Collection

Recently, the boy and I collected some images from around town. These are just a few of them.

I Wanna Be Your Dog

I ain’t Catholic

…but it’s time for a confessional.

Sitting at work, it often gets quiet. Very quiet. Oh sure you hear the occasional giggle down the hall, or a phone ring. You might here part of a conversation here and there. (I should add that overhearing conversations in an office in Kentucky can be quite entertaining.) But on these quiet days, it’s very much so. During these times I do what any red-blooded (at least I think it’s still red) ‘merican would do. I slack.

During rare moments of Intense Slackage I get what I shall refer to as “bored.” This, uh, boredom overcomes me in a seat-shifting fit. My feet first tap the floor and then bump into the large wooden piece of the desk just in front of them. (You’d love it. It has this nice bass sound to it and on a good day I can double-peddle with the best of ‘em.) Once that gets old (3.62 seconds) I get the Knee Bounce thing going. I hate the knee bounce. Once that starts, it’s not a good sign. Because there’s always a lurking urge just around the corner.

You see, and I don’t believe I’ve ever told anyone this before, but when it’s very quiet and my work is caught up and I’ve gone from the double-bass kicking to the knee bounce… this large and growing urge within …

[Wait, I must break here. You see, my silence has been interrupted and the urge has gone. It’s been interrupted because GM just walks in and asks me about Spam. Again. We’ve talked about Spam and viruses countless times. I give her the same response each time, and it seems to suffice, and yet here she is again. Go away GM, I’ve seen this episode before.]

Ahh, the quiet. The shifting in the seat. Oh no…there it is…THE urge.

I’m sure it’s not what you’re thinking, yet I doubt you’ll be surprised to know that I, in these moments, have a HUGE need to bark. I feel I must bark. It’s partly because I do a darn good barking sound and am quite believable. But it’s also because when I have these moments at home, I “talk” to Jack, our doggie.

Oh, we don’t carry on conversations or anything. Just to cut the silence, I’ll bark out a loud yelp just to get his attention. I can hear him lift his head off of the floor because the tags on his collar clink as they drag. It’s comforting. I have the power to annoy the shit out of my dog from another room. I’m pretty sure that yelp that I do is some sort of swear word in doggy language. He’s offended, but he doesn’t let on, and puts his head back down. That’s when I do it again, but twice in a row this time. This double-bark gets his attention and he’ll get up. Or not.

He’s fickle you know.

But what’s more bothersome to me than being at work and having an urge to bark is that I’m not 100% sure I’ve never actually done it. This fear creeps into the room like a stealthy cat and causes me to panic. “Wait. HAVE I actually BARKED at work? Oh. My. GAWD! That’s really embarrassing. I could have barked and not realized it.”

“GAWD I want to bark. Bark like a dog.”


[As a bonus: Last night Simon, the cat, was soundly asleep on the couch. Soundly being he wasn’t purring, so he must have been out like whack. I took it upon myself to spring out of my chair in his direction and BARK at him! He replied with a WTF-meow? And jumped down behind the couch and headed to the kitchen. Moments later when I would take the same path I would see that there was a nice, round, little poop ball on the floor right where he’d landed. I smiled, knowing that with one bark I literally scared the shit out of my kitty. I took a tissue and picked up the poop ball and went directly to the kitchen. Simon was still in the box covering up his most recent masterpiece. He didn’t see me, so I tossed the ball into the box. I’m sure he questioned his covering abilities upon finding another poop ball, right on top. This too, made me smile.]

WOOF!!

Even more...

evil shit.

Ridin' Shotgun With Bloggy

You can all ask Bone Machine, or take my word for it, but this is exactly what it's like to get in the car with Bloggy behind the wheel. Exactly.

In fact, if you download and listen to this (which really, I don't recommend you do, because it's high on the side of lame)(no, really) you'll be reaching over, grabbing my throat, and asking me to SLOW THE HELL DOWN and I'll be saying, "Why Ma'am, I didn't know you cared...but that's not my throat. It's up here."

Not only is it lame-o, it’s also not work friendly. I just left it up here in the interest of Full Disclosure.


[Anyone know why I can no longer change the date or time on posts?][Maybe because Blogger's packaging is sucking again?][No, I take that back, I just found it. hehe]

Repent, sinners!!

Play Connect-the-Dot with them Liver Spots...

...moisturize that skin, that's so paper thin
may this year’s birthday be super-swell, Kel
as you stock up on RidThatGray hair gel
whatever you do, don’t buy ugly trucks
even though your packaging, it quite sucks!!
I guess I’ll get down from the soapbox here
As all join in to give you lots of cheer
We’re thrilled to join in the birthday madness
To avoid all holiday egad-ness

(It's not until the 27th folks, but early-'round-chere the wish with us, won't you?)

Your Stuffed Packaging Sucks!!

(Left: Fine fixens served up at the YPS!! Food Court.)


(Right: Taken in the YPS!! Photo Booth.)

Goble-dee-gobble-dee Goo!

Will the turkey be unfrozen

Will the turkey be unfrozen
By the sink, lord, by the sink
There’s a better dee-ssert a-waitin’
Where's my drink, lord, where's my drink

Will the cookies be unbroken
By the cake, lord, by the cake
There’s a morsel I'm a-eatin'
I've got an ache, lord, I've got an ache

Weird Shit On The Path Of Life.

Since the workplace moved across town, I eat at Subway a lot. Not necessarily because I love it, but it's incredibly handy and I can watch the sandwich artists as they make my sandwich and yell at them if they even think of putting cheese on my sandwich. Today was no different as I staggered in the general direction of Subway.

However, I noticed something odd along the path. I noticed one of those "Hello My Name Is..." stickers once belonging to a gent named Jeff was now stuck to the pavement. I thought to myself "That is rather morbidly hilarious" and was about to continue my jaunt on the way of the sub when I noticed that there was also a spot of red on the pavement.

So when you piece these two things together in one shot, I concluded in my whacked out mind that someone named Jeff met his untimely demise while trying to acquire his very own sandwich at Subway.

It's just red paint, but work with me here.

Bloggy's Less-Than-Thrilling Monday

Not safe for work. This is the second of the two, so check 'em out in ree-verse order.

Winning Entry in the 2005 O'boro Christmas Parade

I hate a parade (slight return)...YPS!! Correspondent's Report

They came...they saw...they did a lot of walking.

As I got closer to the parade route, I knew that I was in deep shit because traffic became increasingly congested in areas of town that aren't used to such attention. Since Frederica Street (the main street in this one-horse town) was closed to traffic, I figured that my best bet was to find a decent spot in a residential area and hot foot it over to the starting gate. I reluctantly turned off the car (and accompanying angry, non-holiday music) on 14th and Waverly (see map). Crossing the three lanes of traffic on Parrish Avenue was nothing compared to finding my people in the chaos of parade fuckers putting the last minute finishing touches on their shit. I had vague recollections that our folks were thirty-something in line, but with no clear display of numbers, it was holiday hell in all of its tinsel-laden glory. I decided that it would be easiest to just look for the red WKU vehicles and forget the numbers. The problem being that it's a Christmas Parade and there is more red on display than something with a shitpot of red on display.

For once in my life, I can say that it was almost comforting to finally find the crew. Otherwise, I would still be wandering around like a jackass in the sea of pre-holiday cheer. Of course, I had an alternate plan and if I didn't find them, I was going to say "Fuck it" and leave. The only other option was to wander the parade route with complete disregard to the parade rules, like a sailor on shore leave or Otis the town drunk in black shoes...the choice is yours.

I found my group without bursting into a fit of lost child in the shopping mall tears and it wasn't long before the bad jokes began. Yes, countless one-liners that varied in tastelessness from presidential motorcade jokes when I saw the red convertible ("Oh, I see that you've got the JFK seat...") to global positioning ("So you're saying that my choice is to walk in front of the vehicle where there is a chance of brake failure or walking behind the sleek ride where I get to huff automotive emissions? This is indeed my lucky day, isn't it!) to plans of a slave revolt ("About a block into the parade, I'll give the cue, throw your bag of candy canes at a child, and duck into the crowd then run like a convict..."). Within minutes of my arrival, I'm guessing that my schtick got even more old and tired than my aged carcass.

Once everyone arrived, we got duded up in the designated head gear--Santa hats. Santa hats with various phrases were distributed. The phrases read like a Hallmark display--"I believe in Santa", "Merry Christmas", etc. When it got to me, I simply said "No, thanks, I brought my own" and pulled out a sock cap with my own holiday phrase--an AC/DC logo. What kind of jackass wears an AC/DC hat in the Christmas Parade? I'm that jackass, baby. If it had become absolutely essential to world peace (which is pretty much wrecked as it is), I reckoned that I would wear the hat reading "Ho ho ho", because I would indeed by a Ho cubed for selling out so heinously for public consumption. For you fashion purists in the crowd, yes, my Motorhead necklace was indeed present and on display for the blessed event.

When the Battan death march actually began, everything became a blur of cotton candy vendors, adults looking on with sadness in their eyes ("Oh, you poor bastard..."), and kids going crazy ape bonkers for a candy cane-fueled sugar high. To my knowledge, I only slipped with one audible profanity and although I haven't checked the official parade rulebook, I would imagine that it is legal to say "Shit" when you look up from candy cane duty and see your vehicle affiliate pulling away from the ground troops. For a brief moment, I thought that maybe my grassy knoll jokes had indeed become reality, which would explain the cars hauling ass. However, no shots were fired and I guess it was simply a case of the pace car pilot needing to take a whiz or perhaps their beeper at TGIFriday's was beeping. Who knows. Cane distribution went into double time with the occasional tossing of 3-5 canes and quick instructions to share, like a pasty-skinned Barney with a full dance card.

The group's allotment of 3000 candy canes were gone and we were able to walk beside our official vehicles and school mascot the way the good lord intended it to be done, rather than some other participant that was no doubt offended by some douche wearing an AC/DC hat to a sacred event like the 69th Annual Owensboro Christmas Parade.

In conclusion, my evil plot to commandeer a Shriner car was foiled, because I saw nary a one prior to the starting gun. I figure that it wouldn't make a very good getaway car, but it would be one hell of a chick magnet. At least until the chicks got a glance of the crazed fucker at the wheel.

But I did indeed go the distance without getting arrested, without needing emergency medical treatment, and most surprisingly, without having to urinate along or on the parade route, which would probably lead to an arrest for public indecency and littering. All of these things considered, it was indeed a Christmas miracle a month and a few days in advance.

Praise the Lord indeed.

I hate a parade.

I'm not sure who the dipshit is that wrote that piece of crap tune, I Love A Parade, but personally, I think they suck. Sure, there is some level of excitement watching the folks steer the big ass inflatable love dolls through the streets of New York City for Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. For the local Christmas Parade, the excitement and pageantry is a bit less in every conceivable way. Although Owensboro is certainly on par with NYC as far as being a thriving, throbbing metropolis of entertainment, commerce, and cuisine. But where NYC is the city that never sleeps, Owensboro is the city that has yet to wake up.

You could very well be asking yourself "Brother Bone, just what in the blue hell does this crapola have to do with you and more importantly, the good people of Your Packaging Sucks!!?" Well, settle down kiddies, and I will commence to telling you.

As luck (in this case, bad luck) would have it, my stunning presence has been requested to stagger the streets of Owensboro with a flock of co-workers in the Christmas Parade. Yes, me. The person whose personal anger, bitterness, and overall lack of perkiness spills over like a truck stop toilet after an all-day chili festival. To invite me to the Christmas Parade is on par with inviting Ted Nugent to play Lilith Fair. It's just not a good idea. In fact, it has bad news written all over it.

When I got the news, I tried to get out of it by claiming to be Jewish for the holidays. No dice. My next attempt had me claiming to be Buddhist while showing off my statue of Buddha that resides on my desk. Nope, didn't work. The next futile attempt was flat out saying "I'm not interested in the parade, I don't like most of the people in this world, and I have a low tolerance for cold temperatures." Saddle up, partner, it's time to ride.

I guess I've all but accepted my fate now, but that certainly doesn't mean I have to like it. I don't have to and I don't. It's going to be gay (not that there's anything wrong with that) and it's just not the way I want to spend my Saturday. Not that I have such a full, rich life or anything, but this just plain sucks. It sucks vigorously. It sucks like a gold medalist hooker in the Prostitute Olympics.

Of course, being the non-swaying asshole that I am, I have a few ideas that would basically make a mockery of it all. One idea is putting my patented "KILL ME" phrase on my hand as I walk the streets waving to the crowd. I'm hoping to find someone willing to JFK my ass right out of the parade early in the event. I don't think I am ritzy enough to get to ride in the convertible, which would add some authenticity and allow me to fake a head shot. Nothing like traumatizing the locals with a bit of morbid performance art.

Rather than throw candy to the kids, I can throw candy at the kids. There is a subtle difference and it's that difference that warms my blackened heart and brings an evil cackle to the air. Unfortunately, there is no longer candy throwing and we're forced to hand it out. The upside is that I can slide up to the kiddies and say "Come here, little girl, want a piece of candy?" For the little boys, I can simply say "Michael Jackson loves you."

With such evil ideas in mind, it becomes a competition to see how far I make it along the parade route before getting my ass kicked, fired, shot, or a raging case of frostbite. If I make it to the end, I win, but sadly even if I win, I still lose. That's the cruelty that is my very existence.

So say a prayer that I am abducted by gypsies or space aliens before I have to partake of this bullshit event.

The Infamous Gov't Mule story (a/k/a "Assholes Don't Sway")

This is a long-distance dedication to Bucky and anyone else that hasn't heard already heard this story. It's a classic Blog & Bone Road Story and should be included in the YPS!! Movie should it ever come to fruition.

A couple of years ago, Mr Blog and myself went to see Gov't Mule at the beloved Ryman Auditorium in Nashville, Tennessee. For those that aren't familiar with the history of the Ryman, it is the building that housed the Grand Ol' Opry for many, many years. Most of the country music legends graced the stage and it goes without saying that the building has a long, great history. Even a smartass such as myself has a respect for the building's legacy and it's place in music history. The first time I went to the place, I was the one that damn near got misty when I saw Minnie Pearl's hat in a display case. Beneath my evil veneer, I have a gentle side. There, I said it.

Back to the story. You can fill in the blanks with the usual pre-road show shenanigans and snacks. Feel free to fill in said blanks with gorgeous ladies riding along showing questionable morals performing nifty acts with and upon the heroes of the story. We're okay with that kind of embellishment. We draw the line at livestock and various woodland creatures. We're desperate, but it hasn't crossed that line yet.

We eventually arrive at the venue and take our seats, which are actually church pews. Since Gov't Mule is on the outer fringe of the jam band scene, the tie-dye and patchouli armies were out in great numbers. Other than an instance at a Widespread Panic show in Nashville a few years prior where some plastic hippie type's cigarette nearly connected with my then-girlfriend's cheek (which would have resulted in some jail time for me had it actually happened), I really don't have an issue with the jam band folks. I have a short attention span to long ass songs thanks to the Ramones, but what the hell, live and let live.

I know some of you are already saying "Talk about the show, motherfucker." Okay, I will. Thanks for your support. Chris Robinson (of the Black Crowes) opened and musically speaking, I found his set to be forgettable. But with the presence of a stoner rock god on stage, the plastic hippies began doing what I can only describe as "the hippie dance." It's a bunch of white folks with raised elbows gyrating around like an epileptic seizure fueled by speed and other chemicals. To my eyes, it's not a pretty sight. I will say that as a small-town white boy, I can't dance, so I don't. Simple as that. I can't perform open heart surgery either, so I don't.

As the show progressed, there was some wooly mammoth of a dude really going to town with the bad dancing. He was giving it his all in the aisle until an usher escorted him back to his designated spot on the pew. The music (and cheap drugs) would enter his body again and away he went with the dancing and no assigned seating could hold him back when he felt the need to bust a move. There is really no way to describe these "dance moves", but as a point of reference, the best way to describe the scene is Elaine's dancing style on Seinfeld. The difference is that you have to replace Elaine with Chewbacca. That will give you a pretty good idea of what it was like. These outbursts of bad dancing followed by the usher telling to haul his ass back to his seat went on all night. I was really hoping that the usher would get tired of it and crack his skull with a flashlight or escort the fucker out in a choke hold. Alas, it didn't happen.

(For those impatiently awaiting the stunning climax of the story, settle yer ass down. It's on the way.)

So as Gov't Mule's set progressed, they brought out several special guests and did their thing. It was a solid set but it was tending to drag on. With my short attention span, I was getting a tad antsy myself compounded by the fact that a church pew gets tiresome on the ass after sitting for multiple hours. As the set was slowly approaching the end, they broke into Soulshine. It's one of those spiritually uplifting tunes and even to spiritually and emotionally bankrupt souls such as myself, it's a good song. I'm focused on the stage cursing Warren Haynes for his musical abilities. I thought I felt a gentle tug at my left sleeve, but I didn't think much about it. I went back to my stage focus. I felt another tug at my sleeve. Okay, now this shit is real and not the ghost of Hank Williams trying to convince me to join him for a drink at Tootsie's Orchid Lounge. I look over and I see the plastic hippie on the other side of Mr. Bloggerific has grabbed him into some kind of manly embrace and they're swaying all peace and love-like in the moment. Mr. B has a semi-pained expression on his face and I love the guy, but I'll be damned if I am going out like that. The plastic hippie tries again to grab my sleeve and join them in the musical sway. I try and be nice about it, but I am an asshole and assholes don't sway. I look over at the dude and mouth the words "Fuck you." Apparently that doesn't register on his happy radar and he tries again. I got a little more obvious with my decline of the offer and it becomes more of a "FUCK YOU!" This "Fuck you" was complete with frown and the whole nine yards.

Message sent, message received.

There were no more attempts to grab at my sleeve and I was free to watch the remainder of the show. At one point, I looked back over at the plastic hippie and he was now sitting down, looking down at the floor with his head in his hands. I guess this is what is known as "harshing someone's mellow." In other words, I bummed him right the hell out. I was the one baring my ass at the Hands Across America event or pissing on the We Are The World sessions. I looked back in that general direction again before the song ended and the dude and his chick had split. I guess he couldn't bear the fact that he wasn't able to recruit one more soul into the Soulshine sway pact. If I had any trace of a soul left in me, I might feel guilty or even slightly bad about it. I don't. I still find it rather funny, because I'm an asshole and assholes don't sway.

As a post-script to this story, I figured the incident would lead to wanted posters featuring my ugly ass mug on it would make the rounds in the jam band circles and at the very least, I wouldn't be allowed back in the sacred halls of the Ryman. I haven't been to another plastic hippie event, but I have been back to the Ryman for shows by Lyle Lovett and Elvis Costello and they were okay with taking my money and ripping my ticket.

Not In MY Backyard! - or - Self-righteous Packaging

OK, so this is my backyard. Spooky. Ain't it?

I know, I’m a jerk. I can’t help it. Rude, crude and one angry little dude.

I’ve divulged before that I am a TV fiend. We’ve gone for quite some time without cable and satellite and since buying the boy an antenna for his birthday, I’ve been watching quite a bit of the old tube. Not much has changed really. PBS is like an old friend. You’re glad to see ‘em coming down the Wal-Mart aisle, but then you have to question why you bothered to stop and talk. With PBS, the stories and format are all familiar, so what’s the point? The local people for NBC News still make me think they could be just a little more animated. Damn, drink some caffeine, jump up and down, and try listening to some death metal or something before coming on air. WAKE UP!

It has to be a pretty bad show before I’ll turn it off, unless I can’t turn the antenna to the magical angle. Also, I have to be pretty tired before I’ll turn it off. Take last night for example. Around 9:30 I’m half-way into that show I can never remember the name of and I’m like “yeah, it’s not that good” and I went to bed. “Sure I found her hot in that movie I can’t remember the name of, but, I’m tired. I don’t care if I see them whack another person or not.”

These days, each morning the newscast is part of my routine. Like I say, the NBC local people are a little stiff, but at this time of the morning, maybe that’s a good thing. What annoys me on NBC, now more than ever, is self-righteous packaging. If you can do no wrong and have a need to broadcast that perfect superiority to the masses, I’m not interested. For most of you, this will be where the “I’m a jerk” part comes in.

So, am I the only one that is deeply annoyed by this James Dobson fellow? You know the guy that’s like, “foooooooor FocusOnTheFamily, I’m James Dobson.” Even his organization is beneath him. That’s surely why he rushes through saying the name. He’s got to cram it all together like that (FocusOnTheFamily) so he’ll have time for his precious message. Oh, and to announce his name. (As if anyone out there wouldn’t know his name.)

Maybe it’s just me, and I know the dude is old and has had time to meet a lot of people, but do all his little sermons start off with, “Many years ago I met a man/woman/child/group/congregation/hungry bear…” ? Bullshit I say! My guess is that he has a team of writers that create all these Moments of Epiphany just to make his point. We’re never given phone numbers, addresses or social security numbers for these people. We never see a photo. I’m not sure the names he uses are even real. A little digging and research would likely prove that Writer #22 came up with today’s little powerful Moments of Epiphany. I’m sure, had I not pressed the mute button as I saw him approach, I would have had to shed a tear and tell myself, “You know, that’s true. He’s right, I do suck. I should be destroyed. I feel so spiritual now that I know Little Jonny feels guilty for having killed a crow with a BB gun.”

It’s fiction I tell you, pure fiction. These little stories containing melodramatic crapola annoy the piss out of me. It’s crap I tell you. CRAP. His little smug tie-wearing attitude preaching to us from behind his little glasses, it’s insulting. I suppose someone will say, “but if the meaning within is valid, what does it matter that the stories were fabricated?” To which I say that unless the situation or subject matter is particularly delicate to your audience, why bother beating around the bush? Come on out and say it, and cast aside your self-righteous packaging. Don’t dumb-down your message by taking a fictitious walk down memory lane when you had a “real” life-changing impact on someone.

And so, as I head to the shower: “With FocusOnPackagingThatSucks, I’m Mr. Bloggerific Himself. JD, your packaging sucks!!”

Quote of the Day (Mother Nature's blow job)

"You best start clickin' yer heels, Dorothy, because there ain't no place like home and I don't wanna go to Kansas."

(Suda) Fed Up With Packaging That Sucks (!!)

This is the lovely time of year when the weather is all helter skelter and since my sinuses are generally unable to think for themselves, they feel the need to hop on the helter skelter bandwagon. They're only sinus cavities, for fuck's sake, cut 'em some slack.

Back in the day, a gent could easily purchase a box of Sudafed without being pegged as a meth production engineer. It was a relatively simple procedure. When my sinuses go nutsy-cuckoo, I amble over to the local pharmacy and ask them to hook me up with Sudafed of the blue caplet variety. They provided the goods, I provide the cash, and it's a win-win situation for all involved. Of course, these times were too good to last and the meth makers have fucked me and my sinuses up almost as much as they're fucking themselves up. Thanks a lot, rat bastard motherfuckers. I appreciate it. Really, I do.

When my normal variety of Sudafed became nearly impossible to buy without proper identification, finger prints, blood test, a DNA sample, certificate of authenticity from a reputable Ebay seller, lock of hair, a body cavity search and swearing on various religious texts that I won't use the Sudafed to make meth, I knew it was time to switch my sinus medication allegiance.

Since it truly isn't Sudafed's fault that a bunch of toothless jackasses decided to make the modern day equivalent of bath-tub gin, I decided that I would stick with the Sudafed family and simply change my medication of choice. I tend to get a lot of sinus headaches, too, so it wasn't a big stretch to go with Sudafed's Sinus Headache medication.

As a connoisseur of packaging that sucks (!!), I am not really all that surprised when I struggle while entering the sacred domain of a product. Life itself is one hell of a struggle made up of tiny struggles strung together like Christmas tree lights. These struggles don't burn quite as bright, but they are damn decorative nonetheless.

Getting into the box itself wasn't overly traumatic for me. Mildly annoying, yes. Traumatic, no. Trauma entered the picture the following morning when I tried to free the pill from the sucky packaging within the mildly annoying packaging. As I tried in vain to shake off the lingering effects of sleep, I tackled the seemingly simple task of getting the sinus medication from the packaging and yes, I followed the instructions provided.

I began by separating the single pill from the perforated flock. The packaging says this is the way to do it and who am I to argue with the instructions. I peeled back the outer layer and this is where I ran into packaging trouble. The situation quickly elevated itself to a sucky packaging red alert. The outer layer refused to cooperate and peel in one swift rip. Oh hell no. That would have been much too easy. Following the sequence of instructions, the failure to successfully peel back the outer layer prevented me from being able to move to the next step of pushing the pill through the inner layer of silvery foil shit. By this point, I was beginning to question just how badly I wanted the pill. It would be easier to just pretend that I didn't have a headache that felt like an icepick entering my skull and making my brain do the Macarena. That would be taking the easy way out and I'm all about the struggle...or so it seems.

I eventually got the pill liberated from the packaging and the headache eventually left the building, presumably escorted out by Elvis. A few days later, I took another look-see at my supply of nifty sinus medication with packaging that sucks (!!) and noticed the rest of the instructional launch sequence that I didn't get to try, because I crashed and burned on step 2 of the delicate procedure.

Let's get out our official YPS!! magnifying glasses and zoom in on this shit. You can follow their helpful (?) procedure of perforation separation, outer bastard layer peeling, and pushing your medication reward through the silvery foil shit or...OR!...you can use scissors. If you are suffering from a hellish sinus headache and feel your anger level rise to the point where you want to tie into the suck-ass packaging with a pair of scissors (or possibly the Jaws of Life), chances are good that you're going to end up maiming yourself. The mere suggestion that one could possibly need scissors or similar cutting device to free the enslaved pill says to me that the company knows that their packaging sucks. They're practically rubbing your nose in their sucky packaging. So I ask you, how many people have to die risking life and limb springing the pill from the plastic cell before an R&D team is brought in to update the shit? Okay, I'm just getting melodramatic and I honestly hope no one has died in this heinous process.

In conclusion, I will say that Sudafed PE Sinus Headache medication is peachy keen, but folks...

YOUR PACKAGING SUCKS!!

Bark from the Family Tree

From whence it came.
Jack's mudder in her home, making a great host for a Halloween party. (Jack was not invited. Long story.)


Look out, it's the Red Baron!
Protecting his abandoned sandbox. (When it's cold out, his little booty shakes and causes him to slide off the top of this thing. He throws it into reverse and stays aloft best he can.)

Simon Says, "Meee-Yyyyooowwwwwww."

The newest addition to the family. Sort of. Simon lived at Bloggy Jr's Mudder's place and now he lives with us. They wanted to find him a new home and I really didn't want to see the boy to have to say goodbye.

Quote of the Day (11x11 edition)

"I'm a bright ray of sunshine caked in a lifetime of shit."

Happy 40th "The Sound of Music"!!

I'm truly, truly sorry. I just couldn't resist.

Ok, I thought I would update this and let you know this IS safe for work. So if you're stuck working the holiday, you can play this and annoy the crap out of your boss until you get sent home. You're welcome.

Things To Say To A Vagina

Quote of the Day (11/9 edition)

It's a good policy to be courteous to corn. For the corn that you eat today will burrow in for the cold months and pop out when least expected as spring brings renewed warmth.

Materialistic Mornin’

Her horizontal stripes
Caused thoughts of her vertical smile
And how I’d like to take her home
And get all paisley for a while

Three steps closer
In my houndstooth coat
Caused a slight jiggling
In my turtle-necked throat

Alpaca, angora
Camel's hair too
The thoughts they just keep rollin’ on
In seersucker suits

Scratchin’ at the itchy
Of my polka dot sweater
I invented ten kinds of ways
To get to know her better

The nap on her turtleneck
Must tickle like a feather
I cautioned my mind
On the images of her in leather

In terry cloth or tweed
Holidays are best spent
Maybe velveteen or hemp
(Definitely flame resistant)

I stopped in the tracks
Of my golden silk thongs
I’d like to rub her corduroy
All night long

As she glanced my way
Through her Elton John glasses
I wondered if we’d do it
In front of the masses

Let’s slide in the silky sheets
And make them all funky
When you get right down to it
It’s cotton that makes me spunky

Toss out the gabardine
Cut through the chiffon and spandex
We better run all the way home
And test for colorfastness

-Mr. Bloggerific Himself, November 2005 (While draped in a fabulous polycotton blend.)

Burden? What burden?

Your Contract Packaging Sucks Not!!

This came to my attention today and I just wanted to thank Melissa. Though we have not met, I'm sure you will agree she is wise and generous (as noted in the wonderful comments she left about YPS!!)

So here you are Melissa, from the staff and bloggolites, a warm and hearty....YPS!! Saaaaaa-luuuuuuuute!

Copycat

If Bone Machine can do it, so can I.

Ya GOTTA click on the link above!!

She Might Have Lame Parties...

...but Happy Bday Anway J!!

(It's not until Monday, but we're still striving to do things early 'round chere.)

COMMANDING Respect.

Over the years I have worked in various capacities for various organizations. Always have I gotten good performance reviews on the work that I have done for these organizations. All organizations have policy and procedures that obviously must be adhered to in order to maintain consistency and a certain level of standards.

Among these policies are dress codes. I must say that today I am apparently not up to par in my choice of attire. How did I come to this realization? I was addressed in the hallway, in front of co-workers as “You.” This was a quick indication that since I have had my name removed, I am in clear violation of something. I was then ordered to “come here.” Upon which I followed my supervisor to his office where the door was closed.

He was so irate at my choice of attire that he was physically shaking. (I am currently wearing a fairly new pair of jeans and a blue t-shirt). He informed me that “what you’re wearing, I wouldn’t go home and mow the grass in!” He then let me know that, “this isn’t the first time, this has been building for a long time.” I told him I didn’t “appreciate the tone, but that the point was clear.”

I think it’s safe to assume that dress codes are put into place to project a certain image.

I now see what image a tie projects.


I will not argue whether my attire is appropriate as I do not make policy. I won’t even argue whether I am the only employee that does not meet the policy. I will argue how I was informed and the timing of when I was told. Am I such an unreasonable employee that I would not change my attire if I were simply asked? Could a comment not have been made on the first or second offense?

I need this job, I need the income and at this time cannot afford buy a new wardrobe. In fact, I’m not quite certain what I will be able to buy my son for Christmas this year. But I will wear what appropriate attire I have in my current wardrobe, despite wondering if this is becoming a hostile work environment.

[Please put this in my permanent record.]

________________________
[This was printed and signed and turned into my immediate supervisor. I also want to add that the reason I was wearing jeans was because today was dress down day. I obviously misunderstood that dressing down does not include jeans and a t-shirt. So, at lunch, I went home and changed into dress shoes, dress pants.

And a tie.]

An invite...

You are cordially invited to participate in a little event taking place over at YPS!!'s evil twin, the Listening Party. If you are so inclined, click here.

Tr-tr-tr-tr Trick Bag

MOM nutritious?!?! MOM! What about Dear Old Dad? :(
Wicked Action Shot! Tx to Hello



Ewww




We read on the net where Venus Flytraps are dormant during this time of the year and that it's best to keep them in the fridge. So...here is Charlie's sleepy time container.



Air holes and all. :)