The Blogging Affairs Desk

When It’s Good, It’s Good, When It’s BAD, It’s Better…

Animal Magentism

In case you haven’t been following me on Facebook or Twitter (@BAD0rg)IMG_0105, it may come as a surprise to you that my wife and I adopted a yellow lab about a week ago.

I could go into the why’s and how’s but I don’t feel like getting into it right now.  Just take for granted we went to a shelter, found ourselves a pretty laid back, albeit beat up, 5-8 year old yellow lab – slash – something else, and brought her home with us.

I’ve noticed, in the last week though, that people will literally (!) cross the street to come pet my dog.  Why, I have no idea.

I don’t mean to say that my dog, Ivy (so named because when we first took her for a “getting to know you” walk at the shelter, she dragged us through a patch of Poison Ivy), isn’t worth the attention.  She’s a great dog, great personality, non-aggressive or skittish.  She’s just a laid back dog, like any dog you’d find on a leash on Cape Cod.IMG_0103

Yet, everyone wants to talk to us about her, or pet her, or fawn a ton of attention on her.  People, she’s not like, Princess Diana’s dog or anything, Christ.

It’s annoying in the way that I can’t walk down our street without being stopped at least three times by some tourist asshole asking me a bunch of questions about my dog.

To wit:  Ang asked me to pick her up from work, as it was a Saturday night, and she’s taken a gig at a shop down the street from my office.  It was a nice night and since the aspect of having a pet I could actually walk was still somewhat new to me, I decided to take Ivy along and walk her down this boulevard towards Ang’s shop.

Because it was Saturday night the place was teaming with people, mostly hanging out in front of the many bars along particular stretch of road.  The road itself is congested, so when a slow moving vehicle is trying to squeeze through the throngs of people, I had to pull Ivy to the side between me and the loiterers.

“Hey, can I pet your dog?”  A gay guy asked me as I was walking by.  I don’t know if I hesitated or not, because I was walking with a purpose towards the other end of the street towards the shop, and Ivy loves to smell people/things so I was giving her little tugs on her leash to keep her moving.  Knowing the question was directed at me and was still up in the air, I half turned my head and said:

“No,” and kept walking.  The gay guy didn’t really like that.  He makes a huge fuss, calling me a douche bag.

“Who says ‘no?’ to someone asking to pet their dog!?” Shrieked the man.

I’m sorry that I don’t stop and let you pet my dog, sir.  In case you didn’t notice, I’m fucking walking someplace.  If I stopped and let every asshole in town who asked pet my dog, it’d take me an hour to go the four hundred yards down the street.  If you want an animal to pet so badly, go adopt one of your own.

Not to mention that my dog is currently in kinda rough shape and takes a bunch of pills because her former owners didn’t give two shits about her.  So how would you like to be swatted and rubbed down by complete strangers while you convalesced?  Or better yet, as you walked down the street?

I don’t understand it, honestly.  Before we were dog owners, I never went out of my way to play with or pet a stranger’s dog.  I see a dog being walked on a leash I just smile and keep walking; I probably side step too, just to get out of their way.  I sure as hell don’t stop that person and ask them 20 questions about the breed, age, pedigree, temperament, colorings/markings of the animal.

I understand that dogs can be used to attract people as well.  There’s countless movies where some hapless everyman is trying to attract a woman in a park with the aid of a puppy.  This ploy has been well documented.  But I’m a married man, out walking my dog.  My motives are clear:  I’m trying to get the animal to shit outdoors so it doesn’t shit in the middle of our living room.

Ang and I work in a gay community, so that Saturday night as I arrived at Ang’s shop, she was just closing up, and it was going to be a minute or two before she was going to be ready.

So Ivy and I hung out in front of the store, the dog sitting by my feet while I scanned the latest headlines on my phone.  This obviously was a huge signal for a group of gay men to come over and start talking to me.

“Wow, can I like, pet your dog?”  A member of the group of three or four asks.

I can’t be the same “douche bag” to these people, especially if I’m stationary, so I finish reading what I was reading on my phone and tell them they can shower Ivy with a bunch of attention.  While petting and rubbing her they press upon me the typical compliments about the dog I’ve been receiving the whole time, all while undressing me with their eyes.

“So what’re you doing here tonight in town?”  Another in the group asks.

“Oh, I’m just waiting for my wife,” I make sure to say.  That seems to get them to move along as they talk about visiting the “adult toy store” across the street.

IMG_0114To reiterate on my point:  If the dog is leashed, people, just mind your business.  If I’m at the dog park, or trails, or someplace where the dog isn’t leashed, then sure, don’t even ask, rub her little butt – she loves that.  But for Chrissakes, get your fucking hands off my dog.

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August 26, 2009 Posted by | Gay Shit I Know Too Much About, Gonzo Journalism, Out and About, People I Hate, Pic Post | , , , , , | 2 Comments

Your Online Advertisement Sucks

We recently sold a couch through an ad I posted online.  I’d like to think that we sold the couch so quickly (in roughly less than 12 hours from when I posted the add, also given the fact I posted the ad to craigslist.com at 9 at night) because I had a great little write up about the couch and a good picture to go with it, and not so much the extremely low price we were asking for this shitty couch.

The point I want to make is that I cruise a lot of online bartering sites like craigslist, unclehenrys, etc – ebay on occasion, you get the point –  and I see the same shitty ad style.  If people ever wonder why they don’t sell their shit online, it’s because their ad sucks balls.

Let me give you an example of an actual ad I saw for a Suzuki GSXR 1000 I saw posted on unclehenrys.

Ok, first off buddy, allow me to address the elephant in the room:  We’re clicking the icon for your ad to read about and view your bike you want to sell, not to see some douchey picture of you and your girlfriend, that shows only a certain percentage of the bike itself.  No one cares about you or your girlfriend- and the fact that you probably nabbed the pic off your myspace page shows the same level of effort you exhibited when you wrote the whole eight word ad that was in half abbreviations and numerals.

Congrats asshole, you’ll be spending another spring/summer/fall adding more miles to your bike and taking value off from it.

And on the same topic, a lot of the ads I see have terrible pictures to go along with the descriptions; those ads that actually manage to attach a digital photo.  To those posters who can’t be bothered to post a pic or simply don’t know how, welcome to 2009, where you must know someone who at least has access to a digital camera or camera phone and who can upload it to your email and show you how to attach it to your ad.

Pictures sell:  Figure it out, because I only click on the ads with pictures.  There could be a briefcase with a million dollars in it being sold for a dollar, and I would totally ignore the ad unless it said “pic” next to it in highlighter yellow.

And of the pictures, people, I’m not asking you to be Ansel Adams or anything, but at least take a decent pic of the item.  Don’t take the pic from a million miles away and leave me to wonder what the fuck it is I’m looking at.  Don’t use some fancy college photography class “rule of thirds” mumbojumbo and try to get all artsy with the ugly dinette set you’re trying to sell, just take a regular plain picture and post it.  And for the love of Cheese ‘N’ Rice, post a photo that’s in focus.  It’s a digital camera, you can see the pic seconds after you take the shot, so if the pic looks shitty, take another until you get it right.

And do you proofread your ad before you post it?  I don’t want to come down on everyone like the Hitler of Grammar, because if you’ve read my blog enough I’m sure you can find more than a fare share of errors both spelling and grammatical, but if I’m going to consider buying a refrigerator from someone, I want to know s/he at least passed 6th grade.

I write how I speak, generally, but I don’t spell how I speak.  When I end an article with “I’m Just Saying….” What I’m really saying is “I’m just sayin'” but I hate how it looks when I type it, because I’m a fucking snob.  People, if yur gonna sel sumptin, u shud try to at leest sond untellijint.

I’d rather perform self brain surgery with a handgun than read through some ads.  It’s really that bad.

Also, could you try to make the ads a little entertaining?  Something to keep me interested instead of just specs and crap.  I don’t care that your roommate paid “big bucks” for this armoire five years ago; from what I can tell from this grainy photo you’ve attached to the ad, it looks like the doors have been chipped and there’s a fucking sock stuck to the side there.  At least I think that’s a sock.  And what’s making it stick I don’t wanna know.

Make me want to start AND finish the ad.  I’m way more inclined to shoot the guy an offer via email if I think he’s going to have an articulate response for me, not something to the effect of “shure, cum on bye l8r!” and neglect to give me an address or phone number to reach them with.

Below I’ve attached my ad for the couch.  I was flooded with calls all day as well as having my inbox almost explode with emails.  It could’ve been the price, but I think it was more the ad itself.  (Note:  I’ve highlighted the lies for you)

Amazing Couch with Built-in Drink Holders and Reclining Ends! – $400

This couch is a thoroughbred, and that’s all there is to it.

We bought this couch at Bob’s Discount Furniture about a year ago for 1100 dollars, and if you check their site, I’m sure you’ll still find it listed for that price. Either way, we’re practically giving this couch away for the low price of 400 dollars or BEST OFFER.

The couch is crescent shaped and made of a soft suede that contours to the body of whoever’s sitting in it after just a short while. The couch is tri-sected by two deep cubby holes and four drink holders, making this the ultimate home entertaining furniture. Relax and put your feet up and lean the end bucket seats back and take in the full effects of watching Star Wars if you’re a nerd. Or Star Trek if you’re an even bigger nerd.

And just so your guests won’t get jealous, there’s a matching ottoman that they can use to put their feet up too! The ottoman opens up and can be used for storage; blankets, remotes, snacks, whatever you can fit into a 3’x3′ space, you can put into the ottoman.

The only reason why we’re getting rid of this great couch is because we’re moving and we don’t have room for it. It’s super comfy and super clean, no pets or spills, well maintained by adults in a non-smoking environment.

You’re getting the deal of year by calling Jim at XXX-XXX-XXX or emailing me at the above link. Act fast because I’m taking any reasonable offer on this awesome couch.

The CouchI’m just saying…

February 28, 2009 Posted by | Gay Shit I Know Too Much About, Gonzo Journalism, Living in an Insane Asylum, People I Hate, Pic Post, Shameless Self Promotion, The Great Indoors | , , , | Leave a comment

Staycation Day 8.5: In a Few Minutes I’ll Be Going to Lowes

Yeah, you heard me, I’m going to Lowes to buy cabinets and a sink for the apartments next door.

Um, it’s my birthday today.  I’m 27 years YOUNG today.  I understand that a bulk of my readers are all older than I am, with families and careers and blah blah blah, but there’s definitely a slight tinge to turning 27.  I felt this way last year when I turned 26, yet I didn’t have much time to really mull it over since I was just starting my current job, where some asshole in a crew cut was screaming in my face while I was lugging a 50 lb seabag across an open parade field.

Anyway, I’m not going to wax philisophical about turning 27.  It’s not one of the “big ones” like 18, 21, 29, or 40.  It’s just 27.  I’m still young enough to pull of ridiculous stunts where I may or may not require bail money, and I’m old enough to be somewhat out from under my parents shadow of skeptism (can YOU afford the truck payments?).

Last night we celebrated with two of my oldest boyhood friends, Jake and Hokie (who I learn, will have a joint blog coming out soon.  When it does, I’ll blogroll them, of course) at this beer garden whose name I can’t recall, but it sounded faggy.  On our way there, in the truck, I had Hoke on speaker phone as he was telling me about this new spot in downtown Portland.

“It’s called [name of bar].”  Hoke says.

“What’s that?  Where is that?  I’ve never heard of that place before, is it new?”  I shout back.

“Yeah it’s new,”

“You don’t think that’s somewhat cruel, to invite out the guy who’s been out of town for the last year or so, to a new place that just opened a few months ago?”

“It’s on Exchange, it’s tucked into a little alley, but there’s a sign on the sidewalk,” Hokie says in a helpful way.

“Awesome.  What’s the name of it again?”

“[name of bar]”

“Dude, seriously, it sounds like a fag joint.  It sounds like a place where men go to press the flesh, and I’m not talking about handshakes.  It sounds like a massive glory hole.”

“Oh my god, dude.  Just show up.  They have over 200 beers on tap!”

I don’t care if it’s a thousand beers on tap, if the place sounds like a caberet with a staff made up exclusively of trannies, then I want nothing to do with it.

So we circle the block looking for this place, and when we can’t readily find it from the truck, we decide to park a block away at my old parking garage from when I used to work at the local court house.  It’s about 35 degrees outside, which is typical for Maine this time of year, and as a huddled conjoined mass, we hustle over towards where we think the bar may be.

Along the way we pass a crazed homeless man dressed in a winter coat and what I assume to be a pink bathrobe, who’s calling for someone to come out and come home, because “daddy’s gonna be mad.”  He’s undershaved and a touch disheveled, and when we get into proximity, he whines and asks for a cigarette.  When we both ignore him and I get on my phone to Hoke to get a better idea of where this bar is, he screams at our backs.

Portland has had a long and troubled history with mental illness.  The Augusta Mental Health Institute, or AMHI for short, typically will drop crazed homeless people in various Southern Maine towns and cities when their residents’ stays have evaporated and they’ve either run out of room or the  AMHI administration feels that the person is “well enough” to return to the general public population, with zero regard for where that person may end up once shoved from the institution’s van.

There’s been strange and terrible stories involving some of these tortured souls dying of exposeur on nights like these, or even worse, breaking into someone’s home and getting shot by the home owner, simply because they’ve been looking for a place to stay warm.

Regardless, as we’re aimless walking around in the frigid evening looking for this ridiculous beer garden, Hokie and Jake pass by us, and while I have Hokie on the phone, he instructs us that the bar is on the opposite side of the street, back up a block.

This was hardly true.

We walk a whole extra block the wrong way before going back down the block (crazy bathrobe guy had long disappeared into the night) and finding the tiny sign.  Some how Hokie and Jake were already inside by the time we found the little alley way.

Once inside (and proper shit was given out for the miscommunication) we had our IDs checked (at the time, I feared that The Lady left her ID in the truck, after only bringing cash with her and leaving her wallet behind) and we sat down.

The place was like a musty World War 2-era basement that probably housed members of the Dutch Resistance outside of Amsterdam.  Exposed brick lined the walls and supports around us, long bench-style tables in the center of the room, small cafe style tables along the outsides.  A lingering odor of burning marijuana hazing around the low-hung overhead lamps.  Outdoors was a patio that no one in their right mind would be occupying on a night like this.

The interesting thing about this particular bar was how they give regulars a “score card” of sorts which listed each of the over 200 types of beers available.  Once you order and drink one, a helpful bartender scratches it off the list.  When you complete the entire list, you’re rewarded with a congratulatory stein which you take home and bring back with you, which allows you to order any beer in the place for a reduced cost.

The other interesting thing about this place is that tips, etc, seem to go into a pot.  It’s all shared, by one and all.  As The Lady and I were outside having a smoke, a few employees also came out and I overheard them talking about a “work pack” of cigarettes.  She felt guilty that she was “stealing from the work pack” because she wasn’t technically on the clock.

When we came back inside, I mentioned this to both Hokie and Jake, who confirmed the idea.

“That’s very uh… Obama-esque, I guess” I say.

“You mean, ‘socialist?'” Jake says.

“I didn’t want to put a Red State Spin on it, but yeah, very, uh, ‘spreading the wealth around’,”  I then go on to talk about the other giant Red State scar that’s recently been added to Southern Maine.

“Have you guys seen the new Cabelas?”  Jake then mentions that all the trees and landscaping that was done on this massive, obtuse, gawdy, scar in Scarborough were done by his and his father’s Nursery.  If you’ve never heard of Cabela’s then let me clue you in.

Cabela’s is a mix of John McCain and Ted Nugent’s wet dreams.  Sure LL Bean sells guns and hunting materials, but as The Lady put it last night, LL Bean just seemed more “eco friendly.”  If LL Bean is Eco Friendly, Cabela’s is doing donuts on an over sized four wheeler in the middle of their lawn.

We first saw it from the high way, a giant neon orange and black sign the size of the type of plane that drug runners use to get their product out of Mexico.  When you take the exit and turn into their oppressive parking lot, it’s a lot similar to when the Griswolds made it to Wallworld.  It seems to rise up as you get closer, this giant monolith of enviro-destruction.

Inside is no better, in the middle of the floor a three story “mountain” rises up, scattered upon it the stuffed carcasses of every imaginable animal to ever exist for the sport of killing it.  Goats, black bears, polar bears, meerkats, oxen, hawks, tigers, you name it, it’s there with lifeless eyes watching McCain votes dawdle along and browse over a thousand different types of jerkey.

I, of course, immidiately bee-lined it towards the firearm section.  As I browsed over the new and used pistols, I found their prices to be overly high.  I did handle a brand new Glock M23 .40 cal that was “on sale” for 499.99, but put it back.  I laughed when I saw a Paraordance 1911 .45 cal clone going for 750, about three hundred dollars more than what it should be going for.

I decided to press my luck and bring in my Ruger Service Six .357 to see what I could get for it on a trade.  I’ve had the gun for a number of years and seldom shoot it, only keeping it around because it’s somewhat of a rare piece.  It has serial numbers hand etched into the back of the grip strap, and it had once belonged to a cop some place.  I had the appraiser look at it and he quickly quoted me 150-200 dollars.

The gun should be going for about 400-500.

I understand that this place has to make a profit, but I don’t see why they should insult me.  The appraiser was very quick to tell me that this particular revolver is a hard one to sell and blah blah blah.  Come back next month and see if our inventory doesn’t change to better suit your shooting needs.

Yeah, fuck you too buddy.

Anyway, back to the bar.  We were all really enjoying ourselves until a gaggle of high-spirited ladies came along with ash cans filled with latex condoms.  They were handing them out gratis, and seeing how The Lady has a terrible allergy to latex, we politely declined.  Twice more we’d be pressed to take the condoms, and twice we had to politely decline.

I really wish socially conscience people, with hearts of gold, would stay away from cocaine.

Anyway, this was all well and good until some asshole with big arms and tiny balls decided to fling an open condom at our table, landing in the middle of our drinks.

This asshole, with a group of his friends kept looking at me all night.  Now, I have this weird thing about me, that no matter where I go to sit and have a quiet drink, some asshole wants to start something with me.  I don’t know if it’s my face, or how I dress or carry myself, but there’s always one guy who thinks he has the minerals to fuck with me. 

This asshole was the one.

I did nothing, I ignored it, seeing how it wouldn’t be worth the bail money nor having to explain to my superiors at work why I needed to miss a few days to come back to Maine to stand trial on aggravated assault.  It also wasn’t worth throwing away the rest of staycation spending it locked up in County til monday.

Cooler heads prevailed, again.

Then, as the night was wrapping up around 11ish, Ang pokes me in the rib.  She points out a tattoo’d gentleman at her 12 o’ clock and tells me that he’s been making eye contact with her all night.  And just now, he winked at her.

My blood boils over.  I hate to admit it, but I’m a jealous guy.  But I’m not a stupid jealous guy.  Did I want to go up behind this guy and take him by the back of his head and slap his face off the bar top?  Yeah.  Did I want to take my piece out from my waist band and punch the snubbed barrel into his kidney and then kick in his ribs and vital organs while he lay on the ground.  Yeah.  But did I?  No.

Of course not.

So we parted ways with Hokie and Jake, hugging, then calling each other a fag.

Oh, I should mention that The Lady and I carved some pumpkins at my parents house before we left and did all this shit.  You’ll find the carvings below.

I’m just sayin…..

Mines on your left, Ang is on the right, with the "puke" coming out of its mouth

Mines on your left, Ang is on the right, with the "puke" coming out of it's mouth

 

Ang took an antagonistic approach

Ang took an antagonistic approach

Whereas I tell the local punk kids where to stick it.

Whereas I tell the local punk kids where to stick it.

October 31, 2008 Posted by | Corporate America Hates You, Gonzo Journalism, Out and About, People I Hate, People I Love, Pic Post, The Great Indoors, Those Crazy Politicians | , , , | Leave a comment

In Memory

Bianca “Binks” Rose, c. June 10th, 2008 – October 23rd, 2008.

We really miss her, and Ang and I are pretty distraught over the loss.  We’d both like to thank everyone who’s shown support through comments, or facebook postings, or phone calls and emails, including Dad, Mom, Judy, Christina, Jake, Anita, Beartwin’s Mom, and everyone else who’s thinking of us.  We really do appriciate it.

If you’re just catching up, read the post below for the details.

I’m just sayin…

October 24, 2008 Posted by | Blogging Couple, People I Love, Pic Post | , | 2 Comments

Can You Tell I’m Bored Yet?

So with the Pats not playing til tonight at 8, the Sox have the day off, The Lady’s at work til 6ish, and the Ferret’s asleep, I have really nothing better to do for the time being.

So I ripped this off from both Arkay and Titanium Rose.  Just bare with me.

A) Answer the questions below, do a Google Image search with your answer, take a picture from the first page of results, and do it with minimal words of explanation.

B) Tag five people, so they’ll be put through the same misery.  No thanks.

1.  Age you’ll be at your next birthday:

2.  A Place you want to travel to:

London, England

3.  Your Favorite Place:

LA

LA

4. Your favorite food:

McDonald's Fish Sandwich

McDonald Fish Sandwich

5.  Your Favorite Pet

Granted she's our only pet but...

Granted she's our only pet but...

6.  Your favorite color combination:

I miss my bike... (color combo is red and black)

I miss my bike... (color combo is red and black)

7.  Favorite piece of clothing:

Luuuuuvvvv my Ray Bans

Luuuuuvvvv my Ray Bans

8.  My favorite tv show:

The Daily Show with Jon Stewart

The Daily Show with Jon Stewart

9.  First Name of your Significant Other:

Obviously not us, but hot none the less.  Surprised at how much porn popped up when I put her name in to google though....

Obviously not us, but hot none the less. Surprised at how much porn popped up when I put her name in to google though....

10.  The town you live in:

I'll let you guys figure it out from here...

I'll let you guys figure it out from here....

11.  Your First Job:

Pappy's lobster boat, age 12-15

Pappy's Lobster Boat, age 12-15

12.  Your Dream Job:

Merc Work

Merc Work

13.  A bad habit you have:

Eating like shit

Eating like shit

14.  Your Worst Fear:

Failure

Failure

15.  What you’d like to do before you die:

Finish an Iron Man Triathalon

Finish an Iron Man Triathalon

That’s all I got.

I’m just sayin….

October 12, 2008 Posted by | Pic Post, The Great Indoors, Too Much Time | , , | 1 Comment

It’s a Sad State of Affairs When I Use an LOLcat to Show How I’m Feeling…

Ugh, I hate saying it, but this is how I’m feeling.  This cat, and my stats, are showing it too.

More compelling writing coming soon, promise.  Stay Tuned.

October 11, 2008 Posted by | Pic Post, The Great Indoors, Too Much Time | , | 1 Comment

A Quick Note About The Lady

Forget that the above picture is both misspelled and stolen from probably someone else’s blog.  The Lady sent me that link and while I’m sure she wants to send that message to me, I’m going to send it right back to her.

You have to understand I’m somewhat of an handful.  At nearly 27 I’m a giant child.  I eat like crap, complain about just about everything, own an Xbox and play it constantly, and do not like to have my nipples touched.  Inspite of all of this, she stands by me, through all my faults and strengths, and her patience is seemingly never ending.

Yes we piss each other off, and if you could see half of our email exchanges at work, you’d probably wonder how we stay together.  Honestly, it’s through mutual love and affection.  From listening to me gripe about the RM to baking kick ass cupcakes, she does everything that I need her to do, and thensome.

She’s perfect, and before she comments on this post, I know you’re not 100% perfect, but you’re fucking close, close enough for me to just say you’re perfect.

Like, if you were from shire in Ireland that was NEAR Dublin, I’d let you get away with saying you were just from Dublin.  It makes everything easier and honestly, no one’s going to care otherwise.

Same with me:  I’m not going to care that you make me take in animal cages left by dumpsters or that your feet smell like… well feet.  Those are normal quirks that make you twice as endearing.

So, to sum this up, without you, I’d be lost and wierd [sic].

I’m just sayin’……

September 28, 2008 Posted by | Blogging Couple, Pic Post, Too Much Time | , | Leave a comment

When Judging a Book by Its Cover Works: That Cowboy Hat Makes You Look Like an Asshole.

If you think back about ten years, remember when everyone was wearing a cowboy hat?  Like, everyone was wearing a cowboy hat.  Drunk party girls, dickbag guys, adorable children, everyone was wearing a ten gallon hat.

Well, if you were one of the few thousand that partook in this, you looked like a total asshole.  Just incase no one’s brought that to your attention yet.

Seriously, go look at old pictures of yourself, wearing a cowboy hat.  Even better, if you still owe a cowboy hat, go put it on, look at yourself in the mirror, and see what I’m talking about.  See that asshole looking back at you?  Yeah, that’s you Hoss.

I bring this up because I was up in our break room at the office the other day and saw this dvd on the shelf:

Epic Asshole

Epic Asshole

So on a goof, I decided to see what this was all about.  I took out the dvd, out it into the thing, and sat back.

I was treated to roughly seventy minutes of dick, boob, poo-poo, and fat women jokes.  His annoying Texas twang made me want to throw a boot through the LCD television.  I wanted to punch him in the face with a hand that had been dipped into hot industrial glue, and then rolled around in shards of broken glass.

Of course I didn’t watch the whole thing.  There’d be no possible way anyone with an Intelligence Quotient above 80 could digest that much low brow humor.  I’d sooner be locked in a Prius’s trunk with Larry the Cable Guy than sit through this dick’s dvd.

But see, I kinda had an inkling this would happen.  Just look at the cover of the dvd and you get a sense that this guy is going to be a smug asshole in a cowboy hat.  And that’s when it dawned on me:  People, who in 2008, where cowboy hats have some sort of social disorder where they have to garner attention by some sort of accessory.  I know this first hand from someone I work with.

When I first arrived here, this guy at work wanted to take me out drinking.  I said, cool, that’d be great.  Mind you, this was Febuarary on Cape, and there isn’t shit going on.

So I arrived at his house, and there’s this big red truck with a giant So-Cal sticker on the back of it, with CB antennae sticking up out of the roof.  He greats me at the door with a pistol stuck in his belt, wearing shit kickers, a red flannel shirt and a white cowboy hat.  I’d also like to mention that he’s also wearing a pair of Ray Ban Wayfarers at 7 o clock at night.

Every bar we went to, he got a shit ton of attention from drunk women who, again ten years ago, wore cowboy hats themselves, and presumably decided that they’d attempt to live the Coyote Ugly dream and move to NYC and dance on a bar top for a living, before having that dream crushed because they realized in a sobering moment of clarity, they were not Piper Perabo.

The biggest sticking point to all of this, is this guy isn’t from Texas.  He’s not even from the Mid-West, he’s from Los Angeles!  This only compounds his selflessness.

Bottomline, if you see someone wearing a cowboy hat, and you’re not in Texas, or at least at a county fair, then steer clear.  He’s probably a massive dong eater.

I’m just sayin….

September 28, 2008 Posted by | Living in an Insane Asylum, Out and About, Pic Post, Why Am I Watching This? | , , , , | 6 Comments

My Roommate and Detail’s Magazine, Part 2….

So I go into the bathroom and this is what I see looking up at me….

This has to be the gayest cover to a magazine that isn’t (technically) about gay people. Now every time I want to go take a shit, I’m going to be thinking that Shia LaBouf wants to make out with me…

August 26, 2008 Posted by | Living in an Insane Asylum, Pic Post, Too Much Time | , , | Leave a comment