wednesday, November 03, 2010
Receipts; then "Projects" revisited
Tell me what the significance is of receiving a receipt for print-offs you've made that convey garbage, essentially garbage -- nothing at all important on the pages. Important in your opinion; evidence of one of the many "projects" you start, to have meaning, I can't really speak on their behalf. How I'm starting this topic today is me trying to convey how people, for whatever worthy value it has to them, will begin these cretinous projects as busy-work so the dullness of their lives doesn't drive them insane, although usually they're beyond that point.
Projects include recipe boxes. I'll stop there. You have no idea how many times I've been to foodnetwork.com to collect recipes for my new recipe box! Or, how I want them to print like ordinary note cards without me having to cut each one to note card size with scissors, only my knowledge of a computer is very limited because I'm a moron that perhaps Microsoft Word and cut and paste aren't enough of a computer degree to get my sheets to print in the dimensions of a note card. Computer degree? I don't HAVE a computer degree, this is basic computer know-how. Yet showing and instructing a person on the simple commands needed to input on the computer what it is you want it to do (all mistakes are human-error in computers. The computers aren't stupid the operators are) you still end up doing it for them. It's like people aren't willing to learn, but they're still drawn to the computer. They still need it, be it social hour, to read, to research, to fuck around for them.
Projects include contacting manufacturers of a certain product through a hypertext link-to-Microsoft Outlook, yet you're on a public access computer which would not include your personal information on it or in it, but no body's because who sets up Microsoft Outlook in advanced for you, when we were programming these computer terminals. Given your limited knowledge I'm sure you're as useless with Outlook as you are the simplest of Office's software, Microsoft Word.
This isn't me reaming someone for their absurd behavior, the behavior is unnecessary. Before you can use a computer you should probably know how to use a computer. Why wouldn't that be the first steps in becoming familiar with a new computer system? I have Rosetta Stone installed on my computer at home so I can learn Spanish or Japanese. A learning-a-new-language based software suite already installed on my computer before I even began speaking these other languages. Preemptive, right? The intelligent way of doing things, what a concept!
Why is it so difficult for some people? Does it have something to do with how much harder they make things on themselves? I admit it, I'm scatterbrained. I'll stop typing to collect my thoughts and organize my ideas in my head while completing one of these blog posts, especially these long ones; you probably know what I'm talking about. When these sorts of people who start "projects" or demand a receipt for any printing they happen to do even if it's color-sheets for pre-schoolers begin to think up what it is they will do for the day instead of finding themselves a job, their decisions and actions following are as spontaneous as the ideas in their heads. It's no wonder I find these individuals grotesque, just bat-shit crazy instigators and troublemakers.
I would like a receipt for these. For what? A five page printout totaling fifty cents, uh, black and white prints at ten cents per page, you had five, here's your verbal receipt, what the fuck are you talking about a receipt print out, for what? I'm sorry we don't print receipts. So sad, it's something we won't be doing for you. Is that it, does that aggravate people now. That you aren't bending to their whim. Could it be they are so accustomed to being handed a receipt. Minute request or not, just accept a no for an answer.
Projects include recipe boxes. I'll stop there. You have no idea how many times I've been to foodnetwork.com to collect recipes for my new recipe box! Or, how I want them to print like ordinary note cards without me having to cut each one to note card size with scissors, only my knowledge of a computer is very limited because I'm a moron that perhaps Microsoft Word and cut and paste aren't enough of a computer degree to get my sheets to print in the dimensions of a note card. Computer degree? I don't HAVE a computer degree, this is basic computer know-how. Yet showing and instructing a person on the simple commands needed to input on the computer what it is you want it to do (all mistakes are human-error in computers. The computers aren't stupid the operators are) you still end up doing it for them. It's like people aren't willing to learn, but they're still drawn to the computer. They still need it, be it social hour, to read, to research, to fuck around for them.
Projects include contacting manufacturers of a certain product through a hypertext link-to-Microsoft Outlook, yet you're on a public access computer which would not include your personal information on it or in it, but no body's because who sets up Microsoft Outlook in advanced for you, when we were programming these computer terminals. Given your limited knowledge I'm sure you're as useless with Outlook as you are the simplest of Office's software, Microsoft Word.
This isn't me reaming someone for their absurd behavior, the behavior is unnecessary. Before you can use a computer you should probably know how to use a computer. Why wouldn't that be the first steps in becoming familiar with a new computer system? I have Rosetta Stone installed on my computer at home so I can learn Spanish or Japanese. A learning-a-new-language based software suite already installed on my computer before I even began speaking these other languages. Preemptive, right? The intelligent way of doing things, what a concept!
Why is it so difficult for some people? Does it have something to do with how much harder they make things on themselves? I admit it, I'm scatterbrained. I'll stop typing to collect my thoughts and organize my ideas in my head while completing one of these blog posts, especially these long ones; you probably know what I'm talking about. When these sorts of people who start "projects" or demand a receipt for any printing they happen to do even if it's color-sheets for pre-schoolers begin to think up what it is they will do for the day instead of finding themselves a job, their decisions and actions following are as spontaneous as the ideas in their heads. It's no wonder I find these individuals grotesque, just bat-shit crazy instigators and troublemakers.
I would like a receipt for these. For what? A five page printout totaling fifty cents, uh, black and white prints at ten cents per page, you had five, here's your verbal receipt, what the fuck are you talking about a receipt print out, for what? I'm sorry we don't print receipts. So sad, it's something we won't be doing for you. Is that it, does that aggravate people now. That you aren't bending to their whim. Could it be they are so accustomed to being handed a receipt. Minute request or not, just accept a no for an answer.
Friday, October 15, 2010
Deciphering Harmful Discipline
I was at a Wendy's recently, and in some instances, if I'm eating or listening to someone try and talk or tell me something important, which I was listening to a family member of mine while eating, my mind drifts off, and I start paying more attention to the things around me. I think they have a term for such people. They are usually diagnosed as having A.D.H.D. As my mind drifted off, I happened to be within earshot of the couple sitting a few feet from us, and their kids, two little, wee girls, I mean this to convey their ages, and a boy, around 5 or 6. The father, or, how I saw it, the kid-parent, was trying to make the boy mind. I noticed he had chili to eat and a few fries, and his teenaged father was pleading with him, "Eat your chili." And of course when he wasn't eating, he was playing with his younger, but not the youngest of the sisters. He chased her around and what not; what little kids are best known for, playing and running a muck. While this went on, the father continued to have to sit his son down and give him the spoon in order to finish his meal. "Eat your chili! C'mon, do you want it to get cold!?"
Juggling these events and what my mom was talking about, I couldn't help, but smile, and before I knew it, it was with this that I just burst out in laughter. The son publicly defying the young father and his inattentive mother who I believe was more interested in her cell phone. That's usually how it is with this young parents these days. Whatever's on that cell phone is vastly more important then keeping your kids at the table, and from trying to climb all over the place. Grabbing the receipt, and mind you, the son was 5 or 6, in that kindergarten age, but unaware of addition and subtraction, or for that matter, what money amounts to and what's the worth of certain items, the kid grabs the check, looks at the total probably being the biggest highlighted numbers on the slip of paper and read off the price. Then he says, and was what kept me in stitches, "You paid 25.46 for all this?!" as if that was a rip-off for a family of five, as though he were having to split the bill, as if he even knew what that meant.
It was the way he said it. Disappointed. Enraged that his father made so much to keep them fed, and this was what he spent his money on. Burgers and fries, and 25 dollars and 46 cents worth of Wendys. This is what you got for this!? I would've knocked him out, any parent who disliked sass and a little being like this telling them what's what would've bludgeoned that boy if someone would not have stepped forward and turned them in. What's with that? I'll turn you in. To whom? Do you really have social services on speed dial like that? What is this shit, more of that oversensitive cock mockery because someone took a Lifetime Television movie too seriously on child abuse that a little swat on the behind means call social services? Those same cowards who would rather text or tweet about unimportant shit on the Internet then actually observe the interaction between father and son. There's the dead giveaway. How was the swat, spanking intended? For one to mind, or to intentionally hurt? A bad, steer clear of the waters-type judgment call. And as far as most people tend to observe things, they're better to keep their mouths shut on how someone raises their kids. Let's say this, if that belt snakes its way out of its loop-restraints around that father's waist, there's your motion to call. A defenseless kid is getting slammed against the counter and slapped repeatedly, there's another call. A father flicks his kid in the back of the ear, the kid recoils, "owww" kicks him in the shin, the father mock-boxes with his little shit kicker kid, restraining his arms back in a wrestling lock that's just playing around and not rough at all. Probably not the best scenario to intervene. Let's face it, probably wasn't the best scenario to go with in trying to prove a point.
Juggling these events and what my mom was talking about, I couldn't help, but smile, and before I knew it, it was with this that I just burst out in laughter. The son publicly defying the young father and his inattentive mother who I believe was more interested in her cell phone. That's usually how it is with this young parents these days. Whatever's on that cell phone is vastly more important then keeping your kids at the table, and from trying to climb all over the place. Grabbing the receipt, and mind you, the son was 5 or 6, in that kindergarten age, but unaware of addition and subtraction, or for that matter, what money amounts to and what's the worth of certain items, the kid grabs the check, looks at the total probably being the biggest highlighted numbers on the slip of paper and read off the price. Then he says, and was what kept me in stitches, "You paid 25.46 for all this?!" as if that was a rip-off for a family of five, as though he were having to split the bill, as if he even knew what that meant.
It was the way he said it. Disappointed. Enraged that his father made so much to keep them fed, and this was what he spent his money on. Burgers and fries, and 25 dollars and 46 cents worth of Wendys. This is what you got for this!? I would've knocked him out, any parent who disliked sass and a little being like this telling them what's what would've bludgeoned that boy if someone would not have stepped forward and turned them in. What's with that? I'll turn you in. To whom? Do you really have social services on speed dial like that? What is this shit, more of that oversensitive cock mockery because someone took a Lifetime Television movie too seriously on child abuse that a little swat on the behind means call social services? Those same cowards who would rather text or tweet about unimportant shit on the Internet then actually observe the interaction between father and son. There's the dead giveaway. How was the swat, spanking intended? For one to mind, or to intentionally hurt? A bad, steer clear of the waters-type judgment call. And as far as most people tend to observe things, they're better to keep their mouths shut on how someone raises their kids. Let's say this, if that belt snakes its way out of its loop-restraints around that father's waist, there's your motion to call. A defenseless kid is getting slammed against the counter and slapped repeatedly, there's another call. A father flicks his kid in the back of the ear, the kid recoils, "owww" kicks him in the shin, the father mock-boxes with his little shit kicker kid, restraining his arms back in a wrestling lock that's just playing around and not rough at all. Probably not the best scenario to intervene. Let's face it, probably wasn't the best scenario to go with in trying to prove a point.
Thursday, September 09, 2010
Austin Smith in: "S.H.E. kinda sucked"
When I was in the first grade I was a huge fan of the movie Aladdin. That Disney film was the shit, and there was literally nothing cooler than having a genie at your disposal. They made a sequel to it the summer before, and I remember the second nine-weeks of that first grade year for me, both first grade classes got together to have a movie pizza party thing, which I was looking forward to because shit, it's a sequel to my favorite movie of all time in that point of my life. I just knew it was a new movie with Aladdin in it and I wanted so badly to see it and I was going to, pizza/movie party that Friday, whenever the hell it was we did that, second nine weeks whatever. It must have been later in the school year because before that we had an indoor recess because of rain, or maybe we were so far ahead with our learning that the teachers decided to have a fun day along with the movie/pizza thing, I've drank that memory away.
Here we were first grade, Mrs. Stoss' classroom, me, Brittany Caswell, Devin Maxwell, Cameron (don't remember his last name, maybe Green, or was it Devin) had just finished playing Sorry, and were about to start The Addams Family Reunion board game, which at the time was the sought after board game if you weren't playing Twister. We had to choose characters to be. I was a pudgy kid back then and Devin made a crack about my weight by suggesting I be Pugsley and I really should have like burst into tears or told the teacher that he was picking on my weight, but I wasn't one of those over-sensitive kids, I let him know that I didn't want to play as the fat kid from the movie, I wanted to be the "butler." And I said that. "I want to be the butler." Back in this time of my life and most of grade school I had what was commonly referred to as a speech impediment. I had trouble with L's and R's. I remember saying as clearly as I could with said speech impediment, "I want to be the butler." And everyone at the table gave me a blank stare. "Lurch the butler." Nobody handed me the player game piece for Lurch, Devin got up instead, and went over to the teacher, said something, and she came over to me. I was asked to stepped out into the hall, which I did, and she informed me that that kind of language was inappropriate and I was given in-school suspension.
I remember pleading my case. "But I didn't cuss."
"Devin told me you called him a butthole."
"What!? No. I said butler. Like Lurch the butler from The Addams Family."
"Austin, three other people heard you call him a...that word."
"I didn't. I swear. I said Lurch the butler."
"What are you even talking about? Forget it. I'm assigning you extra workbook work to do out in the hall for the remainder of the class period. That kind of language won't be tolerated around here."
Out in the hall I went with my workbook and of course I cried - I had no idea what was going on. A friend of mine had told on me for something I didn't do, the teacher was mad at me, and further more, I had to finish this workbook and I didn't get to have any fun like everyone else. People passed me in the hall and wouldn't look at me because I had obviously done something wrong in order to be sent out in to the hall.
Skip forward a week. The big movie/pizza party with Aladdin II on the big screen. Why did I say it that way? It wasn't even a big screen! It was a Sylvania television, probably a 30 incher wheeled in on a dolly. I couldn't wait until the movie started and OH MY GOD pepperoni pizza from Godfathers, fuckin A! I had been thinking about this and looking forward to it like it was a birthday. Godfathers pizza - you can see now how I got pudgy.
There was a kid in my first grade class that I didn't fuckin' like. He never socialized and when he did, it was a bullshit social convention, the other person would end up talking more, and I didn't like his name; I don't know if it was Jeff or Jiff, I fucking hated him and I always called him peanut butter or peanut-butt in order to haze him. To him I was a meany and yes I cursed at him, and not my friend Devin a week before. Out on the playground me and Brandon Royer and that Cameron-kid were thinking up ways to be mean to Jiff who had taken over the boy's club and that was our regular haunt and we wanted it back. I double-dared Brandon to punch him in the back, and Cameron double-dared me to, so I triple-doggy dared Cameron to, and then somehow somebody suggested I pee on him, so again, not wanting to do it, I double-dared Brandon to and they both triple-doggy dared me to. Drats! No more dares, I had to do it. Not wanting to, I stood behind Jiff who at this point had not turned around from his sitting position in the sand doing God knows what, he hadn't noticed us at all. So I act like I zipped down my pants, and I'm sheepishly grinning back at the two devils a few yards behind me and they're laughing, and that's when I realized, what the heck am I doing this for, I wouldn't want to get peed on. So I zipped up and mozied on back to Cameron and Brandon. They were on to me; I hadn't done anything.
"Bull you did it!"
"I couldn't do it!"
"Wuss!"
"I don't care. I'm a wuss."
"We're still gonna tell!"
I remember actually feeling taken aback - it's been so long since that happened, but I seriously was like TWIST! That's fuckin' treasonous. And they did. They ran back to the recess aide, and me not knowing what to do, I hid under the wooden draw bridge trying desperately to be out of sight. They didn't lie and say I did something else, I was accused of peeing on this kid.
This was always my favored line in the questioning I had with Mrs. Soldner(sp) the student councilor and the Principal at that time. When you're being accused of something that almost happened, but in fact didn't, you'll try to swing that pendulum in your direction, right. I tried reasoning, "But if I peed on that kid, why didn't he notice me, why hadn't he gotten up or simply spotted me coming up behind him?" And that was truth. He never got up. In fact it took the recess aide and those two little bastards who ratted on me getting his attention and marching him inside. Could it be that I hadn't peed on that kid's back?
In their defense, that kid's neck was wet...with perspiration. It was sweat. I hadn't peed on him. For one, supposedly acting out a near week ago with the whole "butler" "butthole" thing, and now this, two other kids testifying that I peed on the kid's back. It didn't look good.
Now the shit kicker. The sister of the kid I supposedly peed on started treating me bad. One of my "punishments" - surreal punishment at that; on our playground when they needed to pour new sand, they boarded along the grass, and well, as sprinting, unbridled and wild kids, we might trip and break something; there was a certainty we could do that, might hurt ourselves, yeah, but as punishment, walking along atop the wooden long-ass fucking girder, boundary what-have-you like we were in a Vietnamese POW camp standing on bottles barefoot, this was nothing. Out the window go your rights to a break. How many others have slipped through the cracks like this?
Five days of walking atop those girders, plus immediate in-school suspension possible out of school suspension if I did something again. Herein lies the shit kicker, consistently making fun of me because again, I was a pudgy kid, she hit me with weight insults. I told her she had a big nose and her and her friends were stupid girls. I was an innocent little kid, I didn't insult well. Things weren't as graphically verbal and nasty as the things that would have been said now on the playgrounds. Truly nasty and vulgar shit!
After awhile, it started to wear me down. Always, whenever I went by that certain grouping of trees there were the girls and their insults. How could I get them back? And it came to me after the fifth day. I acted as though I had to walk those wood blanks again. I came upon the tree and there they were as always. Right away they began with those hurting words. No matter what code there might be in place warning against striking girls, and going in to second grade the boys knew better to not hit girls. Other guys, it was okay. Never ladies.
I walked over there in a huff, and they started yelling, "Ummm, we're telling." And I replied, "Go ahead. I don't have to walk the track today." She just stood there unaware that I had the intent to knock her out and before I knew it my fist had made contact with the bridge of her nose, and I had her face-blood on my knuckles. Again, through the cafeteria entrance I was thrust by my held hand by some teacher, don't remember who. I faintly recall seeing the girl after I was permitted to use the restroom, and it must have hurt like hell to get your nose broken...stepping over that line. I didn't show her sympathy at the time. You run your mouth you deserve what you get. Sooner or later I probably would have learned that myself from Jiff or Geoff once he was fed up and slugged me back.
You don't pee on another person. I've read Shogun -- in feudal Japan that was the ultimate fuck you. At the time of the incident it struck me more as comical. Pee, piss, all funny words. I knew right from wrong, and knew it wasn't a normal thing to pee on someone or deface another person with piss.
When they informed my parents, both of them disbelieved what I was accused of, particularly noting that Jiff or Geoff knew nothing of me standing behind him, nor would they believe the absurdity of the whole situation. It was unlike me. Hitting a girl was a different story, and I told my side, and they agreed she should not have been picking on me. Over the years self defense has taken a different meaning with my parents, me realizing this later in high school. My dad has always been a pacifist when it comes to fights, but if you're threatened and need to defend yourself then do it. The girl was asking for it. In a way I was too picking on Jiff or Geoff. That's all retaliation on his sister's part and false accusation on mine when considering the did he pee, not pee. I would have admitted to it by now if it were true.
Just like it wasn't true I damaged a wood block in band practice. Similar situation, big, school-wide assembly with two movie showings, Jack Frost and Miracle on 34th Street for Christmas, I didn't get to sit on my shitty ass flat carpet square on a basketball gymnasium, poking fun at the movie, nope, I spent my time in the Principal's office quarantine, being nudged to confess I did something I didn't. A wood block for band practice is not much of an instrument. I had banged on it during the practice because it was one of those late in the year practices where ensembles were the ones practicing and I just sat in the back with the drum section members, dicking around. That wood block took constant abuse. It was stomped on, it was beaten in beyond acceptable strikes on the wood, it was misused. I noticed the ends of it were cracking, so I stripped those off. They were more or less wooden shavings from the amount of abuse it endured, now, as an excuse to replace the wood block by which to threaten legal action if I didn't sign off on replacing it, the wood block being property of the school, them in turn wanting a fiberglass one instead of wood, which the fiberglass cost almost twice as would replacing the wood block with another wooden one that I supposedly damaged to the point where it did not sound right. Yeah, I stripped off the edges. Did I bang on that son of a bitch to make it have damages wood edges? No. Was I exacerbating the damage of the wood block by picking at the wood? When you banged on it it made a noise the wood block would normally make. It was a bunch more shit, like the time in football practice I got accused along with two other friends and a person who wasn't even on the football player roster nor was he in the locker room that time after school I supposedly instigated a fist fight between Trent Brawner and Matt Collier, resulting in broken eyeglasses for Trent. I was staying out of all that male testosterone shit, let em fight it out if they must. Besides, just getting out of the shower relieved I didn't smell anymore after practice were my only concerns. I needed to dry off and get dressed. I didn't have time for a fight. Yet I spent one whole day in ISS.
It's that failure rate in the system and me not wanting to die from a few bullet wounds that keeps me from pursuing a life-long dream of being on the police force. That, and I'm fat, I wouldn't last the academy. It does make a guy wonder. How many others went through school like I did where you were based on association, whomever you were supposedly associated with, which led to the type of treatment you received. I was constantly questioned if something fowl came afoot; if property was stolen, me and a group of my friends were always top of the list. That's how felons are created is it not? Weeding them out, right. How many kids aren't given the breaks like normal kids are? Sociologically, how many grew up to be criminals because they weren't brought up right?
Here we were first grade, Mrs. Stoss' classroom, me, Brittany Caswell, Devin Maxwell, Cameron (don't remember his last name, maybe Green, or was it Devin) had just finished playing Sorry, and were about to start The Addams Family Reunion board game, which at the time was the sought after board game if you weren't playing Twister. We had to choose characters to be. I was a pudgy kid back then and Devin made a crack about my weight by suggesting I be Pugsley and I really should have like burst into tears or told the teacher that he was picking on my weight, but I wasn't one of those over-sensitive kids, I let him know that I didn't want to play as the fat kid from the movie, I wanted to be the "butler." And I said that. "I want to be the butler." Back in this time of my life and most of grade school I had what was commonly referred to as a speech impediment. I had trouble with L's and R's. I remember saying as clearly as I could with said speech impediment, "I want to be the butler." And everyone at the table gave me a blank stare. "Lurch the butler." Nobody handed me the player game piece for Lurch, Devin got up instead, and went over to the teacher, said something, and she came over to me. I was asked to stepped out into the hall, which I did, and she informed me that that kind of language was inappropriate and I was given in-school suspension.
I remember pleading my case. "But I didn't cuss."
"Devin told me you called him a butthole."
"What!? No. I said butler. Like Lurch the butler from The Addams Family."
"Austin, three other people heard you call him a...that word."
"I didn't. I swear. I said Lurch the butler."
"What are you even talking about? Forget it. I'm assigning you extra workbook work to do out in the hall for the remainder of the class period. That kind of language won't be tolerated around here."
Out in the hall I went with my workbook and of course I cried - I had no idea what was going on. A friend of mine had told on me for something I didn't do, the teacher was mad at me, and further more, I had to finish this workbook and I didn't get to have any fun like everyone else. People passed me in the hall and wouldn't look at me because I had obviously done something wrong in order to be sent out in to the hall.
Skip forward a week. The big movie/pizza party with Aladdin II on the big screen. Why did I say it that way? It wasn't even a big screen! It was a Sylvania television, probably a 30 incher wheeled in on a dolly. I couldn't wait until the movie started and OH MY GOD pepperoni pizza from Godfathers, fuckin A! I had been thinking about this and looking forward to it like it was a birthday. Godfathers pizza - you can see now how I got pudgy.
There was a kid in my first grade class that I didn't fuckin' like. He never socialized and when he did, it was a bullshit social convention, the other person would end up talking more, and I didn't like his name; I don't know if it was Jeff or Jiff, I fucking hated him and I always called him peanut butter or peanut-butt in order to haze him. To him I was a meany and yes I cursed at him, and not my friend Devin a week before. Out on the playground me and Brandon Royer and that Cameron-kid were thinking up ways to be mean to Jiff who had taken over the boy's club and that was our regular haunt and we wanted it back. I double-dared Brandon to punch him in the back, and Cameron double-dared me to, so I triple-doggy dared Cameron to, and then somehow somebody suggested I pee on him, so again, not wanting to do it, I double-dared Brandon to and they both triple-doggy dared me to. Drats! No more dares, I had to do it. Not wanting to, I stood behind Jiff who at this point had not turned around from his sitting position in the sand doing God knows what, he hadn't noticed us at all. So I act like I zipped down my pants, and I'm sheepishly grinning back at the two devils a few yards behind me and they're laughing, and that's when I realized, what the heck am I doing this for, I wouldn't want to get peed on. So I zipped up and mozied on back to Cameron and Brandon. They were on to me; I hadn't done anything.
"Bull you did it!"
"I couldn't do it!"
"Wuss!"
"I don't care. I'm a wuss."
"We're still gonna tell!"
I remember actually feeling taken aback - it's been so long since that happened, but I seriously was like TWIST! That's fuckin' treasonous. And they did. They ran back to the recess aide, and me not knowing what to do, I hid under the wooden draw bridge trying desperately to be out of sight. They didn't lie and say I did something else, I was accused of peeing on this kid.
This was always my favored line in the questioning I had with Mrs. Soldner(sp) the student councilor and the Principal at that time. When you're being accused of something that almost happened, but in fact didn't, you'll try to swing that pendulum in your direction, right. I tried reasoning, "But if I peed on that kid, why didn't he notice me, why hadn't he gotten up or simply spotted me coming up behind him?" And that was truth. He never got up. In fact it took the recess aide and those two little bastards who ratted on me getting his attention and marching him inside. Could it be that I hadn't peed on that kid's back?
In their defense, that kid's neck was wet...with perspiration. It was sweat. I hadn't peed on him. For one, supposedly acting out a near week ago with the whole "butler" "butthole" thing, and now this, two other kids testifying that I peed on the kid's back. It didn't look good.
Now the shit kicker. The sister of the kid I supposedly peed on started treating me bad. One of my "punishments" - surreal punishment at that; on our playground when they needed to pour new sand, they boarded along the grass, and well, as sprinting, unbridled and wild kids, we might trip and break something; there was a certainty we could do that, might hurt ourselves, yeah, but as punishment, walking along atop the wooden long-ass fucking girder, boundary what-have-you like we were in a Vietnamese POW camp standing on bottles barefoot, this was nothing. Out the window go your rights to a break. How many others have slipped through the cracks like this?
Five days of walking atop those girders, plus immediate in-school suspension possible out of school suspension if I did something again. Herein lies the shit kicker, consistently making fun of me because again, I was a pudgy kid, she hit me with weight insults. I told her she had a big nose and her and her friends were stupid girls. I was an innocent little kid, I didn't insult well. Things weren't as graphically verbal and nasty as the things that would have been said now on the playgrounds. Truly nasty and vulgar shit!
After awhile, it started to wear me down. Always, whenever I went by that certain grouping of trees there were the girls and their insults. How could I get them back? And it came to me after the fifth day. I acted as though I had to walk those wood blanks again. I came upon the tree and there they were as always. Right away they began with those hurting words. No matter what code there might be in place warning against striking girls, and going in to second grade the boys knew better to not hit girls. Other guys, it was okay. Never ladies.
I walked over there in a huff, and they started yelling, "Ummm, we're telling." And I replied, "Go ahead. I don't have to walk the track today." She just stood there unaware that I had the intent to knock her out and before I knew it my fist had made contact with the bridge of her nose, and I had her face-blood on my knuckles. Again, through the cafeteria entrance I was thrust by my held hand by some teacher, don't remember who. I faintly recall seeing the girl after I was permitted to use the restroom, and it must have hurt like hell to get your nose broken...stepping over that line. I didn't show her sympathy at the time. You run your mouth you deserve what you get. Sooner or later I probably would have learned that myself from Jiff or Geoff once he was fed up and slugged me back.
You don't pee on another person. I've read Shogun -- in feudal Japan that was the ultimate fuck you. At the time of the incident it struck me more as comical. Pee, piss, all funny words. I knew right from wrong, and knew it wasn't a normal thing to pee on someone or deface another person with piss.
When they informed my parents, both of them disbelieved what I was accused of, particularly noting that Jiff or Geoff knew nothing of me standing behind him, nor would they believe the absurdity of the whole situation. It was unlike me. Hitting a girl was a different story, and I told my side, and they agreed she should not have been picking on me. Over the years self defense has taken a different meaning with my parents, me realizing this later in high school. My dad has always been a pacifist when it comes to fights, but if you're threatened and need to defend yourself then do it. The girl was asking for it. In a way I was too picking on Jiff or Geoff. That's all retaliation on his sister's part and false accusation on mine when considering the did he pee, not pee. I would have admitted to it by now if it were true.
Just like it wasn't true I damaged a wood block in band practice. Similar situation, big, school-wide assembly with two movie showings, Jack Frost and Miracle on 34th Street for Christmas, I didn't get to sit on my shitty ass flat carpet square on a basketball gymnasium, poking fun at the movie, nope, I spent my time in the Principal's office quarantine, being nudged to confess I did something I didn't. A wood block for band practice is not much of an instrument. I had banged on it during the practice because it was one of those late in the year practices where ensembles were the ones practicing and I just sat in the back with the drum section members, dicking around. That wood block took constant abuse. It was stomped on, it was beaten in beyond acceptable strikes on the wood, it was misused. I noticed the ends of it were cracking, so I stripped those off. They were more or less wooden shavings from the amount of abuse it endured, now, as an excuse to replace the wood block by which to threaten legal action if I didn't sign off on replacing it, the wood block being property of the school, them in turn wanting a fiberglass one instead of wood, which the fiberglass cost almost twice as would replacing the wood block with another wooden one that I supposedly damaged to the point where it did not sound right. Yeah, I stripped off the edges. Did I bang on that son of a bitch to make it have damages wood edges? No. Was I exacerbating the damage of the wood block by picking at the wood? When you banged on it it made a noise the wood block would normally make. It was a bunch more shit, like the time in football practice I got accused along with two other friends and a person who wasn't even on the football player roster nor was he in the locker room that time after school I supposedly instigated a fist fight between Trent Brawner and Matt Collier, resulting in broken eyeglasses for Trent. I was staying out of all that male testosterone shit, let em fight it out if they must. Besides, just getting out of the shower relieved I didn't smell anymore after practice were my only concerns. I needed to dry off and get dressed. I didn't have time for a fight. Yet I spent one whole day in ISS.
It's that failure rate in the system and me not wanting to die from a few bullet wounds that keeps me from pursuing a life-long dream of being on the police force. That, and I'm fat, I wouldn't last the academy. It does make a guy wonder. How many others went through school like I did where you were based on association, whomever you were supposedly associated with, which led to the type of treatment you received. I was constantly questioned if something fowl came afoot; if property was stolen, me and a group of my friends were always top of the list. That's how felons are created is it not? Weeding them out, right. How many kids aren't given the breaks like normal kids are? Sociologically, how many grew up to be criminals because they weren't brought up right?
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