Nice to be back. Your letters:
As seen in today's Des Moines Register Online Mugshits, errr...mugshots (picture above).
So I'm watching the news this afternoon and they're covering one of those deals where some guy has escaped from a prison somewhere and now all the local cops are involved in the manhunt. Immediately I wonder how long I could elude the authorities if I was the escapee (I also have the same thought on those movies where the pilot gets shot down behind enemy lines). I'm in pretty good shape so I think I could hold out for a long time...all Richard Kimble style.
I know I can't be the only one who has this thought when there is a manhunt on TV right? Any good tips and tricks for eluding the authorities that next time you're on the run?
Of course you aren't. I've watched The Fugitive 900 times and memorized every line ("We're eatin' oranges and makin' IDs") specifically because it's so effective as a piece of vicarious prison escapee porn. Not a week goes by that I don't think about walking into my home and finding my wife killed, only to end up charged with a murder I clearly didn't commit. I beg and plead to the cops, but they're hardened, lazy assholes who want an easy case. WHY WON'T YOU LISTEN TO ME! SHE WAS ALL I EVER HAD, YOU FUCKS! I get sent to jail. Then I manage to break out during a riot in the weightlifting section of the yard. Then I spend the next seventeen weeks living in the mountains and foraging on berries. So cold. So very, very cold. But I must press on. I won't let my true love die in vain, God dammit. I will find the real killer, and I will bring him to swift vengeance.
Of course, none of this would happen in real life. If it happened in real life, I'd never break out of jail and would spend the rest of my life raped thrice daily. Which is awesome.
Anyway, if I was actually on the lam from the authorities, I imagine they'd be able to hunt me down within five seconds. I'd try and grow a beard and fail. I'd dye my hair, only to look like a dipshit. I'd get various tattoos to throw people off. And, of course, I'd relocate to Maine. No one bothers to look in Maine, because Maine is awful. Inland Maine is already its own prison. They won't bother to find you there because they already KNOW you're suffering terribly.
When I was a sophomore in dipshit prep school, I went home for Christmas to a rental house my parents were living in at the time. There was a prison nearby this house. Sure as shit, one night during Christmas break, there was a breakout at the prison. Now, the first thing you think whenever there's a prison breakout nearby is that the prisoner will head straight to YOUR house to rape you and eat all your food. And so all of us were a touch paranoid when we went to sleep that night. This house was also located in the middle of the woods, so no one would be able to hear us if Snake the fugitive broke in and double-raped us.
At 5AM that night, we heard a knock on the door. My parents sprung up and immediately dialed 911, then came into my room and woke my ass up (why didn't they let me sleep?) just to tell me someone knocked on the door and that I should be scared shitless. So we all freaked out. GAHHHH MADMAN OUTSIDE! HE'LL STABRAPE US ALL! The cops came, searched the area, and nothing was ever found. Two decades later, I still imagine a dirty prisoner in a striped uniform and giant ball and chain on his ankle knocking on our door at 5AM, hearing no reply, and saying to himself, "Nah, I'll rape another house." So cool.
Driver was Asian. Makes it funny, yes?
Indeed. Although what if he's just a fan of that one Jet Li movie?
Today I got out of my car after getting home from work only to find my three year old daughter's milk cup in the backseat. This cup sat in the back seat in temperatures of around 120 degrees for about 12 hours. This isn't the first time this has happened. I find them under my bed, in the laundry hamper, in the lower kitchen cabinets. It's getting to the point where I am starting to think my daughter is a terrorist. It takes every ounce of will power not to just throw the cup away. My wife always says it is still good and that it just needs to be cleaned. I say it's not worth opening the top and unleashing the smell of the seventh gate of hell for a three dollar plastic cup.
I side with your wife, only because I'm the world's cheapest asshole. That cup could be filled with rat poison and I'd still just keep it and rinse it. Also, whenever I stumble across spoiled milk or something awful like that, I have a deep-seated urge to smell the horrible odor. My curiosity gets the best of me. I mean, I know it'll smell like cottage cheese someone pissed in, but how MUCH will it smell like that?
Kids are awful because they leave shit everywhere. And you'll never find half the crap they've hidden under bed and couch and stereo. My kids ride in car seats in the car. There's nothing I dread more than unlatching the car seat and taking a peek at what's underneath. It's horrifying. It's like an episode of "Hoarders," all densely compacted into one square foot. There are hairy Cheerios. Barrettes with old raisins pressed inside. 400 Lollipop sticks. It's like someone put a brick of C4 inside a bathroom trash can.
Do you ever get the urge to buy books to pretend that you're some sort of intellectual? I swear I go to a lot of people's houses and there's all sorts of shit on their shelves that makes me feel like a fucking glans penis for reading People of Walmart at work all day. These people really can't be reading 'Art of War', can they? Or am I just a lazy fuck?
Nah, I don't think you're alone. I said this when "Men With Balls" came out, and I still believe it: Books are essentially trophies. The only reason people display books on a bookshelf is to let other people know that they read those books. There's no logical reason to keep any book you read. Oh sure, there's some asshole out there who tells you he revisits "Middlemarch" any time he feels inspired, but that's bullshit. Once I've read a book, I'm never touching that thing again.
So why do I have a bookshelf? Why do I keep any book I read? Why the hell don't I just donate it to some used book sale? Because I am a VAIN, horrible person who wants to let anyone else visiting my house know that I have fine taste in literature. CAN YOU NOT SEE THAT I HAVE DOGEARED PORTIONS OF "THE ROAD"? I am a man of education, dammit.
If I ever move, there's no fucking way I'm keeping any of those books. They're heavy as shit. They go right in the bonfire. Ever pick up a box of books without someone telling you there are books inside? AGONY.
I have to restrain myself any time I walk into a bookstore to keep myself from buying some prestige book I know I'll never read. For example, when I walk into Barnes & Noble, there's this Pynchon book I always look at. It's really thick. There's no fucking way I'd ever read it. Yet I often feel compelled to buy it because I want to be the kind of dipshit that would buy and read a book like that. Then I pickup a Star Wars sticker book and get the fuck out of there.
When I order a sandwich (a hero for lunch or a ham, egg and cheese for breakfast) and they cut it in half, I am always very excited when one half is bigger than the other. This happens 99% of the time, and I ALWAYS eat the small half first. I justify this by believing that by eating the bigger half last, I will somehow make the sandwich last longer.
Today I had a ham egg and cheese that was cut perfectly in half, and I hated it. It took too long to decide which half to eat first, and I second guessed myself during every bite. I still ate it, but was mad at the cook.
I too am fat.
Yes, but I think your reasoning is sound. I'm with you. I'm the kind of guy who scans the egg carton for the largest egg before I fry one up. All eggs in the carton are uniform in size, but that doesn't stop me from wanting the one with .001% more yolk in it. I look for ANY edge when eating. Any advantage. It's important.
Also, anytime someone asks me to split a cookie, or something else in half, I will deliberately split that cookie unevenly and hand that person the smaller piece. And it's clearly smaller. It's not even close to half. And I clearly split it so that the lumpier, more chip-laden section of the cookie is in my portion. But fuck you. Get your own goddamn cookie.
Today I called my piece of shit cellphone company and they, as fucking usual, put me on hold— except that this time the hold music was Africa by Toto. You may argue that I am a gay for liking that song, but I was legitimately fired up to hear it and found myself moaning along to the chorus to the point that I was kind of bummed when the asshole agent took my call.
Maybe they could even give you a menu of songs to choose from. That would be fucking badass.
I don't think you're gay for liking that song. That's one of those songs that comes on the radio, and I can't turn the car off until it's finished playing. I enjoy it terribly. It makes me feel like I'm in an old Michael Mann film, and that makes NO sense at all. In fact, I just bought the song now and am now on pace to listen to it 400 times in a row, a song binge I only matched last year when I bought "These Dreams" for no reason at all. It's making my day. No one is around to hear me sing along to it and play the air keyboard. I'm having a BALL. I want to learn the "Africa" riff on the piano. It's hypnotic.
(NOTE: I was with Daulerio the other day. He spotted a piano in the rec center we were at. He walked up to it and played the opening riff of "Bulls on Parade" on it. It was easily the coolest thing I'd ever seen.)
At the very least, the people on hold should at least let you choose a music genre, or the option to avoid their bullshit automated sales pitch. "Did you know you can now pay your Verizon bill online?" YES I DO NOW FUCK THE FUCK OFF.
I like it when they play the classical music. Puts me at ease. Makes me 32% less likely to commit murder. It should be mandatory for all hold music.
White Boom Boom:
The other day on FilmDrunk, one of the links in the link dump was for bikini pictures of Gianna Michaels, the porn star. I was all pissed, because I was stuck at work and couldn't look at them, and thought about how I would try and see them when I got home. Thing is, I've seen Gianna Michaels naked dozens of times. I've seen her in all manner of sex acts, and I really only need to close my eyes and think for a nanosecond to know what she looks like totally naked and engaged in all manner of dirty acts. Why would I be excited to see her in a bikini?
Because it's a variation. It's like the Simpsons episode where all the girls go nuts over Malibu Stacy getting a new hat. The new outfit matters. You may see a curve or a position you haven't seen her in before. Variation is important to a penis. What I'm saying is that your penis is basically a nine-year-old girl. It doesn't matter if you've seen her naked. It's if you've seen her LIKE THAT, and you have not. Penises love to play dress up.
Perhaps this has been covered before, but the owner of my company has this thing, where he'll come into the bathroom in our office complex, humming like a '50s housewife dusting the bookshelves, and proceed to take a shit. All while humming his jaunty little tune. The first time it happened, I thought maybe he thought he was alone in the bathroom, because I am most definitely a quiet pooper, but the second time, he had to have known I was there. Is there some bizarre rich guy power play? Like, "You'll shut the fuck up and listen to me hum while I push out my shit, you wage slave." Or is he just batshit crazy?
I dunno, but I kind of admire his moxie. Because what the fuck are you gonna do about it? Nothing. You're just gonna have stand there, inhale his poop fumes, and listen to him bang out a few bars of "Africa." It's a dick move, but I see the appeal. It makes me want to go into a public shitter and just start shouting random crap while taking a dump, to see if anyone dares confront me. Just sit down and start going all Tourette's over everyone. FUCKING TURD DOUBLE CUNT! PUSSY GRAVY! HORSE ASSHOLE DONGROPE! I bet no one would say a word to you.
It's like when a homeless guy is in the shitter and he's making all sorts of horrible noises, as if he's injecting heroin directly into his rectum. No one says a word. They just try and get out of there as fast as possible. I bet that's the highlight of the homeless guy's day. Apart from the heroin in the butt, of course.
I recently calculated my bi-weekly paycheck for a temporary job I just accepted. It comes out to 666.66666666667. I'm doomed, right?
If you're making $17K a year? You sure are, kid.
What would happen if next time we send an ex-prez to Korea to get a citizen out, and they in turn arrest him or kill him?
Do we go to war over a Carter or either Bush or Ford?
Well, Ford is dead. So the North Koreans can play soccer with his corpse for all I care. But if they captured a former President and cut his head off? I think you'd have to declare war, wouldn't you? You couldn't just let that stand. Even if they killed a President you didn't like. You're allowed to hate your OWN President. But no one else is. Everyone else has to shown some goddamn respect. So if Jimmy Carter's old peanut-farming ass got sent to North Korea and they gutted him like a dead fish, I think you'd see daisy cutters sweep the land within an hour. If you want to kill an American prisoner and get away with it, you kill a JOURNALIST. Everyone knows that.
I was pretty impressed that this guy had a Mets/tribal "sleeve" tattoo running down his entire left arm. Then I realized it was an actual sleeve — as in a flesh-colored arm cover with fake tattoos printed on it.
Pretty lame, right? I can see a 12-year-old wearing this to try to look cool, but this was a grown man.
That is awful.
Johnny Three Smiles:
How much more motivated would you be at your job if you actually got paid by the hour? I'm not talking about money being direct deposited into your account every hour, but an actual employee who walks around the office handing you a $20 dollar bill (fuck you for making more than me) every hour on the hour. I personally would work a lot harder knowing I had another cash payment coming up.
Yeah, but then what if your boss got a fifty every hour, right in front of your face? You're stuck with a measly twenty, and that prick, who you know does NOTHING, gets an even bigger payout. Brutal. I couldn't take it. I'd snap.
If I were a boss, I would adopt this strategy, and then immediately build an illegal blackjack table in the cafeteria. My entire workforce would be fucking FREE.
I was lost in Austin when I stumbled upon this gem.
Jesus. And why isn't that sign in Braille?
Time for your Email of the Week. Claim your prize for Email of the Week by emailing the tips line. Here's Brian with a GREAT MOMENT IN SALMON GENOCIDE:
I have a cottage/fishing camp and had some friends up a couple weeks back to go salmon fishing. We caught a bunch of salmon on Lake Michigan and drank a horrific quantity of cheap beer and Boone's Farm Quenchberry Cooler. Anyhow, I filleted a cooler full of salmon weighing between ten and nineteen pounds each, leaving behind what had to be 100 pounds of salmon carcasses. I normally bag these up immediately and secretly throw them in a random gas station/7-11/grocery store dumpster but I was too wore out from fishing and drinking to go anywhere, so I left them in a pile on the ground behind my tool shed in the woods.
This occurred on Friday. As I was getting things buttoned up to head home on Sunday, I suddenly remembered my pile of offal. It had been extremely hot and humid over the weekend and I was not looking forward to dealing with a bunch of half-rotten salmon guts. I grabbed two garbage bags and a shovel and headed back to the scene of the crime prepared for the stench of rotting fish flesh. To my surprise, there was no odor whatsoever. There was, however, the largest writhing pile of maggots that I have ever seen in my life. It was like a CSI prop on crack. The maggots covered an area two-by-four feet and were well over a foot high. The mere sight made me gag. Then I was amazed. The damned salmon was nearly gone. It was mostly a pile of bones. I went back and pulled three more fish carcasses from Saturday out of the garbage and threw them on the pile to feed my maggot friends. I yearned for a human body or at least some other large mammal to feed them. Is this normal?
I was back up the next weekend with the thought that I'd trash pick the pile for a nicely cleaned salmon skull to nail above my shed door. It was not to be. All that was left was a pile of white dust faintly redolent of stale fish. It was like they'd evaporated in a puff of smoke. All I can say is that my enemies should be on the lookout now that I have the final piece in place for getting rid of incriminating organic evidence.
I also like this as a threat to children. Shake the dinner table one more time, AND IT'S THE MAGGOT PILE FOR YOU.