My power went out this morning for the 9,000th time this summer. Let me tell you something: power outages are a hundred times worse when you have small children. No power means the TV doesn't work, so I have nothing to turn on to get the kids to be quiet so that I can ignore them properly. Also, the kids get in a rotten mood BECAUSE there's no TV, no lights, and no working stove for cooking. They want an explanation. They DEMAND one.
KID: Why is the power out?
ME: Well, because there was a storm.
KID: Why was there a storm?
ME: I don't know. Because weather is crazy like that.
KID: When's the power coming back?
ME: I don't know.
KID: Why isn't it coming back?
ME: I don't know why.
KID: Is the power back now?
KID: (waits two seconds) Is the power back NOW?
ME: GOD DAMMIT, DO YOU SEE ANYTHING ILLUMINATED IN THIS HOUSE YET? OFF WITH YOU BEFORE YOU TASTE THE BACK OF MY HAND!
Anyway, fun! Your letters:
So I am going to see Mini-Kiss next week at a strip club here in Dallas. A buddy of mine and I were discussing how he wanted to get a picture with the mini-Ace Frehley. What is the protocol for taking pics with little people? Do you bend down to them? Do you pick him up and hold him like a leather-clad loaf of bread? The logistics are messing with my head. What do you think?
I think you bend down. I think that's gotta be the etiquette there. I think you're only allowed to pick up a dwarf if they explicitly suggest it.
Though it does bring up any number of odd midget scenarios. For instance, imagine going skiing with a midget. Now imagine going over to the chairlift to get a ride up the mountain. You HAVE to pick up the midget to get him on that chairlift, right? I have to think that's an okay time to pick him up without asking him. Otherwise, that chairlift is gonna take his fucking head off.
I think you can pick midgets up without asking them if you know them really well. For instance, I met someone once who said they saw Verne Troyer making out with a woman at a restaurant, presumably his girlfriend. The girlfriend picked Verne up, stood him on her lap, and started tonguing him for all to see. The person who told me this story said it was like watching someone aggressively make out with a baby. He was mentally scarred by the image forever.
By the way, I'd rather make out with a baby than Verne Troyer. I really would. At least the baby wouldn't know what's going on.
Today I poured milk into a bowl of flaked cereal and hit a curled-up flake, causing milk to fly erratically out of the bowl. I wanted to murder the world.
That's a horrible way to start your day and I don't blame you in the least for your anger. That is why I now make it a point of avoiding ALL flaked cereals. I'm done with flakes. FOREVER. No more splashed milk. No more getting one good crunchy bite of flakes before they all wilt into fucking sludge. I've had it. The other day I was in the grocery store and they had a special edition of Honey Bunches of Oats that was JUST BUNCHES. I nearly burst into flames with delight. I purchased it immediately. It has, like, four thousand calories in a tablespoon. No matter. I've always dreamed of Honey Bunches of Oats without the stupid flakes getting in the way. Now, at last, they are fucking MINE.
It's just the first in any number of cereals that need to do away with their filler ingredients. The Onion may laugh about an all-marshmallow edition of Lucky Charms, but I do not. That needs to become a reality, just like Cap'n Crunch All Berries came along a few years ago and ripped a hole in the space-time continuum. They also need to sell bags of the raisin nuts from Raisin Nut bran. Especially the ones that were all stuck together. One time I got a raisin nut that had no raisin inside. It was just hardened nut paste. I felt like a millionaire.
One other horrid splashback scenrio: Washing the dishes, turning on the faucet, and having the water hit an overturned spoon and bouncing back at you and instantly drenching your balls. Happens to me eight times a week. Fucking spoons.
I hate it when you drive by a fast food restaurant or a commercial comes on and people feel the need to chime in with, "Oh I haven't eaten at (fill in the blank establishment) in like 5 YEARS." It's like they are trying to tell you how healthy and/or enlightened they are. Good for you asshole.
Shit. I've done that. I've totally been guilty of that. "God, I can't even remember the last time I ate at McDonald's." I'm sure I've said that to someone, and now I feel like a complete asshat. Because it's true! No one gives a shit if you haven't been to Arby's in a decade. Arby's is still there. Your little holdout has done NOTHING to stem the consumption of delicious, juicy, processed roast horse all across America.
The worst are the people who tell you they haven't eaten there and then throw this line in: "You know, it just doesn't taste good to me." As if their palates will now only accept free-range lamb and wild Alaskan salmon and nothing of supposed lower quality. IT DOESN'T TASTE GOOD TO ME! I'M TOO SOPHISTICATED FOR THIS MCRIB! Fuck you. Die. I may have said I haven't eaten at Burger King in a while, but it ain't because I think burger and strawberry shake from there tastes lousy.
That's the one thing I really hate about diet books and the slow food movement and all this other shit designed to make Americans healthier (and not succeeding). Too many people who write diet books or preach sustainable food or whatever the fuck fail to RESPECT junk food. I watched Jamie Oliver lecture some fat people in West Virginia on ABC earlier this year and his whole spiel was YOU PEOPLE EAT CRAP. THIS STUFF IS CRAP. YOU ARE DUMB FOR LIKING THIS. And yeah, it's fucking horrible for you. But it's not crap to the person eating it. Don't slag on some poor fat person's Dorito. If you can't understand what a Dorito means to a fat person, you're never gonna get through to them. That bag of Doritos is the highlight of that fat person's day. It's high cuisine to them. So show it some respect. Have some respect for just how much people LOVE this food. Otherwise, you'll never convince them to stop eating it.
/really wants a McDonald's hash brown now
My wife had our first baby 3 weeks ago. Is there anything more nerve-wracking than trying to put down a baby that's fallen asleep in your arms after screaming for hours?
As I'm ever-so-gently trying to put her down, I feel like I'm a member of an elite bomb squad, or Indiana Jones at the beginning of Raiders of the Lost Ark.
It's by far the most difficult part of parenting. All you want when you have a new child is for the thing to fucking sleep. And that can take hours of feeding, rocking, singing, cooing, rubbing, changing diapers, etc. It's hard manual labor. So when that little fucker finally does fall asleep, you want to do everything in your power to ensure he is NEVER woken up. Ever.
Anyone who's ever had a kid has had a baby waking failure. It's the worst moment ever. You get the kid down. You leave the room. You check the monitor and he's not yelling or shitting himself. Finally, you are free to turn on the TV, relax, and be a normal person for a couple of hours. And then, SOME FUCKING VERIZON CUNT COMES TO THE DOOR AND KNOCKS AND RINGS THE DOORBELL SIMULTANEOUSLY, ASKING YOU IF YOU WANT FIOS. Then the baby wakes up and you want to end humanity.
Some babies will also trick you. You'll put them down, and everything'll be quiet. Then you leave the room and hang out for five minutes before they start squealing again. And you'll have to go back and check on them. And the worst part is, they don't just do it once. No, they'll do it twenty fucking times, until you're unsure if the child will EVER sleep. Ever. And even when you try tough love on the kid, leaving him to cry, that ends up even worse because the kid NEVER stops crying, and you have to sit there and take it. There have been times when I've gone into my kid's room for the tenth time and wanted to put him through the wall. WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME, MAN? I'M OUT OF TRICKS, YOU DEMANDING LITTLE SHIT!
But anyway, children are precious and I adore them. Especially when we have no power.
As often happens, this morning I woke up with a melody in my head, but only gibberish words to accompany it. It was definitely not a melody from any song I'm aware of, but an original work. I read that Paul McCartney came up with "Yesterday" this way. Anyway, I always am too lazy/not musically talented enough to remember these melodies five minutes later, much less put words to it. This seems like musical masturbation, just wasting thousands of perfectly good potential #1 hits on the shower tiles of my lazy and forgetful brain. I wonder how many fucking awesome songs I and others like me have wasted in this fashion.
When I was a kid, I was a big fan of Metallica, particularly the big instrumental suites they played (hence the "Orion" essay earlier this week). So, duly influenced, I spent a lot of time trying to construct elaborate guitar symphonies in my head, with riffs and solos and everything. The only problem was that I couldn't play guitar (even upon taking lessons), and thus couldn't make those riffs into anything real. BUT THEY'RE STILL THERE! I still hum them to myself. I have fucking awesome arpeggios just dangling around in my brain. If I had a billion dollars and access to Rick Rubin, I could make them into a masterpiece. A MASTERPIECE, I TELL YOU! I'd be in the studio and I'd basically just dooby dooby doo to the guitarist, who would be forced to translate my stupid humming into real music. I will do this when I'm rich. I totally will. Then I'll have Pushead do my cover art, because Pushead IS THE SHIT.
I have songs I've written in my head that I've carried around forever. I even have titles for them: "Brainchild," "Over and Back Again," and "Here Comes The Rock." HERE COMES THE ROCK, BOODOODOOBOW!!!!
/awesome mental guitar solo
Aw yeah. I have lyrics and everything. Now, these songs are all likely terrible to anyone but me. But it's weird to have these little ditties in your head and know that's pretty much the beginning and end of their existence. One day in the future, there will be an iPhone app that connects to your brain and turns your thought melody into a song instantly. And then I can steal that song on Mediafire. I can't wait.
Also, when there's a piano in any room I enter, I always go down and sit there and play this one four note melody I figured out when fucking around at a piano decades ago. I play it in hotel bars, school auditoriums, living rooms. If there's a piano somewhere, I'm gonna sit down and do it. And I'm always waiting for someone to walk up to me and say, "What is that haunting melody? My name is Jimmy Iovine, and I'd like to give you a seven-record contract." Never happens. BUT IT COULD!
When I eat any kind of pasta, I like it extra saucey, almost like pasta soup. The best part about it is when I'm done eating there's a bunch of extra sauce left on the plate. Trying to eat the remaining sauce with a fork is nearly impossible. Some would think that the best remedy for this is to sop it up with garlic bread, but that is not true. The best way to consume the remaining sauce is copious amounts of PARMESAN CHEESE. It acts exactly like saw dust and turns the remaining sauce into this orgasmic mush of sauce and cheese.
I'm a pasta sauce whore as well. Big Italian chef people will always remind you to use just enough sauce to only coat the pasta, and not leave it in a lake of marinara. But I can't do it. I always oversauce. I use the whole goddamn jar when serving two people. I could eat marinara sauce cold out of the jar. Shit, I DO eat marinara sauce cold out of the jar. I'll open the jar, grab a spoon, and just dig right in before I heat it up. Then my wife will look at me like I've slaughtered a pack of AIDS babies. Don't look at me, girl. I'm having a moment with my Rao's sauce.
Then I eat my pasta and there's always a puddle of sauce left in the bowl. My wife won't touch hers. I just pick up the bowl and swill it like fruit punch. I am repugnant.
Do you ever bother to clean out your trash can, as in the actual can? I almost never do this, and so if a bit of garbage ends up underneath the bag, it's going to be living there for months or longer. There's a pad thai noodle in the bottom of the can that has been there for at least eight months, so now it's like a familiar friend saying hello each time I replace the bag.
We have trash pickup once a week, and that week is just enough time for the garbage to sit in our driveway in the heat and turn into toxic waste. Ever open the lid on a hot garbage can? It's like a homeless person walked up and sat on your face. And there's always something that sticks to the bottom of the can. Usually a plastic bag. There are plastic bags that fall to the bottom of a trash can and stick there for fucking decades. And reaching in to get them is always more effort than I'm willing to put in.
Sometimes, raccoons get into the cans. I strap the cans with a bungee cord to prevent it, but sometimes I'm lazy and I forget. Then the raccoons feast and the bottom of the can looks like a Roger Corman flick. There are little maggots everywhere. They're horrifying, yet I can't bring myself to look away. I know maggots are just fly larvae, but I always suspect that they will grow to five feet long and mutant cockroach people will break out of them and bite my dick off. I don't like maggots.
Anyway, when shit like that happens I am forced to rinse out the cans, lest that smell of garbage and maggots ferment for months on end in the heat. And rinsing out a garbage can blows. It's hard to get all the water of it without getting maggot soup on your feet. And maggot soup on the feet is decidedly unpleasant.
Is there anything worse than doing a multiple choice test and getting 3 C's in a row? And then you go on to the next question, and you're like "Ok, there's no way in hell this one's gonna be C," but than C looks like the right answer, and you KNOW you've fucked up somewhere? I'm studying for the bar, and there's a bunch of multiple choice sections on there, and what if the State of New York decided to fuck with us and put like 23 B's in a row? I think my head would explode.
This is why I never went to graduate school. It's the one nice thing about being a full-fledged adult. I may have to do taxes. I may have to apply for fucking health care. I may have to fix shit that breaks around the house. But I will NEVER have to take a test ever again. Ever. I'll never have to open a blue book and write until my hand hurts. I'll never have to sit there taking the SAT, see an obvious answer, then psych myself into thinking the answer couldn't be THAT easy when it really is. I never have to study. I never have to memorize things, like what quartz looks like for a geology test. Never again. And man, that's a real nice feeling. Almost makes up for this fucking I9 form I have to fill out.
Is there anything better than pointing out a typo someone else wrote? Makes me feel like a big man.
Agreed. And not on standard emails, which are now littered with typos. I mean finding typos on resumes and in books and on wedding invites and shit like that. Finding a typo means you've found an opportunity to make someone else feel dumb, and man that's awesome. Especially if it's your boss. I had a boss that couldn't spell a goddamn thing. So anytime he prepared some vital document to go out to clients, it would be riddled with spelling errors. It was a like a buffet of feeling superior. "Oh, Matt. There are few typos here. And here. And here. Don't fret. I know the proper spelling of the words from memory. BECAUSE I FUCKING RULE."
You ever use one of those GPS devices that estimates when you'll arrive at your destination? This feature will be responsible for my death, and possibly the death of several drivers around me. Every time I set it, my initial reaction is outrage. "9:53?!!!! You don't think I'll get there til 9:53?!!! Are you fucking nuts? Think I drive like a old lady, DO YOU?" Then I spend the duration of the drive speeding recklessly just to see the estimated time of arrival tick down minute by minute. If this hasn't already caused hundreds of deaths, I'll be shocked.
Agreed. And the feeling you get when you FAIL to reach your destination in the time your GPS or the time Google Maps says it'll take makes you feel like complete shit. I remember I was driving somewhere and I was on pace to beat the Google Maps estimated time by, like, an hour. Then I hit a wall of traffic and I spent that entire time stuck there staring at the clock, waiting for it to countdown to Google's calculated deadline, knowing it was going to pass and I was still going to be sitting in my fucking car. Google Maps was going to win, and I wanted to drive through pedestrians, I was so pissed about it.
I've used GPS a few times and I get extremely pissed that the GPS voice will stay eerily calm while I am in full-on road rage mode. Like, if I miss a turn and the GPS says, "You missed your turn," it says it very calmly. Almost condescendingly. And then I scream I KNOW I MISSED IT, YOU FUCKING ROBOT CUNT. But it stays cool and calm the whole time. It never talks back at me, and I'd really prefer it if it did. GPA lady is just a cold bitch.
The date was January 17, 2003. My friends and I were sitting at Chili's, getting smashed, because they used to have 2-for-1 well drinks all-day, everyday. Somehow or another, we started discussing a group bet in which we would choose the shittiest teams in both the MLB and the NFL to foist upon one another. Then, if anyone's team ever won it all, the other three guys would give the winner $50 each. Here are the standings to date (June 22, 2010):
Me: Tampa Bay Rays / Detroit Lions
Sean: Pittsburgh Pirates / Arizona Cardinals
Casey: Kansas City Royals / Cincinnati Bengals
Tommy: Detroit Tigers / Carolina Panthers
Who out of these four men will finish first, second, third, and FUCKING NEVER?
Holy shit, you gentlemen have had some close calls over the years. Carolina and Arizona both easily could have won the Super Bowl. Tampa and Detroit both went to the Series, of course. That's a pretty enjoyable little futures pool you have going on there (though I'm surprised no one forced a Brewers/Raiders combo on anyone else.)
Now, I'm no Bill Simmons, so I'm not an obvious MASTER OF GAMBLING WHO KNOWS FAR MORE ABOUT WAGERING THAN THE CUMULATIVE BRAINS OF ALL VEGAS PIT BOSSES AND ODDSMAKERS COMBINED, but I'd say the guy who owns the Rays (you) is probably in the best position, since that organization seems to be well run and has a surplus of young talent that can keep it competitive for years to come. They could easily win it all two months from now.
After that, I'd say Tommy (from Quinzee?) is mostly likely to see his team win it all. The Panthers are a chic pick in the NFC this year, and the Tigers at least spend money. I'd say the guy in your pool who's completely fucked is the dude with Royals/Bengals. I also think your pool should have been designed so that you won money if your teams NEVER won a title. For example, if the Rays win it all this year, you wouldn't win $50 from everyone. Rather, you'd have to PAY everyone else in the pool $50. In essence, that would mean you're rooting for a horrid team to keep losing, rather than the opposite. Then someone could take Cubs/Vikings and watch the money roll in.
Time for a GREAT MOMENT IN POOP HISTORY. Reader Eddie sends in this story he calls THE POONADE:
At the end of freshmen year of college my best friend from high school like so many other 19 year olds made the decision for a number of reasons to transfer back home to a local state school. I was already attending a local university so I obviously thought this was going to be great on account of the fact that I had an off campus apartment set up with some college buddies and wild times would surely ensue.
Well his parents who had moved 50 minutes away after he graduated and decided to invest in a small house for him and another of his friends to live in and for his sister to have some place to go after school and before sports practices because she was still attending high school locally. We didnt give a fuck why they bought it. It was a house and we were going to party there as soon as possible.
As soon as possible turned into about a week after the spring semester was over and before there was any real furniture, cable, food, and running water. All that was there was electricity. Electricity means fridge. Fridge means beer. Beer means party. So we have a party with about 30 people and get cocked and pass out all over the floor of this gingerbread house.
I woke up at 7am feeling like I had to projectile shit until I pink socked. In my drunken stupor I still recalled that THERE WAS NO FUCKING RUNNING WATER. I couldn't just shit in the toilet that had no water in it. People would wake up from the smell and my reputation would be smeared as bad as my scat in a waterless john. So I run out the door into the small backyard which is surrounded by 8-foot hedges and has a small shed. I run into the shed, drop trou, and instead of a spray poo I get a Pringles Can. Flawless victory. FUCK AND YES.
One problem. I sobered up while shitting enough to remember my friends dad shows up once a week to mow and he surely wouldn't miss the Pillsbury slice n bake I dropped in front of the mower. So I once again did the only thing logical. I bare handed the poo log, walked out of the shed, and grenade heaved it over the 8-foot hedges and into the neighbor's yard. I then wiped my hands "clean" onto the grass and walked back inside and went back to sleep. I told my friends this story about 2 weeks later and I have never seen people laugh like that in pure disbelief. It's easily the most vile shit related thing I have ever heard anyone do.