Every so often I think back to 3rd Grade when I sat next to an orange haired fella named Jim. His last name started with a B, that's alls I remember. I always found him a bit peculiar, because he was one of the first people I'd ever met in real life with orange hair. His hair was so bright orange that even his eyelashes were orange too, and they sorta made his eyes look like venus flytraps. Not unlike the white eyelashes on my grampa's little white dog named Lumpy... for all we know, her eyes could have very well been venus flytraps (Lumpy wasn't the most friendly dog.)
Jim also had asthma, and I found this perplexing as well. I'd never heard of such a thing until we were playing Marco Polo during recess and he started a-coughing and a-whooping like nothing I've ever heard before. The asthmatic-induced noises he made were demonic to say the least. I always wished I could have asthma too, because it always seemed to get him out of running the mile for Phy Ed. Plus I have to admit, I always wondered what those inhalers tasted like.
One morning in class our teacher Mrs. Hauser handed out Physical Fitness cards that we were going to fill out in the week to come. I don't know if they still do this in schools, but during "Physical fitness week" they'd weigh you, measure you, and test your endurance on things like the 100 yard dash, relay races with chalkboard erasers, rope climbing (reeeowwll!), pull ups, and so on. Your basic public school lab rat thing.
While skimming over my Physical Fitness card, I noticed a term I hadn't seen before. The two words SKIN FOLD were on the card next to an empty box that was to be filled in with SKIN FOLD results.
Skin Fold? Says I to myself. What the fuck is that?
My mind started racing. The only thing I could picture in my head was a line of kids at the nurse's office holding their fitness cards and waiting for their turn to sit on a table. The nurse would then peel the skin of our scalps off to look at our brains, and then "fold" it back over to close things up.
Um. No thank you.
I felt a little ill and wished I had it in me to make myself blow chunks so I could go home for the day. But I just couldn't do it. I figured my ol' pally orange haired Jimmy might have some insight on what this skin fold business was all about, because when you have asthma, you must go to the doctor and get tested a lot. So perhaps he'd had a skin fold or two in his day. So I turned around and axsed him.
"Jimmy what's a Skin Fold?"
"Wha?"
"Skin Fold. Look it's on our cards."
"Oooh. That's when they slice a piece of skin off your dick." (pardon the French, but that's exactly what he said.)
At that moment my throat felt like it dropped into my stomach, turned into powder, and settled to my feet. Not a gall damn split second later, Mrs. Hauser got up and initiated our daily lifeless and robotic reciting of the Pledge of Allegiance. All I could do was lip synch the words that day, as I was too paralyzed in fear to be 100 percent patriotic.
After a long morning of mentally shitting my drawers, we had lunch. I could only take a few bites out of my salami sandwich because all I could picture in my head was the school nurse holding a big tube of salami and a knife. Recess came and went, and suddenly the hour of the Skin Fold was looming. Sure enough, it was Phy Ed time and the "Skin Fold Line" was formed. I was wondering why the girls were also in line, but fear was overriding taking that thought any further.
About 10 kids ahead of me I saw the nurse holding the Skin Fold apparatus. It was an evil looking thing; a big white hunk of plastic that had what looked like a big nasty ass narrow pair of pliers on the end of it. I was getting dizzy at the thought of undoing my Star Wars belt and dropping my grey corduroys when my turn came. I was so freaked that I wasn't even paying attention to those being skin-folded before me. I just stood there in fear, making baby steps to the front of that line to be re-circumcised.
And so my turn came. I was numb. In a trance. The nurse said "Just lift your shirt up a little, honey. This won't hurt." The Skin Fold gun approached my 3rd grade side flab in slow motion and gave me a mild pinch, she wrote the measurement down on my card, and off I went to shoot hoops with the other kids in the post-skin fold waiting room of the gym.
Jimmy was there, looked at me and asked "How did it go?"
I wanted to tell him that his description of the skin fold procedure wasn't the most accurate, but then thought maybe because he had asthma, perhaps his skin folds were performed differently like that. So I just said "It was okay," and ran off to the drinking fountain to alleviate my cottonmouth.
I sipped the weird tasting school water and felt the writhing tension in my belly that had been there all day finally begin to back off. I thanked my lucky stars that my scalp, wiener, and sanity were somehow still in tact. Which I guess isn't all that different from what I'm thankful for every other day of my life now that I think about it..
Sunday, February 26, 2006
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Dude, I am TOADILLY going to die
I splurged and bought me a dandy tin of $2 Altoids Sour Chewing Gum the other day, mainly because I'm a sucker for tins, and this one happened to be decorated in my favorite shade of green… Not to mention I like sour things, so it was meant to be, or so I thought.
I burn through gum like little kids use tape when wrapping presents. The second the flava starts to dissipate, down the hatch the ABC goes and a new piece is started. This is why I can never buy Fruit Stripes or Juicy Fruit, because replacing sticks of flavorless gum every 15 seconds could get a little expensive over time. Not to mention: Can you imagine the mess with all of those gum wrappers? I'd need to buy a wrapper rake.
So anyhows, a half a day later towards the 15th or so piece of the "about 20 pieces" the tin claims to have, I noticed something on the side of the tin:
BEST WHEN USED BY 13 FEB 06
Now correct me if I'm wrong, but today is February 22nd. Pardon me while I do some simple math: 22 - 13 = 9. I've been eating gum NINE DAYS past its prime. I say "eating" because although I chew it, I swallow it as well, which thereby classifies my gum consumption technique under the eating category. I know, it's not healthy to swallow it, but either is fast food or most of the other shit that's 1,000 times worse for you but you put in your face anyways, right? Right.
I figured since I'd already downed most of the tin's contents already, I may as well throw the rest down the hatch, too. What good would throwing them out do now? Sure, I could use them as evidence in court, but what good is a $2 court settlement going to do for me if I'm not around to enjoy it?
I guess it's just a matter of time now before I drop dead. Let this be a warning to all of you gum chewers out there: check the expiration dates on the packages, or you could very well end up in my shoes. It's not a good feeling - I have so much I have yet to accomplish. Life has been great so far, but is this how it's going to end? From expired gum?
There is, however, a slight glimmer of hope:
In 1987 my brother, bless his little heart, alerted me of an entire box of unopened KISS trading cards from the 1970s that he found sitting at Shinders. This was back when Band Aid-sized sticks of chewing gum came in packs of cards. I bought every last overpriced pack of KISS cards they had, and lo and behold, the gum was still intact (although it had "grown" onto the backs of the cards over its 10 year hibernation.) It was hard as a rock and a little brownish/yellow looking (not quite the bubbagum pink it once was), but you bet your arse I ate some. It's not very often a KISS fan gets to eat 10 year old KISS card gum. It wasn't a choice; it was my duty. It sort of crumbled like chewy sand in my mouth and tasted like trading cards smell, but eventually took on a gum consistency once gnashed on long enough.
I don't know how many sticks of that shit I ingested, but it was at least 6 or 7 and I seemed to live through that just fine. However - the reason I think I lived was because there was no expiration date printed on the KISS card packages. That gum was made to withstand a nu-cu-lar war and still be intact. It was KISS gum and it was so badass that it didn't NEED no stinkin' expiration date.
Altoids however? I am SO dead. I plan on being cremated. My only request when I die from this tragic gum poisoning incident is that my ashes be placed in the Altoid tin responsible for my demise. I would like it to be mailed to the gas station on 28th and Lyndale Ave. where I bought it from. I will have a handwritten note prepared that I wish to be included with my remains that says "Thanks, I hope you're happy now."
I'll miss you all.
I burn through gum like little kids use tape when wrapping presents. The second the flava starts to dissipate, down the hatch the ABC goes and a new piece is started. This is why I can never buy Fruit Stripes or Juicy Fruit, because replacing sticks of flavorless gum every 15 seconds could get a little expensive over time. Not to mention: Can you imagine the mess with all of those gum wrappers? I'd need to buy a wrapper rake.
So anyhows, a half a day later towards the 15th or so piece of the "about 20 pieces" the tin claims to have, I noticed something on the side of the tin:
BEST WHEN USED BY 13 FEB 06
Now correct me if I'm wrong, but today is February 22nd. Pardon me while I do some simple math: 22 - 13 = 9. I've been eating gum NINE DAYS past its prime. I say "eating" because although I chew it, I swallow it as well, which thereby classifies my gum consumption technique under the eating category. I know, it's not healthy to swallow it, but either is fast food or most of the other shit that's 1,000 times worse for you but you put in your face anyways, right? Right.
I figured since I'd already downed most of the tin's contents already, I may as well throw the rest down the hatch, too. What good would throwing them out do now? Sure, I could use them as evidence in court, but what good is a $2 court settlement going to do for me if I'm not around to enjoy it?
I guess it's just a matter of time now before I drop dead. Let this be a warning to all of you gum chewers out there: check the expiration dates on the packages, or you could very well end up in my shoes. It's not a good feeling - I have so much I have yet to accomplish. Life has been great so far, but is this how it's going to end? From expired gum?
There is, however, a slight glimmer of hope:
In 1987 my brother, bless his little heart, alerted me of an entire box of unopened KISS trading cards from the 1970s that he found sitting at Shinders. This was back when Band Aid-sized sticks of chewing gum came in packs of cards. I bought every last overpriced pack of KISS cards they had, and lo and behold, the gum was still intact (although it had "grown" onto the backs of the cards over its 10 year hibernation.) It was hard as a rock and a little brownish/yellow looking (not quite the bubbagum pink it once was), but you bet your arse I ate some. It's not very often a KISS fan gets to eat 10 year old KISS card gum. It wasn't a choice; it was my duty. It sort of crumbled like chewy sand in my mouth and tasted like trading cards smell, but eventually took on a gum consistency once gnashed on long enough.
I don't know how many sticks of that shit I ingested, but it was at least 6 or 7 and I seemed to live through that just fine. However - the reason I think I lived was because there was no expiration date printed on the KISS card packages. That gum was made to withstand a nu-cu-lar war and still be intact. It was KISS gum and it was so badass that it didn't NEED no stinkin' expiration date.
Altoids however? I am SO dead. I plan on being cremated. My only request when I die from this tragic gum poisoning incident is that my ashes be placed in the Altoid tin responsible for my demise. I would like it to be mailed to the gas station on 28th and Lyndale Ave. where I bought it from. I will have a handwritten note prepared that I wish to be included with my remains that says "Thanks, I hope you're happy now."
I'll miss you all.
Jack in the Box
As she stood outside, she heard the bustling traffic in the distance. It sounded as if the highway were breathing, save for a horn honk here and there on a nearby busy street which sort of reminded her of the coughing audience members at the concert hall a few nights before.
She opened her purse and shoved her car keys and makeup aside. After finally unearthing her pack of cigarettes, she carefully removed one from the box and maneuvered it past the purse's walls and its contents as to not bend it. She examined the cigarette closely for loose tobacco shards on the filter end and tapped it on the wall to pack it down some more.
She put it into her mouth and felt the filter stick to her lips ever so slightly. *click* went her lighter, and she held the flame to the end of her cigarette to get it started.
The breathing of the highway suddenly became non-existent as her ears focused on the tip of her cigarette beginning to burn. She pulled a nice long drag off of it to ensure that it was lit. She could hear the tobacco and paper fizzle as the filter gave off a barely audible high pitched whistling noise from the air passing through it.
She exhaled slowly as she put her lighter back in her purse. Taking another drag from her cigarette, she did with intentional sex appeal this time, as if she were a sultry 1950s film actress right about to blow smoke in the lead actor's face telling him to take a hike.
She exhaled and watched the smoke float up towards the sky and disappear. The nicotine was starting to work its magic and the inside of her head began to swirl. It was a long day at work and she had been looking forward to this break for almost 5 hours.
She took another drag.
BAM!
Suddenly all she could hear was the ringing in her ears. She stood there like a dead tree and felt her chest pounding. She was convinced that if her heart was beating any harder that it would burst out of her and bounce down the street to run away from the ruckus that had just ensued.
The cigarette was still dangling in her mouth, but it was no longer lit and the end was split into about 10 strands. Her face was covered in a layer of black soot. She opened her mouth slightly and let the smoldering remains of her cigarette fall to the ground.
That's it, she thought. Never again am I buying my cigarettes from a Magic Shop.
She opened her purse and shoved her car keys and makeup aside. After finally unearthing her pack of cigarettes, she carefully removed one from the box and maneuvered it past the purse's walls and its contents as to not bend it. She examined the cigarette closely for loose tobacco shards on the filter end and tapped it on the wall to pack it down some more.
She put it into her mouth and felt the filter stick to her lips ever so slightly. *click* went her lighter, and she held the flame to the end of her cigarette to get it started.
The breathing of the highway suddenly became non-existent as her ears focused on the tip of her cigarette beginning to burn. She pulled a nice long drag off of it to ensure that it was lit. She could hear the tobacco and paper fizzle as the filter gave off a barely audible high pitched whistling noise from the air passing through it.
She exhaled slowly as she put her lighter back in her purse. Taking another drag from her cigarette, she did with intentional sex appeal this time, as if she were a sultry 1950s film actress right about to blow smoke in the lead actor's face telling him to take a hike.
She exhaled and watched the smoke float up towards the sky and disappear. The nicotine was starting to work its magic and the inside of her head began to swirl. It was a long day at work and she had been looking forward to this break for almost 5 hours.
She took another drag.
BAM!
Suddenly all she could hear was the ringing in her ears. She stood there like a dead tree and felt her chest pounding. She was convinced that if her heart was beating any harder that it would burst out of her and bounce down the street to run away from the ruckus that had just ensued.
The cigarette was still dangling in her mouth, but it was no longer lit and the end was split into about 10 strands. Her face was covered in a layer of black soot. She opened her mouth slightly and let the smoldering remains of her cigarette fall to the ground.
That's it, she thought. Never again am I buying my cigarettes from a Magic Shop.
Monday, February 20, 2006
Happy birthday Chuck!
It's my brother Chuck's birfday today - yaaay! (He's Frensch Flies on me MySpace top 8.)
My brother rules. He plays viola like I like to play geetar. He also does pretty damned good on the recorder, baritone, and the squeeze box if I do say so myself.
He makes very entertaining CDs that you have to hear for yourself.
He played with Trans Siberian Orchestra (in the 'orchestra' section) and said one time that when the guitarist went to play his solo that his amp wasn't on. So guitarist had porno face, but no guitar solo to go with it. THAT is funny. That's payback to that guy for me having to hear that fucking bah badda bah, bah badda bah, bah badda bah song for 3 months straight during the holidays. I'm glad Chuck was there and told me about that.
We've done a lot of smart things together. We used to take his piles of LEGOs and build what we called Torture Towns, comprised of various LEGO sculptures which would either mash or dismember its little LEGO citizens.
We used to open boxes of Jell-O in mom and dad's pantry and eat the powder (if you've never tried and are now contemplating, don't. The gelatin makes it a little chewy.. at least chase with boiling water if you're going to try.)
Once we were kind enough to secretly take my dad's coin collection and cash it in for "real" money. We put it to good use at Walgreen's buying plastic cans of slime and candy. Oh yes, we did. And oh yes, Dad found out and wasn't very happy to say the least.
That's just the tip of the iceberg of the so so many smart things we've done. Chuck is one of the coolest people to hang around with. He's practically like a brother to me! We have so much in common.. such as the same parents and sister.
Have a great birthday, Chuckers! Hopefully be seeing you in a couple o months.
Friday, February 17, 2006
I bought some pot today after work!
It's amazing how easy it is to find the stuff - not even a half a block away from my apartment in the middle of the afternoon, no less. Oh, I'm gonna party tonight, yes I am.
Grandma's pot that I was using was just too old for my taste. It didn't get the job done anymore. Thanks to the Steeple People, I have new pot now and am ready to cook!
See?
Oh, I guess I meant to type POTS. I won't bother changing the blog title though, as I don't think it could really be misinterpreted, could it? I'm just too tired to add the s's where they're supposed to be; it's been a long day at the office.
On that note, it's time to go put my pot over an open flame and get this weekend started.
Thursday, February 16, 2006
James and the Force Fed Flatulence
Okay, let me lay some shit out for you here about my past. I recently have crossed paths with a lad I used to play with in my toddler days, and I've got a bone to pick with the dude. Mmkay? mmmkay:
James and I used to play together when we were little kids (my mom babysat him when his mother went to work at the cardboard box factory.) I had this Tonka truck. Really awesome Tonka truck, complete with a scooper (it was a yella tractor truck.) I got it as a present for finally going on the big boy potty.
James was always jealous of the fact that I was only 4 years old and could grow armpit hair at such a young age. So what does the little bitch do?
Peep this: He takes the scooper part OFF of my Tonka truck, farts in it, and then holds it to my face. Bitch puts it over my mouth and nose like it's a sawdust mask and pins me down, cause he was always bigger and stronger than I. Uh huh. And he did this on several occasions. Mom never believed me.
And now several years later, here we are, reunited in the real world. Years of therapy later, and I still can't make sense of the farting in the scooper thing. I can still smell it as if it were yesterday. Like deviled eggs and fish. SO. Game motherfuckin' ON. It's payback time. James' ass is grass, and I'm the lawnmower. It's time toupee the fiddler.
This is all to help me get on with my life once and for all. And I wanted to share this story with you, my faithful Meat Smoothie readers, just in case things get a little out of hand and I end up in the slammer for a while.
James: I just ate a buttload of White Castles and baked beans, and I'm comin' after you, boy.
Special thanks to the talented tag team who inspired the telling of this frightful tale. You know who you are...
James and I used to play together when we were little kids (my mom babysat him when his mother went to work at the cardboard box factory.) I had this Tonka truck. Really awesome Tonka truck, complete with a scooper (it was a yella tractor truck.) I got it as a present for finally going on the big boy potty.
James was always jealous of the fact that I was only 4 years old and could grow armpit hair at such a young age. So what does the little bitch do?
Peep this: He takes the scooper part OFF of my Tonka truck, farts in it, and then holds it to my face. Bitch puts it over my mouth and nose like it's a sawdust mask and pins me down, cause he was always bigger and stronger than I. Uh huh. And he did this on several occasions. Mom never believed me.
And now several years later, here we are, reunited in the real world. Years of therapy later, and I still can't make sense of the farting in the scooper thing. I can still smell it as if it were yesterday. Like deviled eggs and fish. SO. Game motherfuckin' ON. It's payback time. James' ass is grass, and I'm the lawnmower. It's time toupee the fiddler.
This is all to help me get on with my life once and for all. And I wanted to share this story with you, my faithful Meat Smoothie readers, just in case things get a little out of hand and I end up in the slammer for a while.
James: I just ate a buttload of White Castles and baked beans, and I'm comin' after you, boy.
Special thanks to the talented tag team who inspired the telling of this frightful tale. You know who you are...
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
This Valentines Day, I'm popping the question. Wish me luck!
Tonight I have very special plans for a very special someone out there.
I'm going to start by making my special homestyle fried chiggen for dinner. It will be accompanied by a side of buttered and lightly salted grilled asparagus, mashed tayters, homemade white gravy, and the most incredibly delicious glazed carrot coins a person could ever hope for. I haven't decided yet if I want to go with buttermilk biscuits or garlic toast, but I'm leaning towards the garlic toast.
It will be complimented by a slightly chilled bottle of wine, and an ice cold carafe of water just to cleanse the palette.
Then, after dinner will come the proposal. I'm so nervous about this! But life is all about taking risks. Like I've always said - I refuse to grow up to be the old man in the old folk's home looking back at my life playing the "wish I wooda" game. Hells no, that's not my style. Life is too short, so speak up or you'll wish you would have; knowwhatI'msayin? And that's certainly the case in regards to this evening.
We'll retire back to the kitchen where the proposal will take place - right before desert. I will pop the question to Frank and he will generously accept.
I mean, of course he will. What cat wouldn't want some kitty treats after dinner?
I'm going to start by making my special homestyle fried chiggen for dinner. It will be accompanied by a side of buttered and lightly salted grilled asparagus, mashed tayters, homemade white gravy, and the most incredibly delicious glazed carrot coins a person could ever hope for. I haven't decided yet if I want to go with buttermilk biscuits or garlic toast, but I'm leaning towards the garlic toast.
It will be complimented by a slightly chilled bottle of wine, and an ice cold carafe of water just to cleanse the palette.
Then, after dinner will come the proposal. I'm so nervous about this! But life is all about taking risks. Like I've always said - I refuse to grow up to be the old man in the old folk's home looking back at my life playing the "wish I wooda" game. Hells no, that's not my style. Life is too short, so speak up or you'll wish you would have; knowwhatI'msayin? And that's certainly the case in regards to this evening.
We'll retire back to the kitchen where the proposal will take place - right before desert. I will pop the question to Frank and he will generously accept.
I mean, of course he will. What cat wouldn't want some kitty treats after dinner?
Sunday, February 12, 2006
Febrooary is National Dirty Onion Armpit Awareness Month
Says who? Says me.
I walked past 4 people today (all men, mind you), and fer cryin' out loud. Put on some fucking deodorant, man! Seriously.
Sure, we all have those days where we're in a hurry and forget. Or we're overly active at times playing tennis, jogging, or even simply crouching in the bushes for hours on end stalking our would-be loved ones. The stuff wears off. Shit happens.
However, the people whose repugnant funk left me gasping today I know for a fact are not regular users. They are the people that have become so acclaimated to their own bouquet that they don't realize things have become a little stale over the years. Or they simply just don't give a rat's ass.
Case in point: Mr. Workplace Maintenance Man. Or Pigpen as I've dubbed him. An absolutely brutal adversary to all things in regards to applying pitstick. Every place I've ever worked at has had at least one Pigpen, and this guy immediately won the title at my current job. Just like the Peanuts character, there's an aura of dirty onion vapour surrounding him 24/7. And it trails up to 50 feet behind him (that's not an exaggeration - my co-workers will vouch for me), sometimes taking up to 10 minutes to dissipate. Dude doesn't simply forget every so often. He's forgotten every day.. since I've been working there, at least.
And it's embarrassing, because 5 minutes after he walks down the hall, you'll be walking in it and someone exits an office door, sees you, and immediately assumes you're the culprit. Sort of like the guy who farts in the elevator and gets off for the remaining passengers to be bewildered when the doors open on the next floor. All they can do is helplessly watch people step inside and wince.
Workplace Pigpen alone is reason enough to declare February National Dirty Onion Armpit Awareness Month. But I encountered 3 more people today - one guy who was even wearing a nice big parka, and gawd damn. If his odor was as loud as it was through a down-filled body-masking forcefield, I can only imagine what it must be like when he takes it off.
So if you all could just give your person a good armpit sniffing and make sure everything's in decent smelling condition, that would be great. And spread the word to everyone else while you're at it.
Together we can all make a difference, people. In the mean time, I'm going to Home Depot to get a face mask and some air sanitizer.
Wednesday, February 8, 2006
For Sale: 1 Sony™ Micycle™ Edition iPod™ $320.98/firm
Just lookie here at what I have in store for you, you sexy portable music lover, you:
For Sale: 1 Sony™ Micycle™ Edition iPod™ $320.98/firm
In a last ditch effort to gather monies together to own one of the newer iPods, I’m selling my old one at an exceptional price, while supplies last. I hate to see it go, but I need to make room for my new iPod.
This baby holds up to 700MB of music with stunning CD quality sound. That’s right - 700MB! In old world standards, that’s 1 record album's worth of music. If you're listening to the Ramones, that means you can fit nearly 30 songs in this iPod at any given time! Sony™ Micycle™ Edition iPod™ will play up to 80 minutes of music.
Tired of scrolling through countless menus with that pesky iPod dial? The Sony™ Micycle™ Edition iPod™ has got you covered. This iPod has stop, pause, fast forward, reverse, and even skip buttons! You can randomize song playback, even repeat songs you want to hear over and over again!
There’s also a unique EQ feature: 2 bass boosting presets that provide enough bottom to keep you raisin' the roof in even the noisiest of environments!
It features an easy to read non-illuminated display screen that shows you which track you're listening to as well as how much time has elapsed and which EQ preset you're currently using. That means there's no more of those complex battery-hogging video screens that are too small to watch anything on anyhow (that's what teevee and movie screens are for, you silly goof!)
If you act now, I'll throw in some extra memory for your Sony™ Micycle™ Edition iPod™. I’m offering 10 pieces of fresh, new, high quality CD-R media to the lucky buyer, free of charge. That's an additional 7000MB of storage up to 13.3 hours more music!
Now let's talk about looks. The Sony™ Micycle™ Edition iPod™ is a beautiful midnight blue color with brilliant glitter inlay if you look close enough. It also features a 5 year old CHECKED FOR ACCURACY sticker from Taco Bell to give it that retro worn-in look that everyone's going after these days. You know what they say: "Old.. it's the new New!"
Act now, as this baby is going to sell fast. I'm willing to accept an even trade for a like new 60 gig iPod if you're sick of yours and want to go old school. You'll be the envy of your friends when they see you carrying it around. And how nice will it be when they ask you where they can get one? You can proudly say "Well, you can't get one. This is a Sony™ Micycle™ Edition iPod™. Only one was made, and it’s mine. Mine. All. Mine."
The phone lines are open. Cash and money orders only, please.
For Sale: 1 Sony™ Micycle™ Edition iPod™ $320.98/firm
In a last ditch effort to gather monies together to own one of the newer iPods, I’m selling my old one at an exceptional price, while supplies last. I hate to see it go, but I need to make room for my new iPod.This baby holds up to 700MB of music with stunning CD quality sound. That’s right - 700MB! In old world standards, that’s 1 record album's worth of music. If you're listening to the Ramones, that means you can fit nearly 30 songs in this iPod at any given time! Sony™ Micycle™ Edition iPod™ will play up to 80 minutes of music.
Tired of scrolling through countless menus with that pesky iPod dial? The Sony™ Micycle™ Edition iPod™ has got you covered. This iPod has stop, pause, fast forward, reverse, and even skip buttons! You can randomize song playback, even repeat songs you want to hear over and over again!
There’s also a unique EQ feature: 2 bass boosting presets that provide enough bottom to keep you raisin' the roof in even the noisiest of environments!
It features an easy to read non-illuminated display screen that shows you which track you're listening to as well as how much time has elapsed and which EQ preset you're currently using. That means there's no more of those complex battery-hogging video screens that are too small to watch anything on anyhow (that's what teevee and movie screens are for, you silly goof!)
If you act now, I'll throw in some extra memory for your Sony™ Micycle™ Edition iPod™. I’m offering 10 pieces of fresh, new, high quality CD-R media to the lucky buyer, free of charge. That's an additional 7000MB of storage up to 13.3 hours more music!
Now let's talk about looks. The Sony™ Micycle™ Edition iPod™ is a beautiful midnight blue color with brilliant glitter inlay if you look close enough. It also features a 5 year old CHECKED FOR ACCURACY sticker from Taco Bell to give it that retro worn-in look that everyone's going after these days. You know what they say: "Old.. it's the new New!"
Act now, as this baby is going to sell fast. I'm willing to accept an even trade for a like new 60 gig iPod if you're sick of yours and want to go old school. You'll be the envy of your friends when they see you carrying it around. And how nice will it be when they ask you where they can get one? You can proudly say "Well, you can't get one. This is a Sony™ Micycle™ Edition iPod™. Only one was made, and it’s mine. Mine. All. Mine."
The phone lines are open. Cash and money orders only, please.
Tuesday, February 7, 2006
I'm in the midst of a moderately peculiar dream.
I can’t remember exactly how it started, but one of the first things I remember about this dream is punching my alarm clock because it was making a horrendous amount of hullabaloo oh so early in the morning.
The punch silenced the alarm clock and Frank, who I guess was sleeping next to my head gave me a reeereooowll raaaaraah? meow when he saw me sit up.
I got out of bed and ate two bowls of Target’s Market Pantry brand corn flakes seasoned with a wee pinch of sugar. I then showered, shaved and applied product to my hair to give it that thick, rather unkempt front lawn look that I like to go for.
It was the weirdest thing.
Then I headed off to work and got a coffee on the way. A nice waifish tattooed girl was behind the counter and she was rather quiet, I’m guessing because in this dream it was quite early in the morning. She gave me my coffee, told me to have a good morning, and off to work I went.
When I arrived at work, everybody was there that usually is in real life and our server was down. A co-worker asked me if I’d like to see her pictures that she had taken on a recent vacation, and I took a gander. Amongst the many fine pictures was one of a dead half eaten deer that they’d spotted whilst snowmobiling in the northern woods of MN. I told her that the deer wasn’t dead, rather that it was just sleeping.. and suggested that she should use said deer photo as desktop wallpaper at her workstation.
Yeah, I have some pretty weird dreams.
Next thing I knew, I was still at work, but the servers were back up. My boss came in shortly thereafter and asked if everything was working okay and we said “yes.” I put my headphones on and listened to the Cinderella song Coming Home on repeat, 'cause evidently for whatever reason in this dream the song got stuck in my head from out of nowhere. It's a great song though, really.
Then, the strangest thing occurred: Still in my dream, mind you, I started writing a blog about this really weird dream that I was in the middle of and I'll be damned, I posted the darn thing on MySpace.
I’m dying to find out what happens next. This is the most realistic and uneventful dream I’ve ever had… I sure hope things get a little more exciting than this before I wake up and find myself back in the real world.
It's the only real world I know. The one where I’m surrounded by incredibly expensive vintage guitars and my harem of admirers. They’re all at my side swilling ale (and/or sodie pop), listening to music, playing video games, and bugging me to take them out back to my personal amusement park to pet the giraffes and ride on the ferris wheel.
Yeah, if someone could just be a lamb and wake me up so I can get back to that, um… yeeeah… that would be just great. I’ll be sitting here at work stuck in this gawd awfully boring dream in the mean time.
The punch silenced the alarm clock and Frank, who I guess was sleeping next to my head gave me a reeereooowll raaaaraah? meow when he saw me sit up.
I got out of bed and ate two bowls of Target’s Market Pantry brand corn flakes seasoned with a wee pinch of sugar. I then showered, shaved and applied product to my hair to give it that thick, rather unkempt front lawn look that I like to go for.
It was the weirdest thing.
Then I headed off to work and got a coffee on the way. A nice waifish tattooed girl was behind the counter and she was rather quiet, I’m guessing because in this dream it was quite early in the morning. She gave me my coffee, told me to have a good morning, and off to work I went.
When I arrived at work, everybody was there that usually is in real life and our server was down. A co-worker asked me if I’d like to see her pictures that she had taken on a recent vacation, and I took a gander. Amongst the many fine pictures was one of a dead half eaten deer that they’d spotted whilst snowmobiling in the northern woods of MN. I told her that the deer wasn’t dead, rather that it was just sleeping.. and suggested that she should use said deer photo as desktop wallpaper at her workstation.
Yeah, I have some pretty weird dreams.
Next thing I knew, I was still at work, but the servers were back up. My boss came in shortly thereafter and asked if everything was working okay and we said “yes.” I put my headphones on and listened to the Cinderella song Coming Home on repeat, 'cause evidently for whatever reason in this dream the song got stuck in my head from out of nowhere. It's a great song though, really.
Then, the strangest thing occurred: Still in my dream, mind you, I started writing a blog about this really weird dream that I was in the middle of and I'll be damned, I posted the darn thing on MySpace.
I’m dying to find out what happens next. This is the most realistic and uneventful dream I’ve ever had… I sure hope things get a little more exciting than this before I wake up and find myself back in the real world.
It's the only real world I know. The one where I’m surrounded by incredibly expensive vintage guitars and my harem of admirers. They’re all at my side swilling ale (and/or sodie pop), listening to music, playing video games, and bugging me to take them out back to my personal amusement park to pet the giraffes and ride on the ferris wheel.
Yeah, if someone could just be a lamb and wake me up so I can get back to that, um… yeeeah… that would be just great. I’ll be sitting here at work stuck in this gawd awfully boring dream in the mean time.
T0day’s c0mput3r tip:
T0day I gav3 my c0mput3r's k3yb0ard a g00d cl3aning aft3r spilling s0m3 0rang3 juic3 0n th3 spac3bar | I t00k it all apart and s0ak3d th3 k3ys in s0apy wat3r |
Man’ y0u w0uldn,t b3li3v3 what a dirty m3ss th3r3 is living und3r th0s3 k3ys y0u typ3 with|
W0rd t0 th3 wis3 th0ugh+
If y0u d0 what I did and tak3 all 0f th3 l3tt3rs 0ff 0f y0ur c0mput3r k3yb0ard t0 cl3an it 0ff’ b3 sur3 y0u hav3 a pictur3 0f wh3r3 all 0f th3 k3ys ar3 Supp0s3d t0 g0 0nc3 y0u put it all back t0g3th3r|
It's g0ing t0 b3 a whil3 b3f0r3 I figur3 0ut wh3r3 all 0f th3s3 k3ys ar3 supp0s3d t0 b3... H3LP!
Sinc3r3ly,
Micycl3.
Man’ y0u w0uldn,t b3li3v3 what a dirty m3ss th3r3 is living und3r th0s3 k3ys y0u typ3 with|
W0rd t0 th3 wis3 th0ugh+
If y0u d0 what I did and tak3 all 0f th3 l3tt3rs 0ff 0f y0ur c0mput3r k3yb0ard t0 cl3an it 0ff’ b3 sur3 y0u hav3 a pictur3 0f wh3r3 all 0f th3 k3ys ar3 Supp0s3d t0 g0 0nc3 y0u put it all back t0g3th3r|
It's g0ing t0 b3 a whil3 b3f0r3 I figur3 0ut wh3r3 all 0f th3s3 k3ys ar3 supp0s3d t0 b3... H3LP!
Sinc3r3ly,
Micycl3.
Note to anyone who may have just moved into a new apartment:
If your bathroom window is about 20 feet away from a window in the neighboring complex that appears to be that of a yellow kitchen with me in it, I have one small suggestion:
You might want to close those blinds when you're poopin'.
Pretty please with sugar on top.
I beg you.
No.... really.
When I come home tonight, I want to look out and see a nice miniblind pulled alllllll the way down when I peep across the alley. You've got a good 4-5 hours to comply, as I'm on my way out for the duration of the evening.
I'll fix mine this weekend so you don't have to worry anymore, but in the mean time if you could just be a lamb..
You might want to close those blinds when you're poopin'.
Pretty please with sugar on top.
I beg you.
No.... really.
When I come home tonight, I want to look out and see a nice miniblind pulled alllllll the way down when I peep across the alley. You've got a good 4-5 hours to comply, as I'm on my way out for the duration of the evening.
I'll fix mine this weekend so you don't have to worry anymore, but in the mean time if you could just be a lamb..
There's no such thing as a perfect crime.
I had 6 or 7 stray Cheerios left in my bowl with a wee splash of sugary milk. I had to leave the room for a minute to answer my telly-a-phone and came back to discover that my Cheerios and most of the milk had been stolen.
However. Take notice of the footprints left behind at the scene of the crime:
It is clear that whomever committed this heinous crime had really small feet. Not to mention they weren't very bright nor efficient in the heat of their criminal activites (notice how they took the long way to get to the bowl. Pshhht! Amateurs.)
I'm going through my entire apartment complex right now to look at all of my neighbor's feet and so help me gawd if I find the culprit, there's going to be some Hell to pay. The sugar-infused "melk" and slightly mushy Cheerios are my favorite part.
(On a side note I just noticed that I have a picture with my Wheaties tuque in it right smack dab in the middle of a Cheerio blawg. Perhaps I've found a new culinary breakfast blend here. You know.. sort of like that Hey.. you got your chocolate in my peanut butter! accident.)
However. Take notice of the footprints left behind at the scene of the crime:
It is clear that whomever committed this heinous crime had really small feet. Not to mention they weren't very bright nor efficient in the heat of their criminal activites (notice how they took the long way to get to the bowl. Pshhht! Amateurs.)
I'm going through my entire apartment complex right now to look at all of my neighbor's feet and so help me gawd if I find the culprit, there's going to be some Hell to pay. The sugar-infused "melk" and slightly mushy Cheerios are my favorite part.
(On a side note I just noticed that I have a picture with my Wheaties tuque in it right smack dab in the middle of a Cheerio blawg. Perhaps I've found a new culinary breakfast blend here. You know.. sort of like that Hey.. you got your chocolate in my peanut butter! accident.)
Dr Pepper: a man of mystery
This isn't the most fascinating thing to write about, but these are the sort of things that keep me up late at night.I was just sipping on a Dr Pepper and got to wondering: What kind of pepper gives this drink such a unique and refreshing flavor? It doesn't taste like any peppers that I've ever eaten or any powders that I've used to enhance the tongue-burning factor of my foods. It really doesn't taste like anything but Dr Pepper.
And is the "Dr" part of the name representative of some sort of healing medicinal powers this drink holds (aside from quenching one's thirst)? And why is there no dot at the end of "Dr" in Dr Pepper? Is it not actually a doctor? Did they originally name it Dracula Pepper but need to cut out the acula to get the name to fit in the logo?
So I busted out my giant magnifying glass, put on my trench coat and detective hat, and off to YAHOO! I went to investigate. Here's what I found:
What flavor is Dr Pepper?
Huh. Way to answer a question without answering it. Looks like I now have the "Dr" part figured out, at least. But damn... I still can't place what that flavor is when I drink it. It's so weird - I try and try to figure it out, but in the end always hit that brick wall of telling myself Micycle. It tastes like Dr Pepper. Get over it.
Saturday, February 4, 2006
The Chronicles of Pinto, Vol I Chapter XIV pp 22-25
Attn. motorhead bitches: I repeat: the Pinto is Not for Sale.
A few days ago I walked out to my car and saw a sheet of paper underneath the driver's side winda-sheild wiper. Aw shit, says I to myself. Another ticket. Upon closer inspection, it was not a ticket. It was yet another note from a would-be buyer that thought I actually would flirt with even the faintest notion of selling my car:
Nah. Nah. Nah.
That's not how this works, Bob. I've known this car for my entire life and nothing, not even ten hundred billion dollars will separate me from the Pinto. Not even eleventy hundred billion dollars. Not a cure for the common cold. The blueprints build to a better mousetrap. Nothing you can do or say will ever make me get up one day and say "Hey, you know what? I'm selling the Pinto!"
One more time: The Pinto is Not for Sale. The Pinto is not just a car, it's my own little time capsule. I will be driving this thing until I can't drive it no mo, at which point I will park it in an undisclosed secluded location for it to die peacefully. I will visit it, bring it flowers, and sit behind the wheel making vrooom vrooooom! sounds.
Well. On second thought, maybe I can let it go for a couple hundred thousand. But only if said buyer happened to be a very attractive, witty and lovely single lady who could provide me with a cashier's check for $300,000 and also want to hire me as her own personal muse. I will write up a contract and in the contract, you may want to make note of some of the small print. It will read as follows:
- The Buyer can only drive the car when the Seller is in it.
- The "Buyer driving the car" is defined as the Buyer sitting in the passenger seat and asking the Seller to drive it (that is unless the Buyer knows how to drive a 4 speed stick.)
If you meet all of the above criteria, Bob, shoot me an email or wait by the car for me to come out someday so we can talk.
A few days ago I walked out to my car and saw a sheet of paper underneath the driver's side winda-sheild wiper. Aw shit, says I to myself. Another ticket. Upon closer inspection, it was not a ticket. It was yet another note from a would-be buyer that thought I actually would flirt with even the faintest notion of selling my car:
Nah. Nah. Nah.That's not how this works, Bob. I've known this car for my entire life and nothing, not even ten hundred billion dollars will separate me from the Pinto. Not even eleventy hundred billion dollars. Not a cure for the common cold. The blueprints build to a better mousetrap. Nothing you can do or say will ever make me get up one day and say "Hey, you know what? I'm selling the Pinto!"
One more time: The Pinto is Not for Sale. The Pinto is not just a car, it's my own little time capsule. I will be driving this thing until I can't drive it no mo, at which point I will park it in an undisclosed secluded location for it to die peacefully. I will visit it, bring it flowers, and sit behind the wheel making vrooom vrooooom! sounds.Well. On second thought, maybe I can let it go for a couple hundred thousand. But only if said buyer happened to be a very attractive, witty and lovely single lady who could provide me with a cashier's check for $300,000 and also want to hire me as her own personal muse. I will write up a contract and in the contract, you may want to make note of some of the small print. It will read as follows:
- The Buyer can only drive the car when the Seller is in it.
- The "Buyer driving the car" is defined as the Buyer sitting in the passenger seat and asking the Seller to drive it (that is unless the Buyer knows how to drive a 4 speed stick.)
If you meet all of the above criteria, Bob, shoot me an email or wait by the car for me to come out someday so we can talk.
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