Give a jackass a piece of paper, a Uniball ink pen, and a little down-time and this is what you get.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Monday, October 29, 2007
Friday, October 26, 2007
Even with sagging enthusiasm...
it's still about the packaging!!
It takes a lot of balls or at least one well-placed ball to clearly advertise and name your product the Uni-ball Deluxe.
I will admit to being a tad confused how one mere ball can be the branded the "deluxe" model. Perhaps with one huge-ass ball, there is really no need for two. Otherwise, it becomes a logistical issue. Personally, I'd rather have a complete set rather than one lone testiculus maximus.
That's just me.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
In Honor of the Upcoming High School Reunion...OLD SHIT.
My second car and my first nephew, playing in the rain.
Prom #2, holding tightly so she can't run away.
Some jack-ass in the hallway, May of 1987.
The same jack-ass pretending to be the Easter Bunny. Bock bock.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Mormons, Beards, Stormy Weather, and Flatulent Germans.
"Man, I'm just tired and bored with myself." --Bruce Springsteen
When the tank is on E, sometimes it leads to something uncharacteristically interesting and perhaps out of the zone of familiarity. Other times, it’s the same old shit without even the slightest effort to break new ground or rework the wreckage. Since I’m a one trick pony in the dog and pony show of life, I figure this one can safely be filed in the same old shit folder without danger of being singled out as an outcast by the other folder dwellers. Although it’s looking like I might need to slap some extra duct tape on the seams all in the name of personal safety. Protective eyewear is optional yet highly recommended.
I rarely write about the daily activities because I shuffle through the same routine so often that any deviation from the rut would likely make my skull explode. While that alone would be entertaining, it would require some sweeping up and I’m not sure they’ve invented a Swiffer mop to handle that kind of chore. Even those Bounty towels can be rather hit and miss from my own personal experience.
I’ve realized in recent days that I spend entirely too much time at the workplace and even though this does force me to be somewhat social, I often feel completely out of step with the world surrounding me. Invariably, this tends to lead to a lot of confusion and makes people don their WTF expression.
Since I often have the pleasure of 12 hour work days, I don’t watch the television shows that the rest of the world watches, which is fine because most shows suck (excluding My Name Is Earl, which I rarely get to see, and Mythbusters). I don’t go see movies in the theater and rarely rent/buy them when they’re on the shelves. I guess it pretty much goes without saying that my musical tastes aren’t exactly top 40 and I’ve become bored and jaded with most of it, too. As far as the written word, I offered a bystander the confession that I’m unliterate, which was followed by the obligatory WTF reaction. It’s not that I can’t read, but that I choose not to read. However, this isn’t exactly true as I’ve found myself willingly reading a work by Shakespeare, which may be a first for me. And yes, it’s William Shakespeare and not some lesser-known Shakespeare who writes about smut and danger. Although I would definitely be inclined to read such a book if anyone has any recommendations, but keep in mind that I prefer the smut to the danger.
With so much of the calendar day swallowed whole by the occupational crapola, there’s not too much to cuss and discuss. Sure, I could do it, but who would want to read it? Not me, because I do enough of that as it is. Twelve hours in any workplace is a long day and when you find yourself doing the work of two or three people while others slide through their day like gravy through a goose, it does tend to make a person somewhat bitter. Thankfully, bitterness is something I understand and it has become my modus operandi.
Rather than giving in to the temptation, I’ve decided to go into the two recent diversions that have put minor blips on my radar in order to conjure up something vaguely productive.
Although it was originally presented in audio form, I am guessing it didn’t exactly lead to folks trampling one another to experience, so those folks that didn’t get stepped on in the melee will have the pleasure (?) of reading the crap. Yes, an Earth-friendly recycled heap for your eyes to gyrate over and yes, you’re welcome. Not that you thanked me. I think the phrase actually began with an F, but I heard it as “Thank you.”
So let’s set our time machine dials to last week and zone in on a little town called Evansville, Indiana. The Almighty and myself had agreed to go see that little ol’ band from Texas, ZZ Top, at the stadium up there for many of us. Down there or over there for more than a few of us. I had my own WTF moment when I found out that Travis Tritt would be opening the show. So much of a WTF moment that I was hesitant to even mention this fact to…(dramatic pause) The Almighty, who still keeps the memory alive of seeing a band called Squatweiler open for the Rollins Band. I’d likely have dismissed that memory many moons ago if it weren’t necessary to use them as a catch-all reference for shitty opening bands. It was bad enough that it wasn’t the classic line-up of the Rollins Band, but a boring opening band, too? Damn.
Fortunately for me, The Almighty had his own news beacon and found out about Travis before I was able to break the (bad) news. He’d already devised his own plot to miss Mr. Tritt and I was okay with it. I had my own plot myself and thankfully, both plots involved having some kick ass barbecue at Corky’s at the always lovely Casino Aztar in Evansville before zipping over to see the Beards. It was just sneaky enough to work.
As luck would have it, the parking garage was surprisingly light on traffic (as compared to the Joan Jett experience back in the winter), which usually means we get to waltz right into Corky’s and have a table awaiting our arrival. However, this was not the case on this particular day and unless we wanted to wait for others to choke down their barbecue, we’d have to sit at the bar. This seemed like the best idea for a couple of famished gentlemen in need of pork swimming in sauce.
We placed our order, they delivered our order and as we were winding down this consumption of fine cuisine, we heard the fateful words--“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome…the Osmond Brothers.” I thought I heard that correctly, but I couldn’t imagine any Osmond stepping foot into a den of sin and filth, not to mention being in the same building as smut-mongers like The Almighty and myself, who brought their own blend of sin and filth. Figuring that I didn’t really hear the words over the clanking of cutlery against fine china and that it surely had to be the Allman Brothers…
No no, it was the Osmond Brothers raising a ruckus on golden oldie after golden oldie that they did not write. A cavalcade of (s)hits, if you will. When it was time for us to make our exit, we stood outside of the blessed barbecue emporium to breathe in that Osmond magic. I was somewhat disappointed that a mere moment in the presence of the show, I actually recognized Little Jimmy from flickering remnants of TV days gone by. I even tried to snap a photo, but sadly, conventional cell phone photography equipment cannot sufficiently document the stunning brilliance that is Osmond. We made our way out of the place and on our way to see the Beards and hopefully not see Travis Tritt.
For once, good luck was on our side and we arrived at the stadium after Travis Tritt and before ZZ Top. We celebrated our good fortune from our vantage point on the 8th row center. As usual, ZZ Top did not disappoint and you can get the setlist and one so-so photo via camera phone at The Listening Party and yes, that is a shameless plug desperately trying to get a person or two to wing it over there and actually leave a comment or at the very least a muddy footprint on the welcome mat. Humor an old man, would you please?
The only thing that could rival some kick ass beards (both Frank and otherwise) would be the potential for natural disaster. It slid into our meager town on Thursday evening. The initial rumbles began as the majority of the office staff promptly got the hell out of there and the rest of us had to stick around and do whatever it is that we do. The weather radio began to squawk its head off to let everyone know that we indeed were on a plot of ground sporting a tornado warning. Yes, tornado WARNING.
I began my tired, old routine of telling folks that should it get bad that we would go downstairs to the restrooms as they were the safest area from flying debris and what not. (When you’re seeking refuge in a restroom, it’s the flying what not that terrifies me the most) In order to provide a glimmer of comic relief, I mentioned that I would not be going to the restroom because I did not want to die in a toilet, because I’d seen what that did to the legacy of Elvis A. Presley and wanted no part of it. When the time was right for hotfooting it downstairs, I gave the instructions and most of my people did just that, but there were a few that decided that it would be much more delightful outside. Sure, the threat of a tornado is dangerous, but it does not compare to the strength of a nicotine fit.
Long story short, our area was spared of damage and the flying what-not (unless the lectures prior to the evacuation count as flying what-not and they probably do), but what has yet to officially be called a tornado raised all kinds of unholy hell in the downtown area. Thankfully, our downtown isn’t exactly thriving on a Thursday evening or any other day for that matter. While some homes and businesses were damaged or destroyed, I don’t believe there was any loss of life in Owensboro. I’m not sure but I think that some areas outside of the city weren't so fortunate. It definitely didn’t rip the city a new one like the tornado of January 2000, but it’s not something to do for kicks either.
After talking shit about the Osmonds, ZZ Top, and tornadic activity, I’ve definitely got to go out on a high note here and rather than smack myself in the nether regions to hit that note, I am going to pass along something that I learned from pre-Friday workday television viewing. In this case, it was on the History Channel, which I usually try to avoid because it might actually be educational and having seen what education does to people, I want not part of it.
I was flipping through the channels to see how the city fared and happened to join a show in progress about Adolf Hitler. Knowing next to nothing about the guy outside of the fact that he was an evil bastard of a man, I watched a little bit before it was time to wander aimlessly towards the workplace. For those requesting that high note, here it comes, baby...it's coming to get ya.
Adolf Hitler had some gastrointestinal issues and suffered from flatulence. Yes, flatulence. All this time, I thought he bastardly deeds were all due to his inability to grow a full moustache. Nay. He was a chronic pooter and it probably reeked of semi-churned sour kraut.
Zeig hurl, der farter.
When the tank is on E, sometimes it leads to something uncharacteristically interesting and perhaps out of the zone of familiarity. Other times, it’s the same old shit without even the slightest effort to break new ground or rework the wreckage. Since I’m a one trick pony in the dog and pony show of life, I figure this one can safely be filed in the same old shit folder without danger of being singled out as an outcast by the other folder dwellers. Although it’s looking like I might need to slap some extra duct tape on the seams all in the name of personal safety. Protective eyewear is optional yet highly recommended.
I rarely write about the daily activities because I shuffle through the same routine so often that any deviation from the rut would likely make my skull explode. While that alone would be entertaining, it would require some sweeping up and I’m not sure they’ve invented a Swiffer mop to handle that kind of chore. Even those Bounty towels can be rather hit and miss from my own personal experience.
I’ve realized in recent days that I spend entirely too much time at the workplace and even though this does force me to be somewhat social, I often feel completely out of step with the world surrounding me. Invariably, this tends to lead to a lot of confusion and makes people don their WTF expression.
Since I often have the pleasure of 12 hour work days, I don’t watch the television shows that the rest of the world watches, which is fine because most shows suck (excluding My Name Is Earl, which I rarely get to see, and Mythbusters). I don’t go see movies in the theater and rarely rent/buy them when they’re on the shelves. I guess it pretty much goes without saying that my musical tastes aren’t exactly top 40 and I’ve become bored and jaded with most of it, too. As far as the written word, I offered a bystander the confession that I’m unliterate, which was followed by the obligatory WTF reaction. It’s not that I can’t read, but that I choose not to read. However, this isn’t exactly true as I’ve found myself willingly reading a work by Shakespeare, which may be a first for me. And yes, it’s William Shakespeare and not some lesser-known Shakespeare who writes about smut and danger. Although I would definitely be inclined to read such a book if anyone has any recommendations, but keep in mind that I prefer the smut to the danger.
With so much of the calendar day swallowed whole by the occupational crapola, there’s not too much to cuss and discuss. Sure, I could do it, but who would want to read it? Not me, because I do enough of that as it is. Twelve hours in any workplace is a long day and when you find yourself doing the work of two or three people while others slide through their day like gravy through a goose, it does tend to make a person somewhat bitter. Thankfully, bitterness is something I understand and it has become my modus operandi.
Rather than giving in to the temptation, I’ve decided to go into the two recent diversions that have put minor blips on my radar in order to conjure up something vaguely productive.
Although it was originally presented in audio form, I am guessing it didn’t exactly lead to folks trampling one another to experience, so those folks that didn’t get stepped on in the melee will have the pleasure (?) of reading the crap. Yes, an Earth-friendly recycled heap for your eyes to gyrate over and yes, you’re welcome. Not that you thanked me. I think the phrase actually began with an F, but I heard it as “Thank you.”
So let’s set our time machine dials to last week and zone in on a little town called Evansville, Indiana. The Almighty and myself had agreed to go see that little ol’ band from Texas, ZZ Top, at the stadium up there for many of us. Down there or over there for more than a few of us. I had my own WTF moment when I found out that Travis Tritt would be opening the show. So much of a WTF moment that I was hesitant to even mention this fact to…(dramatic pause) The Almighty, who still keeps the memory alive of seeing a band called Squatweiler open for the Rollins Band. I’d likely have dismissed that memory many moons ago if it weren’t necessary to use them as a catch-all reference for shitty opening bands. It was bad enough that it wasn’t the classic line-up of the Rollins Band, but a boring opening band, too? Damn.
Fortunately for me, The Almighty had his own news beacon and found out about Travis before I was able to break the (bad) news. He’d already devised his own plot to miss Mr. Tritt and I was okay with it. I had my own plot myself and thankfully, both plots involved having some kick ass barbecue at Corky’s at the always lovely Casino Aztar in Evansville before zipping over to see the Beards. It was just sneaky enough to work.
As luck would have it, the parking garage was surprisingly light on traffic (as compared to the Joan Jett experience back in the winter), which usually means we get to waltz right into Corky’s and have a table awaiting our arrival. However, this was not the case on this particular day and unless we wanted to wait for others to choke down their barbecue, we’d have to sit at the bar. This seemed like the best idea for a couple of famished gentlemen in need of pork swimming in sauce.
We placed our order, they delivered our order and as we were winding down this consumption of fine cuisine, we heard the fateful words--“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome…the Osmond Brothers.” I thought I heard that correctly, but I couldn’t imagine any Osmond stepping foot into a den of sin and filth, not to mention being in the same building as smut-mongers like The Almighty and myself, who brought their own blend of sin and filth. Figuring that I didn’t really hear the words over the clanking of cutlery against fine china and that it surely had to be the Allman Brothers…
No no, it was the Osmond Brothers raising a ruckus on golden oldie after golden oldie that they did not write. A cavalcade of (s)hits, if you will. When it was time for us to make our exit, we stood outside of the blessed barbecue emporium to breathe in that Osmond magic. I was somewhat disappointed that a mere moment in the presence of the show, I actually recognized Little Jimmy from flickering remnants of TV days gone by. I even tried to snap a photo, but sadly, conventional cell phone photography equipment cannot sufficiently document the stunning brilliance that is Osmond. We made our way out of the place and on our way to see the Beards and hopefully not see Travis Tritt.
For once, good luck was on our side and we arrived at the stadium after Travis Tritt and before ZZ Top. We celebrated our good fortune from our vantage point on the 8th row center. As usual, ZZ Top did not disappoint and you can get the setlist and one so-so photo via camera phone at The Listening Party and yes, that is a shameless plug desperately trying to get a person or two to wing it over there and actually leave a comment or at the very least a muddy footprint on the welcome mat. Humor an old man, would you please?
The only thing that could rival some kick ass beards (both Frank and otherwise) would be the potential for natural disaster. It slid into our meager town on Thursday evening. The initial rumbles began as the majority of the office staff promptly got the hell out of there and the rest of us had to stick around and do whatever it is that we do. The weather radio began to squawk its head off to let everyone know that we indeed were on a plot of ground sporting a tornado warning. Yes, tornado WARNING.
I began my tired, old routine of telling folks that should it get bad that we would go downstairs to the restrooms as they were the safest area from flying debris and what not. (When you’re seeking refuge in a restroom, it’s the flying what not that terrifies me the most) In order to provide a glimmer of comic relief, I mentioned that I would not be going to the restroom because I did not want to die in a toilet, because I’d seen what that did to the legacy of Elvis A. Presley and wanted no part of it. When the time was right for hotfooting it downstairs, I gave the instructions and most of my people did just that, but there were a few that decided that it would be much more delightful outside. Sure, the threat of a tornado is dangerous, but it does not compare to the strength of a nicotine fit.
Long story short, our area was spared of damage and the flying what-not (unless the lectures prior to the evacuation count as flying what-not and they probably do), but what has yet to officially be called a tornado raised all kinds of unholy hell in the downtown area. Thankfully, our downtown isn’t exactly thriving on a Thursday evening or any other day for that matter. While some homes and businesses were damaged or destroyed, I don’t believe there was any loss of life in Owensboro. I’m not sure but I think that some areas outside of the city weren't so fortunate. It definitely didn’t rip the city a new one like the tornado of January 2000, but it’s not something to do for kicks either.
After talking shit about the Osmonds, ZZ Top, and tornadic activity, I’ve definitely got to go out on a high note here and rather than smack myself in the nether regions to hit that note, I am going to pass along something that I learned from pre-Friday workday television viewing. In this case, it was on the History Channel, which I usually try to avoid because it might actually be educational and having seen what education does to people, I want not part of it.
I was flipping through the channels to see how the city fared and happened to join a show in progress about Adolf Hitler. Knowing next to nothing about the guy outside of the fact that he was an evil bastard of a man, I watched a little bit before it was time to wander aimlessly towards the workplace. For those requesting that high note, here it comes, baby...it's coming to get ya.
Adolf Hitler had some gastrointestinal issues and suffered from flatulence. Yes, flatulence. All this time, I thought he bastardly deeds were all due to his inability to grow a full moustache. Nay. He was a chronic pooter and it probably reeked of semi-churned sour kraut.
Zeig hurl, der farter.
Friday, October 19, 2007
UPDATED: We Are YPS!! The Confessional Edition
High on Riboflavin and Inappropriate Grandiose Ideations, Since...Well Since We Were Crowned Dos Bastardos, Actually.
I thought I'd add a couple of images from yesterday. The first is the first storm that blew through the area yesterday, around 4:15 or so. The second I call, "The Corner of My Room"...mostly because it is.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Monday, October 15, 2007
Friday, October 12, 2007
purge.
It's been one of those (insert suitable measure of time here) that keep psychiatrists, liquor stores, drug dealers and gun shops in business. It's no surprise that Joy Division continue selling albums some 27 years after they imploded. It all makes sense. Maybe not to everyone, but for those folks that are clued in to an objective reality, they know. The rest walk around with their heads in the clouds and shit rainbows, so their opinions do not count. There is no escaping the unbridled reality no matter how diligently you strive to do it. You wake up, it's there. You wind your way through the hurdles and mine fields of your respective day, it's there. You try in vain to sleep, it's there. Begin the cycle again, repeat as necessary. Like some kind of metaphysical shampoo that gets rubbed into the scalp so hard that it bleeds and bores right through your skull. You can find peace knowing that it's the conditioner that finishes you off. Gee, your hair smells terrific, but the scabs are sort of unsightly no matter how charismatic the smile. Cover it up with some head gear and make it something festive to throw the dogs off of your trail. How about a sombrero? A fez? Just remember that a fez is only appropriate if you're squeezing yourself into a tiny car and performing in a parade. After all, a parade isn't complete without a storm cloud hovering overhead ready to drop more shit than the horses that bring up the rear...no pun intended. You can get away with wearing a sombrero anywhere and everywhere except in a Shriner vehicle because it will likely cause the tiny vehicle chick magnet to tip over like a turtle in distress. No, that little bastard isn't break-dancing, it's in serious trouble. You look closely into the eyes and you'll see the difference. Not quite as photogenic as the internationally-known turtles with ninja skills. The rest of the species only gets exposure on Animal Planet, the occasional appearance on the funny video show when one clamps down on an exposed nipple (or various other appendages), or maybe in some kind of extremely kinky pornography of a Venezuelan origin. Of course, it would be ideal for your MyFaceSpaceBook site encouraging everyone that reads that soul-free crap to have an ultra-fine weekend. Thanks for the add, you're keen, but don't tell anyone that I actually participate in those Satanic rituals. It's worse for your spiritual well-being than reading self-help books and listening to uplifting music filled with hollowed-out clichéd sentiment. Perhaps it's a crime or just another form of self-preservation intermingling with a dollop of indifference. Don't ask, don't tell, and who gives a shit in the first place? Not me and probably not you.
It's rampant fecality, baby.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
The Falls of Rough
Me, the boy, my oldest sister and the folks took a quick trip to Rough River and here are a few photos from the area.
Somebody was looking one way as he exited an old, one-lane, bridge and just as he turned... he bumped into a post. :(
Monday, October 08, 2007
Dueling Holidays.
In honor of Columbus Day, you get the Eddie Spaghetti (Supersuckers) version of The Commodores' Sail On.
and in honor of Canadian Thanksgiving Day, I say thank you, Canada. Thank you very much.
and in honor of Canadian Thanksgiving Day, I say thank you, Canada. Thank you very much.
Thursday, October 04, 2007
My feelings on Power Point (or your YPS!! Quote Of The Day)
To those folks who seem to require Power Point for anything and everything in their lives, I'm sending out this long distance request just for you.
"There's a Power Point presentation in my pants. Double-click, suck my dick. Next slide, please."
"There's a Power Point presentation in my pants. Double-click, suck my dick. Next slide, please."
Monday, October 01, 2007
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