An official YPS!! Exposé: The Ralph and Potsie of the Candy World.

Nerds are a delightful little candy product whose two flavors live in a duplex style box. I'm guessing that this is so you can visit the grape family without disturbing the strawberry family while they do whatever it is that strawberry-flavored candies do within the confines of their duplex box. Maybe both sides will intermingle in a candy kind of block party, but when they say that the walls are paper-thin, they ain't a -jokin' in this case.

While the candy is particularly tasty with a crunch that would make them worthy of Cap'n Crunch's fleet, the packaging, well, it sucks. It's this kind of punk ass packaging that would lead to the formation of a blog called This Product's Box Is Crap!!! or something to that effect. So now that the packaging has been called out, let's take a look at the shit. At this time, please put on your official YPS!! safety glasses and leiderhosen of choice.

One thing that can be said about Nerds' packaging is that the shit is sealed so tightly that it could easily be used as cheap ass maracas in your Santana tribute band. The box requires the skills of a safe cracker or a demolition squad to get to the goods within the candy duplex. It makes the child-proof caps on prescription medications seem like a trip to your happy place. This is assuming that you actually have a happy place. Some of us have yet to locate this place or are happy place-impaired. This makes us edgy and downright mean. For some of us, this edgy and mean-ness is among our better traits.

According to the box itself, the opening process first requires the removal of the paper tab, which makes the duplex a gated community. From personal experience, the tab never cleanly leaves the premises in one swipe. It's more of a chiseling process. Perhaps it is my lack of candy box breaking and entering skills, but this exercise in futility pushes my frustration level right into the red zone. Thus earning the paper tab the unofficial name of Pull Tab Flap Bastard (PTFB for short).

I generally open these candy gems in an official YPS!! company vehicle and who wants to rip into the box like a rabid wolverine and scatter Nerd bits all over the swankier than swank ride? I'm sure Air Force One has some stubborn stains that industrial cleaners won't remove. However, we at YPS!! are suave and sophisticated fuckers and not savages, so we don't want the shit dusting our ride. Besides, ripping into it like that isn't good for anyone, because you end up wearing 30% of the product, 69% ends up in the crooks, crannies, and nether-regions of your environment. 1%, a/k/a the Stubborn Bastard Crumbs, remains in the box. It's either afraid to jump or has an appendage stuck to the box and of course, we all know how painful that can be.

Supposing that you manage to jimmy open (not to be confused with the jimmy legs) by some form of divine intervention, you are then faced with step 2. Admittedly, step 2 isn't so bad, but by this point, you question just how badly you want the shit in the box. It's good stuff, but is it worth this much hassle? Maybe. Maybe not.

According to the box itself, step 2 is cryptically called "Slide!" It involves simply sliding one (or both) of the slider bastards to open up the doors to the candy crib. If all goes well, some of the grape and/or strawberry families will come to the door to say hello before hopping in your mouth and making like Lewis and Clark through your digestive system.

The smaller opening beneath the sliding bastard strip doles out the goods like a stingy crack dealer. You want a kick ass burst of sugary goodness and you get only a piddly rock or two. The process isn't entirely user friendly. Perhaps proper Nerd distribution is so complex that I could not even to begin to imagine the depth. However, this isn't the way I roll with it. Safety, common sense, and gentlemanly decency go right out the window with heathens such as myself. Damn the company ride interior all to Hell.

Rat bastard heathens like me get instantly fed up with the first step of the candy liberation process and we want to kick in the candy duplex door like the KGB on crystal meth and high levels of protein. We don't want to fuck around with the shit. We want the candy and we want it now.

Once we determine that the pull tab flap bastard won't open in one swipe, we figure that we're going to have to wreck the place and crash the party like a cookout with the Branch Davidians. Rather than deal with the gay-ass formalities, it's much easier to just say "Fuck the pull tab flap bastard, fuck the slider bastard...we're ripping the master flap that houses the whole enchilada." However, if the official opening process works, fine. That's what we want to do. But if not, fuck it.

Research proves that the only true difference between the two styles of opening the duplex is the amount of candy goodness you receive at one time. The proper manner will dole out a few Nerd rocks at a time. The rat bastard manner could very well give you half the box or more in one tip of the box. A civilized chap will be happy chugging the box one Nerd rock at a time. This is a very slow and laborious process, but it works nicely while watching entire episodes of Masterpiece Theater and other artsy shit on the TV. However, crazed mad dog motherfuckers will slam back the whole box and grin maniacally as they crunch on the Nerd payload.

Even if you consider yourself a sophisticated individual, driving on roads on this particular plot of ground could reduce you to a crazed mad dog motherfucker or at the very least doing power swallows like Linda Lovelace in her prime. It's all a matter of style, choice, and perspective of life. The choice belongs to you. However, one thing is etched in granite of the YPS!! Hall of Fame. Ralph, Potsie, and the Nerds' candy duplex...YOUR PACKAGING SUCKS!!

Two misc. photos for your viewing pleasure.
Workplace Nerds.
Nerds in the Great Outdoors.

Life: Something Has To Give Before The Monkey Becomes The Meal

…and your arrogance, dessert.

Thoughts for Bloggy Jr. on his Birthday

Dear Bloggy Jr.,

Here it is, your seventh birthday! For seven years you’ve taught me so much and I’m proud to have you as my son and teacher.

Teacher? Yes, teacher. Most people, no matter how old they are, don’t realize that daddies just don’t know everything there is to know about being a daddy. Just because *poof* one day you’re a daddy all of a sudden doesn’t mean *poof* you automatically know all the answers. Oh sure he might know a few things and some he can figure out on his own, but daddies don’t get “Instant Daddy Brain Power.”

Take changing a diaper for example. Maybe a new daddy has NEVER changed a diaper in his life, but it’s not so hard to figure out how to do it, or that it needs to happen.

“Huh. Bloggy Jr sure is making a funny face. Why is he making that grunting noise? Uh oh, his little cheeks are turning red! What …in the world…is that SMELL?!?! Oh. The diaper thing.”

Ok, so that’s not how it happened with us. I had already changed diapers before you came along. I also worked with a bunch of kiddos that helped me know a LITTLE about being a daddy. But it wasn’t until that special, wonderful, awesome, ROCKIN’ day 7 years ago that I began to learn a little more each day about it all.

So thank you for teaching me that I need to be more patient, more often. Thank you for teaching me about respecting your space and your needs. Thank you for teaching me to listen, really listen. Thank you, for teaching me about forgiveness, when I totally mess up like whack.

While it’s true that we don’t sit in a classroom where I take notes from what you write on the chalkboard about fatherhood. But you teach me in your own special way. The way you look at me with your eyes, the way you shape your mouth, the sound and tone of your voice, the giggles and even crying; all teach me so much.

So while it’s not exactly like being in my seventh year at Hogwarts, it’s better. It’s better because you teach with something stronger than magic. You teach with love!

Happy birthday pal!

I love you,

Daddy

Thought Of The Day That Is September 27.

I struggle constantly with the human condition and the concept of being unconditionally human. Not enough to keep me awake for days, but just enough to fuck me up.

Very Commendable: UPDATED

We’ve heard about it in the media, some of us have lived through it, and some of us are in a position to help. The recent hurricanic weather has brought on some heavy duty shit down in the south and folks need help.

Office Type’s “S Man” (as I’ll refer to him here) is at this very moment on his way with other EMTs from the area to pitch in. I think this is incredibly unselfish and very commendable.

Like many of us that don’t have the skills that are required to be in that situation, I can only wish I could do more. He’s doing it.

I’ve not been fortunate enough to meet “S Man,” but if he’s okay by Office Type, that’s enough for me.

Please keep him, and those accompanying him, in your thoughts. Let’s also give him a warm YPS!! Saaaaa-luuuuute!

====> Rumor has it "S Man" *could* be coming back to town as early as...TODAY! Also, there are several others at his place of employment that have volunteered to head back down that way to help out once he returns. We can only hope we'd be this fortunate to have awesome people to assist should we ever need it. Well done!

Who Cut the ...

Anatomy of a Birthday Cake: Part II - Plus One

Quote of the Day (Early Edition)

"Life's ambition and then you die."

It All Started with a Paper Rocket -or- Anatomy of a Birthday Cake

Once upon a time, a father and son were creating with ink, crayons, and paper. The father took a piece of slightly used notebook paper and drew one-half of a rocket. After folding the paper, he traced the other side of the rocket to make it symmetrical and cut the rocket shape out. The boy loved the rocket. For days the boy played with the paper rocket until one day the father decided this rocket was worth preserving and so he scanned it into the computer. The son sat in the father's lap while the smiling face of the boy was added to the rocket's window, along with a star-filled sky and grass below.

The boy continued to swoosh about the house with his rocket and the father had another idea. The image of the rocket would be the basis for the son's upcoming third birthday cake. And so it began. The father took a scanned copy of the rocket to the bakery and described what the cake should look like and asked that they use the same size of the paper rocket and even use the smiling paper face right on the cake. The boy loved the cake.

Just before the 4th birthday, the father decided to use a photo of the birthday cake from the 3rd birthday in the design of the 4th birthday cake. He used a scanned photo of the father and son team sliding down a park slide to make it appear as though the two were headed feet first into the prior year's birthday cake. Again, the boy loved the cake.

For the 5th birthday cake, an image of prior year's cake was placed on the son's shirt in a photo.

When the 6th birthday cake came along, the father decided to make it appear as though the boy were holding a puppet that looked just like the boy wearing a birthday shirt.

This year, the son's birthday cake has him standing behind a television showing his own TV show.

At the time of this writing, the son has yet to see his 7th birthday cake.

What happened to the original paper rocket? It's tucked safely in one of the family photo albums. The father loves the son.

The perfect fashion accessory.

One of the big fashion trends these days is a rubber bracelet with what I assume is supposed to be an inspirational phrase on it. Like the magnetic ribbons on countless vehicles, you can pretty much spit in any direction and hit one or the other.

One of the more popular models in the extensive rubber bracelet product line sports the phrase "Live Strong." While that's certainly a great phrase for a great cause, it also gave me an idea for my own version of the rubber bracelet phenomenon.

It will be snot green in color and look like it's been to Hell and back--torn, tattered, and generally all fuckered up. The phrase of inspiration will be "Live Wrong." If you order before midnight, you'll get the limited edition matching magnetic ribbon for your ride with the phrase "I support nothing" and a set of ginsu knives.

And Tonight’s Discussion, the Ten Year Old Pea

The Setup:
Around 1989 this was written as an assignment for a lit class I was taking at the time. We were to read a certain short story and then attempt to write something in the style of that story. It's not perfect, but it got an A and it's what life was like ten years before the assignment. This is about my paternal grandmother, where Turn the Quiet Down was about my maternal grandparents. The photo is authentic, but no one claims the hand that is doing the holding.

The relationship that exists between family members is indeed interesting. Most interesting is the relationship between members not belonging to the immediate family. These members are usually seen quite consistently throughout the year at Christmas and Thanksgiving. Distant relatives as such can be found re-issuing the now tired notification that you have grown and how your looks have improved. Whenever the season rolls around, the feeling of anticipation fills the air, as you await the long overdue visit with this part-time family. This feeling comes to an end; however, as you become aware that although Uncle Pete may indeed be family, interests and communication may be non-existent.

Each year was the same. Mom would leave the house early in order to help Mammaw in the kitchen. Mom’s help usually led the two cooks nervously running around babbling and arguing whether or not the rolls were done. We had met there for Christmas and Thanksgiving since I could remember and always at twelve o’clock exactly. To be late was punishable by law. The law was entitled “I’ll Never Hear the End of it,” which you usually wouldn’t.

Over the years, the family had been split into two halves. My half could be said to have my father at the head. Our half consisted of his kids and their kids. I was next to last in age, with my nephew, the newcomer, bringing in the rear. The other half consisted of Uncle Pete, (my dad’s brother) and his kids and grandchildren. All of which made up what shall be branded as an official part-time family, linked as one by my grandmother.

At the traditionally set time, the house grew crowded, as did the drive. Each family segment arrived in separate cars and at separate times. All who got there early wondered, “what Uncle Pete would be driving this time.” He was notorious for his switching of vehicles, and could quite often be found driving separately ahead of his wife and children. He did so in order to test out his new toy in comparison to the one he grew tired of in the previous months.

Although unnoticed, there was a certain routine to follow during these occasions. Entering through the side door, which led to the kitchen, started the routine. The first part of the routine consisted of a two-part motion. One arm was used to get the pecan pie Mom had forgotten, on top of the deep freeze, while the free arm was used to hug Mammaw’s neck. When this task was skillfully accomplished, a kiss on the left cheek could be had along with an attempt at step number two. The next step would be the removal of the coat and piling it on the bed in the back bedroom. This bed, by the time lunch was served, could no longer be seen due to the endless stack of wool, denim and leather. To lose a glove was not uncommon.

At last, the living room had been filled. Packages, extra folding chairs and a card table set up with the glasses and paper plates took away the luxuries of mobility and walking space. Swirling patterns of flesh tones and Kermit-the-Frog green could be seen as one of the family members, cursing, made an attempt to tune the ancient TV set. Tuning the TV was an annual event; to see the parade was a must.

The card table in the living room performed a couple of duties. The first was to accommodate the children with an appropriate place to feast, uncomfortable as it may be. It also served the purpose of forced communication among the ravenous kids. The talk usually contained the relentless joke of who would spill the tea first this time and what had everyone been doing with their lives. After exhausting these two vibrant topics, a lull of uneasiness crept into the dinner plate and down our throats. Then it would catch someone’s eye. On the wall, hanging on a single nail, above the chair that had been my grandfather’s, was the crucifix. Whoever caught a glimpse of it first had in them the divine power of laughter over us all. Seeing the crucifix allowed that person the exclusive right in knowing the secret to the humor needed to break the ice. Releasing this secret at the precise moment could even cause the spilling of the tea, which in turn could lead to spurts of giggles and snickers to last all afternoon. The beginning of endless conversation would now be underway. Our secret had been with us at least ten years and still exists till this day. Once, in the necessity of mischief, one of the kids placed one tiny, perfectly round pea on the left shoulder of the crucifix. Ordinarily to do this in any other household would have been unthinkable. Since our grandmother was known for her strict religious beliefs, and immaculate house, it proved to be quite interesting to see just how long the pea could go without detection. As with people, the pea has long since grayed and withered, but our fun with it has not yet passed.

It is always grand to visit the relatives. The special things shared are often repeated, yet they are repeated with love. And tonight’s discussion, the ten-year-old pea, will undoubtedly live forever in our conversations and light-hearted laughter. All due to the near misses of my Mammaw’s dust rag.

Like a Band of Gypsies

Happy Holiday.

It's Talk Like A Pirate Day, so talk it up, fokkers.

Arrrrgh, now where's the ill-gotten booty (or any other booty, for that matter).

From Bloggy Jr Straight To You!!

Senor Bone's Geography Lesson (or towns with kick ass names)

Sugartit.

I Wanna Break Up With My Friend "F"

Paying today, for the fuck-ups of yesterday.

Confessions of a dope fiend... It's that lovely time of year when the sinuses stage a slave revolt and make my life more hellish than usual. Here we have an action shot from the desk with an entourage of pharmaceuticals. Advil Liqui-gels, Vicks VapoRib, Saline Nasal Spray, Sudafed, a 24 ounce caffeinated beverage and a copy of Let It Bleed by the Rolling Stones. Bugs Bunny and Donkey look on like they've already got their buzz going and they're entirely too happy to be here. Rotten bastards. 

Near the Entrance to the YPS!! Tour Bus

Those unable those unable to donate are not left out.

Jack Attack!!

"I am silent, motionless and stealthy. I have bathed and am therefore free of smell.

Fear me."

Quote Du Jour

"We're simply sucklings at the teet of tomorrow while looking for a piece of ass today."

First Ever: YPS!! Audio Roast

NOTHING like the Dean Martin Roasts of course, but it would be an insult not to mention them.

http://www.deanmartinroasts.com/

Skinny and Small

I couldn't love my son more than I do, and I couldn't be more proud of him than I am. While I help him earn his own spending money to buy the things he wants, I also surprise him once in a while just because. For ages now I've wanted to take him to a musical performance "just because." Oh sure his mother has taken him to see The Wiggles, but I wanted to take him to a performance with some authenticity.

You will no doubt remember the recent post about the visit Bone Machine and I paid a Mr. Tommy Womack in a comfortable Grinders Coffee shop up in Evansville, IN. I don't know how Tommy does it. No over-the-top flash of an over-done stage setup. No backing musicians. No blaring and over-driven reverbified effects blasted through stacks of PAs. Just straight rock n roll without a single hint of "selling out." Sure there are a few images he paints of life that aren't exactly flattering, but they're real, honest and appreciated. Tommy doesn't go out of his way to make them pretty, but he doesn't go out of his way to offend.

On September 3, 2005 Mr. Bloggerific Himself, Jr. got to see his first true rock n roll show. What could be better? Sitting with Bone Machine and Bloggy Jr. (in my lap) in the safe environment of a coffee shop drinking a medium mocha and enjoying some of the best live music available? Not much.

Bone Machine and I worked hard to allow Bloggy Jr to experience a true Bone and Bloggy outing. First stop, CITGO for candy and beverage before heading out of town. Then, the three of us made a quick stop at a comic book store where Bloggy Jr. had the chance to spend his earned money and increase the size of his collections of comic books and Wacky Packages sticker. Then it was off to a record store and then IHOP for some fine dining. But then it was show time…

Bloggy Jr. and I were both a little nervous before the show. He simply didn't know what to expect and I didn't know how he would react. Again, Bone Machine had the perfect timing and we were able to introduce Bloggy Jr. to Mr. Tommy Womack. A couple of times during the show, Tommy apologized over the mic to Bloggy Jr. for using a few expletives. (You would not believe how impressed Jr was, because he actually was counting them. I have to give Tommy props for this and for completely replacing one of my favorite "bad words" with silence on a couple of occasions.)

A great time was had by all; Bloggy Jr. got to meet the performer, then watch the performance and request his favorite song, get an autograph AND was given a concert t-shirt as an early birthday present from Bone Machine. That boy couldn't have been more tickled if Daddy had left on his "tickle power" for 6 weeks straight.

Again, thanks to Bone Machine for pointing me toward another fine musician. Thanks to the fine musician for another fine performance. Last but not least, thank you Bloggy Jr. for being the best son a daddy could ever hope to have. You rock dude!









One more thing…Bloggy Jr. chose banana Laffy Taffy as his CITGO treat and says this about it: "Laffy Taffy has some sucky packaging. Their packaging sucks!!"

Selling Silver

Commentary on political, social and religious components is a pastime I normally deflect with the precision of a graceful, ballerina-powered soccer goalie. I assume most will not agree with my philosophies, so I don't bother them with announcing my beliefs. Times of war, terrorism and natural catastrophe tend to cause a percolation in my mind. These days it's a crude bubbling of hurricanic proportions. I don't have intentions of stepping on anyone's toes and while making light of a situation can help, sometimes it doesn't.

Many sources point at the economic woes and suggest that in America today, you're either rich or poor and there are few between. I am not poor at heart, but I can tell you that I am not jetting to my home on the other side of the rotating blue dirt clod.

When I was a kid, I spent many (many, many, many, many) hours with my parents at the local business they still own to this day. From the other side of the glass and wood display cases holding coins, jewelry, stamps and more, I would consume large quantities of caramel cubes, candy bars and Big Red trying to survive the onslaught of sheer boredom. I had a small amount of interest in stamps at the time, but when it came to coins and jewelry, no thank you. The time of which I speak was somewhere in the mid 70's. Newscasts were decorated with words like "inflation", "OPEC", "Middle East", & "cartel" like a gaudy bicycle with 1 too many reflectors. Even at that young age, you noticed.

"Gas shortage" was gulped down in every sweaty glass of milk. Gas swelled up to a whopping buck-twenty, and people were steamed waiting in long lines for their ten-gallon allotment. Dealing in silver & gold became busy work at my parent's store. Many came to make investments in gold and silver fearing the dollar would collapse. Others came in to cash in family heirlooms just to get by. People coming in to sell everything from silver dollars to candle sticks. It's amazing stuff inside a "silver butter knife." I can still see Dad hammering away at the handle of a butter knife, as it broke open at the seams and exposed a hard, white, plaster-type substance that shattered with each hit. When memories get traded for bread, you know something has to give.

A few local gas stations started offering discounts to anyone that paid for their gasoline with silver. I can still smell the mixture of the heavy canvas bags and their silver contents. Every bag that came into the store contained hundreds of stories per coin no doubt. Each day Mom or Dad would make a call to get the latest silver & gold price. The fluctuation of these two numbers was an obsession as it was too easy to take a financial hit if you did not know these numbers. For a while, these two numbers only knew one direction: up.

At one point, even I got the bug. I began to buy single ounces of silver from my father. I would take money I had leftover from a birthday gift and buy a few bars at a time, keeping strict records on the prices I paid and keeping a close eye on the going rate of silver. I didn't have enough money to play with gold, or I likely would have. This young entrepreneur bought and sold silver depending on the market. Eventually I made purchases of silver bars just to collect. At one time I owned bars with images of Jay Edger Hoover on one, and Robert Frost on another. Some came painted with brightly colored enamel; some had images of automobiles, while others were adorned with holiday images and messages.

I don't know where today's world is going. I'm not sure I want to. I do know what I have seen in my years here, which is not long by most standards, but long enough that my cynicism sharpens its edge on the stony predicaments we get into. I wonder if we have progressed at all. I wonder if in the same situation would I too become a looter? I wonder why more people didn't notice RL Burnside before he left us. I wonder why disgust oozes into my writing and taints.

Please understand this is from my early recollections and isn't intended to be historically accurate. It's not intended to make any negative comment, but to show you a few images as I remember what it was like back then.

A venomous outburst.

This was an aborted audio post from the morning drive to the workplace. While audio would have no doubt captured the moment in most of its glory, I didn't feel like digging the celery phone out of the backpack. In this instance, art takes a backseat to laziness. Fuck it. That's life.

A question that comes to mind while I slow down for countless school zones, where the speed limit drops 15-20 mph, is why am I the only one that obeying the law? I see the flashing lights and figuring that my ass would be the only one pulled over by a kind police officer, I slow down to the posted speed. I don't do it willingly or without a fair amount of cursing, but I do it anyway. Not because I give a shit about some soccer mom's child necessarily, but because I don't want the financial fisting of a school zone speed zone violation.

Depending on my route to work, I go through 2-3 school zones. That's 2-3 additional interruptions of smooth cruising on top of the times when I get behind some vehicular jackass that can't fathom the concept of actually going the speed limit. These are also the same rat bastard motherfuckers that tend to brake for no apparent reason. They're on a straight road with no hills, no curves, no oncoming traffic, no woodland creatures in the road, they're not even close to exceeding the posted speed limit and yet they still insist on hitting the brakes. It's at that point when my undiagnosed Tourette's Syndrome becomes reality and the air is filled to the brim with a storm cloud of profanities. But I digress.

As I approach said school zone(s), I begin slowing down and nearly every time, I am passed by a mini-van with one of those God-forsaken soccer ball stickers on it that happens to be driving like a bat out of hell and usually turns into the school on two wheels and screeching it all to hell and back. If they're not slowing down for the school zone, then why should I? After all, it's in honor of their cherub that the zone was created in the first place. And of course, there is never a cop when this kind of bullshit goes down. Never. It's always someone being inconvenienced by the damn school zone that gets the ticket. The irony is that one school in particular that I pass on a daily basis has parents driving like its a freakin' NASCAR event in and around the school parking lot. Yet they want the drivers on the road 75 yards (or more) away from the school itself to slow down.

Before someone thinks that I am a cold-blooded motherfucker for saying such things, I will simply say "Yes, I am." In the zones that I zip through daily, I don't think any of the schools have adjacent neighborhoods that would lead to students walking to school. If that was the case, hell yes, drop the speed. But if the speed is going to be dropped, I expect the parents to abide by the same laws that force me to slow the fuck down. If they insist on driving like it's Death Race 2000, they need to take the Pro-Life stickers off of their vehicles and for fuck's sake, get rid of those gay ass soccer ball stickers.

15 Or 500 Is Perfectly Acceptable

I am sure you have all seen these thingies, hiding and protecting your vitamins from moisture. The first image is the end which clearly says, "Do Not Eat Sorbicap." This is not a problem as I have never met Sorbicap and I never eat a stranger.

The second is a side shot to show off the lovely shape.

The third image clearly says "Do Not Eat 20." I guess it's the even numbered sucky packaging that will do you in every time.