The Blogging Affairs Desk

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

Burger King Helps You Cut The Fat!

Feeling a little heavy after the holidays?  Believe it or not, but Burger King can help you.

If you’re like me, you keep about a bazillion tabs open on your browser so you can flip from one page to another; NYT, HuffPost, NPR, Craigslist, etc.  And if you’re even more like me, one or more of these tabs will be dedicated to your Facebook/myspace page, so for whatever reason someone can contact you or you can quick post a photo or article or something that you found interesting.

And if you’re EVEN MORE like me, you have a conversation with your wife that bleeds over from Gchat to Facebook chat, even though the two of you are sitting RIGHT NEXT TO EACH OTHER on the couch.

But back to what I was saying, if you’re feeling a little fat in the Facebook, maybe eating a whopper will help you lose some unwanted friendship weight.

That’s Burger King’s genius marketing strategy at least.  According to the NYT article for the price of ten of your Facebook friends, you can get a free Angry Whopper (whatever the fuck that is) from Burger King.  All you have to do is download their Facebook App, purge the ten hanger ons (yeah, I used ‘purge’ and ‘Burger King’ in the same thought) and you get a coupon in the snail mail for this free new Whopper.

And honestly, what better way to both get a delicious bit of fast food (and as I write this, I can hear the whip crack of my Diet-Gestapo wife) AND shed a few pounds of dead friend weight.  Let’s face it, if you have a public profile on any Social Networking Site you’ve probably gained a certain percentage of people whom you don’t know, nor care about.  These might be a spouse’s friend, or a friend of a co-worker you met one night at a bar when everyone went out, that decided to ‘friend’ you, or maybe some random guy from high school that you were really never friends with ten years ago when you still saw them in person from time to time.  I honestly can’t wait to get home, upload this app, and start dictating who stays and who ends up on the Whopper Chopping Block.

Old ex-girlfriends that for some reason still exist on my friends’ list, gone.  Awkward co-workers, gone.  Inherited friends from my wife, you’re toast!  Now where’s my free Whopper?!

This is all an advertisement for Burger King, I’m not stupid.  It’s basically one big commercial, which lends itself to becoming smaller advertisements in media, such as this blog post, or the article I referenced earlier.  But the argument this creates is good v. bad advertising; good being what can keep your entertained attention through the length of the ad, versus bad, which is just about any (I was going to put ‘obnoxious’ here, but I realized there’s no such thing as a subtle ad for a used car dealership) car dealership ad you’re forced to listen to on the car radio while waiting at a red light, inexplicably clutching your gun.

Burger King is killing in the ad wars between it’s main competitors McDonalds and Wendys with it’s absurdist (good ad) commercials.  Where Mickey Ds strives for some sort of Urban Outreach (have you noticed how the majority of their ads in the last year seem black-centric?) and Wendy’s shoots for something akin to “wholesome goodness” through their ingredients, its The King who’s thinking outside the proverbial fry box.

Granted, it’s all about what ad agency one company hires over another, but the decision to hire one particular agency stems from the leadership of that company.  It’s all about the message the captain wants to convey to the rest of the crew, if you will.  For every McDonald’s ad I see, I feel I’m not being spoken to; I feel like I’m not being targeted in their demographic.  For Wendy’s it’s a preachy “oh we use all natural ingredients in our products,” blah blah blah.  Listen you red-headed bitch, I want fast food, not an all organic colonic, and while your food is incredibly delicious, why do I have a feeling that if we saw the rest of your body from around that little circle you stick your head out of, we’d find you with dirty bare feet?

Burger King’s ad strategy doesn’t necessarily make me want to run out and buy their product, but it does entertain, which in the long run put their message into my brain longer with a higher resolution.  That creepy sneaking king with his gilded plate of fast food goodness randomly popping up from behind a couch, to me, is pretty funny.  Watching back country Eastern Europeans and Burmese mow down on Big Macs and Whoppers, only to choose the Whopper in a somewhat “blind taste test” is interesting, and now being “allowed” to “kill off” so-called friends from my SNS page of choice boarders on gleeful sinning (choosing food over friends I’m sure will piss God off to some capacity) and surpasses my expectations for outstanding advertisements.

Literally, BK has created the first truly interactive advertisement.

With this though, there are bound to be some morale entanglements that are sure to arise.  The app let’s these people whom you cut know they’ve been cut tersely, by saying they’re not carrying their all-beef patty weight anymore, and that I’ve cashed them in for burger bounty, but honestly, I wasn’t communicating with them all that much anyway.  And there are probably two or three people on my friends’ list that have yet to put up a picture of themselves, let alone any substantial information.  So for those sorry sacks, I feel nothing but my hunger pains subsiding.

And the others, who might squawk that I cut them loose out of gluttonous rapture, well, I’m sure they’ll get over it, and I’m certain that once word of this spreads (according to the article, over 75K people have been cut so far for a burger, and rising) I wouldn’t be surprised if I wind up on a few people’s chopping blocks myself.  It’s the circle of life, Simba.

And seriously, if someone starts a … beef… over being cut from my Facebook friends’ list, they need to get out more.

I’m just sayin….

UPDATE! — As of 1400, EST, 1/12/08, I accomplished the “Whopper Sacrifice.”  My only qualm with the whole thing is that I still have way more people I’m willing to sacrifice.  Any way I can get more free shit for bumping off buddies?


January 12, 2009 Posted by | Corporate America Hates You, Gay Shit I Know Too Much About, Too Much Time, Why Am I Watching This? | , , , , , | 3 Comments


So last night, while watching ‘Destroyed in Seconds’ on The Discovery Channel, The Lady passes me her macbook, to show me a chat she received from one of her friends on Facebook.  I decided to have a little fun at the guy’s expense.

Here’s the chat, in it’s entirety, where I’m typing as Ang:

Stefan:  can we hook up one last time b4 u tie the not?

Angela:  sure…. but you have to keep it on the DL

Stefan:  i can do that

Angela:  you sure?

Stefan:  when and where?

Angela:  cuz if James finds out
he’ll kill us both

Stefan:  i like my life
i won’t tell anyone

Angela:  where are you right now?

Stefan:  RI

Angela:  thnk you could get here tonight?*
James is in Ptown at work for the next two days

Stefan:  no, i’ll be back next mon/tues/wed

Angela:  would you seriously come here?

Stefan:  tonight i can’t next week i have to be I need to go to court

Angela:  what are you going to court for?

Stefan:  a+b and a+b plus intemidation

Angela:  and you’re the defendent?

Stefan:  ya

Angela:  who did you beat up?
hey whats your phone number**
i lost it

Stefan:  508-///-////

Angela:  ok cool

Stefan:  i didn’t beet up anyone the chatham police just blamed me

Angela:  ooooh

Stefan:  whats your # i don’t think i have yours anymore either

Angela:  uhhh. fuck hold on i’ll call you

Stefan:  k

Angela:  so you can have it

Stefan:  did you call?

Angela:  yeah I did Stefan.
I thought you were at work
and didn’t have facebook>

Stefan:  i’m talking to you of course i have facebook

Angela:  so I talked to a different stefan, right?
you must think I’m as dumb as you are….

Stefan:  what?
I never got your call txt me

Angela:  I’m using Ang’s facebook to play jumbalee
oh, and Ang is right here

Stefan:  so who is this?

Angela:  we’re both having a laugh and a half

Stefan:  oh, well this is craig looks like were both fucking with each other… not as funny now, did you actually call stefan?

Angela:  Yes, from Angela’s phone.****

Stefan:  oh, shit now he will know im on his facebook

Angela:  awww

Stefan:  whatever its not likes hes gunna beat me up lol

Angela:  bummer. looks like you deserve it.

Stefan:  no i’m getting him back! he did it to me

Angela:  well, good luck with that.

Stefan:  well he’ll be done wit work in 30 min so i need to go later

* Ang wanted me to lure him to the apartment, and then wait for him in the parking lot.

**Ang then wanted me to call him

***I call him, and this is the conversation that takes place:

Stefan:  Hello?

Me:  Hey Stefan.

Stefan:  Hey…

Me:  You have no idea who this is, do you?

Stefan:  No, no idea..

Me:  It’s James.

Stefan:  James Who?

Me:  James, Angela’s Fiance… I’m talking to you on facebook…

Stefan:  Uhh… I’m at work, I couldn’t possibly be on facebook….

Me:  Yeah.  You’re fucked.  (click).

****Ang takes over because I had to pee.

December 2, 2008 Posted by | Gchat Sessions, People I Hate, Too Much Time | , , , | Leave a comment

So If You Haven’t Heard By Now…

So if you haven’t heard by now, I’ve asked The Lady, to marry me.

While I’m sure this isn’t the first marriage due to blogging, it is unique in the sense of that’s how we met. I wrote a (typically) scathing assault on the downtown area of where we live (I’m going to repost it on our wedding day), to which she randomly stumbled upon, and commented. I saw the comment, cyber stalked her, and then sent her a short email asking if she wanted to get coffee someplace, only after reading her blog posts which included, but were not limited to, her snorting lines of coke off of another strippers tits.

So after a few email exchanges, a few gchats, she took the risk of me actually being a serial killer, and decided to meet me in public.

We met at a little local sports bar, my pick, for coffee. Upon discovering there was no coffee to be had, we decided to have Coronas at two in the afternoon on a Tuesday. A few brews and a botched debit transaction at the hands of the bar tender, and we were on our way back to my (and what is now “our”) place.

Our conversation at the bar was that first conversation everyone has when they first meet someone they’re interested in. It breaks down like this: Here’s a little tidbit about me, now let me ask you something about you. Oh really, well I can relate to that with this little hum-dinger of a story, which in turn, will serve you back the conversation, so you can expound in equal parts.

Mostly it was about our lives up to that point. The most interesting, and albeit fascinating aspect of Angela was how open and honest she was about herself right from the start. Granted, a lot of what she was telling me I could’ve, and mostly already, read off of her blog. But to me it seemed like she wanted to come clean, leave the past behind her like an iron leg shackle that was keeping her from moving forward.

I listened intently as she told me the things about her that would probably make most men, in a first encounter situation, run for the hills. In turn, having been given some sort of strength from her narrative, I filled her in on all my short comings and bone-headed mistakes that had led me down the path I was on.

The magic in all of this was that, between both of us, there were things that would make the other wary, but yet we still embraced each other.

She and I will both agree that I was shy about asking her back to my place, because I thought it was very forward of me to do such a thing. On her behalf, she was wearing a rather low cut shirt that seemed to affect only the gravity around my eyes. Regardless, not that there’s much else to do in these parts outside of the Summer, she agreed and we ended up just hanging out on my couch in front of the huge tv, watching Christian Bale in “American Psycho.”

The movie was my idea.

At the end of the night I was uncertain if she wanted to ever see me again, but she insisted she did and we kissed in the parking lot of my apartment, by her car, and I wished her a good night. When I walked away, back to my place, I was smiling from ear to ear.

But there was that lingering doubt in my head. Did she like me? Was she giving me the polite shove off? Would she answer my calls or just send me to voice mail hoping I’d get the hint? Even to this day, Angela is an incredibly hard read, and this is coming from someone who reads people like books for a living.

So, you know how it ends, we obviously had a thing for each other, because she moved in a few months ago, and about two days ago (depending on when this goes to print) I proposed to her in our living room, amongst a pile of cardboard boxes, with the scent of cinnamon buns wafting out of the kitchen.

That whole story is another story in of itself: Trying to keep this whole proposal-thing under wraps under the watchful scrutiny of a habitual snooper. For instance, all of my Christmas shopping I’m doing online this year, and having it all shipped to my office, to prevent her from the temptation of peeking.

But to act as though Ang had no idea what was coming down the pike, would be insulting to her, and you the reader. She’s very smart, for one, and for two we openly discussed marriage all the time. What really upped the ante for marriage was the fact that I’m looking at getting transferred in the middle of next year, and I don’t want to be apart from her.

So we played around with dates, the idea being that we do a “quickie wedding” at the end of December, with a bigger, more formal wedding, again, at the end of the summer. Things then spiraled out of control once e-vites, or invitations sent over the internet using various mediums like Facebook and Myspace, as well as old fashioned email, were sent out to our parents.

The idea all along was to keep the “quickie ceremony” small. Maybe one or two friends apiece to act as witnesses, and then throw a small party afterwards back at the apartment. With most of my friends still living in Maine, I might have one of my co-workers show up, which was unlikely at best. Ang keeps a few friends around locally, so they’d definitely be able to come.

But naturally, parents find out. And it wasn’t that they were snoops, or we tried to be underhanded about all of this, trying to exclude them, I just wanted them to have the date we were going to be officially married.

But when you’re an only child and your parents hang on everything you do, almost viscerally, they of course wanted to be part of the action. This started an incredibly stressful week for Ang, which meant it started an incredibly stressful week for me as well.

I won’t go into all the details because it’ll just make the article drag, and you want to hear about the good stuff, the gushy stuff, the lovey, makes-you-go-awwwwww stuff. So we’ll skip through the bullshit, and just tell you how I almost blew the surprise twice.

The first time was right after I bought the ring; we had been to two places when I found the perfect ring. It was more than I wanted to spend, but out of all the rings we’d see throughout the day, it was the one. If you know anything about buying diamonds, diamonds are graded, where an “A” is extremely rare, a giant 10 million dollar rock. By comparison, what you usually see in most jewelry stores is a grade “H” or “I”, which are fine, great, middle of the road rocks, don’t get me wrong.

But this one we were looking at, this one I had to have: Grade “D.”

It was a ¾ carat, round cut, she loved it. I sent her away, towards Boarders or whatever to browse books while I haggled over the price. I had to have them come down at least two grand on the ring, and I knew that in most jewelry stores, they mark up the shit out of their merch. I knew these guys could work with me.

“Listen, I don’t care if I have to come in on what little time I have off and clean your glass cases, I want this ring. She wants this ring. Make it happen.”

The manager made a bunch of calls, and I was approved for an exuberant amount of credit, but it was still not enough. I begged, pleaded, threatened, and demanded, and eventually, we got down to a number I could work with.

“I just want you to know, that you’re really breaking my balls with this number,” I said. The woman shrugged, it was the best she could do.

I put down a small deposit just as The Lady walked back into the store. I had more paper work to fill out, so I sent her away again, and finished up. Now came the tough part: I had to sell it like I didn’t just buy this ridiculously overpriced gem.

I walked back over to the Boarders or whatever, Barnes and Noble with my hands stuffed deep into my pockets, looking all beat to hell.

“Did you buy it?!” She asked, with that look on her face that I imagine she’s held over for every Christmas since she was a kid. I sigh and kick at the floor with my right Chuck.

“No babe, they wouldn’t budge on the price. C’mon, let’s go look at a few more stores,” and she thinks I’m kidding.

Until we’re actually looking at more diamond rings at other stores.

I had to keep up this act for two more stores. We went to one other place that had a lot of other nice rings, for cheaper, but again, they were all “H” and “I” rocks, and the sales women were either uncaring or completely love-jaded bitches with dykie haircuts.

So we made to leave the mall, and as we walked back out towards where we parked, Ang complained that she was cold and asked to wear my Northface vest. Of course I took it off and wrapped it around her, and immediately she placed her hands into the pockets.

The pockets where I had stuffed all the paper work from the diamond.

“What’s all of th-“ she began to say. My eyes went wide and I grabbed her wrists and removed her thankfully empty hands from the pockets.

“Nothing! It’s Christmas stuff!”

“You bought that ring!” She gasps, and a couple of people by the Orange Julius cock their heads over to listen. Now for my Academy Award performance: My shoulders sag, my eyebrows go up with a plaintive, albeit exasperated look, my mouth gapes a little as I pretend to find my already scripted response, as I look to my right for the right amount of time, and then look right back at her.

“Sweetheart,” I start, “I really wanted that ring for you too… but I just can’t afford it, I’m sorry,” and probably feeling like a massive bitch, she back pedals hard.

“I know, I know, I know,” she fires off, telling me she’s sorry she brought it up. “We saw a lot of really nice ones at Littman’s,” she offers, and I agree. I even had the sales lady write down the SKU of the diamond so I could come back and get it.


So, when I was wrapping things up with the place I was actually buying the diamond from, I was having it sent out to be sized, and all that jazz. It was going to take a few days, but it was ok because I was going to be up at the office during that time. I just had to keep up the act that I was still diamond shopping.

So on my first day at my second job, which is also at the mall, I went to pick up the ring. It was absolutely mesmerizing, hypnotic in the way it caught light and bounced it back from where ever you looked at it.

“Is this a Conflict Diamond?” I asked the lady who was finalizing things at the register.

“Oh no, we get all of our diamonds from Antwerp, their conflict free!”

“That’s too bad. It’d be cool if some motherfucker died for this bitch,” I muttered.

“I’m sorry?” She looks up from her papers. I wave her off and marvel at the gem. She places it into a presentation box , the clam-shell kind, and then into a white gift box. This gave me idea.

Up until this point I had no idea how exactly I was going to propose. I am in fact a romantic guy, but when it comes to this stuff, I never really thought about it. Take her down to Fisher Beach, her favorite beach? Maybe make a meatloaf and hide it in her portion?

In all reality, I was probably going to wait til we were in bed, and just hand it to her. Simple and to the point. But the boxes gave me an idea.

“Do you have another box, a little bit bigger than that one?” I asked the sales lady. She looked up at me and stopped packing the gift box.

“You want a different box?” She asked.

“No, not different, bigger,” and then explained my plan.

“Oh my god, you’re a genius,” she said when I was done. By the time I walked out of the mall with my… her ring, it looked like I was carrying computer equipment or a stereo or something.

I placed the box in my truck and got a text from The Lady. She wanted me to swing by her store and go with her to CVS to pick up some stuff. So I headed over.

I met up with her, she was freezing, more than normal (you have to understand that her body is a constant 90 degrees farenheight, which is the lamest of all mutant powers), and as we walked to our parked cars in her shop’s parking lot, she mentions that taking my truck would make more sense, seeing how it’s already warmed up.

I can do nothing but agree of course, and when I key into the passenger side of the truck, I’m staring at the collection of boxes.

“What’s that?”  She says from behind my shoulder.

“Uh, I just grabbed some boxes from The Hut, to, you know, use as gift wrapping.”

“Ohh, well put them out back, c’mon, I’m freezing,” and she gives me a nudge.  As I lift these boxes to the exposed bed of my truck, they feel like a million tons.

So we ride out to the CVS, a short drive away, and the whole time my asshole is clenched tighter than a fist.  We go in and I subtly hustle her out, letting her buy just tampons and a candy bar.  The sweat leaves my brow when we get back and the boxes are still in the back of my truck.

Long story short, we get them home and I place them in the living room, where they sat untouched for two whole days, Ang none-the-wiser.  Only once did she ask about them once they were in the house, and I very casually shrugged it off.

I’m such a gift giving ninja, it’s scary.

So fast forward now, to Sunday morning.  I was just making cinnamon buns, and doing dishes when I decided it was time.  My thinking at the time was chaos, because I knew she’d say yes.  Over and over in my head I was the same questions my parents and my friends kept asking me.

“Can I really spend the rest of my life with her?”

“Do I really want to cash in my bachelorhood?”

“Can I make her happy for the rest of her life?”

“Am I willing to make the necessary sacrifices, no matter how hard it gets?”

Every answer I had to this doubtful disembodied voice was “yes,” and I found my voice and called out to her in the living room from the kitchen.

“Ang?”  I called.

“What,” came my princess’ reply.

“Can you do me a huge favor?  Can you go through those boxes for me?  I can’t remember how many I got,”

“Whyyyy…..” she whined.  I came around from the kitchen and looked at her.

“Because I’m doing dishes.  C’mon, help me out.”  She gave me one of those looks like I’m asking her to drag a corpse across the floor, but she takes my knife and starts cutting through the copius amount of packing tape I had the sales woman put on each box.

“What’s with all this packing tape?”  She asked without looking up.

“I like the packing tape.. gun, thing,” I said, watching her.  She gets through the first box, and then pulls out the second.  She undoes the tape and gets to a third, which brings her to a fourth, and on to the white presentation box.  She holds this box up and says:

“What’s this?”  I shrug.  She opens it up and digs through the white tissue paper.  She finds the tiny blue clamshell and cracks it open.  Her eyes go wide as she stares down at the giant rock looking up at her.

“OHMIGAWD,” she says.

“So uh, wanna get married?”  I say as I lean against the wall, my statement dripping with romanticism.

She rushes me, squeezing me as she looks at the ring from over my shoulder.  Her eyes are big, blue and wet and she says she’s trying not to cry.  Her voice is cracking with emotion.

“I take that as a yes,” and she nods as she squeezes me.

In the end, it was all worth it.  And there’s now a new chapter to start writing about in both of our lives.

I’m just sayin…

November 26, 2008 Posted by | Blogging Couple, Gonzo Journalism, Living in an Insane Asylum, Out and About, People I Love, Shameless Self Promotion | , , , | 3 Comments

The Following GChat Has Been Brought to You By Old Spice…

me: so yeah

Angela: yea
me: I got a lot of … fucking “oh, go fill out the application online..” bullshit
i filled out a real app at … KB toys
I guess they really need help
I filled out an App at Sunglass Hut
and I have an interview with American Eagle on Friday at 3… at 330, the manager at Sunglass Hut is going to be at the store
so Ill bop right over there and see if I can’t make a good impression with them
Angela: hrm
i kindaa hate you……..
me: WHY?
Angela: bc its so easy for u
everything is
me: um, not really
Angela: well, u make shit look easy
me: I just make it look easy
it really isn’t
i just got that swagger
Angela: hrm

November 4, 2008 Posted by | Blogging Couple, Corporate America Hates You, Gchat Sessions, Out and About | , , | 1 Comment


(Shortly after Jim posted his FaL article, we intercepted this gchat between him and The Lady, referencing the email he received from the RM, in particular, the coffee pot.  -ed)

12:30 PM Angela: HES TAKING THE COFFEE MAKER?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!!??!
12:31 PM me: at first, he said he didn’t want it
but now I guess he’s taking it
my guess is
he won’t take it
seeing how there’s a science experiment growing inside of the pot
Angela: hah!

October 15, 2008 Posted by | Blogging Couple, Gchat Sessions, Living in an Insane Asylum, People I Hate | , , , | Leave a comment

Hokie Weighs in on The Coming Election

Hokie: hey man… just started to read your post “big rig”

i might suggest this book… if you get spare time
me: oooh, i’m looking for a new book too
is this the book that kid was blabbering about before he was tased in front of john kerry?
Hokie: no clue…
but if you’re down with some statistical proof that the 2004 election was rigged
i’d suggest that book
Sent at 1:53 PM on Friday
me: aye aye
Ill check it out
Hokie: though… in my opinion.. be prepared to be fairly bummed out
Sent at 2:01 PM on Friday
me: how so?
Hokie: if what they say in this book is true… which i believe it is…
our electoral system is beyond fucked
me: oh, are you kidding me?
we’re this close to going to a fully automated computer system
like… that’s not up for grabs
to any hacker anywhere
Sent at 2:04 PM on Friday
Hokie: or already isn’t
me: thats true too
Sent at 2:06 PM on Friday
Hokie: yeah.. i’ve done a fair amount of reading on this subject
so much so.. that i’ve made the educated decision NOT to vote in the national elections
which has caused a lot of people to give me shit…
me: really?
Hokie: but my main reasoning was to discuss the state of our electoral system
since our generation could vote in the presidential election (2000)
it’s been stolen/rigged/hacked
and there is so much ‘patriotism’ behind voting… that people vote blindly.. without actually peeking behind the ‘curtain’
and are so amped up about it.. that hardly anyone listens to me when i bring these points up
but here’s my point…
if it’s rigged…
me: i’m listening
Hokie: how does ‘you’ voting
and turning a blind eye to the broken system…
me: equal patroitism?
Hokie: and me not voting… but trying to expose the broken system…
make us any different?
and i don’t mean you…
but the royal you
me: right
the all inclusive “you”
no, i hear you loud and clear
Hokie: anyway.. i’ve made the decision to vote this go around
me: there’s always been the whole “well, because of the electoral college, why does my vote matter in the first place” arguement as well
Hokie: yeah..
me: so you are going to vote?
Hokie: or that even after the electoral college weighs in.. the supreme court has higher say
i am going vote…
i figure if i vote.. then complain about the system.. maybe people will listen to me
me: oppose to shutting you down with the “well you didn’t vote, you can’t complain” theory
which i think is bullshit
Hokie: exactly
me: if you pay your taxes, you should have a voice to complain
because ultimately
it’s not your vote that’s being spent
it’s your tax dollars
Hokie: exactly…
Sent at 2:15 PM on Friday
Hokie: but yeah…
also.. and jake made this point…
if more people vote… its much harder to fudge numbers
which… i admit.. does go in the face of my previous theory
me: I disagree
i think with the more people voting, it’s easier to fudge the numbers
i mean, in the event that it’s uh, close
which i don’t see it being in this election
i see obama whomping the shit out of mccain
Sent at 2:18 PM on Friday
Hokie: true…
i think jakes point was that.. by and far.. the folk who weren’t voting before are going to be obama supporters
so if we make the margin huge.. as you assume it will be… it would be hard to fudge a mccain victory
me: exactly
but if you have like
250 million people voting
and it comes out to like
173 million votes for obama
and 172 for mccain
there’s a million vote difference
where it could go anywhere, you know?
oppose to… if 250 people vote
and 175 vote for obama
we can actually SEE who voted
it’s just easier to track
Sent at 2:22 PM on Friday
Hokie: true.. true…
and if you don’t want to read that whole book
RS has a great article by RFKJr
me: eh
me and rolling stone
aren’t on the ups
Hokie: por que?
me: from an ideological stand point
i disagree with alot of what RS says and does
I understand that it’s more… pop culture encompassing…
which extends to politics
but it’s so… obviously…. like
it’s one thing to be liberal
but it’s another to be obnoxiously anti-anything
it’s the … like reciprocal of FOX News almost
and then they try to pass themselves off as a music mag
like… they review … fucking albums
in between telling you how terrible the republican agenda is
don’t let me sit here and tell you I don’t read huff post or anything
in recent years i’ve become more and more liberal in my thinking
but… like
there’s a line
where you cross from war cries to obnoxious screaming
I’m just sayin….

October 10, 2008 Posted by | Corporate America Hates You, Gchat Sessions, Those Crazy Politicians, World Wide Events | , | Leave a comment

Ok, Let’s Try That Again: Fear and Loathing at KMart

Yesterday I was a wreck.  If The Lady gets around to it, she’ll post the embarrassing Gchat that proves it.

I had come to the office from the other office at about 1030 in the morning, and after considerably taxing errands and slamming my already bruised and scabbed knee cap into a heavy piece of wooden furniture, I decided I wanted a drink.  A “drink” being three quarters of a litre of Canadian Mist whiskey, straight, when I usually have it with at least half a dozen ice cubes.

In a matter of minutes I went from stone sober James, to past Slightly Buzzed James, Flirty James, Drunk James, to Dark and Brooding James all while sitting at my office desk, glowering at the computer screen like the sole black guy at a Hank Williams Jr. concert with the ominous task of putting out an article about how I’m going to take out my roommate with a garden spade.

This all started around 0630 in the  morning when I was pulling the early morning shift at the office, mixing Rockstar energy drink with Gatorade AM, while reading an article in the local paper online about a woman who robbed another woman at gunpoint in a Wendy’s parking lot, and wondering why I let The Lady talk me into locking up all my guns.  A few listless hours passed by as I wrote a few cursory articles about the music industry and Sarah Palin when my roommate came into work and stuck his head into my office.

He’d been warned as of late not to bother me, especially at work.  We haven’t been getting along and it seems that we can’t talk to each other without either one of us exploding.  I was tired of this, of course, so I told someone to tell him not to come knocking on my door anymore.  Any need to talk to me about the apartment or whatever should be done through an intermediary or in writing like email or notes.

But he stuck his head in my office, and it was early and no one else was around.  He wanted to talk and being that my heart isn’t completely made of stone like I wish it was, I invited him in.

Out the gate he starts off with the fact that he threw out the shower curtain.  When I asked him if he replaced it, he said “no.”

I sat behind my desk looking up at him.

“So what’s going to happen when Ang wants to take a shower this morning before she goes into work?”  I ask him, trying to hold down my rage.  I seethed and clicked some random shit on my screen so I wouldn’t have to look at him.

“She can just point the nozzle at the wall, or something” he came back with.  There were some more words exchange, but it basically came down to this:

“You must’ve known what you were doing when you did that.  There’s no way you would’ve not been able to see that by taking down the shower curtain you’d prevent someone else from taking a fucking shower.  Admit it, you did it out of malice towards Ang.”

“No, I didn’t,” he says, and we’re both getting heated.

“No, that’s not how it works.  Either you intentionally threw out that curtain so she couldn’t shower this morning, or you’re a fucking idiot.  And I find the latter hard to believe,” I shouted.

“Call me a fucking idiot again,” he spits back, oblivious to the fact I just said that was hard to believe, “and Ang can move the fuck out!”  At this point I was half way out of my chair, leaning towards him.  The only thing between him and I was a bank of computer screens and telephones.

My entire life, I can count how many times I’ve been moved towards physical violence on one hand.  This was one of those times.

Luckily, Rog walked in and told the RM to get out, after hanging outside my office door for a few minutes to see where the argument would go.  In a huff, the RM walked out and I sat back down.

“You ok?”  Rog asks.

“Yeah,” I was shaking, and all I wanted to do was run or exert myself somehow.  What I wanted to do was pound that little fucker’s head in until it turned into a pink mush.

“Just calm down, he’s not worth it,” Rog added, as if reading my thoughts.  I got up and paced around my office in a donut, wringing my hands, flexing my calf muscles, cracking my knuckles and neck vertebrae.  God, I wanted to kill him.

A few hours later, I had calmed down a bit.  I know that when I first tried writing this piece I mentioned something about a presentation about cultural heritage or something.  Forget I said that, it never happened.

Fast forward and I’m driving my truck home from the office.  It’s roughly 1000 in the morning and I can’t decide which exit to take that’s going to put me closer to the KMart side of town.  Exit 9 is closest, but I’ll have to drive into town and then back out, and I hate backtracking.  Exit 10 is further away, but it’ll put me at a straight shot into town, where I can just swoop into the parking lot at the KMart and then back out to the apartments.

I opt for the latter, not knowing that there was going to be a three mile long snarl of stop and go traffic; not just regular, garden variety traffic, but head pulsing, construction equipment laden, dickwad, oblivious Massholes behind the wheel, don’t turn their signals on until they’ve pretty much already stopped and are holding up traffic because they want to turn against the on coming lane, asshole traffic.

I again, do my best to remain calm and not murder anyone, though at this point I feel given my legal expertize that a defense of insanity would pretty much cover any felony I decided to commit while sitting and listening to Michael Jackson’s “Pretty Young Thing” in time with a fucking jackhammer two feet from my truck’s door.

I manage to snail my way to the KMart and park.  I realize then, or maybe it was one of the last times I was here, that KMart is one of those places where the old and/or morbidly obese go to die.

Like the great Elephant Graveyards of lore, ancient giant beasts slowly roam this parking lot, waddling in small packs, their neck fat jiggling with each mammoth like step they take.  There are other places like this, where the elderly congregate in great numbers:

Hearth and Kettle…

Christmas Tree Shoppe

Old Country Buffet

Middle Afternoons at any Cluckies.

Wait no, I’m getting my field notes confused.  You see, I have terrible penmanship, and if given an ink rollerball pen, I tend to smudge and smear my hack scribe.  The middle afternoons at Cluckies is for unemployed mid twenty black males with baby strollers.

Regardless, I was in the KMart, the bastard older cousin to Wal Mart, and the tragically uncool step daughter to Target.  I wandered inside and saw depression of the highest ranks behind carriages lined with Alpo dog food and jeans with expanding elastic waists.

I scurried over to the Home Decor (En Casa Decarado) section, noticing how everything was written in both English and in Spanish or Portuguese, it’s hard to tell since the languages are so close together.  I know where I live there’s a mass of Portuguese, however, this trend is expanding in all regions.  For instance, in Maine, you can’t walk into a Lowe’s and find lumbar without learning that it’s also called Lumbar in Spanish.  Half of me sees this as a way that English speaking landscapers and construction foreman can learn another language based primarily on building material vocabulary, and the other half feels that Home Depot is acquiescing to the multitudes of huddled masses outside their automatic sliding doors, screaming !Trabajo! at anyone driving by in a pick up truck.

I find the bathroom section and mull over the lack of choices in front of me.  I know this should be a quick fix, I should be able to just grab anything off the rack, and pay for it, but all the choices are.. well.. just…


I finally settle on one I like and start looking at bath mats, but after five minutes of only finding those soon-to-be soggy-with-piss furry mats that go around the base of the toilet, I leave a stack of them haphazardly in the middle of the aisle and storm off towards the registers.

Of course I’m greeted with only one in a hundred fucking registers open, with a malcontent black woman behind it, slowly scanning products purchased by an army of AARP card holders.  The line is snaking around the main aisle of the store and I stare up at the ceiling, hoping that god will drop one of those steel girders on my face and put me out of my fucking misery.

But before that comes close to happening, over the frail and fragile shoulder of who I would be fooled into thinking is Cindy McCain’s mafia-linked father, I see the customer service desk being manned by two horse-faced losers in red vests, with one customer between the two.  With my two items, shower curtain and plastic bath mat, I race over.

The fatter of the two losers is looking at me and I step up without being asked.  Under my breath I tell her:

“I’d just like to pay for these real quick,” and look around to see if I’m drawing any attention to myself.

“Sir, this is customer service,” she tries to sound nice and polite, but it’s coming out forced and exasperated.  “If you have an exchange or return, we can-”

I cut her off with a death stare, the same stare a starving African child would give a missionary as he clicked over in his mind that he’d sooner kill the patronizing bitch with the bowl of rice than take it from her and survive.

“You have a cash register, and I have two items I would like to purchase.  You are customer service.  I am a customer.  Service me.”  I sound like a robot set to kill, and the blubber around this woman’s neck bobbles up and down as she swallows hard.  I’m inches away from swooping down on her like a hawk and ripping her eyes out with my razor sharp talons.  I start to get that frustrated shake in my shoulders, but just then I sense that a member of the undead is approaching behind me, and when I turn over my shoulder I see that John McCain’s gin-soaked father in law has shuffled over, obviously taking my queue that waiting in that other, solitary line is for the birds.

Early birds.  Special.  Get it?

Jabba the Slut reluctantly takes my items and scans them, and I swipe my plastic and she bags them and I leave hurriedly.  Before I know it, I’m home just in time to catch The Lady walking out the door to her job.  I walk with her down the street to her shop, taking notice that she doesn’t let funny, unnecessary things like traffic lights and crosswalks get in her way, as like a Russian tank, she rolls right through crowds and oncoming traffic.

“I think, when I get home, I’m gonna get shitfaced,” I tell her.

“Yeah, you need a drink,” she says back.  I catch her up on all the horrible goings-on, the bad trip, the shakes, the near homicidal rages I’ve been having.  She pats me on the head and tells me to run along to my bottle.

(Note:  We contact The Lady and she disputes that this happened.  Her recollection was something to the effect of “I wouldn’t drink if I were you,” and “make me some damn buttered bagels and bring them back here when you get home, or you can sleep on the couch tonight.” -ed)

I get back home and pace around for a few minutes.  I want to write this article at that point and thought I’d better at least start writing it while sober.  The other half of me reminds me that when I was in college, I wrote some of my best papers absolutely blasted to the nines, and three years later (really six, since I wrote a college thesis shlabbergahsted) I should be able to still do this.

What compounds that decision is walking into my office, sitting down, and slamming my knee into a bit of furniture so hard that I yelp out “FUCK!” and jump up and down, much to my neighbors chagrin, I’m sure.

My knee, my right knee, is a total mess right now.  It’s cut up and bruised and covered in blackening scabs.  Slamming it into whatever the hell I slammed it into did not feel very good.

“That’s it!”  I proclaimed loudly, amongst my screams of agony.  “I’m having a drink!”

I stormed out to the kitchen and grabbed the bottle from above the fridge and an 8 oz glass.  Normally I put ice in with my whiskey, but not this morning, no.  I wanted to feel not feeling.  I sloppily poured the glass full and took a long hard chug and drank half of what I poured.  I then topped off the glass, and brought it and the bottle back with me to the office.

I sat down in front of the computer and edited some of my own articles, blowing off my editors.  Soon, luckily, the editing was done and I was starting to feel calm and warm again.  The Lady was talking to me over the Gchat and I was slowly and loosely falling down into a dark pit of alcohol.

Somewhere in there the idea to call the RM surfaced and I dialed up work.  A few minutes later, he picked up and was cold towards me.  I couldn’t tell you what was said, only that I thanked him for making the apartment look nice and congratulated him about something.  He had a lot of “yeahs” for me, his lack of compassion and obvious loathing was apparent and I closed the call.

I kept drinking, and if you drink heavily, you know that drinking is a lot like driving an 18 wheeler.  It takes a little while to get up to speed, and it takes even longer to stop where you want to be at.  You tend to over-shoot things.  At least I do.  And before I knew it, I completely overshot being “just short of full blown drunk” and landed on “holy shit, I can’t feel my legs anymore” wasted.

I panicked.  I called Rog and blubbered into the phone to him about my whole RM situation.  I only get depressed-drunk when I’m well past the light and hearty buzzed.  Normally, I’m a flirty drunk.  But now I was simply just a wreck.

My pants were half off, tangled around my thighs as I sat on the floor with the phone pressed to my head and told Rog how much I loved him.  I told him I was sorry for the shitty state I was in, and how I wanted to work things out with the RM.

“Nigga, you gay?” he said back to me.  He said he was kidding, and he knew that the RM wanted to work things out too.  He was stressed as well.

I parted ways with Rog, but as soon as I set down the phone I felt compelled to call someone else.  I instantly dialed dad.

I don’t remember much of this conversation either, only that I was in full on panic mode, red alert, spinning, literally out of control, because I was fully aware that I was falling further and further into a mean, disgusting drunkness.  The room was spinning and I was crying.  Dad did his best to talk me down off the ledge I was inching out on, but soon he too was growing tired of my insanity and gave me this big hint:

“Jim, hey, listen honey, why don’t you take a little nap, eat something, ok, and uh, call me later tonight when you dry out a little and we’ll talk about all of this, ok?”  I realized then that I had drank nearly an entire litre of whiskey on an empty stomach and was going off of four hours of sleep the night before.  I was losing my mind.

I took his hint and got off the phone.  I flopped across the hallway to the bathroom, hung my head over the bowl and rammed a finger down my throat and puked up orange bile.  I did this three or four times, cursing the fact that my gag reflex was half a centimeter to my trachea.  I then wiped my mouth, left my jeans on the floor, and crawled on my hands and knees back to bed, like a pathetic mess.

I passed out, and I vaguely remember The Lady coming home at some point to get something to eat and then it being 1800.  I slept the entire day away.

I accomplished nothing, only managed to give myself a throbbing headache and upset stomach.

I called dad back and checked in, mom talked to me and was noticeably upset by my shabby appearance on the phone.  Mistakenly I told her that I had “caught something” which must’ve been a bite from the Horseshit Fly, because she saw right through that line of pure bull.

The Lady doesn’t want the RM to be apart of our lives anymore, if this is what he’s going to do to me, and I’m inclined to agree.  This weekend, I’m putting that wheel into motion.

September 18, 2008 Posted by | Corporate America Hates You, Fear and Loathing, Gonzo Journalism, Living in an Insane Asylum, Out and About | , , , , , , , , , , | 7 Comments

We Were Literally Feet Apart….

Angela: hey cutie

me: why hello there
Angela: wasabi
me: wasabi wenesday?
Angela: i want suhi
me: you just had a fish sandwich!
Angela: yea, well, its not the same
me: no I agree
but it is delicious
oppose to this couch
Angela: hrmmm hrmmmmmmmmmmmmm
me: this couch only bother’s my back when I have my laptop with me
Angela: not me
but then again
I’m not almost 30
ya old baby cakes
me: sigh
i hate that
everyone’s always like
“dude, you’re almost thirty”
i see this as a whiny blogpost in the making
Angela: well, you are
me: no I know
i just detest being reminded of it every ten minutes by every swinging knob walking down the street
as if I’d forget or something
Angela: speaking of swinging knobs
me: …..
Angela: 8=====D
me: …..
how very appropriate
Angela: ( o )( o )
me: sigh…
hold on, lemme remember how to make a vag….
Angela: you can made a vag?!
me: yes LOLang… I can has made vag….
Angela: ………………………..
me: ( | )
that’s a butt….
I think vag is….
Angela: ……………
me: ( ^ )
Angela: FAIL
me: this is a butthole….
no wait
i really can’t do it on here
( | )
Angela: wow
you suck
me: yeah I’m terrible at… making typed anatomy
Angela: yes, i would have to agree
me: well
then great
Angela: huh
me: you’re watching a video on Finland?!”
Angela: yex
Sent at 9:35 PM on Wednesday
me: Link me.
me: pfft….
Angela: …………..
Sent at 9:37 PM on Wednesday
me: I fucking hate Finland by the way
Angela: lame
Sent at 10:12 PM on Wednesday
me: I just needed to wrap up that point, because I’m going to post this gchat
Angela: this is a lame ass gchat
me: but it has you drawing dicks
so it’s worth posting
Angela: i drew a dick?
me: scroll up genius
Angela: i just did
you should post a better gchat
me: its not like I have a bunch on stand by
oh, let me go into my magical bag of gchats
Angela: like our first one, awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww
me: aww
Angela: i just ashed all over my keyboard
me: you know, I wish i could link my old blog into my new blog…. cuz I’d so take “first one” and make that clickable to the first gchat i posted back whenever
oh my god, i’m so glad you’re on the porch right now, behind glass
Angela: did you fart
me: oh, did I.
Angela: i did too!!!!
you’re a petite and delicate little girl
Angela: i am happy to say
me: you are incapable of breaking wind
Angela: that i have never farted around you (unless I was asleep) or taken a shit with you in the house
well, I hardly shit anyway….so I guess the latter doesn’t count now does it?
me: you’ve never taken a shit in the house, really?
Angela: I have, just when you were not home
me: well, thats what I ment
babe, i like, poop all the time…
like, it’s loud too, and I get embarrassed, but…. I just shrug it off
Angela: I know, trust me, I know, I can hear you.
me: HA!
Angela: like, if I had to, I would just turn on the faucet or sing.
me: sing while you shit
that won’t be obvious or anything
Angela: thats something my sister would do.
HEY! its better than hearing it!
me: “the hill are ahhhh-uhhhhh!! *ploop!*-live with the sooowwwwww–*ploop!*—oooooond of muuuu-ooooo*ploop!*-sic!”
Angela: pbbbbbbbbbbt
me: ok we gotta wrap this up cuz I’m losing battery and I need to post this
Angela: ok
me: so say something witty before we go
Angela: i wanna fuck.
me: that’ll do!

September 3, 2008 Posted by | Blogging Couple, Gchat Sessions, Living in an Insane Asylum, Too Much Time | , , , | 2 Comments

A Few Words of Wisdom from The Man of the Year

Hokie: guy

me: yo
Hokie: what’s the haps?
me: not much
long ass day
what’s up with you?
Hokie: hanging out after work…
probably going to do some freelance stuff
so all is cool at work with the blog whatnot?
me: yeah it’s kinda blown over
for now
but I don’t think I’ll ever being going back to [my old blog]
Hokie: you should post bullshit posts
talk about how much fun you’re having at work
let no sarcasm be detected
me: hahaha
that’s not a bad idea
Hokie: if they’re going to be putting you on surveillance
me: I know, right
the thing is
Hokie: just a thought..
me: I hardly have time to post on my real blog….
let alone on a … doppleganger blog
Hokie: yeah… true
Sent at 7:29 PM on Tuesday

August 19, 2008 Posted by | Gchat Sessions, Too Much Time | | Leave a comment