Hang It UFOs No Good Wet Paint Howdy

There are supposed to be FIVE photos here, but they don't all seem to appear for me at the same time. So, if it's the same for you, enjoy the randomness.

Today's quote: "Yes Jack! That's it!! Bark at the evil lady with the evil baby in the stroller!! I'm sure he's the spawn of the devil!! BARK and let them know this is YOUR part of the world!!"

Cingular, the new AT&T, with the Same Ole Shit

Check out the Gcast player to the left to see what Bloggy REALLY thinks about Cingular, the new AT&T, All Around The World....

Oh yeah, this Gcast was recorded on a VERIZON phone.



Comments ON

It's Past My Bedtime, Dammit.

This photo was taken at the end of the first game the boy played this year. They won. This is his, "What? I'm trying to listen to the coach!" He realized I had the camera up AFTER I clicked the button. He had a great smile, but I like this serious expression.

A few days after that game, he became an official Fourth Grader. Awesome grades!!

Tonight, the first night game, the coaches agreed to call it a game in the fifth inning when our boys were winning 9-1 (though for some reason they went ahead and played the next inning, choosing not to continue to keep score)(beats me)

Well done Bloggy, Jr. Well done. :O)

time has a way of taking time.

Someone once said that time heals all wounds. It gathered steam, became a worldwide phenomenon and became accepted as a clichéd fact. While I don't want to shoot holes in the theory and completely discount the idea, I'm not sure that I accept it as 100% truth.

It seems to me that time drapes a thin protective layer over things in order to motivate the placement of one foot in front of the other in a semi-forward direction. Many steps will fall on firm ground, but at a moment's notice, the terra firma turns to an emotional quicksand. Before you know what's going on, it's all over. Fighting it is just futile and will sink the ship even faster.

No matter how much we try to convince ourselves that time has healed the wound, it's still there. Nothing will ever change it. Once it's there, it's there to stay.

An action figure to be reckoned with...

He's so bad, baby, he don't care.

"Cracker on Canvas", Digital Photograph on Blog, Social Commentary, Bloggerific, 2007

A Friday Funky Fact From YPS!!

"Jim Jones sold pet monkeys door-to-door to raise the money to fund his own church."

Happy Thursday.

Oopsie!!

juice on the loose

I had an idea about putting up something about packaging that sucks (!!) and I thought to myself "It couldn't be done. It shouldn't be done. It will be done." The line was drawn in the sand and I'm stepping over. If it turns out to be quicksand, bury me in a Motorhead shirt.

I was running late to get to my beloved workplace. Since there was no time for me to lovingly place my Honey Nut Cheerios in a bowl (sans milk) and eat like a semi-civilized person while washing it all down with a sparkling glass of light cranberry juice, I grabbed a convenience store sausage biscuit and a bottle of Tropicana orange juice before leadfooting it across the wilds of the Kentucky countryside to face the occupational hazards and what not.

Once the soundtrack for the drive was selected, I could tend to the business at hand that is my breakfast. I ripped into the sausage biscuit wrapper (traditional American packaging with no flaws) and started chowing down on the contents like a rabid wolverine minus the growling. I was fairly quiet and if growling had been present, it would have been drowned out by the vulgar music du jour.

After slamming the biscuit back, I decided that it was high time to give it a orangey water slide to prevent chaffing. While driving a meager 45 miles per hour (the posted speed limit), I attempted to open the bottle. First of all, the cap presented a bit of a dilemma and it didn't want to cooperate while simultaneously steering with my knee. I'm a daredevil and managed to keep the car out of the ditch or the path of the oncoming traffic.

Once I got the cap loosened and the plastic grippers freed from the ring that keeps the cap capped, I thought I was home free. The plastic bottle was no match for my brute strength and between squeezing the thin plastic in order to remove the cap and actually removing the cap, I wasn't expecting the OJ (of the non-Simpson variety) within to jizz on my leg. With my keen eye for packaging flaws, I instantly recognized this as packaging that sucks!!

The problem isn't with the product itself, because it was delightfully tasty and somewhat healthy too. The problem is that there was too much product and too little packaging. My suggestion is to avoid filling the juice to the brim of the bottle. Unless you placed said bottle on a level surface with Bounty paper towels around it as a safety net, then some of the product is going to ejaculate somewhere on something. It's just going to happen. However, it you put a neck on that bottle or simply make a bigger bottle, all would be well. Even the astronauts could drink it without having to settle for Tang, but with a name like Tang, who can blame them.

While the rest of the orange juice provided a nifty liquid refreshment for my travel time, I will say that I was still a tad angered over the orange jizz and therefore I must say to the kind folks of Tropicana "Your product is fine, but...

YOUR PACKAGING SUCKS!!"

Seasonal Clothing: A Materialistic Flashback

Click link for retro-post from two thousand and five that I was reminded of a couple of days ago.

Okay, Maybe One More

After some conversations (mostly outside of the blog) concerning a certain dessert from a certain officemate...today not only have I seen and tasted the famed Minister's Dee-light, but I've managed to snap a photo.

Here it is, in the wild:



















And here, straight from Yard Bloggerific:

Last Nail in the Coffin - The Numbers Don't Lie

It's hard to be a saint in the city.

Many thoughts go through my deep fried brain on my morning commutes to the workplace. It's a mere 5-ish mile drive, but a lot of stress can be shoved into that mini commute. Kentucky is not exactly famous for its world class drivers. In fact, most of them have no business behind the wheel of an automobile unless they're in the business of destruction.

Today was relatively peaceful and rather than driving while pushing profanity through gritted teeth, I was allowed to open my mind to a free form thought explosion. Sort of like chewing the gum with that crap in the center, but only different and not quite as exhilarating.

I spent most of the commute following a vehicle with various Dale Earnhardt stickers and propaganda attached to it. Anyone that knows me knows that I really hate the NASCAR phenomenon. It wouldn't be so bad if it was somewhat out of sight, but you can't spit in any direction in this state without hitting someone or something sporting some form of NASCAR logo. The shit is as widespread as herpes at a whorehouse. It's everywhere.





So I made the drive staring at some silly ass Dale Earnhardt sticker with a halo over his former #3 and thinking this guy is like the new Elvis as far as people nearly elevating him to sainthood and then it hit me...why not make Dale Earnhardt a full-blown saint? Ah yes, St. Dale!! I'm sure that it has been done unofficially in many third world countries like Kentucky, West Virginia, and other places where chewing tobacco is considered a vegetable. Places where the man's name brings a spontaneous removal of the hat, bowed head, and weepy eyes. It also brings unkind remarks from a select group of NASCAR non-fans, but we shan't go into that right now. A man's sainthood is at stake here for fuck's sake.

The prospect of St. Dale convinced me to do some research when I got to the computer. Being a card-carrying evil bastage, I had absolutely no clue what it took to be a saint. According to a website that I found, the formal process of sainthood is a complicated process that requires time, money, testimonies, miracles and likely some other stuff, but I have a short attention span and couldn't be bothered with the rest.

Now, let's take a look here.

Time. Dale Earnhardt has been dead a while. Not really sure how long and I can't say that I really care enough to look it up. However, I think being dead a while constitutes as "time." If not, he isn't likely to come back, so the "Time keeps on slippin' (slippin'...slippin') into the future" if we are to believe Steve Miller and his band. Since the band doesn't have a silver bullet or isn't nitty gritty and possessing dirt, I am not sure they can be trusted, but we'll give them the benefit of the doubt for now.

Money. It always comes down to money. Perhaps the NASCAR types can save a percentage of the money spent on Pabst Blue Ribbon and put it towards the fund to elevate Mr. Earnhardt to sainthood. I'm sure some NASCAR sponsors and those that have made a shitpile of money off the man's legacy could kick in some serious coin, too. Hell's bells, put me in for a buck and maybe it will push me a step or two closer to sainthood my damn self.

Testimonies. For all the hot air expelled after the man's death, chances are good that someone could cough up some righteous testimonies to make this happen. If nothing else, the legion of insanely dedicated fans could likely work themselves into a froth over the overwhelming goodness that is Earnhardt.

Miracles. This is where it gets a tad complicated. I'm sure some folks could testify to some vehicular miracles that the man bestowed upon the world at some time or another, but I am not sure driving a car in a circle like a bat out of Hell technically qualifies as a miracle. Perhaps I am wrong. Again, the whole concept of sainthood isn't something I deal with on a daily basis for reasons unknown to me.

I figure the rest of the procedure is just paper work and filling out the proper forms, because anything semi-important in life involves a stifling amount of paper work and ultimately the killing of trees. Those trees can be some mean-ass sonsabitches and therefore must be taken out in order for semi-important shit to occur in life. It's just the way it has to be, baby.

Hopefully, these humble words will officially canonize the patron saint of driving fast and crash helmets.

SA-LUTE.

Primed for Voice Acting

The Grumpy Bloggy

Arise!! For I give you license.

Arise!! For I give you permission.

Take not that shit you did not request, wrap that bitch up in a tidy package, add a fuckin' bow.

Stamp it re-turn to sender.

Spray on a little Guilt-Be-Gone and a few sprinkles of Unaffected-By-Your-Shit and give it a love tap as it goes on its way.

Let the sender beware for you are the Eternal Recipient of Shit...no more.

Oh yeah, postage is due.

He's got the POWER!!

Monday In Review

It's a day where generic office noise grinds against the nerves like a cheese grater scraping against the flesh. At the very least, it's less than pleasant. From the vocal stylings of Little Lord Fauntleroy and his ongoing need to sing as he enters and exits the office to the flip-flop wearer who not only insists on wearing fucked up footwear, but also strolls through the office without picking up her feet. It sounds like the Colt 45 bull stepping on ducks with angry stomps. Not only is it distracting, but also really annoying.



On top of that shit sundae, add inane conversation that drowns out the profanity-laden music that I am trying to keep playing at a low simmer. It makes me wonder why I am even trying to be respectful when no one else seems to be sensitive to the needs of the loose cannon in 206B (and the B stands for "Buuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuullshit").



When my tension reached the red zone, I decided that it was time to get lunch. In my struggle to try and eat healthier shit, I opted for an inferior salad from what may possibly be the last remaining salad bar not attached to a restaurant in town. My previous salad connection closed on me and now I am stuck with this shithole. Since I was pretty well pissed off over the salad issue, I threw a box of Nerds (with packaging that sucks!!) into the mix.



Things had calmed down somewhat by the time I got back. Perhaps the Motherfuckers Be Trippin' disc by the Supersuckers has hidden therapeutic powers in addition to providing fine travel music. Once in the office, I had to quickly eat (or "power grazing" as I described it) my inferior salad with the fucked up lettuce before a brief teleconference. The dude that would be attending is the gent that spied my Black Sabbath button when he was here on his scoping out the surroundings session a few months ago. When he saw it, he simply asked "Ozzy or Dio?" and it took me by surprise that I never provided a sufficient answer. He showed up in mid-power graze and as soon as I power swallowed the leafy greens, I said "Definitely Ozzy, but the Dio material is mighty fine too." Apparently he is a big Dio fan so maybe it wasn't the answer he was looking for.



The mid-afternoon portion of Monday is a blur, except for checking my pedometer to see that I accidentally reset the fucker. Nice.



Later as I was simultaneously working two classes in two separate buildings, I conversed with Brainzilla and while this conversation went on, I noticed other leafy greens growing beside a building on the campus. The kind of leafy green that made me do a double take before having a righteous fit of laughter. It's probably not what I am thinking it is, but it made me laugh...

























As far as Tuesday goes, a student supposedly called a co-worker "Satan" because of her final exam. As the co-worker was headed back to class, I suggested she flash the devil horns (see the Dio photo as a point of reference) at the student. Whether or not she will do it is anyone's guess. But now that someone else has earned that nickname, it looks like I have been demoted.

Damn the luck.

(<-----There's a new audio post up for those so inclined to listen to the shit)