If you've found yourself in ear shot of a radio that plays horrible Top 40 hits, I'm sure by now you've heard the 'Attention Whore Anthem' "I Kissed A Girl (And I Liked It)" by Katy Perry.
I don't have a beef with this song for it's "controversial" overtones. Honestly, the whole idea of two girls kissing is about as shocking as "Girls Gone Wild" on VHS. Actually, after you listen to the lyrics a few times, you kinda wonder if the song wasn't written back in maybe 2000 or 2001.
My beef is primarily with the fact that it's a terrible song, sung so badly that the engineers had to mix in synths over the vocals (ala Cher's last gay dance club hit "Believe" back in ... what was it, like 1996-7?). The only thing floating this ridiculous her-tongue-in-her-cheek ditty is the fact that it's about two girls kissing.
Two girls kissing. So? Honestly, two girls kissing is pretty much played out. Go to any bar on any weekend night and you'll see two girls kissing. Tune into "Gossip Girl" on the fucking WB and you see two girls kissing. You'll even see maybe three or four girls, drunk, faces in a circle, kissing each other. Why do they do this? It's because they crave the attention of men.
Guys, and I'm really only speaking to you impressionable fellows, like my roommate, who have some rose-colored vision of how the world works: Just because two girls kiss doesn't mean there's going to be a threesome, with you in the middle of them, calling yourself a lucky bastard with the world's biggest shit eating grin on your face. I know this for a fact. Two girls kissing is basically the 2000's version of a drunk girl flashing her tits around the bar. She's starved for attention, daddy never loved her, and she wants a man to look her way. That's all.
Honestly, a song about two girls kissing is about as sexy as Warrant's "Cherry Pie" video is now-a-days. Maybe I've just gotten older, or... something, but faux-dykes don't really get my wheel turning. It's like thongs. Thongs were all the rage about ten years ago. Hell, there was even a song about that too. But now, I don't even really like them anymore.
Maybe I'm on to something here: Write a horribly catchy pop song about something taboo, and it (the taboo-ish behavior) will officially die.
Technically that's not true. Back in like, 1996 or something, a little known one hit wonder named Jill Sobule sang a much more controversial-at-the-time song about kissing a girl, called "I kissed a girl." It was a sweet and innocent song, as I remember, sang by a petite blonde Jewish girl, that was going behind her husband or boyfriend's back with the brunette neighbor.
Hot.
The new... "I Kissed a Girl" has all the charm of a dead stripper.
My other issue with this, if I can get a little conversative right-wing on everyone... but this song is obviously aimed at young girls. No... self-respecting 20-something lady is going to be wearing cherry lipstick unless she has little girl fantasies. When I hear this song, I'm somehow reminded of the girls I went to middle school with, which.... creeps me out probably a little more than it creeps you out reading that last sentence.
Kids, between the ages of like, 10 and 14 experiment. It doesn't matter if you're a girl or a boy, if you're gay or straight or just a little curious. Everyone's curious, Ryan. Little dudes want to see what other little dudes cocks look like, girls want to kiss their best friends while they play tea party in the little fort made of couch cushions. It's nature. We're curious creatures. This is why we humans would never survive in the wild.
A tree branch snaps in the distance. A herd of wild gazelles book it out of there. If it were a herd of people, half of the motherfuckers would wander on over towards where they heard the branch snap, and subsequently be killed by hunters.
To compound my arguement, my beleaguered roommate wandered into the watch room and I asked him his thoughts on the topic at hand just now:
"Hey, what do you think of that Katy Perry song?" I asked.
"The," he starts to sing "I kissed a girl, and I liked it-t-t.. the taste of her cherry chapstiii-iick!"
"I think it's cherry lipstick,"
"No, it's cherry chapstick."
"Ok, but what do you think of the song, like, does it turn you on, does it disgust you - what, you're the target demographic for this type of common American media bullshit,"
"What does that even mean?"
"Nevermind, give me your thoughts on the song."
"Well," he starts, "I used to think the song was sexy, you know? But then, one day when I was walking across the K Mart parking lot, I saw these two eight year old lesbians singing it, arm in arm. That kinda grossed me out."
And there you have it.
Undoubtedly the song will live on in some mild jaded infamy as a song that soared high on lesbian-fantasy wings for a short period of time. It'll be the choral for strip club lapdances and karaoke duets amongst drunk college freshman girls. There is nothing we can do to stop this. We should just let it wash over us like... like... something else gay.
Though it begs, would Mtv play a video about two dudes kissing? I venture not.
Also, Katy Perry.... not that hot. Really. And nothing's worse than two not-so-hot girls kissing for guy's attention. It's sad. Not hot, but sad.
Showing posts with label roommate. Show all posts
Showing posts with label roommate. Show all posts
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Your Children Are Not Precious
I often go back and forth with the idea of having my own children. Some days I'm thrilled with the idea of extending my lineage, another generation of proud people who happen to share my last name. Other days, I gag at the idea of bringing a defenseless child into this world. This is usually brought upon by seeing how other people interact with each other on our shared planet. Do I really want to subject another living person to having to deal with 6 billion dicks, pussies and assholes?
I find myself and the RM sitting down at the local KFC/Taco Bell here in town, and there's a mild circus going on. There's two women, having a conversation at table, completely oblivious to the five or 6 five-year-olds tearing the eatery apart, running amok in the restaurant, jumping on seats, throwing food, and other wise being undisciplined in public.
When I see situations like this, with the kids screaming at the tops of their lungs unchecked and treating the indoors like the outdoors I get tense. I stare and hatred builds inside of me. After many years of living on this earth, I've come to terms with the fact that the public spaces I inhabit do not necessarily belong to me and me alone for my own enjoyment, but to everyone else as well, but some things done in public are just too outrageous for even the most jaded observer.
You child unleashed is one of them.
I can't fully explain how deep my hatred goes for children when I see them just... going crazy for no reason. And yes, I understand the two mothers in this situation are probably on vacation, which means that for the rest of the god-fearing public, we're just going to have to endure the frustration of ridiculous kids ruining our lunches and giving us head aches, because god forbid a mother on vacation lift a finger to discipline a child of their own in public. But my rage is being pushed to a limit where it's likely I will pluck one of these little rug rats by his ears, and punt him through a glass window should he get within grabbing distance to me, is obviously not a concern to anyone but myself and maybe my roommate.
Attention: Your child is not a precious little being who in his heart and soul holds all that his sweet and innocent in this world. No, your child is an unrelenting asshole. Your child is the equivalent of a dickhead at a party who does nothing but blather on, story after boring story about his life, which no one cares about. Your child is an awkward example, and directly in relationship to, your poor parenting and inattentiveness. If you never really planned on having a child, or perhaps thought it was a trendy thing to do because your so-called friends from high school whom you've not been in contact with in over five years suddenly started to squirt them out last year, then the publics' resentment and loathing for you is your penance for bringing to life a sonic, ear splitting bomb in a stroller.
Thanks, you worthless cunt.
This is what I fear the most, in having children someday. I do not want to become the person who no longer gives a shit about whether or not their child is jumping up and down on public furniture or choking to death on a toy from a happy meal. I know my personality, and when I get completely frustrated with an individual, where I can no longer see a potential for change in attitude or behavior, I no longer give a shit about them. If you want to be a little asshole in public, go ahead son, that shit is on you. Fuck it.
My roommate is a prime example of this; I've done everything humanly possible to help him meet girls. I've both torn down and boosted his ego. I took him shopping for outfits, I've literally walked girls, gorgeous young women, to him and introduced them. I've given him pointers, pick up lines, and observational critiques... and yet he still refuses to change his attitude or traits. He assumes that something will just come along and take care of it for him.
Your child is exactly like my roommate - your child is needy and requires someone to follow behind him or her and close cupboard doors after them, wipe their asses, and tell them that their special and unique and no one is exactly like them. Bullshit. Your snot nosed little bastard or bitch, with their Bob the Builder over alls or pink Barbie tiara respectively is just another douchebag in the making. In fifteen years, it's likely that they will kill someone in a drunk driving accident, or fail out of college or go on welfare. They will neglect to pay their bills and hit their wives or husbands.
They'll be despondent and unappreciative to life's little things, and we'll all have you to thank, you cheap remorseless cocksucking uncaring piss-poor lay of a parent. Your genitalia should be revoked, you careless cad.
God help you, should I ever run into you and your brood ever again, because I will probably slit all your throats, systematically, in a way that I have yet to figure out, but give me some time and I will come up with the most psychologically damaging plan I can think of.
Trust me.
I find myself and the RM sitting down at the local KFC/Taco Bell here in town, and there's a mild circus going on. There's two women, having a conversation at table, completely oblivious to the five or 6 five-year-olds tearing the eatery apart, running amok in the restaurant, jumping on seats, throwing food, and other wise being undisciplined in public.
When I see situations like this, with the kids screaming at the tops of their lungs unchecked and treating the indoors like the outdoors I get tense. I stare and hatred builds inside of me. After many years of living on this earth, I've come to terms with the fact that the public spaces I inhabit do not necessarily belong to me and me alone for my own enjoyment, but to everyone else as well, but some things done in public are just too outrageous for even the most jaded observer.
You child unleashed is one of them.
I can't fully explain how deep my hatred goes for children when I see them just... going crazy for no reason. And yes, I understand the two mothers in this situation are probably on vacation, which means that for the rest of the god-fearing public, we're just going to have to endure the frustration of ridiculous kids ruining our lunches and giving us head aches, because god forbid a mother on vacation lift a finger to discipline a child of their own in public. But my rage is being pushed to a limit where it's likely I will pluck one of these little rug rats by his ears, and punt him through a glass window should he get within grabbing distance to me, is obviously not a concern to anyone but myself and maybe my roommate.
Attention: Your child is not a precious little being who in his heart and soul holds all that his sweet and innocent in this world. No, your child is an unrelenting asshole. Your child is the equivalent of a dickhead at a party who does nothing but blather on, story after boring story about his life, which no one cares about. Your child is an awkward example, and directly in relationship to, your poor parenting and inattentiveness. If you never really planned on having a child, or perhaps thought it was a trendy thing to do because your so-called friends from high school whom you've not been in contact with in over five years suddenly started to squirt them out last year, then the publics' resentment and loathing for you is your penance for bringing to life a sonic, ear splitting bomb in a stroller.
Thanks, you worthless cunt.
This is what I fear the most, in having children someday. I do not want to become the person who no longer gives a shit about whether or not their child is jumping up and down on public furniture or choking to death on a toy from a happy meal. I know my personality, and when I get completely frustrated with an individual, where I can no longer see a potential for change in attitude or behavior, I no longer give a shit about them. If you want to be a little asshole in public, go ahead son, that shit is on you. Fuck it.
My roommate is a prime example of this; I've done everything humanly possible to help him meet girls. I've both torn down and boosted his ego. I took him shopping for outfits, I've literally walked girls, gorgeous young women, to him and introduced them. I've given him pointers, pick up lines, and observational critiques... and yet he still refuses to change his attitude or traits. He assumes that something will just come along and take care of it for him.
Your child is exactly like my roommate - your child is needy and requires someone to follow behind him or her and close cupboard doors after them, wipe their asses, and tell them that their special and unique and no one is exactly like them. Bullshit. Your snot nosed little bastard or bitch, with their Bob the Builder over alls or pink Barbie tiara respectively is just another douchebag in the making. In fifteen years, it's likely that they will kill someone in a drunk driving accident, or fail out of college or go on welfare. They will neglect to pay their bills and hit their wives or husbands.
They'll be despondent and unappreciative to life's little things, and we'll all have you to thank, you cheap remorseless cocksucking uncaring piss-poor lay of a parent. Your genitalia should be revoked, you careless cad.
God help you, should I ever run into you and your brood ever again, because I will probably slit all your throats, systematically, in a way that I have yet to figure out, but give me some time and I will come up with the most psychologically damaging plan I can think of.
Trust me.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
It Doesn't Say "Stop" Fucktard.
Jim's had a busy week at work, so his posts have been thin at best. We on his editorial staff forgive him. I mean, the less he writes, the less we have to run around fact checking, and the less legal has to do, period.
Anyway, enjoy his rant. -ed.
I hate driving in this ridiculous state.
If you've grown up in New England, outside of Massachusetts, you'd freely associate terrible driving with any car with Mass plates. You see those white and red tags anywhere, even in-state, and you know that there's likely an asshole behind the wheel.
First before I go any further, let me state for the record that I'm a horrible driver. It's because I think every time I get into traffic I'm manauvering around the track at Darlington International Speedway. I tailgate, I don't use my signals, I speed, I make lane changes at the last second. I freely admit to doing these things.
What makes me a hypocrit to a certain extent is that people in this goddamn state do not know how to YIELD. What compounds this fact is that every ten feet on this fucking Hook, there's a fucking rotary.
Let me play out the scene as it typically unfolds in front of me: I'll be driving home from work along this one particular stretch of highway, and I'll be approaching this big rotary. There will be about five cars ahead of me, and I'll look towards the left, where traffic on the rotary should be coming from.
But there's no traffic. Nothing. Maybe a lonely fucking tumbleweed will be blowing across the road, but that it. It looks like some post-apocalyptic waste land.
And yet, I see break lights. I see a shit ton of red lights, lighting up, and the guy out front of everyone, with his MA tags, has come to a complete hault.
IT'S A FUCKING YIELD! DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS?! IT SURE AS HELL DOESN'T MEAN STOP, BECAUSE IF YOU WERE TO STOP, THERE'D BE A FUCKING STOP SIGN, YOU INFECTED DICK!
So naturally, everyone slams on the breaks and it causes a back up in traffic. It's enough to make me want to go down to the zoo, kidnap a monkey, crack open it's skull, scoop out it's brains with a melonballer, and then proceed to poop into the skull cavity.
The way a rotary is supposed to work is that everyone just... goes. You just enter traffic seamlessly, and then leave traffic when you get to your little exit. You leave, someone else gets on. Granted, this isn't always the case, because large volumes of traffic can hinder the easy off and on of a rotary, but when there's zero traffic, you should just GO.
I see this as a problem too with highway on ramps in this state. Granted, they're ridiculously curved (like my cock) so seeing on-coming traffic is a little tricky, but coming to a complete stop at the yield sign at the end of the ramp is dangerous.
I'm going to be coming in behind you at about 65 mph, my cell phone in my one hand, a Dunk's ice coffee in the other, screaming at my roommate who for the 18th time this month has forgotten to do his share of the dishes, all while getting blown by my girlfriend to a soundtrack consisting of nothing by 80's hair metal, turned up to 11. I'm not expecting you to be sitting there, meagerly waiting your turn to join the fucking circus that is driving in Massachusetts, I'm going to be a Tomahawk Missel and your back end is going to be some Insurgent's asshole.
Just get out there, that's what I do. I come screaming around the corner at a high rate of speed and just say "fuck it." They have breaks, and it's a yield. Granted, I'm supposed to be giving way, but there's nothing there saying I'm to come to a complete stop- as far as I understand traffic laws. And I was a cop.
Anyway, enjoy his rant. -ed.
I hate driving in this ridiculous state.
If you've grown up in New England, outside of Massachusetts, you'd freely associate terrible driving with any car with Mass plates. You see those white and red tags anywhere, even in-state, and you know that there's likely an asshole behind the wheel.
First before I go any further, let me state for the record that I'm a horrible driver. It's because I think every time I get into traffic I'm manauvering around the track at Darlington International Speedway. I tailgate, I don't use my signals, I speed, I make lane changes at the last second. I freely admit to doing these things.
What makes me a hypocrit to a certain extent is that people in this goddamn state do not know how to YIELD. What compounds this fact is that every ten feet on this fucking Hook, there's a fucking rotary.
Let me play out the scene as it typically unfolds in front of me: I'll be driving home from work along this one particular stretch of highway, and I'll be approaching this big rotary. There will be about five cars ahead of me, and I'll look towards the left, where traffic on the rotary should be coming from.
But there's no traffic. Nothing. Maybe a lonely fucking tumbleweed will be blowing across the road, but that it. It looks like some post-apocalyptic waste land.
And yet, I see break lights. I see a shit ton of red lights, lighting up, and the guy out front of everyone, with his MA tags, has come to a complete hault.
IT'S A FUCKING YIELD! DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS?! IT SURE AS HELL DOESN'T MEAN STOP, BECAUSE IF YOU WERE TO STOP, THERE'D BE A FUCKING STOP SIGN, YOU INFECTED DICK!
So naturally, everyone slams on the breaks and it causes a back up in traffic. It's enough to make me want to go down to the zoo, kidnap a monkey, crack open it's skull, scoop out it's brains with a melonballer, and then proceed to poop into the skull cavity.
The way a rotary is supposed to work is that everyone just... goes. You just enter traffic seamlessly, and then leave traffic when you get to your little exit. You leave, someone else gets on. Granted, this isn't always the case, because large volumes of traffic can hinder the easy off and on of a rotary, but when there's zero traffic, you should just GO.
I see this as a problem too with highway on ramps in this state. Granted, they're ridiculously curved (like my cock) so seeing on-coming traffic is a little tricky, but coming to a complete stop at the yield sign at the end of the ramp is dangerous.
I'm going to be coming in behind you at about 65 mph, my cell phone in my one hand, a Dunk's ice coffee in the other, screaming at my roommate who for the 18th time this month has forgotten to do his share of the dishes, all while getting blown by my girlfriend to a soundtrack consisting of nothing by 80's hair metal, turned up to 11. I'm not expecting you to be sitting there, meagerly waiting your turn to join the fucking circus that is driving in Massachusetts, I'm going to be a Tomahawk Missel and your back end is going to be some Insurgent's asshole.
Just get out there, that's what I do. I come screaming around the corner at a high rate of speed and just say "fuck it." They have breaks, and it's a yield. Granted, I'm supposed to be giving way, but there's nothing there saying I'm to come to a complete stop- as far as I understand traffic laws. And I was a cop.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
You're An Idiot, Vol 1.
Sometimes people don't know they're completely retarded. Other times, people around said idiot don't realize that person is completely inept in all facets of life, either. The latter is the case of Carlos Mencia.
So I figured that I would start breaking down ways to tell if you yourself, or someone you love, is a collossal idiot. This month: How Your Choice in Movies Makes You an Asshole.
My roommate tends to go see a lot of movies because he's only 19 and there's not much else the poor boy can do legally in these parts. As a by-product of this, he sees a lot of shitty films, only, he doesn't realize what a shitty film is.
Tell tale signs you're watching a shitty film:
-Stars Mark Walhberg in a leading role (excemption: "Boogie Nights")
-Is from "two of the six writers of 'Scary Movie'"
-A Wayans touched it.
-Star mugs for the camera every chance they get, during the preview.
What's unfortunate is that the majority of the American movie-going population falls under the same umbrella as my hapless roommate. No one really knows what a shitty movie-going experience is. Sure, they can be annoyed as they sit in the theatre by other patrons/sticky floors, but they neglect to realize that what's on the screen plays a large part in dumbing themselves down.
I pay a lot of attention to film reviews, but mostly I can just tell if a movie is going to be utter shit. I can see the preview either at the theatre, or on tv, and just know. It's hard to explain, and yes, it's just short of judging a book by it's cover, but I know when there's a film not worth my ten dollars. It has a certain stink to it; an aroma that's not unlike dead fish under a hot sun.
I've also been wrong before too, but not often. I had both written off "Gladiator" and "Ironman" as forgettable summer "blockbusters" and pleasently surprised how much I enjoyed those two films. "Gladiator" is actually one of my all time favorites. And I've missed the call too, thinking "The Kingdom" last Fall's forgetable Jaime Foxx-middle eastern terrorist cash-in pic was going to be epic, but found it was largely disappointing.
This was an actual (albeit paraphrased for these purposes) conversation I had with my roommate a few weeks ago:
RM: Dude, let's go see 'Love Guru!'
(He constantly tries to bait me into going to movies. Honestly, I feel awful that I don't go with him, but given his taste in film, I'd rather inject rat poison directly into my eyeballs)
Me: Umm, no.
RM: Why not?!
Me: Because it looks terrible, Mike Meyers is a one trick pony who thinks that because he dresses in various fat suits and costumes, he can fool movie goers into thinking he's talented and has range as an actor. His latest film only reinforces that. Except for the first Austin Powers, each one of his films to date is basically a stretched, unfunny SNL skit.
The RM gives me a blank stare.
RM: Ok, let's go see 'Meet Dave.' I know you want to see that!
And I appriciate his enthusiasm. I really do. But again, to infer that I 'want to see' 'Meet Dave', the abysmal Eddie Murphy - 'Men in Black' - Bootleg - Vehicle, is somewhat insulting.
Me: No.
Rm: Sigh, why not?
Me: Have you seen the previews of that movie?! I'm not going to subject myself to another one of Eddie Murphy's ego-tripped-tipped yawnfests. You know why all of his movies in the last ten years have starred just Eddie Murphy playing different characters? It's because no other actor in Hollywood will work with him. He's an enormous asshole, and he continues to make films that make me want to eat a bagel laced with broken shards of glass and AIDS needles.
RM: Well, I'm gonna go, peace out.
And so he goes, and sure enough, two hours later, this is what I get:
RM: Yeah bro, "Meet Dave" sucked.
In other news, I tell my roommate that the stove top is hot, he touches it, gets burned. More at 11.
Seriously though, I browse through rottentomatoes all the time, and read through the (obviously) bad reviews for some of these films I know to be bad. I don't know why I do it, I just do it. Maybe I'm reinforcing my talent for picking stinkers a mile away, or maybe I like seeing a man being kicked while he's down. Regardless, what blows me away is some of the POSITIVE reviews that are kinda sprinkled over the critics review pages for movies that should otherwised be banned from viewing.
This gem from the 'Hancock' page:
"Smith proves again, he's the king of summer blockbusters in this truly genius alt-concept of Super Hero (his caps) genre movies!" -Kit Comner, Ain't It Cool News.
Now I understand studios sometimes pay off film critics to write "good reviews" on what the studio will know to be a film DOA at the theatre. But I mean, these people look like complete assholes next to the other 97% of the critics, who were not being paid, who actually wrote down what they thought.
Only if you were say, a President of the United States, had an approval rating hovering around 26% and still thought you couldhelp the presumptive GOP candidate would you be a bigger idiot.
So I figured that I would start breaking down ways to tell if you yourself, or someone you love, is a collossal idiot. This month: How Your Choice in Movies Makes You an Asshole.
My roommate tends to go see a lot of movies because he's only 19 and there's not much else the poor boy can do legally in these parts. As a by-product of this, he sees a lot of shitty films, only, he doesn't realize what a shitty film is.
Tell tale signs you're watching a shitty film:
-Stars Mark Walhberg in a leading role (excemption: "Boogie Nights")
-Is from "two of the six writers of 'Scary Movie'"
-A Wayans touched it.
-Star mugs for the camera every chance they get, during the preview.
What's unfortunate is that the majority of the American movie-going population falls under the same umbrella as my hapless roommate. No one really knows what a shitty movie-going experience is. Sure, they can be annoyed as they sit in the theatre by other patrons/sticky floors, but they neglect to realize that what's on the screen plays a large part in dumbing themselves down.
I pay a lot of attention to film reviews, but mostly I can just tell if a movie is going to be utter shit. I can see the preview either at the theatre, or on tv, and just know. It's hard to explain, and yes, it's just short of judging a book by it's cover, but I know when there's a film not worth my ten dollars. It has a certain stink to it; an aroma that's not unlike dead fish under a hot sun.
I've also been wrong before too, but not often. I had both written off "Gladiator" and "Ironman" as forgettable summer "blockbusters" and pleasently surprised how much I enjoyed those two films. "Gladiator" is actually one of my all time favorites. And I've missed the call too, thinking "The Kingdom" last Fall's forgetable Jaime Foxx-middle eastern terrorist cash-in pic was going to be epic, but found it was largely disappointing.
This was an actual (albeit paraphrased for these purposes) conversation I had with my roommate a few weeks ago:
RM: Dude, let's go see 'Love Guru!'
(He constantly tries to bait me into going to movies. Honestly, I feel awful that I don't go with him, but given his taste in film, I'd rather inject rat poison directly into my eyeballs)
Me: Umm, no.
RM: Why not?!
Me: Because it looks terrible, Mike Meyers is a one trick pony who thinks that because he dresses in various fat suits and costumes, he can fool movie goers into thinking he's talented and has range as an actor. His latest film only reinforces that. Except for the first Austin Powers, each one of his films to date is basically a stretched, unfunny SNL skit.
The RM gives me a blank stare.
RM: Ok, let's go see 'Meet Dave.' I know you want to see that!
And I appriciate his enthusiasm. I really do. But again, to infer that I 'want to see' 'Meet Dave', the abysmal Eddie Murphy - 'Men in Black' - Bootleg - Vehicle, is somewhat insulting.
Me: No.
Rm: Sigh, why not?
Me: Have you seen the previews of that movie?! I'm not going to subject myself to another one of Eddie Murphy's ego-tripped-tipped yawnfests. You know why all of his movies in the last ten years have starred just Eddie Murphy playing different characters? It's because no other actor in Hollywood will work with him. He's an enormous asshole, and he continues to make films that make me want to eat a bagel laced with broken shards of glass and AIDS needles.
RM: Well, I'm gonna go, peace out.
And so he goes, and sure enough, two hours later, this is what I get:
RM: Yeah bro, "Meet Dave" sucked.
In other news, I tell my roommate that the stove top is hot, he touches it, gets burned. More at 11.
Seriously though, I browse through rottentomatoes all the time, and read through the (obviously) bad reviews for some of these films I know to be bad. I don't know why I do it, I just do it. Maybe I'm reinforcing my talent for picking stinkers a mile away, or maybe I like seeing a man being kicked while he's down. Regardless, what blows me away is some of the POSITIVE reviews that are kinda sprinkled over the critics review pages for movies that should otherwised be banned from viewing.
This gem from the 'Hancock' page:
"Smith proves again, he's the king of summer blockbusters in this truly genius alt-concept of Super Hero (his caps) genre movies!" -Kit Comner, Ain't It Cool News.
Now I understand studios sometimes pay off film critics to write "good reviews" on what the studio will know to be a film DOA at the theatre. But I mean, these people look like complete assholes next to the other 97% of the critics, who were not being paid, who actually wrote down what they thought.
Only if you were say, a President of the United States, had an approval rating hovering around 26% and still thought you couldhelp the presumptive GOP candidate would you be a bigger idiot.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Crossfire (with Apologies to SRV)
He's walking down a dirt road, a few pieces of strewn garbage lazily scrabbling across the turf before him. He's content, happy, the stress from the past couple of days at work finally easing off of his hard tensed shoulders. He looks forward to getting home, climbing into bed to listen to an episode of 'Mythbusters' or 'How It's Made' while he reads his book about the Westies.
Then, out of no where, there's a heavy thudding BR-RRA-A-A-AATT that cuts through the calm. The dirt kicks up in front of him, he freezes out of shock for a second, and then dives down behind a trash can.
Another burst of automatic gunfire cuts from the other side of the street. A few strays whip over his head, his too-short hair bristles. He clenches shut his eyes, clasps his laptop to his chest (Huff Post or Gmail's been left open on it) and bares down to what's going to be an ugly, long-lasting battle.
This isn't Iraq in case you were wondering (I don't think they have Gmail out there... probably Jihad-mail... rimshot!) this is my apartment. And I've been caught in a wicked crossfire between The Lady and the Roommate.
Something in the back of my head tells me that this was inevitable. The two of them don't get along very well at all, and at the risk of further alienating them from each other, and even me, I'll break down how the other sees their advisory.
The Lady sees the RM as an awkward annoyance, a child that she's been prematurely saddled with. A slob that seldom picks anything up and is a thieving anti-social dullard. He's pathetic and a nuisance. She often wonders how he even made it through bootcamp.
The RM views The Lady as a interloper, the succubus that's robbed him of his best friend and roommate. A point of conflict and contention. What he sees is a house thief who does nothing but plot against him when he's not here, laying traps (or pubic hair) in his room.
(Update: As I was writing this, the RM came back from the store, where I sent him to get me a Snickers with Almonds and an orange Gatorade. When he came back, he burst into my room and started to jabber on in a non-sequitor that involved Alec Baldwin, the film 'We Own The Night' and the letter 'X' , he then placed upon my head the Gatorade and said 'dude, listen to the wind outside, and feel the coolness on your head. Doesn't it feel like a tropical storm?!)
The fact is, I'm trying to have my cake and eat it too. I love having The Lady living here with me, because I don't get to see enough of her during the week to begin with. With her here, it takes away all that lost time where we're traveling to see each other. It's also beneficial to her as well, because we live in such close proximity to her job, that she can walk and leave the car parked. With gas at 4.00+ USD, that's a huge check in the plus column.
With the roommate, it's nice to have him around because he's genuine comic relief, and I feel like I have an obligation towards him as his 'older brother.' But he can be tedious to deal with as well, as he seldom does chores and often parades ugly t shirts he buys into my room for my approval/disapproval (there's really never an 'approval' since he refuses to buy clothes meant for an adult).
These two don't like each other and I don't like having to be the go-between. I hate having to spend a good chunk of my work week counseling my roommate on getting along with my girlfriend, and I don't want to deal with The Lady's attitude towards my roommate, which makes her pissy, which she'll take out on me.
All I want to do is come home and relax, and not feel like I have to be a referee. I did this for twenty-sum-odd years with my parents, and now that I've moved out (again) I see it as wholly unnecessary to do it with two more people I care about.
I think this will be easier to explain to the readers if I break down the latest point of contention: Being that my name is on the lease to the apartment, I take a more ... presidential stand on the happenings of my little two-bedroom country. When I invited The Lady to move in, we agreed that we'd split the rent (Update 2: The Roommate just walked into my room, head partially shaved, to show me the 'upside down vag' he shaved into the front of his forehead. It was a downward pointing triangle. He was also only in his underwear.) three ways, and her share of the utilities would be spent on buying groceries. We all agreed to this, and it was fine.
Then the RM started to have an issue when his share of the utilities came out to 90 dollars for the month. And then when he went to a fit when he was looking for something to make for dinner, and there was nothing he liked.
The Lady and I like organic products, so we shop at an organic grocery store. The RM likes to eat cardboard and other crap of that nature. So I can understand his befuddlement.
"Dude, weeks ago I told you to make a list of shit..."
"Well... will she shop at someplace other than Trader Joe's?" I didn't want to argue with him, because it was a stupid argument to have. And then he launched into a tirade about the utilities. "We're only here half the month, how is it so high?!" I, again, didn't see a point to arguing with him, nor did I feel like bringing up the fact that we've been running the central air a lot lately, as well as the dishwasher... plus he has a huge tendency to leave the living room tv on when he goes into his room, or vice versa, along with the lights.
The Lady has threatened to move out, trying to avoid a nasty confrontation. I've implored her not to, to just talk it over with the RM.
And that's how I get sucked into being the go-between. Why is it, the guy who's always caught in the crossfire is unarmed?
Then, out of no where, there's a heavy thudding BR-RRA-A-A-AATT that cuts through the calm. The dirt kicks up in front of him, he freezes out of shock for a second, and then dives down behind a trash can.
Another burst of automatic gunfire cuts from the other side of the street. A few strays whip over his head, his too-short hair bristles. He clenches shut his eyes, clasps his laptop to his chest (Huff Post or Gmail's been left open on it) and bares down to what's going to be an ugly, long-lasting battle.
This isn't Iraq in case you were wondering (I don't think they have Gmail out there... probably Jihad-mail... rimshot!) this is my apartment. And I've been caught in a wicked crossfire between The Lady and the Roommate.
Something in the back of my head tells me that this was inevitable. The two of them don't get along very well at all, and at the risk of further alienating them from each other, and even me, I'll break down how the other sees their advisory.
The Lady sees the RM as an awkward annoyance, a child that she's been prematurely saddled with. A slob that seldom picks anything up and is a thieving anti-social dullard. He's pathetic and a nuisance. She often wonders how he even made it through bootcamp.
The RM views The Lady as a interloper, the succubus that's robbed him of his best friend and roommate. A point of conflict and contention. What he sees is a house thief who does nothing but plot against him when he's not here, laying traps (or pubic hair) in his room.
(Update: As I was writing this, the RM came back from the store, where I sent him to get me a Snickers with Almonds and an orange Gatorade. When he came back, he burst into my room and started to jabber on in a non-sequitor that involved Alec Baldwin, the film 'We Own The Night' and the letter 'X' , he then placed upon my head the Gatorade and said 'dude, listen to the wind outside, and feel the coolness on your head. Doesn't it feel like a tropical storm?!)
The fact is, I'm trying to have my cake and eat it too. I love having The Lady living here with me, because I don't get to see enough of her during the week to begin with. With her here, it takes away all that lost time where we're traveling to see each other. It's also beneficial to her as well, because we live in such close proximity to her job, that she can walk and leave the car parked. With gas at 4.00+ USD, that's a huge check in the plus column.
With the roommate, it's nice to have him around because he's genuine comic relief, and I feel like I have an obligation towards him as his 'older brother.' But he can be tedious to deal with as well, as he seldom does chores and often parades ugly t shirts he buys into my room for my approval/disapproval (there's really never an 'approval' since he refuses to buy clothes meant for an adult).
These two don't like each other and I don't like having to be the go-between. I hate having to spend a good chunk of my work week counseling my roommate on getting along with my girlfriend, and I don't want to deal with The Lady's attitude towards my roommate, which makes her pissy, which she'll take out on me.
All I want to do is come home and relax, and not feel like I have to be a referee. I did this for twenty-sum-odd years with my parents, and now that I've moved out (again) I see it as wholly unnecessary to do it with two more people I care about.
I think this will be easier to explain to the readers if I break down the latest point of contention: Being that my name is on the lease to the apartment, I take a more ... presidential stand on the happenings of my little two-bedroom country. When I invited The Lady to move in, we agreed that we'd split the rent (Update 2: The Roommate just walked into my room, head partially shaved, to show me the 'upside down vag' he shaved into the front of his forehead. It was a downward pointing triangle. He was also only in his underwear.) three ways, and her share of the utilities would be spent on buying groceries. We all agreed to this, and it was fine.
Then the RM started to have an issue when his share of the utilities came out to 90 dollars for the month. And then when he went to a fit when he was looking for something to make for dinner, and there was nothing he liked.
The Lady and I like organic products, so we shop at an organic grocery store. The RM likes to eat cardboard and other crap of that nature. So I can understand his befuddlement.
"Dude, weeks ago I told you to make a list of shit..."
"Well... will she shop at someplace other than Trader Joe's?" I didn't want to argue with him, because it was a stupid argument to have. And then he launched into a tirade about the utilities. "We're only here half the month, how is it so high?!" I, again, didn't see a point to arguing with him, nor did I feel like bringing up the fact that we've been running the central air a lot lately, as well as the dishwasher... plus he has a huge tendency to leave the living room tv on when he goes into his room, or vice versa, along with the lights.
The Lady has threatened to move out, trying to avoid a nasty confrontation. I've implored her not to, to just talk it over with the RM.
And that's how I get sucked into being the go-between. Why is it, the guy who's always caught in the crossfire is unarmed?
Saturday, June 28, 2008
My Roommate Doesn't Listen
I'm sunburnt, so that makes me cranky, which is exactly the catalyst I need to write about my idiot roommate.
For the first few months we've been living together, I've been really trying to help him score. And by "score", I mean just talk to a member of the opposite sex. And by "talk to a member of the opposite sex", I mean, be able to approach a woman without one of the following happening:
-Him freezing up.
-Him coming across crazy/creepy.
-Him sexually assaulting someone.
I've been successful and not successful at the same time. Successfully he hasn't sexually assaulted anyone, but he hasn't even so much been able to approach anyone either. Numerous times he's made mention in the living room he's going to go down to the local dance club only to drive there, sit in his truck looking at the people going inside, and then turning around and coming home. When he comes home he says "you should've seen the girls going in!" which will prompt me to say "did you TALK to any of them?" and he'll say "No."
Today, as I was attempting to rearrange my room, he walks in with a cup of Cherry Garcia and starts in on this gem:
"So I went to Barnes and Nobles today and I started to flip through some of the like ... 'Relationships for Dummies' books and stuff. I think I figured out what my problem is," and I stop making my bed and turn and look at him.
"And what did you figure out?" Fooling myself into thinking that he's about to reveal something utterly Earth shattering about his psyche or inner mental workings.
"I just lack confidence..."
Now, I've only been telling him this for MONTHS. Ever since I met this kid, he's the least confident person I've encountered. I've told him repeatedly that he just needs more confidence, that all his problems root out at the fact he isn't comfortable in his own skin. I've done everything I can to help boost his confidence, from giving him frequent compliments about his strengths (he's genuinely funny -albeit a little crazy- good looking, tall, and when he calms down a little bit, he has a very engaging personality) and pushing him to expand the limits of his comfort zone by putting him into ever increasingly uncomfortable situations (such as bringing girls over to him or dragging him to different places/people/events and making him look like an ass, all in an effort for him to get over himself.).
His problem has always been this lack of confidence, which is upheld by some sort of standard that he's supposed to be this cool character. If I could break him of this line of thinking, he'd instantly become more comfortable with himself.
If I can let me ego talk for a second, I think he wants to be me, or at least model himself an avatar that's like me. He always sees me being a cool customer, etc. But the fact of the matter is, I'm not cool, I'm not comfortable in my own skin, I'm highly self conscience with a lot of insecurities. The difference between he and I is I've learned how to hide those negatives or turn them into positives. He wears his insecurities like a Cosby Sweater.
It took me YEARS to develop some sort of confidence. So I don't expect him to have a metamorphosis overnight, but I at least expect him to try.
And seriously, what's sadder than a guy going to the movies and dinner by himself all the time in order to "meet people." HELLO ASSHOLE! YOU CAN'T MEET PEOPLE WHEN YOU WON'T EVEN TALK TO THEM!
I liken him to a novice ice skater, who is out on the ice for the first time. They want to do everything they can to stay upright, for fear of falling. All they need to do is fall on their ass one time to see that falling on your ass doesn't hurt, it's just a little embarrassing. And even then, 9 times out of ten, someone will be there to help pick you up, because we've all experienced falling on our asses, and we all know what it's like. He is not special. None of us are.
What my toe-headed roommate needs to do is fall on his ass, hard. Then he can skate all day.
So when he told me that he read a book and self diagnosed himself as a self-conscience social misfit I nearly lost my shit. I spiked my pillow cases and turned on him.
"Hello! I've only been telling you that for months! What the fuck dude! Is this thing on! Is this thing on!" And I mimic a microphone, blowing into it and tapping it on the head. He just stares. "Did you buy the book?"
"No..."
"Well thank god for that," I say and pick my pillow cases back up, sighing. "Why are you so afraid of getting hurt?"
"Because I don't want to get hurt?" He says back. I can understand his fears, but they're baseless. He's never been hurt in his life. He's forever a flincher, the kind of guy who will always flinch back when he's scared or tense or nervous. He needs to unclench his fucking ass, and start hearing what I have to say to him.
For the first few months we've been living together, I've been really trying to help him score. And by "score", I mean just talk to a member of the opposite sex. And by "talk to a member of the opposite sex", I mean, be able to approach a woman without one of the following happening:
-Him freezing up.
-Him coming across crazy/creepy.
-Him sexually assaulting someone.
I've been successful and not successful at the same time. Successfully he hasn't sexually assaulted anyone, but he hasn't even so much been able to approach anyone either. Numerous times he's made mention in the living room he's going to go down to the local dance club only to drive there, sit in his truck looking at the people going inside, and then turning around and coming home. When he comes home he says "you should've seen the girls going in!" which will prompt me to say "did you TALK to any of them?" and he'll say "No."
Today, as I was attempting to rearrange my room, he walks in with a cup of Cherry Garcia and starts in on this gem:
"So I went to Barnes and Nobles today and I started to flip through some of the like ... 'Relationships for Dummies' books and stuff. I think I figured out what my problem is," and I stop making my bed and turn and look at him.
"And what did you figure out?" Fooling myself into thinking that he's about to reveal something utterly Earth shattering about his psyche or inner mental workings.
"I just lack confidence..."
Now, I've only been telling him this for MONTHS. Ever since I met this kid, he's the least confident person I've encountered. I've told him repeatedly that he just needs more confidence, that all his problems root out at the fact he isn't comfortable in his own skin. I've done everything I can to help boost his confidence, from giving him frequent compliments about his strengths (he's genuinely funny -albeit a little crazy- good looking, tall, and when he calms down a little bit, he has a very engaging personality) and pushing him to expand the limits of his comfort zone by putting him into ever increasingly uncomfortable situations (such as bringing girls over to him or dragging him to different places/people/events and making him look like an ass, all in an effort for him to get over himself.).
His problem has always been this lack of confidence, which is upheld by some sort of standard that he's supposed to be this cool character. If I could break him of this line of thinking, he'd instantly become more comfortable with himself.
If I can let me ego talk for a second, I think he wants to be me, or at least model himself an avatar that's like me. He always sees me being a cool customer, etc. But the fact of the matter is, I'm not cool, I'm not comfortable in my own skin, I'm highly self conscience with a lot of insecurities. The difference between he and I is I've learned how to hide those negatives or turn them into positives. He wears his insecurities like a Cosby Sweater.
It took me YEARS to develop some sort of confidence. So I don't expect him to have a metamorphosis overnight, but I at least expect him to try.
And seriously, what's sadder than a guy going to the movies and dinner by himself all the time in order to "meet people." HELLO ASSHOLE! YOU CAN'T MEET PEOPLE WHEN YOU WON'T EVEN TALK TO THEM!
I liken him to a novice ice skater, who is out on the ice for the first time. They want to do everything they can to stay upright, for fear of falling. All they need to do is fall on their ass one time to see that falling on your ass doesn't hurt, it's just a little embarrassing. And even then, 9 times out of ten, someone will be there to help pick you up, because we've all experienced falling on our asses, and we all know what it's like. He is not special. None of us are.
What my toe-headed roommate needs to do is fall on his ass, hard. Then he can skate all day.
So when he told me that he read a book and self diagnosed himself as a self-conscience social misfit I nearly lost my shit. I spiked my pillow cases and turned on him.
"Hello! I've only been telling you that for months! What the fuck dude! Is this thing on! Is this thing on!" And I mimic a microphone, blowing into it and tapping it on the head. He just stares. "Did you buy the book?"
"No..."
"Well thank god for that," I say and pick my pillow cases back up, sighing. "Why are you so afraid of getting hurt?"
"Because I don't want to get hurt?" He says back. I can understand his fears, but they're baseless. He's never been hurt in his life. He's forever a flincher, the kind of guy who will always flinch back when he's scared or tense or nervous. He needs to unclench his fucking ass, and start hearing what I have to say to him.
Monday, June 23, 2008
On The Road: My Roommate The Philistine.
(I produce a blue harmonica in C Major from my pocket)
Roommate: What the hell is that!?
Me: ...A harmonica?
RM: Why?
Me: I'm going to play it on the ride home...
RM: but dude I wanted to listen to music on the ride home!
Me: But this is music... (Plays a few notes)
RM: That's not music that's just sound!
Roommate: What the hell is that!?
Me: ...A harmonica?
RM: Why?
Me: I'm going to play it on the ride home...
RM: but dude I wanted to listen to music on the ride home!
Me: But this is music... (Plays a few notes)
RM: That's not music that's just sound!
Thursday, June 19, 2008
An Ode To Living Recklessly
I'm a shitbird.
A total dickhead, scumbag, perverted shit-stain on society.
I love to drive drunk with very little regard for other drivers. Fuck'em: the car load full of kids or the soccer team, or the prom dates.
I love to drink too much and pass out at people's houses whom I don't know.
I love to correct people's grammar in public, with only the most condescending tone.
I drive like an asshole (when I'm not drunk), I seldom wear my seat belt, never use my signals, and expect everyone else around me to abide by the same traffic laws I disregard. I speed and swerve and drive with my windows down in all types of weather.
I like to keep a loaded gun on my person at all times and often pick fights with people I know could kick my ass. I don't give a shit, I have a gun.
I like to fuck without a condom on. I almost never pull out, and if I do, it's to cum on the girl's face or tits. I never hang around after, I just get up and leave.
I bet on sports when I don't have the money. I do the same thing with my bills; I pay my bills with checks that I know will bounce. Same goes for my rent.
I vote Republican in the 21st century.
I sneer at children and wolf whistle at their moms. I grab my crotch in line at the grocery store.
I play with knives, especially when I've been drinking.
I may or may not have children someplace else in the country.
I tell fat women they're fat. To their boyfriend's faces.
I drink Tecate and eat microwave burritos at 3 am on Monday nights.
I wake up hung over for work at 0630 in the morning, when I have to be in the office at 0715. I don't call ahead and I don't give a shit.
I throw things.
I make my roommate do my dishes and scrub my shitty toilet.
I plug in my amp and play horrible guitar at all hours. When the neighbors show up to complain I tell them to go fuck themselves while blowing pot smoke into their faces. When they inevitably send the cops over, I pretend I'm a disabled war vet.
I rent movies and don't watch them. Weeks go by and when the store calls about their movies, I tell them that I just moved into the address and have no idea what they're talking about.
I sleep on park benches. I clean my gun on park benches.
I stroll by high schools and ask the girls walking on the side walk what grade they're in.
I play pool in bars and don't pay for the games. I let my friends buy my drinks for me and never pay for a round.
I demand a buy-back from the bartender. When he cuts me off, I go outside and slash all the tires in the parking lot, hoping I got his.
I eat like shit. Wait, let me rephrase that... I eat shit. My arteries are so clogged with shit that my insides look like an LA Freeway. My doctors yell at me, my girlfriend yells at me, and I don't care. If it tastes good, I'm eating it, whether it's deep fried, bathed in butter or beer battered, I'm going to ingest it until my heart gives out under me. Fuck it.
I smoke cigarettes but I never buy my own pack. I'm that asshole who's hanging outside of the bar bumming smokes off everyone. I never apologize for it either.
I'm inside the bar smoking.
I'm your co-worker who talks too loudly on the phone and ignores your emails.
I'm the dickhead on Facebook who won't return your Friend Request.
I listen to shitty music loudly and at the same time tell you you have no taste in music.
I'm at a rock concert feeling your girlfriend's ass.
I'm doing hits of extacy around black guys and telling them "thanks for not kicking my white ass"
I'm an asshole, a dick, and a douche bag. I'm your neighbor, your brother, your father and your son. I'm your boss and your employee.
I'm You.
A total dickhead, scumbag, perverted shit-stain on society.
I love to drive drunk with very little regard for other drivers. Fuck'em: the car load full of kids or the soccer team, or the prom dates.
I love to drink too much and pass out at people's houses whom I don't know.
I love to correct people's grammar in public, with only the most condescending tone.
I drive like an asshole (when I'm not drunk), I seldom wear my seat belt, never use my signals, and expect everyone else around me to abide by the same traffic laws I disregard. I speed and swerve and drive with my windows down in all types of weather.
I like to keep a loaded gun on my person at all times and often pick fights with people I know could kick my ass. I don't give a shit, I have a gun.
I like to fuck without a condom on. I almost never pull out, and if I do, it's to cum on the girl's face or tits. I never hang around after, I just get up and leave.
I bet on sports when I don't have the money. I do the same thing with my bills; I pay my bills with checks that I know will bounce. Same goes for my rent.
I vote Republican in the 21st century.
I sneer at children and wolf whistle at their moms. I grab my crotch in line at the grocery store.
I play with knives, especially when I've been drinking.
I may or may not have children someplace else in the country.
I tell fat women they're fat. To their boyfriend's faces.
I drink Tecate and eat microwave burritos at 3 am on Monday nights.
I wake up hung over for work at 0630 in the morning, when I have to be in the office at 0715. I don't call ahead and I don't give a shit.
I throw things.
I make my roommate do my dishes and scrub my shitty toilet.
I plug in my amp and play horrible guitar at all hours. When the neighbors show up to complain I tell them to go fuck themselves while blowing pot smoke into their faces. When they inevitably send the cops over, I pretend I'm a disabled war vet.
I rent movies and don't watch them. Weeks go by and when the store calls about their movies, I tell them that I just moved into the address and have no idea what they're talking about.
I sleep on park benches. I clean my gun on park benches.
I stroll by high schools and ask the girls walking on the side walk what grade they're in.
I play pool in bars and don't pay for the games. I let my friends buy my drinks for me and never pay for a round.
I demand a buy-back from the bartender. When he cuts me off, I go outside and slash all the tires in the parking lot, hoping I got his.
I eat like shit. Wait, let me rephrase that... I eat shit. My arteries are so clogged with shit that my insides look like an LA Freeway. My doctors yell at me, my girlfriend yells at me, and I don't care. If it tastes good, I'm eating it, whether it's deep fried, bathed in butter or beer battered, I'm going to ingest it until my heart gives out under me. Fuck it.
I smoke cigarettes but I never buy my own pack. I'm that asshole who's hanging outside of the bar bumming smokes off everyone. I never apologize for it either.
I'm inside the bar smoking.
I'm your co-worker who talks too loudly on the phone and ignores your emails.
I'm the dickhead on Facebook who won't return your Friend Request.
I listen to shitty music loudly and at the same time tell you you have no taste in music.
I'm at a rock concert feeling your girlfriend's ass.
I'm doing hits of extacy around black guys and telling them "thanks for not kicking my white ass"
I'm an asshole, a dick, and a douche bag. I'm your neighbor, your brother, your father and your son. I'm your boss and your employee.
I'm You.
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Advice For Graduating Seniors...
Jim wrote this about two or three years ago for a graduating high school senior he knew. The information within is still useful today, and since he's struggling with putting out his "Bike Week" article, we here at the office felt we should run this instead. -ed.
You’re about to embark on a journey to higher education. You’re on your way to be an Elite, a member of a society of people who have gone the extra mile and succeeded. But it’s not an easy trip, and there’s lots of things out there that you might come across and have no idea what to expect. I hope this book is helpful, but seeing as I’ve not read it, I will give you some advice/insights from my own college experience (I graduated with a BA from John Jay College in NYC in December) which I hope will help you. Good luck!
-Your High School graduation is a big deal. For about a year. Then you, along with everyone you know – parents included – won’t give two shits. Try to find a nice place to put your high school diploma where it won’t get a soda can ring on it.
-College is mostly about learning to interact with your peers, not so much about what goes on in class. Actually, you should spend as much time not doing anything class related.
-That said, wait til the absolute last second to buy your books. If you decide to at all.
-On the subject of books, they’re overpriced and you will never use them. Just because they package a useless CD-Rom with the book, it automatically will cost you over 100 dollars. And when you go to “sell them back” to the bookstore, you get roughly 5% of what you paid. If you need anything out of a book for a paper, might I suggest Google.
-Your roommate, ideally, should be your best friend. He will only become your enemy. Do not ever trust him, or anyone he brings over, ever.
-“Girls? You’re a freshman, so they’re pretty much off limits.” -Jeremy Piven, PCU. That quote is totally true. However, as incentive to stick with college until you get your degree: the older you are in college, even as a sophomore, impressionable young freshman girls will flock to you. Hence, if you’re a Super Senior, 18 year old frosh chicks will literally sit on your hands and beg to be finger blasted by you on a stained futon in someone’s basement. Who’s basement? Like it matters, brah.
-Of course, there are three things you should never be without, ever. They are, in order of importance… Beer: Have plenty of it, because it makes you cool, girls cute, and your roommate’s shitty taste in music, rock. Condoms: they keep you from having to take trips to the campus clinic, unwanted baby’s mamas, and your pubes from falling out. Bottled Water/Brita Filter: It basically reverses all the side effects of the beer and fucking with a condom on.
-You will be expected to write ten to fifteen page papers on a regular basis. Don’t worry about this. These papers are going to be double spaced to begin with, meaning you’re only writing a 5 to 7 page paper. Also, your professors will NEVER read your papers. So the only things you need to concentrate on are the first paragraph and last paragraph, which will introduce your topic and reiterate your topic. Everything in between should be mindless filler/bullshit. It will never be read, don’t worry. Your grade will be represented by how many multi-syllable words you use in the first and last paragraph.
-If you have TAs (Teaching Assistants) and one in particular happens to be a hot chick, do everything you can to sleep with her. And I mean everything.
-You will gain weight. There’s nothing you can do. Accept it.
-Don’t be that dick that brings 6,541,661,484 DVDs to school with him. Your top 5 should be good enough.
You’ll find that girls in college are apt to make out with each other. This is a good thing.
-Being a freshman, you probably won’t be able to have a car on campus, that sucks, but think of the gas money you’ll save!
-Oh, you’ll shit a lot. A ton. I mean, an actual metric ton of shit will come out of your ass. The story will go around that the cafeteria laces its food with laxatives. This isn’t true; it’s actually the plate of French fries you’ve been eating as a meal for the last four months.
-Along with this, you will be constantly sick. Living in a dorm with a bunch of other guys, who barely bathe and masturbate when their roommates are at class and not washing their hands, will cause you to become ill. You can only kill the germs by drowning them in alcohol. Litre after litre of delicious alcohol.
-NCAA Div 1, 2 or 3 sports won’t mean shit to you, but your Residential Dorm Intramural Wiffle Ball League will be everything to you for five months.
I hope these tips help you out. And of course, best of luck.
j.
You’re about to embark on a journey to higher education. You’re on your way to be an Elite, a member of a society of people who have gone the extra mile and succeeded. But it’s not an easy trip, and there’s lots of things out there that you might come across and have no idea what to expect. I hope this book is helpful, but seeing as I’ve not read it, I will give you some advice/insights from my own college experience (I graduated with a BA from John Jay College in NYC in December) which I hope will help you. Good luck!
-Your High School graduation is a big deal. For about a year. Then you, along with everyone you know – parents included – won’t give two shits. Try to find a nice place to put your high school diploma where it won’t get a soda can ring on it.
-College is mostly about learning to interact with your peers, not so much about what goes on in class. Actually, you should spend as much time not doing anything class related.
-That said, wait til the absolute last second to buy your books. If you decide to at all.
-On the subject of books, they’re overpriced and you will never use them. Just because they package a useless CD-Rom with the book, it automatically will cost you over 100 dollars. And when you go to “sell them back” to the bookstore, you get roughly 5% of what you paid. If you need anything out of a book for a paper, might I suggest Google.
-Your roommate, ideally, should be your best friend. He will only become your enemy. Do not ever trust him, or anyone he brings over, ever.
-“Girls? You’re a freshman, so they’re pretty much off limits.” -Jeremy Piven, PCU. That quote is totally true. However, as incentive to stick with college until you get your degree: the older you are in college, even as a sophomore, impressionable young freshman girls will flock to you. Hence, if you’re a Super Senior, 18 year old frosh chicks will literally sit on your hands and beg to be finger blasted by you on a stained futon in someone’s basement. Who’s basement? Like it matters, brah.
-Of course, there are three things you should never be without, ever. They are, in order of importance… Beer: Have plenty of it, because it makes you cool, girls cute, and your roommate’s shitty taste in music, rock. Condoms: they keep you from having to take trips to the campus clinic, unwanted baby’s mamas, and your pubes from falling out. Bottled Water/Brita Filter: It basically reverses all the side effects of the beer and fucking with a condom on.
-You will be expected to write ten to fifteen page papers on a regular basis. Don’t worry about this. These papers are going to be double spaced to begin with, meaning you’re only writing a 5 to 7 page paper. Also, your professors will NEVER read your papers. So the only things you need to concentrate on are the first paragraph and last paragraph, which will introduce your topic and reiterate your topic. Everything in between should be mindless filler/bullshit. It will never be read, don’t worry. Your grade will be represented by how many multi-syllable words you use in the first and last paragraph.
-If you have TAs (Teaching Assistants) and one in particular happens to be a hot chick, do everything you can to sleep with her. And I mean everything.
-You will gain weight. There’s nothing you can do. Accept it.
-Don’t be that dick that brings 6,541,661,484 DVDs to school with him. Your top 5 should be good enough.
You’ll find that girls in college are apt to make out with each other. This is a good thing.
-Being a freshman, you probably won’t be able to have a car on campus, that sucks, but think of the gas money you’ll save!
-Oh, you’ll shit a lot. A ton. I mean, an actual metric ton of shit will come out of your ass. The story will go around that the cafeteria laces its food with laxatives. This isn’t true; it’s actually the plate of French fries you’ve been eating as a meal for the last four months.
-Along with this, you will be constantly sick. Living in a dorm with a bunch of other guys, who barely bathe and masturbate when their roommates are at class and not washing their hands, will cause you to become ill. You can only kill the germs by drowning them in alcohol. Litre after litre of delicious alcohol.
-NCAA Div 1, 2 or 3 sports won’t mean shit to you, but your Residential Dorm Intramural Wiffle Ball League will be everything to you for five months.
I hope these tips help you out. And of course, best of luck.
j.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
The Things My Roommate Says, Vol 2
A whole new batch of insane mutterings from my 19 year old Las Vegan roommate:
-Dude, I'm going to be a *whispers* spy! No one would expect me!
-You know what, you're Sundown. You're the black dude with the aviators. You're not even Iceman or Goose. No, you're not Sundown, you're Hollywood. You never even made it to Top Gun.
-I couldn't sleep last night. I watched something on the news about these kids that got involved in a drug deal and the deal went bad. So the one kid took out a Samurai Sword and chopped off the head of the other kid. That's why I couldn't fall asleep.
-(At Wendy's, opening up his burger and inspecting the contents) Does this look like drugs? I think someone's trying to drug me....
-Let me borrow your sunglasses. No? Ok, let me borrow one of your black t shirts. And your leather jacket. The brown leather one. ...And your bike. For like five minutes.
-I dropped my waterbottle outside on the ground by my truck and then I sipped out of it. Do you think that'd make me fail a drug test?
-I need a cross bow to protect myself. (Someone asks him 'from what?') Ninjas.
-I'm gonna go to the movies. I'm getting two tickets, one for me, and one for Dr. Kenneth Noisewater. (I ask him who that is) That's my dick. I'm going to the movies with my dick and I'm going to buy him popcorn.
-Hook me up with your girlfriend's sister. She's going through an emotional transition right now and needs a guy like me.
-Dude, I'm going to be a *whispers* spy! No one would expect me!
-You know what, you're Sundown. You're the black dude with the aviators. You're not even Iceman or Goose. No, you're not Sundown, you're Hollywood. You never even made it to Top Gun.
-I couldn't sleep last night. I watched something on the news about these kids that got involved in a drug deal and the deal went bad. So the one kid took out a Samurai Sword and chopped off the head of the other kid. That's why I couldn't fall asleep.
-(At Wendy's, opening up his burger and inspecting the contents) Does this look like drugs? I think someone's trying to drug me....
-Let me borrow your sunglasses. No? Ok, let me borrow one of your black t shirts. And your leather jacket. The brown leather one. ...And your bike. For like five minutes.
-I dropped my waterbottle outside on the ground by my truck and then I sipped out of it. Do you think that'd make me fail a drug test?
-I need a cross bow to protect myself. (Someone asks him 'from what?') Ninjas.
-I'm gonna go to the movies. I'm getting two tickets, one for me, and one for Dr. Kenneth Noisewater. (I ask him who that is) That's my dick. I'm going to the movies with my dick and I'm going to buy him popcorn.
-Hook me up with your girlfriend's sister. She's going through an emotional transition right now and needs a guy like me.
Finding The Balance
I've never had an easy time balancing best friends and girlfriends. I want to say that I've always been the "bros before hoes" kinda guy, but in reality, it's always been the girl over the guys, and luckily for me the guys that are still my friends understand that and accept/respect it.
But the situation I find myself in lately is that between me and The Lady, there's the RM. Normally this wouldn't be such a big deal, only the RM has ... no one else to hang out with. All his other friends are the guys we work with, and he's not of age to go hang out at a bar or anything. Basically it kinda becomes baby sitting.
...it's kinda sad when The Lady and I retreat back into my bedroom to have some private time together that he kinda follows us. And I feel like a total heel closing the door on him. IAt the age of 26 and 23 it's like we've become the parents to a fully grown 19 year old.
I realize I'm under no obligation to hang out with him or even be nice to him, but the poor bastard is pretty much my best friend here on the Hook. We laugh our asses off at stupid shit and he's a genuine kinda guy. This all adds up to me feeling like an asshole for wanting to blow him off to spend time with the girlfriend.
I present this case to the court: The RM wants to go to Fenway tomorrow afternoon to get some Military-only Sox tix to see them play the Brewers at 1905. Normally this would be a no brainer, and we'd go. Only thing is, that A) I'm pretty burnt out from this week. B) I have barely spent any time with The Lady, who's stressing out over "life shit" and really could use my physical support right now. 3) I can only stand the RM for maybe a handful of hours before I want to slowly choke him or hold him under water in a porcelain tub until the bubbles and thrashing stops. 4) It's going to make for a long day (in hindsight, this should've been "C"), The RM wants to get to The Fens at like 1300 and get a bite to eat and walk around Boston for a bit, where we'd do nothing but WALK, because he can't get into a bar. And by the time the game's over and we're back on The Hook, it's going to be probably after midnight, providing the game runs it's usual 9 innings and nothing spectacular like extra innings goes down.
Plus I have a doctor's appointment here in town, AND, I want to do some work on my bike and maybe try to get in a ride before the weather turns to shit this weekend, as it's being forcasted to do.
So what do I do? If I take my RM up on his plans, I shirk The Lady and my own physical/mental well being. If I pass, I look like a douche to the RM and to Red Sox Nation.
Argh, I'm building a fort in my bedroom and never coming back out.
But the situation I find myself in lately is that between me and The Lady, there's the RM. Normally this wouldn't be such a big deal, only the RM has ... no one else to hang out with. All his other friends are the guys we work with, and he's not of age to go hang out at a bar or anything. Basically it kinda becomes baby sitting.
...it's kinda sad when The Lady and I retreat back into my bedroom to have some private time together that he kinda follows us. And I feel like a total heel closing the door on him. IAt the age of 26 and 23 it's like we've become the parents to a fully grown 19 year old.
I realize I'm under no obligation to hang out with him or even be nice to him, but the poor bastard is pretty much my best friend here on the Hook. We laugh our asses off at stupid shit and he's a genuine kinda guy. This all adds up to me feeling like an asshole for wanting to blow him off to spend time with the girlfriend.
I present this case to the court: The RM wants to go to Fenway tomorrow afternoon to get some Military-only Sox tix to see them play the Brewers at 1905. Normally this would be a no brainer, and we'd go. Only thing is, that A) I'm pretty burnt out from this week. B) I have barely spent any time with The Lady, who's stressing out over "life shit" and really could use my physical support right now. 3) I can only stand the RM for maybe a handful of hours before I want to slowly choke him or hold him under water in a porcelain tub until the bubbles and thrashing stops. 4) It's going to make for a long day (in hindsight, this should've been "C"), The RM wants to get to The Fens at like 1300 and get a bite to eat and walk around Boston for a bit, where we'd do nothing but WALK, because he can't get into a bar. And by the time the game's over and we're back on The Hook, it's going to be probably after midnight, providing the game runs it's usual 9 innings and nothing spectacular like extra innings goes down.
Plus I have a doctor's appointment here in town, AND, I want to do some work on my bike and maybe try to get in a ride before the weather turns to shit this weekend, as it's being forcasted to do.
So what do I do? If I take my RM up on his plans, I shirk The Lady and my own physical/mental well being. If I pass, I look like a douche to the RM and to Red Sox Nation.
Argh, I'm building a fort in my bedroom and never coming back out.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
The Bigger Picture
No one likes feel good stories, except for when they're depressed - and even then there can only be a certain level of "feel good" in the story, or it becomes sappy...
Or it becomes "The Pursuit of Happiness" starring Will Smith.
Anyway, this story has a little, small, four-minute-half-life of feel good to it, so I hope you enjoy.
I was feeling pretty shitty all day, (see post below) and the RM picked up on it. He's somewhat intuitive like that, like a puppy. A puppy will know when something's bothering it's master, and my RM is no different than a beleagured puppy.
It started off when I was on watch earlier today and he wandered in to the Comm Center and looked at me behind all the monitors. He kinda cocks his head to the side and goes,
"What's wrong dude?"
"Nothing," I say dismissively. He presses me.
"Dude, something's bothering you,"
"Nothing's bothering me, I'm fine, leave me alone."
"No dude, you got that look on your face... like the fucking... your eyebrows are all pushed together in the middle of your face and it looks like you have a long dook stain across your face," This gets a small smile out of me.
"Get out of my watch room, RM"
"You need to open up more, bro, you'll die from a heart attack if you don't." And he leaves. He's right, I do need to open up more, but not to him, not to no one, not any time soon.
So fast forward to later in the day. The RM is out raking up some crap from in front of the building and he's cursing. I'm listening to my ipod and standing over him, supervising his raking and nit-picking it like a prick. He looks up at me, stops working and pulls out a cigarette.
"You know what I can't stand?" He says as he lights.
"What's that?"
"Hypocrits,"
"Hypocrits?" I repeat. He looks over my shoulder back towards the main building.
"Like certain people tell you one thing, and then they themselves go and do what they just told you what you couldn't do,"
"I know what being hypocritical means," I tell him. He goes on to tell me that he's been told he can only smoke twice a day for intervals that last roughly fifteen minutes. This was told to him by my chain smoking twenty-one year old dickheaded boss. "Welcome to the military," I tell him again. He gets frustrated and slams his rake to the ground.
"It's bullshit,"
"Dude, seriously, given everything in life, if being told when you can and can't smoke is the biggest thing eating you, you've got shit pretty well under control. Cuz ..." and I trail off for a second and he reads my face like a book in big type. "Cuz," I continue, "There's a bigger picture, people all around you can be dealing with shit that makes what you've got eating you seem rather insignificant. You gotta try to see everything," and as I'm speaking these words, I actually listen to myself talk and take some of my own goddamn advice for once.
There's a lot more going on out there than my own little petrie dish of an exsistance. And my problems are somewhat minor considering the state of the world we live in. I have my legs, I have my health, I can still get up most mornings next to a beautiful woman who simply adores me, there's a lot of things going good for me. I have no real excuse to get down on myself for anything.
I tell my roommate all the time that he needs to find something he can take confidence in; to think about when he's being challenged, that would give him a pyschological advantage over his advisary.
For instance, when I'm feeling like I'm being pinned down, I think of the times I've had sex with two women at the same time. Not many people can boast that, and I look the other guy in the face and know that he hasn't. It's not a "well maybe he has" because well, maybe he has, it's a "no he hasn't," that I focus on, and I ended up crushing my enemy. I think about being a cop, because not too many people can say they were a fully sworn police officer at the age of twenty-one. I just find things that make me unique and use them to my advantage.
An example of this went down the other day: The Lady took me to her favorite coffee place a few towns over, where her former paramour frequents. We're outside, enjoying the Spring Cape Cod afternoon weather and cigarettes when this blue Honda CRX650 rolls up. It's her last guy she fucked, a total douchetard with big hands and a bigger head. He walks over, and it's very awkward scene for everyone. Awkward for me not because this guy was once sticking it to my girlfriend, but because the last time they were together he got grabby with her... and I wanted to take his head off. We stood there, face to face very briefly sizing each other up, sharing one of those weird awkward handshakes where neither one of you gets a decent grip on the other guys hand and it comes out all gay. And the whole time in my mind (aside from the fact that in a flash I would export him to a beyond mortal existance) was that she, The Lady, was with me now, and I was a harder, better, faster, stronger version of what she wanted in him. And beneath his steady exterior I could hear him seethe.
Yeah motherfucker, seethe all night.
I get word about a day later from The Lady where she ran into the guy again about a day later. He was allegedly scared that I'd fuck with his bike. I don't blame him, it's a nice bike and I look like a bad enough motherfucker to do something that stupid, but I won't.
I have the pyschological advantage. I see the bigger picture.
Or it becomes "The Pursuit of Happiness" starring Will Smith.
Anyway, this story has a little, small, four-minute-half-life of feel good to it, so I hope you enjoy.
I was feeling pretty shitty all day, (see post below) and the RM picked up on it. He's somewhat intuitive like that, like a puppy. A puppy will know when something's bothering it's master, and my RM is no different than a beleagured puppy.
It started off when I was on watch earlier today and he wandered in to the Comm Center and looked at me behind all the monitors. He kinda cocks his head to the side and goes,
"What's wrong dude?"
"Nothing," I say dismissively. He presses me.
"Dude, something's bothering you,"
"Nothing's bothering me, I'm fine, leave me alone."
"No dude, you got that look on your face... like the fucking... your eyebrows are all pushed together in the middle of your face and it looks like you have a long dook stain across your face," This gets a small smile out of me.
"Get out of my watch room, RM"
"You need to open up more, bro, you'll die from a heart attack if you don't." And he leaves. He's right, I do need to open up more, but not to him, not to no one, not any time soon.
So fast forward to later in the day. The RM is out raking up some crap from in front of the building and he's cursing. I'm listening to my ipod and standing over him, supervising his raking and nit-picking it like a prick. He looks up at me, stops working and pulls out a cigarette.
"You know what I can't stand?" He says as he lights.
"What's that?"
"Hypocrits,"
"Hypocrits?" I repeat. He looks over my shoulder back towards the main building.
"Like certain people tell you one thing, and then they themselves go and do what they just told you what you couldn't do,"
"I know what being hypocritical means," I tell him. He goes on to tell me that he's been told he can only smoke twice a day for intervals that last roughly fifteen minutes. This was told to him by my chain smoking twenty-one year old dickheaded boss. "Welcome to the military," I tell him again. He gets frustrated and slams his rake to the ground.
"It's bullshit,"
"Dude, seriously, given everything in life, if being told when you can and can't smoke is the biggest thing eating you, you've got shit pretty well under control. Cuz ..." and I trail off for a second and he reads my face like a book in big type. "Cuz," I continue, "There's a bigger picture, people all around you can be dealing with shit that makes what you've got eating you seem rather insignificant. You gotta try to see everything," and as I'm speaking these words, I actually listen to myself talk and take some of my own goddamn advice for once.
There's a lot more going on out there than my own little petrie dish of an exsistance. And my problems are somewhat minor considering the state of the world we live in. I have my legs, I have my health, I can still get up most mornings next to a beautiful woman who simply adores me, there's a lot of things going good for me. I have no real excuse to get down on myself for anything.
I tell my roommate all the time that he needs to find something he can take confidence in; to think about when he's being challenged, that would give him a pyschological advantage over his advisary.
For instance, when I'm feeling like I'm being pinned down, I think of the times I've had sex with two women at the same time. Not many people can boast that, and I look the other guy in the face and know that he hasn't. It's not a "well maybe he has" because well, maybe he has, it's a "no he hasn't," that I focus on, and I ended up crushing my enemy. I think about being a cop, because not too many people can say they were a fully sworn police officer at the age of twenty-one. I just find things that make me unique and use them to my advantage.
An example of this went down the other day: The Lady took me to her favorite coffee place a few towns over, where her former paramour frequents. We're outside, enjoying the Spring Cape Cod afternoon weather and cigarettes when this blue Honda CRX650 rolls up. It's her last guy she fucked, a total douchetard with big hands and a bigger head. He walks over, and it's very awkward scene for everyone. Awkward for me not because this guy was once sticking it to my girlfriend, but because the last time they were together he got grabby with her... and I wanted to take his head off. We stood there, face to face very briefly sizing each other up, sharing one of those weird awkward handshakes where neither one of you gets a decent grip on the other guys hand and it comes out all gay. And the whole time in my mind (aside from the fact that in a flash I would export him to a beyond mortal existance) was that she, The Lady, was with me now, and I was a harder, better, faster, stronger version of what she wanted in him. And beneath his steady exterior I could hear him seethe.
Yeah motherfucker, seethe all night.
I get word about a day later from The Lady where she ran into the guy again about a day later. He was allegedly scared that I'd fuck with his bike. I don't blame him, it's a nice bike and I look like a bad enough motherfucker to do something that stupid, but I won't.
I have the pyschological advantage. I see the bigger picture.
Monday, May 5, 2008
The Roommate and The Prostitute from Friendly's
"You eat like a soldier," The Lady says as she sits next to me at the counter of a homey diner in Orleans while I'm digging into a stack of pancakes. I keep my head down as I eat, shoveling food thoughtlessly into my gullet, chewing, sipping coffee, intent on my next delicious morsale, not taking the time to enjoy the one that's currently in my mouth.
I bring this up because we tend to go out to eat alot. It somewhat burns me up that I'll drop a hundred bucks on groceries at ... sigh... Shaw's, and then go drop another 50 on dinner with The Lady and The RM.
So this takes us to last night: We three are sitting at the local Friendly's at The RM's behest and being served by a reasonably attractive blonde. The Lady remarks about how attractive she is to the RM, who is turning red with each passing minute.
A long discussion is had about my RM's lack of balls. We, The Lady and I, keep provoking him to ask for her number and he's still acting like himself, not taking intiative - yet complaining about how he's going to go through life lonely and sad....
It makes for a very tiresome evening meal.
So fast foward to the end of the meal and the RM's all nervous... he asks us, me and The Lady, to step out and get a smoke and we do so. He then mans up and gets the digits from the waitress while forging my name on the receipt. He exits the Friendly's smiling ear to ear, and it seems like everything in the world is right for once.
So again, fast forward and I'm in bed right at that point where you're about to fall into a delightful slumber, when in busts my RM, panic-stricken.
"Dude, I texted that girl..." He says. We had given him explicitly strict orders not to make contact with her for at least the night.
"Why?" As I'm laying face down on my bed.
"Well she text me back," he manuavers around the question, "and told me to lose her number, because we didn't tip her!" I can hear the panic in his voice so I look up, half push up style.
"What? Why didn't you tip her?!" I'm somewhat angry... well agitated mostly, by this news and as well as being interupted as I'm close to sleeping. But importantly, I'm somewhat pissed at the fact that we didn't tip this waitress, because I'm very fond of tipping, and tipping well. So the idea of this waitress (she was a shitty waitress though, had a whole lot of attitude...) going without a tip got under my skin.
"I thought The Lady was leaving a cash tip!" What had happened was that we had discussed seperate bills and a cash tip during the meal, but I just said 'fuck it' and opted to pay for everyone on my card because it was easier. The Lady had taken out some cash to leave towards the tip but I told her to put it away. Hence all the confusion.
So at this point, the RM is up in arms and freaking out. I tell him, rather grumpily to forget about it, "if she's so into the money, then why would you be interested in her at all?" I say from my pillow. He closes my door and goes to bed.
...So I think....
Turns out, right after that, the RM takes off to an ATM, gets twenty bucks in cash, and with a note places it in an envelope and shoots back over to the Friendly's as it's closing. He manages to talk his way inside and confronts the waitress giving her the envelope.
"I threw it in her face," he goes on to tell me this morning, "like an OG would."
She text messages him back shortly there after apologizing for her gold-digger-like first impression and they set up a date for a movie.
Now, what hits a couple of key sour notes in this tale is that, 1) where did my roommate's balls suddenly come in, where he would march back into an closed establishment, and pull of this Jack Bauer-like stunt? Especially without witnesses. And then! And then! I check my bank balance this morning online and see that Friendly's took out 58 dollars from my checking account last night. ...I remember distinctly that the bill for the three of us was 49.00 even. So where did this extra 7 dollars come from?
Either the RM actually did leave a tip (a seven dollar tip seems about on point for what he'd leave) and this entire story is a farse, or the little prostitute took it upon herself to help herself to a tip. If that's the case I plan on filing a complaint with the Friendly's.
Allow me to go off on a brief tangent: Being that service industry folks make like 3.50 an hour, they depend on tips. I understand this, and my heart goes out to the hard working waiters and waitresses that literally slave for customers like me. That's why I try to over tip as often as possible, even when the service isn't what I'd consider up to par. That's the situation we had last night. The waitress, the RM's apparent new paramour was lifeless, sarcastic and unpleasant. I thought her waitressing sucked. She dropped plates in front of us, had very little enthusiasm when taking our orders and had zero personality. All that said, since she was taking care of three of us on one bill, I would've left her probably a ten or twelve dollar tip.
If the case is that she tipped herself, thinking we were cheapskates, she had no right. No tip or gratuity is considered a guarentee. You EARN a good tip, and you do so by being polite, friendly, a little outgoing, etc. I'm not asking her to adorn flair and sing happy birthday songs and stand on her fucking head, I'm just asking for decent service, maybe with a little less sarcasm/spit in my food.
Also, if she told the RM to lose her number, would it be conceivible that she would've deleted his as well? How would she have been able to text him as he was leaving?
So, what's it going to be in the end? I need to sit down and grill my RM about all of this and get down to brass tacks. If he tipped her out I need to know if his whole story is make-believe or not. If that's the case then I'll sit down with him and have a man-to-man about making shit up. If it turns out his side of the story is true, than I know of a local Friendly's that'll have a 'help wanted' sign posted in their front window, very soon.
I bring this up because we tend to go out to eat alot. It somewhat burns me up that I'll drop a hundred bucks on groceries at ... sigh... Shaw's, and then go drop another 50 on dinner with The Lady and The RM.
So this takes us to last night: We three are sitting at the local Friendly's at The RM's behest and being served by a reasonably attractive blonde. The Lady remarks about how attractive she is to the RM, who is turning red with each passing minute.
A long discussion is had about my RM's lack of balls. We, The Lady and I, keep provoking him to ask for her number and he's still acting like himself, not taking intiative - yet complaining about how he's going to go through life lonely and sad....
It makes for a very tiresome evening meal.
So fast foward to the end of the meal and the RM's all nervous... he asks us, me and The Lady, to step out and get a smoke and we do so. He then mans up and gets the digits from the waitress while forging my name on the receipt. He exits the Friendly's smiling ear to ear, and it seems like everything in the world is right for once.
So again, fast forward and I'm in bed right at that point where you're about to fall into a delightful slumber, when in busts my RM, panic-stricken.
"Dude, I texted that girl..." He says. We had given him explicitly strict orders not to make contact with her for at least the night.
"Why?" As I'm laying face down on my bed.
"Well she text me back," he manuavers around the question, "and told me to lose her number, because we didn't tip her!" I can hear the panic in his voice so I look up, half push up style.
"What? Why didn't you tip her?!" I'm somewhat angry... well agitated mostly, by this news and as well as being interupted as I'm close to sleeping. But importantly, I'm somewhat pissed at the fact that we didn't tip this waitress, because I'm very fond of tipping, and tipping well. So the idea of this waitress (she was a shitty waitress though, had a whole lot of attitude...) going without a tip got under my skin.
"I thought The Lady was leaving a cash tip!" What had happened was that we had discussed seperate bills and a cash tip during the meal, but I just said 'fuck it' and opted to pay for everyone on my card because it was easier. The Lady had taken out some cash to leave towards the tip but I told her to put it away. Hence all the confusion.
So at this point, the RM is up in arms and freaking out. I tell him, rather grumpily to forget about it, "if she's so into the money, then why would you be interested in her at all?" I say from my pillow. He closes my door and goes to bed.
...So I think....
Turns out, right after that, the RM takes off to an ATM, gets twenty bucks in cash, and with a note places it in an envelope and shoots back over to the Friendly's as it's closing. He manages to talk his way inside and confronts the waitress giving her the envelope.
"I threw it in her face," he goes on to tell me this morning, "like an OG would."
She text messages him back shortly there after apologizing for her gold-digger-like first impression and they set up a date for a movie.
Now, what hits a couple of key sour notes in this tale is that, 1) where did my roommate's balls suddenly come in, where he would march back into an closed establishment, and pull of this Jack Bauer-like stunt? Especially without witnesses. And then! And then! I check my bank balance this morning online and see that Friendly's took out 58 dollars from my checking account last night. ...I remember distinctly that the bill for the three of us was 49.00 even. So where did this extra 7 dollars come from?
Either the RM actually did leave a tip (a seven dollar tip seems about on point for what he'd leave) and this entire story is a farse, or the little prostitute took it upon herself to help herself to a tip. If that's the case I plan on filing a complaint with the Friendly's.
Allow me to go off on a brief tangent: Being that service industry folks make like 3.50 an hour, they depend on tips. I understand this, and my heart goes out to the hard working waiters and waitresses that literally slave for customers like me. That's why I try to over tip as often as possible, even when the service isn't what I'd consider up to par. That's the situation we had last night. The waitress, the RM's apparent new paramour was lifeless, sarcastic and unpleasant. I thought her waitressing sucked. She dropped plates in front of us, had very little enthusiasm when taking our orders and had zero personality. All that said, since she was taking care of three of us on one bill, I would've left her probably a ten or twelve dollar tip.
If the case is that she tipped herself, thinking we were cheapskates, she had no right. No tip or gratuity is considered a guarentee. You EARN a good tip, and you do so by being polite, friendly, a little outgoing, etc. I'm not asking her to adorn flair and sing happy birthday songs and stand on her fucking head, I'm just asking for decent service, maybe with a little less sarcasm/spit in my food.
Also, if she told the RM to lose her number, would it be conceivible that she would've deleted his as well? How would she have been able to text him as he was leaving?
So, what's it going to be in the end? I need to sit down and grill my RM about all of this and get down to brass tacks. If he tipped her out I need to know if his whole story is make-believe or not. If that's the case then I'll sit down with him and have a man-to-man about making shit up. If it turns out his side of the story is true, than I know of a local Friendly's that'll have a 'help wanted' sign posted in their front window, very soon.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
The Things My Roommate Says, Vol 1
My roommate says a lot of just... bizarre shit. Honestly, it's like he channels dead retarded people. So I figure once in a while I'll list out some of the stranger shit that's come forth from his albino-like face.
Here's the latest sampling, and before you ask, no, I'm not making this shit up:
-"So, is it bad if I stick a Q-Tip into my ear far enough, it makes me cough?"
-(upon wandering into my room and speaking to my back) "Hey, wouldn't it be cool to be like, back in the day, like a pirate? ...I bet you'd be one of those good pirates, huh?"
-"Dude, I'm getting an anaconda. And when you're sleeping, I'm going to send him into your room to do recon missions....
-"Dude, these cigarettes are like, a delicious breakfast."
-"Flashing... lights! ...Flashing... lights! Doo-ta-doo-ta-ta-doo-ta-ta-doo-ta-ta, Flashing...lights!"
-"If you get a puppy, like one of those hotdog-dogs, I'm going to put it in a box with my pet anaconda and I'm going to put my feet up and watch them fight. No wait, I'm not gonna put them in a box, I'm going to make the anaconda hunt the puppy."
-"I just want to find a girlfriend that I can actually take out."
-"What? So I shave my pubes, what?"
-"Ever watch a midget play soccer, bro? It's the funniest shit ever! That and watching them climb stairs!"
-(while playing the Hole game, crying foul on a called Look): "That's bullshit, ...that's a balk."
-(A few moments ago): Me: Ryan, say one of those crazy things you say...
RM: Why? Wait, what crazy things I say?
Me: You know, like the crazy shit you say...
RM: Why?
Me: Cuz I'm writing this article about the crazy shit you say and I need a good one to go out on...
RM: I DON'T SAY CRAZY SHIT! WHAT THE FUCK!? ...Dude I can't wait to get back to the apartment to play GTA...
Here's the latest sampling, and before you ask, no, I'm not making this shit up:
-"So, is it bad if I stick a Q-Tip into my ear far enough, it makes me cough?"
-(upon wandering into my room and speaking to my back) "Hey, wouldn't it be cool to be like, back in the day, like a pirate? ...I bet you'd be one of those good pirates, huh?"
-"Dude, I'm getting an anaconda. And when you're sleeping, I'm going to send him into your room to do recon missions....
-"Dude, these cigarettes are like, a delicious breakfast."
-"Flashing... lights! ...Flashing... lights! Doo-ta-doo-ta-ta-doo-ta-ta-doo-ta-ta, Flashing...lights!"
-"If you get a puppy, like one of those hotdog-dogs, I'm going to put it in a box with my pet anaconda and I'm going to put my feet up and watch them fight. No wait, I'm not gonna put them in a box, I'm going to make the anaconda hunt the puppy."
-"I just want to find a girlfriend that I can actually take out."
-"What? So I shave my pubes, what?"
-"Ever watch a midget play soccer, bro? It's the funniest shit ever! That and watching them climb stairs!"
-(while playing the Hole game, crying foul on a called Look): "That's bullshit, ...that's a balk."
-(A few moments ago): Me: Ryan, say one of those crazy things you say...
RM: Why? Wait, what crazy things I say?
Me: You know, like the crazy shit you say...
RM: Why?
Me: Cuz I'm writing this article about the crazy shit you say and I need a good one to go out on...
RM: I DON'T SAY CRAZY SHIT! WHAT THE FUCK!? ...Dude I can't wait to get back to the apartment to play GTA...
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
My Mom and Her Self Defense Class, Part 2, Plus Other Happenings in the Last 24 Hours
So imagine to my surprise when I get this email on my Blackberry yesterday:
"Jim,
I broke my wrist Saturday during the practical excerise [sic] :( I'm home from work for a few days. Call me.
Love,
Mom"
So, the partially chewed cracker spills from my mouth-ajar and I call her instantly. I put her on speaker phone because I'm a massively lazy dick.
"What the hell happened!" I say into the phone. There's a pause on the other end.
"Hello?" Jesus.
"Mom? What happened!"
"Don't yell at me!" She says.
"I'm not yelling, you're just on speaker, mum"
"Why am I on speaker?"
"Because I'm lazy, now tell me what happened to you on Saturday..." There's another long pause followed by a slow drawn out sigh.
"Well we were doing the practical and... you know they're really good, right? Well, they were putting us through all these scenarios... whether we were being cornered at a bar or at an ATM or whatever. And I was so nervous James. On the video, I'm standing there in line, waiting for my turn, swinging my arms and...
...so anyway, I get up and we're dressed in all this stuff, like hockey gloves and catcher's masks and so on, and well, I hit this guy in the face. And when I hit him he went down and was like 'whoooaaa' but at the same time I felt my wrist kinda ... pop. It didn't start bothering me until I got back from the ice capades and my wrist was all swollen."
Leave it to my mother, to go from whooping some dude's ass to the ice capades. Awesome.
In other news the roommate and I went to go see "Street Kings" last night. We sat in a virtually empty theatre rows and seats apart. We decided that we really didn't need to sit right next to each other because well... that'd be kinda gay, even though everyone at the station, including The Lady, thinks we're gay for each other.
What else, what else. I can't really concentrate right now because The Lady is over here, on my bed wearing an ironic Transformer's t shirt and yoga pants. Upon her entry into my apt I commented:
"Cool shirt, but I was more of a Megatron fan growing up. Actually cancel that - I was a Sound Wave fan, because I liked how we talked... all synthesizer-y." She comments back that she actually hates the Transformers. I don't hold it against her, considering she's a chick and... probably played with Barbies while I was playing with a tractor trailer truck that would morph into a red and blue robot with a few quick snaps of plastic.
At the mall today, again the roommate mentioned he was still in some sort of limited contact with his whale of a lay from a week or so ago. He's been ignoring everyone's advice to sever ties, and though he claims he directly called her "fat" via a text message, she still talks to him.
"Dude, she's a stalker with dependency issues, you need to full-out stop talking to her, she's dangerous," I say as I'm browsing for a plain brown belt at Pacific Sunwear (they only make belts for skinny hipster kids, apparently, size 34? c'mon...)
"I can't... what if I stop talking to her and like a month from now she comes back at me with 'oh hey, I'm pregnant...'" He says with a hint of anxiety. I roll my eyes. He's been playing out this scenario of the last two weeks it would seem.
"That's beyond likely, because you wore a condom, right?"
"Yeah."
"So why are you stressing out over stupid shit like that?"
"Dude, I dunno, it's just like, I don't want it to happen..."
"Then why do you still talk to her. If that's what you're worried about, getting the hell away from her would seem the likely thing to do. If a little while goes by and she's like 'oh I'm pregnant' and you've still been in touch with her, she's going to stick you with a baby that may or may not be yours, oppose to if you cut ties with her, and a year from now she comes back at you with some screaming hellspawn, you can be like 'bitch I don't even know who you are, we've never met.'" It doesn't exactly sink in.
"But, what if she IS pregnant!"
"What makes you think she is? And a bitch saying she's pregnant is likely trying to get you to stick around, when she's not even knocked up! It's the same thing with the hundred dollar Lacoste cologne she bought you. She's setting a trap. You don't owe that bitch anything, so why are you acting like you do? You know what," and this is where I start to get angry. "I'm actually going to order you to stop talking to her. That's a serious order."
He looks at me blankly.
"You can't do that," he says.
"The fuck I can! I out rank you by one grade. You take orders from me. And you're now ordered not to speak to that fat bitch." He looks at me for a long time and says nothing. "This mall needs an Orange Julius," I say after a prolonged silence.
We're on our way out the door to the truck when I spot this hot little number walking into the Marshal's.
"Go talk to her, go get her, catch up to her," I nudge my roommate. He half steps.
"You go get her," he comes back with.
"I can't. I'm kinda... you know, caught up in something. Just go up to her, say 'hey, I saw you from back there, I don't know who you are, and you don't know who I am, but I want to change that. Give me your number and let me take you out to dinner this weekend'. Just be fucking direct. Girls love a guy with balls who'll just ask them out. If she says she has a boyfriend, tell her you don't care, it's just dinner. If she says 'no thank you' tell you won't take no for an answer. Don't come across aggressive or... fucking... crazy, just be your sweet self, be assertive, take control. Who's in control here?"
"...I dunno, bro..." His posture starts to melt.
"WHO'S IN CONTROL HERE!" I yell. People are now staring at us. I look around and make direct eye contact with a few of the weird goths out in the midday sun at the mall. "Fuck it, you lost her, massive fail." She's no longer in eye sight and I start for the door.
"I'm sorry, bro" he says from behind me.
Yeah, me too.
"Jim,
I broke my wrist Saturday during the practical excerise [sic] :( I'm home from work for a few days. Call me.
Love,
Mom"
So, the partially chewed cracker spills from my mouth-ajar and I call her instantly. I put her on speaker phone because I'm a massively lazy dick.
"What the hell happened!" I say into the phone. There's a pause on the other end.
"Hello?" Jesus.
"Mom? What happened!"
"Don't yell at me!" She says.
"I'm not yelling, you're just on speaker, mum"
"Why am I on speaker?"
"Because I'm lazy, now tell me what happened to you on Saturday..." There's another long pause followed by a slow drawn out sigh.
"Well we were doing the practical and... you know they're really good, right? Well, they were putting us through all these scenarios... whether we were being cornered at a bar or at an ATM or whatever. And I was so nervous James. On the video, I'm standing there in line, waiting for my turn, swinging my arms and...
...so anyway, I get up and we're dressed in all this stuff, like hockey gloves and catcher's masks and so on, and well, I hit this guy in the face. And when I hit him he went down and was like 'whoooaaa' but at the same time I felt my wrist kinda ... pop. It didn't start bothering me until I got back from the ice capades and my wrist was all swollen."
Leave it to my mother, to go from whooping some dude's ass to the ice capades. Awesome.
In other news the roommate and I went to go see "Street Kings" last night. We sat in a virtually empty theatre rows and seats apart. We decided that we really didn't need to sit right next to each other because well... that'd be kinda gay, even though everyone at the station, including The Lady, thinks we're gay for each other.
What else, what else. I can't really concentrate right now because The Lady is over here, on my bed wearing an ironic Transformer's t shirt and yoga pants. Upon her entry into my apt I commented:
"Cool shirt, but I was more of a Megatron fan growing up. Actually cancel that - I was a Sound Wave fan, because I liked how we talked... all synthesizer-y." She comments back that she actually hates the Transformers. I don't hold it against her, considering she's a chick and... probably played with Barbies while I was playing with a tractor trailer truck that would morph into a red and blue robot with a few quick snaps of plastic.
At the mall today, again the roommate mentioned he was still in some sort of limited contact with his whale of a lay from a week or so ago. He's been ignoring everyone's advice to sever ties, and though he claims he directly called her "fat" via a text message, she still talks to him.
"Dude, she's a stalker with dependency issues, you need to full-out stop talking to her, she's dangerous," I say as I'm browsing for a plain brown belt at Pacific Sunwear (they only make belts for skinny hipster kids, apparently, size 34? c'mon...)
"I can't... what if I stop talking to her and like a month from now she comes back at me with 'oh hey, I'm pregnant...'" He says with a hint of anxiety. I roll my eyes. He's been playing out this scenario of the last two weeks it would seem.
"That's beyond likely, because you wore a condom, right?"
"Yeah."
"So why are you stressing out over stupid shit like that?"
"Dude, I dunno, it's just like, I don't want it to happen..."
"Then why do you still talk to her. If that's what you're worried about, getting the hell away from her would seem the likely thing to do. If a little while goes by and she's like 'oh I'm pregnant' and you've still been in touch with her, she's going to stick you with a baby that may or may not be yours, oppose to if you cut ties with her, and a year from now she comes back at you with some screaming hellspawn, you can be like 'bitch I don't even know who you are, we've never met.'" It doesn't exactly sink in.
"But, what if she IS pregnant!"
"What makes you think she is? And a bitch saying she's pregnant is likely trying to get you to stick around, when she's not even knocked up! It's the same thing with the hundred dollar Lacoste cologne she bought you. She's setting a trap. You don't owe that bitch anything, so why are you acting like you do? You know what," and this is where I start to get angry. "I'm actually going to order you to stop talking to her. That's a serious order."
He looks at me blankly.
"You can't do that," he says.
"The fuck I can! I out rank you by one grade. You take orders from me. And you're now ordered not to speak to that fat bitch." He looks at me for a long time and says nothing. "This mall needs an Orange Julius," I say after a prolonged silence.
We're on our way out the door to the truck when I spot this hot little number walking into the Marshal's.
"Go talk to her, go get her, catch up to her," I nudge my roommate. He half steps.
"You go get her," he comes back with.
"I can't. I'm kinda... you know, caught up in something. Just go up to her, say 'hey, I saw you from back there, I don't know who you are, and you don't know who I am, but I want to change that. Give me your number and let me take you out to dinner this weekend'. Just be fucking direct. Girls love a guy with balls who'll just ask them out. If she says she has a boyfriend, tell her you don't care, it's just dinner. If she says 'no thank you' tell you won't take no for an answer. Don't come across aggressive or... fucking... crazy, just be your sweet self, be assertive, take control. Who's in control here?"
"...I dunno, bro..." His posture starts to melt.
"WHO'S IN CONTROL HERE!" I yell. People are now staring at us. I look around and make direct eye contact with a few of the weird goths out in the midday sun at the mall. "Fuck it, you lost her, massive fail." She's no longer in eye sight and I start for the door.
"I'm sorry, bro" he says from behind me.
Yeah, me too.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Fear and Loathing at The Poker Table
Last night I went to my first actual Poker Night in like, a while. Probably since I left Maine.
First off, let me say I'm not exactly God's Gift to poker. I can hold my own, I know some basics, I know the rules, I know what beats what and what hands to hold and what hands to fold, and considering the majority of the five people crowded around a tiny back-bar in Big Country's duplex last night had no clue how to play good poker, you'd think I would be in line to bring home the winnings.
I was not.
Let me break down the night for you: Around 8ish me and the roommate took off for the local supermarket to buy a 12 back of Miller High Lifes and hit up an ATM for the 20 dollar buy-in. Thing is about The Cape that no super market or convenience store sells alcohol, which is something that a Mainer would have to get used to. We first pull into the local Shaw's (cringe...) and wander around, up and down the aisles for a full ten minutes before tracking down a semi-retarded stock boy.
"Hey, do you guys even sell beer here?" I ask. He, the retarded stock boy, is walking directly at me. Have you ever had someone you weren't completely sure was retarded making a bee-line for you? The whole time you're thinking if this guy is retarded, he might not alter his course, but if I get out of his way and he turns out NOT to be retarded, then he's going to think that I THINK he IS retarded, and might resent that, and withhold valuable beer-purchasing information....
About three feet in front of us he stops, suddenly, and kinda stares through us.
"No. There's a store around the way though..." and this 'around the way' business is very helpful. We then spend another few minutes trying to figure out if this Shaw's has an ATM in it to get out our buy-in money. It doesn't (the one's in Maine do, however. Add this to my growing list of why Maine is superior to Massachusetts.)
We then try an Irving gas station down the road a little bit when we're hassled by hoodlum youths huddled hooded in the shadows of the rear of the building. Before me and the roommate are even half way out of my truck, I hear a voice trying too hard to be hard call out "hey man,"
The roommate turns half way around and I post up at the front driver's side quarter panel to my truck which would provide me with superior cover should a gun fight ensue. "Hey man," the voice says again, and a four-foot-tall Puerto Rican who dresses with the same sense of fashionable flair as my roommate emerges. "Do you think you could go inside and buy me some blunt wraps, yo?"
"Blunt wraps?" I chuckle through as I turn back to the store.
"I'm sorry bro, I'm not 18," my roommate says as he turns away. There's nothing more said from the diminutive Hyannis thug.
I found my roommate's response ironic and humorous; at the Station we tease him all the time about how young he looks. When we all got pulled over a few weeks ago, and the undercover officer wanted to see his ID, even he said that the roommate looked "like 13." So for him to use his youthful appearance to get out of buying "blunt wraps" for some juvenile delinquent got a chuckle out of me.
There's no beer at the Irving either, but there was an ATM. I took out my twenty dollars and did my best to keep an eye on my truck through the window, lest one of the street urchins outside should decide that my GPS must be worth something at the local pawn brokery.
When we get outside and back into the truck, I lean back to get my seatbelt when a yellow light catches my eye. I glance over at it and realize that it's a "discount liquor" store right directly across from us on Iyannough. I curse under my breath and pull the truck into it's tiny parking lot.
Once inside, by myself, I have a helluva time trying to find where the 'regular fucking beer' is. I put that in semi quotes because that's what I kept saying as I wandered around endless wine racks in this Portuguese-owned liquor purchasing establishment.
I finally find the "cheap beer" section, pick up a 12 pack of MHLs for 13-something dollars.
"Discount Liquors," pfft.
We're on the road, finally, to go play cards.
Big Country, who is the Marlboro Man animated - 21 years old, 6'2, skinny, dresses as if a damn rodeo is going to break out at any second, wears Ray-Ban Wayfarers 24/7, has been waiting for us over an hour, even going so far to call my phone twice while we've been driving. He lives in Orleans which is about a 20 minute drive from Hyannis, and since we had to make about forty stops between the apartment and his place out in the middle of no where, he was getting agitated.
We arrive and make ready the poker set. E-Money and his petite girlfriend is there as well. Money is my boss's boss at the Station, 25 years old, sharp dresser, very much like me in sarcastic-ness and competitiveness. I'm somewhat irked that he brought his girlfriend along, and even more so irked that they're splitting a buy-in.
Seriously, you brought not only a female, but your girlfriend to a poker night? Dude, really?
I take everyone's cash and make a pot of a hundred dollars and secure it in my poker set case. I divvy up the chips and deal out the first hand, announcing the game is Texas Hold'em. To this I get a lot of blank stares.
I look around the small bar which we're all seated around, stacks of multi-colored chips in front of us like siege towers before an epic medieval battle.
"What...?" I ask everyone.
"How... do you play?" Comes from E-Money. My jaw actually makes a noise when it unhinges.
I'm not a professional poker player by any means. I 'sorta' fell into that whole "Hold'em Craze" from back in like 2004, but to say that you have no idea how to play cards, especially hold'em, when for the last semi-odd years it's gotten more national coverage than Al Gore trying to save the planet, is baffling.
What baffles me more is that my roommate is from LAS FUCKING VEGAS and he needed me to draft up a cheat sheet which broke down the hands. I even labeled what was junk and what you'd want to stay with.
We play a few hands, small bets and pots are being made and I'm drinking beers faster and faster. Big Country hands me a fifth of Wild Turkey and I take a few pulls off of that, cursing in my mind that I'm getting total bullshit hands.
We play for about an hour and the roommate is betting somewhat recklessly, which makes it increasingly difficult to get a read on him. It doesn't help matters when he's betting before me each hand.
Big Country is fiddling with his laptop, which is strange to watch considering he's very anti-technology. Watching him select music on his iTunes is like watching two middle school kids slow dance for the first time. It's adorably awkward.
E-Money and his girlfriend are the easiest to read at the table. He's spending too much time before he bets glancing at his hole cards and the cards on the table. She's doing the same thing plus touching her face when he's got semi-good cards. I'm doing my best to fuck with him psychologically knowing that, like me, his ego is everything. To be called 'cheap' in any form would automatically cause him to overly compensate for it to disprove the claim.
"I'm starting to think we should raise the minimum bet," I say aloud as soon as he places one black chip (worth twenty-five cents) in the pot. He instantly increases his bet by two-fold.
After about an hour, Big Country has a commanding chips lead, and E-Money has been crushed out, his girlfriend is hanging on by a thread only because I wanted to be a gentleman and not put her all in, leaving her a dollar and twenty-five cents in her stacks. My roommate is also short stacking. I have the second most chips.
Fifteen minutes pass and E-Money and his girlfriend leave us amidst hanging Marlboro smoke, defeated. Money's bitching, obviously sore that he's the first to be taken out when I look at him in the eyes and tell him that he knew what he was getting into before we started playing.
"Don't be sore, you know what this," I say. He harumphs and leaves with his girlfriend, who was gracious and pleasant as she closed the door behind them.
My next objective is to smoke my roommate's short stack. I get dealt pocket kings and the table's showing a Five of Diamonds, Jack of Diamonds, Nine of Clubs, Three of Spades, and Ten of Diamonds. Still betting recklessly, my roommate bets high and I figure he's bluffing/has no idea what he's doing. This gets Big Country, who since extinguishing The E-Moneys has been playing tight, to fold. I raise roommate's bet and put him all in, leaving my stacks small, but thinking there's no way he can beat my cowboys.
He flips over an Ace and Two of Diamonds. He fucking flushed me out. Son of a bitch. It feels like I took a front kick square to my solar-plexus. And I'm suddenly very sober.
I'm now in panic mode, only having about four dollars left in front of me, mostly in small chips, watching my roommate stack up roughly half of the chips from the set in front of himself. With the blinds being raised to double what they were when we started with five people, I know I'm on the endangered species list.
It isn't long before Big Country puts me all in and I'm stuck with off-suit Eight of Clubs and Seven of Hearts. I manage to pull out a pair of Sevens from the table, but it's not enough to beat the pair of Jacks Country had. I resign myself to being permanent dealer.
The game goes on for another few minutes where it starts to look like a stalemate. I realize that the whole time Big Country was sizing everyone up and playing very quiet, good poker. He levels my roommate an ultimatum.
"What do you wanna do here? We can split the pot," he offers. That'd be about 50 bucks a piece. I glance at my naive roommate who's playing with his chips dumbly.
"I just want my 20 bucks back if that's ok with you," he says half distractedly. I explode.
"Are you kidding me, you're going to just give him thirty bucks! What the fuck!" He shrugs, and before I can convince him otherwise, Big Country agrees and the money is split up.
We leave the duplex and I'm cold staring my roommate the entire walk to the truck.
"Dude, all I wanted was my money back..." he tries to explain.
"You could've given me the thirty bucks if you didn't want it," I say back. I fumble for my keys and manage to get myself into the truck and start my GPS.
"You good to drive?" He asks. I do my finger test and barely pass it.
"You know how to drive stick?" I ask, already knowing the answer.
"No,"
"Then we'll be fine," and I back down the twisting sloping driveway in utter darkness.
(Editor's Note: We're all very proud of Jim for getting this article into us the next morning, despite being overly hungover and unresponsive to pokes in the side from a sharp stick we keep around the office. Kudos, and nice work Jim!)
First off, let me say I'm not exactly God's Gift to poker. I can hold my own, I know some basics, I know the rules, I know what beats what and what hands to hold and what hands to fold, and considering the majority of the five people crowded around a tiny back-bar in Big Country's duplex last night had no clue how to play good poker, you'd think I would be in line to bring home the winnings.
I was not.
Let me break down the night for you: Around 8ish me and the roommate took off for the local supermarket to buy a 12 back of Miller High Lifes and hit up an ATM for the 20 dollar buy-in. Thing is about The Cape that no super market or convenience store sells alcohol, which is something that a Mainer would have to get used to. We first pull into the local Shaw's (cringe...) and wander around, up and down the aisles for a full ten minutes before tracking down a semi-retarded stock boy.
"Hey, do you guys even sell beer here?" I ask. He, the retarded stock boy, is walking directly at me. Have you ever had someone you weren't completely sure was retarded making a bee-line for you? The whole time you're thinking if this guy is retarded, he might not alter his course, but if I get out of his way and he turns out NOT to be retarded, then he's going to think that I THINK he IS retarded, and might resent that, and withhold valuable beer-purchasing information....
About three feet in front of us he stops, suddenly, and kinda stares through us.
"No. There's a store around the way though..." and this 'around the way' business is very helpful. We then spend another few minutes trying to figure out if this Shaw's has an ATM in it to get out our buy-in money. It doesn't (the one's in Maine do, however. Add this to my growing list of why Maine is superior to Massachusetts.)
We then try an Irving gas station down the road a little bit when we're hassled by hoodlum youths huddled hooded in the shadows of the rear of the building. Before me and the roommate are even half way out of my truck, I hear a voice trying too hard to be hard call out "hey man,"
The roommate turns half way around and I post up at the front driver's side quarter panel to my truck which would provide me with superior cover should a gun fight ensue. "Hey man," the voice says again, and a four-foot-tall Puerto Rican who dresses with the same sense of fashionable flair as my roommate emerges. "Do you think you could go inside and buy me some blunt wraps, yo?"
"Blunt wraps?" I chuckle through as I turn back to the store.
"I'm sorry bro, I'm not 18," my roommate says as he turns away. There's nothing more said from the diminutive Hyannis thug.
I found my roommate's response ironic and humorous; at the Station we tease him all the time about how young he looks. When we all got pulled over a few weeks ago, and the undercover officer wanted to see his ID, even he said that the roommate looked "like 13." So for him to use his youthful appearance to get out of buying "blunt wraps" for some juvenile delinquent got a chuckle out of me.
There's no beer at the Irving either, but there was an ATM. I took out my twenty dollars and did my best to keep an eye on my truck through the window, lest one of the street urchins outside should decide that my GPS must be worth something at the local pawn brokery.
When we get outside and back into the truck, I lean back to get my seatbelt when a yellow light catches my eye. I glance over at it and realize that it's a "discount liquor" store right directly across from us on Iyannough. I curse under my breath and pull the truck into it's tiny parking lot.
Once inside, by myself, I have a helluva time trying to find where the 'regular fucking beer' is. I put that in semi quotes because that's what I kept saying as I wandered around endless wine racks in this Portuguese-owned liquor purchasing establishment.
I finally find the "cheap beer" section, pick up a 12 pack of MHLs for 13-something dollars.
"Discount Liquors," pfft.
We're on the road, finally, to go play cards.
Big Country, who is the Marlboro Man animated - 21 years old, 6'2, skinny, dresses as if a damn rodeo is going to break out at any second, wears Ray-Ban Wayfarers 24/7, has been waiting for us over an hour, even going so far to call my phone twice while we've been driving. He lives in Orleans which is about a 20 minute drive from Hyannis, and since we had to make about forty stops between the apartment and his place out in the middle of no where, he was getting agitated.
We arrive and make ready the poker set. E-Money and his petite girlfriend is there as well. Money is my boss's boss at the Station, 25 years old, sharp dresser, very much like me in sarcastic-ness and competitiveness. I'm somewhat irked that he brought his girlfriend along, and even more so irked that they're splitting a buy-in.
Seriously, you brought not only a female, but your girlfriend to a poker night? Dude, really?
I take everyone's cash and make a pot of a hundred dollars and secure it in my poker set case. I divvy up the chips and deal out the first hand, announcing the game is Texas Hold'em. To this I get a lot of blank stares.
I look around the small bar which we're all seated around, stacks of multi-colored chips in front of us like siege towers before an epic medieval battle.
"What...?" I ask everyone.
"How... do you play?" Comes from E-Money. My jaw actually makes a noise when it unhinges.
I'm not a professional poker player by any means. I 'sorta' fell into that whole "Hold'em Craze" from back in like 2004, but to say that you have no idea how to play cards, especially hold'em, when for the last semi-odd years it's gotten more national coverage than Al Gore trying to save the planet, is baffling.
What baffles me more is that my roommate is from LAS FUCKING VEGAS and he needed me to draft up a cheat sheet which broke down the hands. I even labeled what was junk and what you'd want to stay with.
We play a few hands, small bets and pots are being made and I'm drinking beers faster and faster. Big Country hands me a fifth of Wild Turkey and I take a few pulls off of that, cursing in my mind that I'm getting total bullshit hands.
We play for about an hour and the roommate is betting somewhat recklessly, which makes it increasingly difficult to get a read on him. It doesn't help matters when he's betting before me each hand.
Big Country is fiddling with his laptop, which is strange to watch considering he's very anti-technology. Watching him select music on his iTunes is like watching two middle school kids slow dance for the first time. It's adorably awkward.
E-Money and his girlfriend are the easiest to read at the table. He's spending too much time before he bets glancing at his hole cards and the cards on the table. She's doing the same thing plus touching her face when he's got semi-good cards. I'm doing my best to fuck with him psychologically knowing that, like me, his ego is everything. To be called 'cheap' in any form would automatically cause him to overly compensate for it to disprove the claim.
"I'm starting to think we should raise the minimum bet," I say aloud as soon as he places one black chip (worth twenty-five cents) in the pot. He instantly increases his bet by two-fold.
After about an hour, Big Country has a commanding chips lead, and E-Money has been crushed out, his girlfriend is hanging on by a thread only because I wanted to be a gentleman and not put her all in, leaving her a dollar and twenty-five cents in her stacks. My roommate is also short stacking. I have the second most chips.
Fifteen minutes pass and E-Money and his girlfriend leave us amidst hanging Marlboro smoke, defeated. Money's bitching, obviously sore that he's the first to be taken out when I look at him in the eyes and tell him that he knew what he was getting into before we started playing.
"Don't be sore, you know what this," I say. He harumphs and leaves with his girlfriend, who was gracious and pleasant as she closed the door behind them.
My next objective is to smoke my roommate's short stack. I get dealt pocket kings and the table's showing a Five of Diamonds, Jack of Diamonds, Nine of Clubs, Three of Spades, and Ten of Diamonds. Still betting recklessly, my roommate bets high and I figure he's bluffing/has no idea what he's doing. This gets Big Country, who since extinguishing The E-Moneys has been playing tight, to fold. I raise roommate's bet and put him all in, leaving my stacks small, but thinking there's no way he can beat my cowboys.
He flips over an Ace and Two of Diamonds. He fucking flushed me out. Son of a bitch. It feels like I took a front kick square to my solar-plexus. And I'm suddenly very sober.
I'm now in panic mode, only having about four dollars left in front of me, mostly in small chips, watching my roommate stack up roughly half of the chips from the set in front of himself. With the blinds being raised to double what they were when we started with five people, I know I'm on the endangered species list.
It isn't long before Big Country puts me all in and I'm stuck with off-suit Eight of Clubs and Seven of Hearts. I manage to pull out a pair of Sevens from the table, but it's not enough to beat the pair of Jacks Country had. I resign myself to being permanent dealer.
The game goes on for another few minutes where it starts to look like a stalemate. I realize that the whole time Big Country was sizing everyone up and playing very quiet, good poker. He levels my roommate an ultimatum.
"What do you wanna do here? We can split the pot," he offers. That'd be about 50 bucks a piece. I glance at my naive roommate who's playing with his chips dumbly.
"I just want my 20 bucks back if that's ok with you," he says half distractedly. I explode.
"Are you kidding me, you're going to just give him thirty bucks! What the fuck!" He shrugs, and before I can convince him otherwise, Big Country agrees and the money is split up.
We leave the duplex and I'm cold staring my roommate the entire walk to the truck.
"Dude, all I wanted was my money back..." he tries to explain.
"You could've given me the thirty bucks if you didn't want it," I say back. I fumble for my keys and manage to get myself into the truck and start my GPS.
"You good to drive?" He asks. I do my finger test and barely pass it.
"You know how to drive stick?" I ask, already knowing the answer.
"No,"
"Then we'll be fine," and I back down the twisting sloping driveway in utter darkness.
(Editor's Note: We're all very proud of Jim for getting this article into us the next morning, despite being overly hungover and unresponsive to pokes in the side from a sharp stick we keep around the office. Kudos, and nice work Jim!)
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