Wednesday, April 11, 2007
C'mon baby...let's work it out
MySpace is for queers, that's why I'm blogging on here again. The only thing I'll miss about Myspace is all the porn profiles adding me. It really kept me from wanting to keep killing hookers. Well, I'll keep killing the cheap ones...no more escort service murders for me anymore.
Now, let's get this party started. Someone bring over some nappy-headed hoes.
Now, let's get this party started. Someone bring over some nappy-headed hoes.
Friday, September 29, 2006
Dear Citizens of Charlotte...
As you can see from the calendar, the game is coming up this weekend. I'm sure you are as excited for it as I am, as our cities are rivals and have been for quite some time. Your confidence in your team is high, but rest assured, you will suffer humiliation when the sports team from my area defeats the sports team from your area.
On numerous occasions, you have expressed the conviction that your area's sports team will be victorious. I must admit that every time I hear you make this proclamation, I react with both laughter and disbelief. "Ha!" I say to myself with laughter. "What?!" I say to myself in disbelief. How could you believe that your sports team could beat my sports team? It is clear that yours is inferior in every way.
When the sporting contest begins, the players on your team will be treated as though they are inconsequential. It will be remarkably easy for my team to accumulate more points than yours. There are many reasons for this, starting with the inferior physical attributes of the players representing your area. Strength, speed, and agility are just three of the qualities that the players on the team from your area lack. The players representing my area, on the other hand, have these traits in abundance.
I would not be a bit surprised if the individuals on the team from your area were sexually attracted to members of their own gender. That is how ineffective they are on the field of battle.
Underscoring your team's inferiority is its choice of colors. It is ludicrous to believe that your team's colors inspire either respect or fear. Instead, they appear to have been chosen by someone who is colorblind or, perhaps, bereft of sight altogether. The colors for my team, on the other hand, are aesthetically pleasing when placed in proximity to one another. They are a superior color combination in every way.
While we are on the subject of aesthetics, let us compare the respective facilities in which our teams play. While my team's edifice is blessed with architectural splendor and the most modern of amenities, yours is a thoroughly unpleasant place in which to watch a sporting contest. I know of what I speak, for I once attended a game between our respective teams in your facility. Let's just say the experience left me wishing that my car was inoperable that day due to mechanical problems, rendering it impossible for me to get to your area to attend the game.
If you need another reason why the sporting franchise representing my area is superior, look no further than the supporters for the two sides. Not only are the supporters of the team from my region more spirited, but they are also more intelligent and of finer breeding than you and the rest of your ilk. In addition, the female supporters of the team from my area possess more attractive countenances and figures than yours. Some of the women from my side that I have observed could make a living by posing for pictures for major men's magazines. The women who cheer for your team, I'm afraid, are far too unattractive to do so.
One of the more pathetic aspects of the team from your area is the fact that only people in your immediate area possess an affinity for it. By means of contrast, the team from my area inspires loyalty and affection in individuals who live in many other geographic locations.
To illustrate this point, let me tell a brief story: Recently, I was on vacation in an area of the country far away from my own, and I saw many individuals wearing items of clothing that bore the insignia of my team. I approached one such individual and asked him if he originated from my area. He said no, explaining that he simply liked the team from my area and had for many years. Interestingly enough, during this trip, I saw no clothing or other paraphernalia bearing the insignia of your team.
Do you still doubt that the team from your area is inferior to the one from mine? Just look at our teams' respective histories. In the past, we have defeated you on any number of occasions. Granted, there were times when your team beat my team, but those were lucky flukes.
The day of the game will soon be at hand. And no matter how hard you pray to a higher power or how many foam accoutrements you wear in support of the team from your area, your team will be defeated. We will win and you will lose. This is your fate.
Prepare for humiliation. It shall be upon you at the designated hour.
On numerous occasions, you have expressed the conviction that your area's sports team will be victorious. I must admit that every time I hear you make this proclamation, I react with both laughter and disbelief. "Ha!" I say to myself with laughter. "What?!" I say to myself in disbelief. How could you believe that your sports team could beat my sports team? It is clear that yours is inferior in every way.
When the sporting contest begins, the players on your team will be treated as though they are inconsequential. It will be remarkably easy for my team to accumulate more points than yours. There are many reasons for this, starting with the inferior physical attributes of the players representing your area. Strength, speed, and agility are just three of the qualities that the players on the team from your area lack. The players representing my area, on the other hand, have these traits in abundance.
I would not be a bit surprised if the individuals on the team from your area were sexually attracted to members of their own gender. That is how ineffective they are on the field of battle.
Underscoring your team's inferiority is its choice of colors. It is ludicrous to believe that your team's colors inspire either respect or fear. Instead, they appear to have been chosen by someone who is colorblind or, perhaps, bereft of sight altogether. The colors for my team, on the other hand, are aesthetically pleasing when placed in proximity to one another. They are a superior color combination in every way.
While we are on the subject of aesthetics, let us compare the respective facilities in which our teams play. While my team's edifice is blessed with architectural splendor and the most modern of amenities, yours is a thoroughly unpleasant place in which to watch a sporting contest. I know of what I speak, for I once attended a game between our respective teams in your facility. Let's just say the experience left me wishing that my car was inoperable that day due to mechanical problems, rendering it impossible for me to get to your area to attend the game.
If you need another reason why the sporting franchise representing my area is superior, look no further than the supporters for the two sides. Not only are the supporters of the team from my region more spirited, but they are also more intelligent and of finer breeding than you and the rest of your ilk. In addition, the female supporters of the team from my area possess more attractive countenances and figures than yours. Some of the women from my side that I have observed could make a living by posing for pictures for major men's magazines. The women who cheer for your team, I'm afraid, are far too unattractive to do so.
One of the more pathetic aspects of the team from your area is the fact that only people in your immediate area possess an affinity for it. By means of contrast, the team from my area inspires loyalty and affection in individuals who live in many other geographic locations.
To illustrate this point, let me tell a brief story: Recently, I was on vacation in an area of the country far away from my own, and I saw many individuals wearing items of clothing that bore the insignia of my team. I approached one such individual and asked him if he originated from my area. He said no, explaining that he simply liked the team from my area and had for many years. Interestingly enough, during this trip, I saw no clothing or other paraphernalia bearing the insignia of your team.
Do you still doubt that the team from your area is inferior to the one from mine? Just look at our teams' respective histories. In the past, we have defeated you on any number of occasions. Granted, there were times when your team beat my team, but those were lucky flukes.
The day of the game will soon be at hand. And no matter how hard you pray to a higher power or how many foam accoutrements you wear in support of the team from your area, your team will be defeated. We will win and you will lose. This is your fate.
Prepare for humiliation. It shall be upon you at the designated hour.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Why I have World Cup fever
Screw all of the cliched reasons why someone likes the World Cup.
"It's once every four years."
"It brings whole countries together."
"It's the biggest sporting event in the world."
No, here's the single reason why I get a kick out of watching the World Cup...
The simple fact that when a team has a free kick, the other team will put four guys in a wall and they are all crossing their hands over their crotches.
In no other sport will you have guys care more about protecting their goods. Other sports wear cups, but in soccer, you don't.
Granted, the ball is being kicked straight at them at about 100 mph (that's about 180 km for our non-American friends, since this is an international event). They would rather protect the baby-makers than the ball going into the goal.
Aside from the fact that they aren't concerned about the ball going into the goal, they aren't protecting their heads. Well they are, but not the one with the brain in it. (I guess some women will beg to differ with that last comment on which head the brain is in.)
"It's once every four years."
"It brings whole countries together."
"It's the biggest sporting event in the world."
No, here's the single reason why I get a kick out of watching the World Cup...
The simple fact that when a team has a free kick, the other team will put four guys in a wall and they are all crossing their hands over their crotches.
In no other sport will you have guys care more about protecting their goods. Other sports wear cups, but in soccer, you don't.
Granted, the ball is being kicked straight at them at about 100 mph (that's about 180 km for our non-American friends, since this is an international event). They would rather protect the baby-makers than the ball going into the goal.
Aside from the fact that they aren't concerned about the ball going into the goal, they aren't protecting their heads. Well they are, but not the one with the brain in it. (I guess some women will beg to differ with that last comment on which head the brain is in.)
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
The Idiots Guide to talking to a person who can't talk well
In my job, I frequently interact with the elderly, infirmed and those who have mental handicaps (I would say mentally retarded, but the PC police are probably hanging around somewhere).
I've noticed that some of them can't speak clearly, and it's a stretch to understand them. Today, this was the case, as I took someone home that was mentally handicapped and you totally can't understand what he's saying.
So, I offer this guide from the conversations I had today for those of you in the health care field or perhaps those wanting to volunteer with the handicapped (which I've heard that volunteering is a great way to get laid).
First, listen for key words. You might not be able to understand every single word, but see if you can pick up on a key word that could clue you in to what's going on.
Today, I was nodding, and all I could make out was "A-beams", "1, 2, 3, 4, 5" and "pontoon boat."
Secondly, don't be afraid to ask said person to repeat what they said, just to make sure you heard the right thing. This will save you from looking like an ass.
Case in point, today I thought he said "Do you want a ball-point?" And I said "No, I already have a pen." And he said "No, a po-boy." I was way off.
See, never assuming you know what they said will save you from a situation where you think he's saying "This car is fast," when he's actually asking "Are you a facist?"
Lastly, when you can't understand anything at all, pretend to have a phone call, or have an actual phone call. Whichever works best for you.
Finally, as an aside, did anyone see Michael McDonald singing the national anthem before game 3 of the NBA Finals last night? "If I have to hear Yamo Be There one more time, I'm going to Yamo burn this place to the ground."
I've noticed that some of them can't speak clearly, and it's a stretch to understand them. Today, this was the case, as I took someone home that was mentally handicapped and you totally can't understand what he's saying.
So, I offer this guide from the conversations I had today for those of you in the health care field or perhaps those wanting to volunteer with the handicapped (which I've heard that volunteering is a great way to get laid).
First, listen for key words. You might not be able to understand every single word, but see if you can pick up on a key word that could clue you in to what's going on.
Today, I was nodding, and all I could make out was "A-beams", "1, 2, 3, 4, 5" and "pontoon boat."
Secondly, don't be afraid to ask said person to repeat what they said, just to make sure you heard the right thing. This will save you from looking like an ass.
Case in point, today I thought he said "Do you want a ball-point?" And I said "No, I already have a pen." And he said "No, a po-boy." I was way off.
See, never assuming you know what they said will save you from a situation where you think he's saying "This car is fast," when he's actually asking "Are you a facist?"
Lastly, when you can't understand anything at all, pretend to have a phone call, or have an actual phone call. Whichever works best for you.
Finally, as an aside, did anyone see Michael McDonald singing the national anthem before game 3 of the NBA Finals last night? "If I have to hear Yamo Be There one more time, I'm going to Yamo burn this place to the ground."
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
The events of Saturday night as told through quotes from the movie "Spaceballs"
This should be fun. Leah and I decided to grab dinner before heading to my favorite Irish pub in the French Quarter. (Is it weird that I go to an Irish place in the French Quarter? Is that culturally acceptable?)
We're at Cafe Roma, around 10:30ish or so, and the Half Moon is right across the street. I look up after dinner and see a guy come out and start yelling at another guy who just got into car. The outside guy's friends are holding him back as the car speeds away.
Here's where the movie quotes kick in...
"We've been jammed. Strawberry!"
The guy outside of the car (we'll call him the victim), I notice his shirt is red, looking like someone dumped strawberry jam all over him. Then I notice it's coming from the back of his head. This is turning into the best dinner I've had since my grandfather accused me of being gay at Thanksgiving in 2002.
He sits down and a good samaritan (or a really large chick who was drunk and felt like she needed to give him first aid) sits down and starts taking the victim's pulse. I still haven't figured out why.
Leah says something about a tire iron. So, I have deduced that this guy got into a fight, the other guy came back in and whacked him over the head, then got the hell out of there.
"Listen, it's not that we're afraid, your majesty. Far from it. It's just that we've got this thing with death; it's not us."
The first NOPD officer to show up is female. She gets there about 5 minutes after this starts. She doesn't even get out of the car. She wants no part of this. She takes off. I figured an ambulance has been called, but it's been five minutes and no sign of said rescue vehicle.
"What did you find?" "Nothing, sir." "Nothing, sir." "We didn't find shit."
The second wave of NOPD show up. Two guys get out and get the story, then proceed to, what I like to call, slack-ass for awhile around the scene. Still, no ambulance, until 15 minutes later...
Ludicrous speed!
The ambulance shows up. The victim apparently has some really nice (or bored, or drunk) friends as one of them helps bring the stretcher out to the guy, then helps him on, then puts it back on the ambulance. All the while, one of the EMTs is on the cell phone, smoking a cigarette, probably asking his wife/girlfriend/life partner when the expiration date is on the milk in the refrigerator at home.
Ok, that's my story. It probably sucked because the more I think about it, the more I think it's a "you had to be there" kind of things. But, in hindsight, you're the idiot who spent 10 minutes reading it, thinking it would have some kind of redeeming value. You haven't learned yet that anything in my life has absolutely no redeeming value.
I pity your exsistence.
We're at Cafe Roma, around 10:30ish or so, and the Half Moon is right across the street. I look up after dinner and see a guy come out and start yelling at another guy who just got into car. The outside guy's friends are holding him back as the car speeds away.
Here's where the movie quotes kick in...
"We've been jammed. Strawberry!"
The guy outside of the car (we'll call him the victim), I notice his shirt is red, looking like someone dumped strawberry jam all over him. Then I notice it's coming from the back of his head. This is turning into the best dinner I've had since my grandfather accused me of being gay at Thanksgiving in 2002.
He sits down and a good samaritan (or a really large chick who was drunk and felt like she needed to give him first aid) sits down and starts taking the victim's pulse. I still haven't figured out why.
Leah says something about a tire iron. So, I have deduced that this guy got into a fight, the other guy came back in and whacked him over the head, then got the hell out of there.
"Listen, it's not that we're afraid, your majesty. Far from it. It's just that we've got this thing with death; it's not us."
The first NOPD officer to show up is female. She gets there about 5 minutes after this starts. She doesn't even get out of the car. She wants no part of this. She takes off. I figured an ambulance has been called, but it's been five minutes and no sign of said rescue vehicle.
"What did you find?" "Nothing, sir." "Nothing, sir." "We didn't find shit."
The second wave of NOPD show up. Two guys get out and get the story, then proceed to, what I like to call, slack-ass for awhile around the scene. Still, no ambulance, until 15 minutes later...
Ludicrous speed!
The ambulance shows up. The victim apparently has some really nice (or bored, or drunk) friends as one of them helps bring the stretcher out to the guy, then helps him on, then puts it back on the ambulance. All the while, one of the EMTs is on the cell phone, smoking a cigarette, probably asking his wife/girlfriend/life partner when the expiration date is on the milk in the refrigerator at home.
Ok, that's my story. It probably sucked because the more I think about it, the more I think it's a "you had to be there" kind of things. But, in hindsight, you're the idiot who spent 10 minutes reading it, thinking it would have some kind of redeeming value. You haven't learned yet that anything in my life has absolutely no redeeming value.
I pity your exsistence.
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Dispatches from a coffee shop in Slidell...
Welcome to the wonderful world of working on the road. I'm at some coffee house in Slidell. Like any good man in a relationship, I'm just using her for the free internet. To hell with her coffee, it does nothing for me.
Let me add something to the long, long, my God, long, list of things I dislike. Loud crying babies in public. I know babies are going to cry and a moderate volume is reasonable. But, sweet Jesus in the morning, if this baby sitting at the table next to me doesn't shut up with this jet-engine style crying, I'm going to let a few explitives fly.
Here's something that should warm your heart: Hurricane season started today. Am I worried? No.
I got a little homesick yesterday for Hattiesburg. A putrid smell filled the air all night around my house in New Orleans. Reminded me of when I could smell the chicken plant when I lived downtown in Hattiesburg.
Yesterday at work, an old man asked me to dump his urinal cup out in the bushes for him. Seriously, it's a glamourous job, so much so that I think I need groupies.
Let me add something to the long, long, my God, long, list of things I dislike. Loud crying babies in public. I know babies are going to cry and a moderate volume is reasonable. But, sweet Jesus in the morning, if this baby sitting at the table next to me doesn't shut up with this jet-engine style crying, I'm going to let a few explitives fly.
Here's something that should warm your heart: Hurricane season started today. Am I worried? No.
I got a little homesick yesterday for Hattiesburg. A putrid smell filled the air all night around my house in New Orleans. Reminded me of when I could smell the chicken plant when I lived downtown in Hattiesburg.
Yesterday at work, an old man asked me to dump his urinal cup out in the bushes for him. Seriously, it's a glamourous job, so much so that I think I need groupies.
Thursday, May 25, 2006
Finally...
Some random thoughts as I consider how I'm going to evacuate New Orleans or buy a boat for the hurricane season...
I can't tell you how much I feel like a bad-ass when I'm driving my company car (a 2004 Crown Victoria) and "Hypnotize" by the Nortorious B.I.G. is blaring. It's just so great and bad-ass and just...bad-ass.
Going to Jazz Fest, good. Almost getting arrested at Jazz Fest, wouldn't recommend it.
The complete opposite of what you think has happened...I actually go out LESS in New Orleans than I did in Hattiesburg. Money is a factor. Having the hours of a normal operating human being is probably contributing too.
I've yet to play Powerball.
I've yet to eat really good creole/cajun food since I've been here.
I haven't picked up a "yat" accent yet, but I am starting to say "How you makin'?" a lot.
Apparently in the past two months I've started to "make" groceries.
There's a five-pound tub of cookie dough in my fridge that I bought from some woman at work who was selling if for her kid's school. What am I going to do with it? Probably gain about 20 pounds.
There's an expiration date on milk for a reason.
The fact that I have the entire first season of "It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia" on my video iPod makes me more horny than any woman ever could.
That above statement is not really true.
Who am I kidding? Yes it is.
Now that I've finally updated, I think I'll do it more often, because I know people who read this have nothing to do.
I can't tell you how much I feel like a bad-ass when I'm driving my company car (a 2004 Crown Victoria) and "Hypnotize" by the Nortorious B.I.G. is blaring. It's just so great and bad-ass and just...bad-ass.
Going to Jazz Fest, good. Almost getting arrested at Jazz Fest, wouldn't recommend it.
The complete opposite of what you think has happened...I actually go out LESS in New Orleans than I did in Hattiesburg. Money is a factor. Having the hours of a normal operating human being is probably contributing too.
I've yet to play Powerball.
I've yet to eat really good creole/cajun food since I've been here.
I haven't picked up a "yat" accent yet, but I am starting to say "How you makin'?" a lot.
Apparently in the past two months I've started to "make" groceries.
There's a five-pound tub of cookie dough in my fridge that I bought from some woman at work who was selling if for her kid's school. What am I going to do with it? Probably gain about 20 pounds.
There's an expiration date on milk for a reason.
The fact that I have the entire first season of "It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia" on my video iPod makes me more horny than any woman ever could.
That above statement is not really true.
Who am I kidding? Yes it is.
Now that I've finally updated, I think I'll do it more often, because I know people who read this have nothing to do.
