Tuesday, June 9, 2009

Random Weirdness: Good joke?

Okay... so here's another site I visit occasionally: Ping Pong Balls

The premise is that they post the punch line, and you have to write the joke. Here's my recent post there.

-----

I went with a friend to a new restaurant, decked out in 80's style, covered in pictures and screen shots from various 80's sit coms. It was pretty wild looking, neon colors against bright white tile floors. I took a look at the menu and saw that all of the food was named after the same characters, celebrities and shows I grew up with as a kid.

The waiter checked in. "Can I get you anything to drink right away?"

"What's the Diff'rent Strokes Shake?" I asked.

"It's half vanilla, half chocolate," he smiled.

We ordered. I got a Cheers Beer and my buddy got a Miami Vice on Ice.

Before long, we got our drinks... and I was still trying to decide on what to eat.

The waiter approached again for our order.

"What's that," I asked, pointing at the table next to us.

"That's the A-Team. It's a half-pound burger with everything, served with a heaping pile of bullet fries and onion grenades."

"And that?" I asked, pointing again.

"The MacGyver. It's whatever the cook can find in the kitchen all put together to look like a homemade bomb, served with M*A*S*H potatoes."

"Oh, THAT looks pretty good," I said, pointing again.

"That's the Dukes of Hazzard. A big slab of Boss Hogg Hamm, Roscoe P. Coleslaw, and we can throw in a jar of Uncle Jesse's Moonshine for five bucks more."

Just then, a tubby, naked man with orange goo dripping from the top of his head ran over and sat next to a surprised customer.

"Holy hell!" I said.

"Don't worry," said the waiter. "That's just the Mr. Belvedere with cheese."

Thursday, May 21, 2009

Random Thought: Ping pong balls...

Last night I had an amazingly funny visual in my head...

A Tyrannosaurus Rex playing ping pong. 

And by the picture, I guess I'm not the only one!

But I'm thinking I could probably beat a T-Rex at ping pong.  I have pretty quick reflexes, and I can also can put some wicked english on the ball.

I think T -- or maybe it's Mr. T -- would have more than a few tactical disadvantages.  With that huge body and those little tiny arms, I'm guessing he'd be fairly slow in the game.

His intimidation factor is fucking huge though.

So maybe the real question isn't whether I could beat a T-Rex.  Maybe the question is, should anyone want to beat a T-Rex at ping pong?

Maybe we should make it best of 3 games.  That way I could kick his ass once and see how badly he takes it.  I'll bet those fuckers are pretty sore losers.

Friday, May 15, 2009

Travel: A little BBQ in ABQ...

So I'm looking around from the tiny bar area, waiting for someone to order a Fruit Loop, and I'm thinking, 'this is actually one of those cool parties you don't see everyday...'

My sister has always been a big pain in the ass.  It's true.  She's my big sister, and helped raise me... even though I'm only two and a half years her junior.  She was the one that stood up to a bully in the playground for me, but I think that was because she wanted to keep the beatings for herself.

And when the parents split up when I was 4, we stuck together a little tighter than normal.  And when she was off being a wild teen, I covered for her when I could.  Of course there were a few years in there where we couldn't really stand each other, but it didn't last too long.

And then, after three years of being mostly apart, we lived across the street from each other in shabby, small apartments in Uptown Minneapolis.  It was weird, but it allowed us to connect again.

And now she's been living in Albuquerque for quite some time.  Sometimes I go back to the days when we lived across the street from each other when we would play hacky sack on a small patch of grass near the sidewalk.  Or maybe relive some childhood adventure, like one of the road trips we took as goofy kids.

Don't get me wrong.  I love her to death, but she's still a pain in the ass.

Because she's my big sis, she's also part mom.  Now that she's curbed her rebellious ways, she's more responsible than ever.  She has two dogs, a wonderful husband, a job she alternately loves and hates, and a great big fucking house.

So when she asked in March when I was coming down to Albuquerque, I gave her my usual noncommittal grunt.  Of course I had just come back from Key West, and I think I was still partially buzzed off of all the booze we drank.

When she asked in early April, I gave yet another grunt.  April means tax returns and putting your nose to the grindstone to make up for the cash the government took, finishing up your indoor projects and thinking about your outdoor projects.  While time off was probably needed, it just didn't sound good.

But when she asked later in April, I pulled the wife aside and said, "She's having a party."  That's usually all it takes.

What can I say?  I'm a party guy.

I don't know what it is about traveling, but somehow having a purpose works better for me than just hanging around.  And of course a party with people that I have never met before is intriguing.

My sister was having a party in her big fucking house, but this was a special party.

She bought her big fucking house about a year ago because it was a diamond in the rough, because it was going for cheap, because it was just right.  It was, for all intents and purposes, near perfect.  It has the main house part, spacious and airy, a casita (a separate little out building for those that don't speak Spanglish), a pool (unusual for NM), and a pond.  

A pond???  Fuck yeah, my friends.  A mother fucking pond.  Plus about 100 trees.  It's less of a big fucking house, and more of a moderately sized compound.

In Albuquerque they have a series of irrigation ditches that go way back to before the whities came in and tried to take over.  The ditches are still used a lot, and her house has water rights.  In a town that gets an annual rainfall of under 12", every drop of water is sacred.  That is unless you live on the ditch.

Then you can afford to say, "Fuck all y'all.  I have a pool AND a pond.  The pond would be good for you."  This especially works well when looking down your nose at the recipient.

So she bought the place a year ago, and has been working on it non-stop.  It needed quite a bit of McLovin.  The biggest projects were building the casita into a fully functioning separate living area... kind of a mother-in-law suite of sorts.

The other project was remodeling the kitchen.  It had all the original cabinets from the 70's, and I think we all know how good folks were about interior design back then.  This kitchen was... rustic.

Well, now that the major projects are done, we were celebrating.  But here's the thing...

The only people invited were the ones that helped on the projects.  That means that the designer, general contractor, realtor, friends that helped move, ones that house sat and dog sat while they were trying to sell the old house, and family that supported them through it all.  Even the fucking granite counter sales girl got an invite.  I know I'm missing folks, but you get the idea.

I'm not sure which I'm surprised by more: that my sis invited all these "social strangers" into the house, or that she actually worked with pretty damn cool people on these projects.  Either way, I'm impressed.

Of course maybe these people were so cool because I was dumping huge amounts of booze into their systems.  You see, while sis was playing hostess, I was playing bartender.  I had made up a small menu of drinks I was willing to make, and as it turned out, the two "homemade" recipes were the biggest hit.

The drinks of choice?

The first is the Tim Fizz, named after its creator, my bro-in-law.  Think of a good margarita and take away all that sweetened bar sour shit and add some club soda.  That's basically what that is.

The second drink of choice is my own concoction called the Fruit Loop, which is basically a spruced up vodka cran that isn't quite as sweet and has bubbles.  I called it the Fruit Loop because it smells similarly to the breakfast cereal.  Go figure!

Both got plenty of compliments.  Some actually argued over which was better.  Hey, people, they're both doing their jobs, so shut the fuck up and party!

Toward the end of the night, everyone was properly watered... except the granite counter girl.  I could tell what she really wanted to say to me (and everyone else) was that she loved me (and everyone else).  Ah, we were all drunk at 5,000 feet above sea level, but I was more impressed with myself (being a "low lander" and all).  (I wonder how many sentences in a row I can have parenthetical notes without it becoming annoying.)

(Too late.  I'm fucking annoyed.)

But all in all, it was a good excuse to get outta Dodge for a bit and recharge.  Of course, when I got back to Minnesota it was 65 degrees outside, a hell of a long way from the 95 in ABQ.  I called up my sister immediately and told her she ruined spring for me, as I was wearing pants and long sleeves.  Asshole.

Want the recipes for those drinks?  Tough shit.  Invite me over for a party.  I'll play bartender.

Friday, May 1, 2009

Opinion: Fuck you, poli-bloggers!

[Note: I know this is a break from the regular format.  Please let me know what you think, but I will return to my more fun self soon, I promise.  Either that or I'll be bitter the rest of my fucking life... time will tell.]

I knew it was going to happen, and now I feel like I must voice my opinion on something.  Like the old man with a newly installed penis pump said to the call girl, "Better fucking stand back, I'm not sure how big this thing will get!"

Punditry must be smothered swiftly in its sleep.  More specifically, FOX News, MSNBC and any other "news" station that litters their air waves with intolerance.  I'm not going to play sides here, as I think they've both been playing far too much in recent years.

You see, I come from a background in actual journalism, not this piss-water yellow "journalism" and hate speech uttered by both the left and the right.  And, yes, I have issues.

It's true that the reporter's job is to cover events from a non-partisan point of view.  And it's an anchor's job to put these stories in some sort of context that everyone can grasp.  But it is not and should not be to play both instigator and referee to two douche bags fighting on national television.

Fuck that.  I'm done.

Maybe it's just that I love the art broadcasting, intellectual insight and proactive discussions on issues that affect people.  And, it is a fucking art.  You can have your paint brushes, and I'll take my laptop and let's see who can make a bigger impact.  Just as I said to the art hippies in college, "Get the fuck outta my way!"

Of course, I was severely hung over at the time and was about to spew chunks all over them if they didn't move.  But they didn't know that.

See?  It's about context.

I often wonder about what some of the great broadcasters would think of the current state of cable news programs.  Murrow, Sevareid, even Rather, Brocaw and Jennings -- you know, NEWS guys -- might think these stations have stepped over the edge into a swirling black hole of anti-news.

The stupid thing is, no one is trying to deny it.  Everyone knows it's mind-numbing pablum meant to entertain and not necessarily inform.  But I thought that's why The Daily Show was created!

Unfortunately, this type of irresponsibility on top of technological innovation has given birth to other forms of severely skewed intolerance and hate speech.  Political blogging (the poli-blog) has become easy for many... maybe a little too easy.

There are the big blogs like TPM, Huffington Post, The Drudge Report.  They spew their own garbage, but at least you know exactly where they're coming from and they don't try to make their news into something that resembles a traffic accident on the freeway.  

But many of these folks just maintain their own little blogs kind of like mine, only more politically based.  Small, unassuming, with a cute title of some sort.  You gotta admit Pat@Play is at least marginally cute, right?

They spew out their vile opinions like Detroit spitting out cars no one wants to buy.  The big difference between the little guys and the big guys is that the majority of little guys don't have a background in journalism, writing, or politics.  And many of them so obviously get their news from... cable "news" outlets.

It's not the views I mind, necessarily.  Hell, if you want to start an argument that's cool by me.  Tell me your reasons why midget porn should be in every classroom -- but make it fucking GOOD.  A couple of witless paragraphs using outdated sources and a damaged frontal lobe will not be good enough!

Fuck you, idiot poli-bloggers!  Fuck you for wasting my time.  Fuck you for wasting any effort I've spent reading your shitty articles, responding to your inane buffoonery in hopes that I might see even an ounce of brilliance in your dull, dull brain.

But, in the end, I know it's not really your fault.  You thought it would be fun and easy to keep a regular post about political issues.  I mean, sure you don't have any particular skills or knowledge at doing such... you just wanted in on the conversation.

A word of advice to all you inexperienced journalism hacks out there.  Learn how to think critically.  Learn how to structure an argument.  Learn the fucking English language.  Know the difference between there, their and they're... or personnel vs. personal.  Know a fucking adverb from an adjective.

Either that, or at least learn to be funny.  Fuck.

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Blogger's Blog: The blogoblog...

Don't worry, I haven't run out of stuff to write about, but I decided to give my stories about pain a rest for a little while in order to freshen up my brain. This really is more of a reset for me, as getting stuck in any kind of a rut, even a relatively good one, is still a fucking rut.

So I went to this stupid website that a managed to stumble on called plinky. It's pretty lame from a social networking viewpoint. However, it does supply a bunch of insipid and flavorless stuff to keep your mind busy. I thought I might answer a couple of these prompts in my own style... we'll see where this leads.

Probably straight to hell.

Plinky says: What are the warning signs that you should leave a party?

I say: Plinky, why the fuck do you wanna know? What are ya, a cop or something? I'm not that drunk, you lazy bastard. You wanna fight about it?

That's when the wife pulls me out of the party.

Actually, I'm a laid back drunk. Oh sure, I'll spill stuff all over myself and slur my words. But I'm the funny drunk. You know, the one with the bright red nose with little bubbles coming out of his mouth that say "hic!"

If there's a party, I'm staying till I drive everyone else away.  Unless the wife pulls me out.  Nothing I can do about that one!

Plink-o says: Animal face off! Who would win in a fight between a gorilla and a pack of hyenas?

I say: That's a false fucking choice. Everyone knows what the most feared creature is in the entire universe. And it's a helluva lot scarier than that little alien mouth that was inside that big alien mouth in Alien.

First of all, where would this supposed fight take place, and how would it start? I mean this is just pure and utter nonsense, as they both live in separate climates, and gorillas would (or at least could) go into the trees and never even be seen by this pack of hyenas. It's barely plausible. Fuck you, Plinky.

But let's just say, for the argument, that some kind of large ape got launched into the hyena paddock at the zoo or some such shit. No trees or anything to climb on, and these hyenas haven't been fed in a week or two. The battle begins. Of course, their motives are completely different, as one wants to escape and the other wants fresh meat.  So again, the argument is completely fucked up.

So they start fighting. The gorilla would probably start it off by beating the ground with his fists. And when one of those little fuckers comes in for a nip, this gorilla would pick it up and launch it toward the others.

After that, the hyenas would probably leave the ol' gorilla alone, don't you think?

That's when a bear holding a shark would come in, killing and eating everything in site. Man, nothing gives me nightmares more than bears holding sharks. They're wicked killers on land AND water.

Plunky says: What three songs do you wish you could erase from your memory?

I say: Fuck. Only three? C'mon... I worked in radio for fuck's sake!!!

The first one I would erase is Neil Diamond's "Sweet Caroline." You can get the whole fucking story about that one here.

Fuck you, Neil.  I have a life to live.

The next one would have to be "Red Rubber Ball," a hit from 1966 by The Cyrkle.  First, the band name is the shittiest one in the history of all band names, with the except of the band I was in during high school, Tosti Drexfab.  I still to this day don't know why we called ourselves that.  It was 1990... things were way more fucked up then.  At least for me they were.

The second reason to eliminate this song comes from when I worked at an Oldies station, and that song managed to lodge itself in my brain for four fucking days.  Have you ever had a shitty song stuck in your head for that long?  Here's how I tried to get it out of my head.

I listened to the radio constantly (but that was part of my fucking job, of course) trying to shut it out.  I'd get away from the speakers, and that sickeningly sweet melody would pop right back in my head.  I tried reading, writing, anything and everything to occupy my brain.  But as soon as my mind was remotely clear, that beat would bounce right back.  It was a boomerang song... the harder I tried to throw it away, the quicker it came back to me.  

Fuck you, Paul Simon, for writing that piece of shit.

Third song to eliminate from the anals of history (yes, I misspelled it on purpose... fuck you, spell check!), isn't really a song.  It's a group of songs.  Bubblegum pop has got to go.  From all eras.  There is nothing more sickening to my soul than everything in that group from The Turtles to the fucking Jo-Bros.  

I'm sorry, but "Henry the Eighth" is not a song, it's a musical witticism that's repeated so much that I wanted to actually strangle Peter Noone when I met him in 1998.  He's a nice guy, but his song is pure evil.  

And, do you really care what it's going to be like in the year 3000?  You'll be dead!  Stop it already guys, and take off those stupid fucking rings.  Oh sorry, the stupid no-we're-not-fucking rings.  You're confusing and sad.

Plucky says:  What will you do when the zombies come?

I say:  Now this question I take as theological, really.  According to the New Testament, we already had one zombie uprising on an Easter long ago.  I'm not sure how they shot him in the head, as gunpowder really wasn't used much, but nonetheless it happened.  Amen.

And when the great and powerful Zombie Jesus escaped from the cave, he thus spoketh, "Brains" in slurred speech.  God smote him right there and then, putting him at his right side so he could keep an eye on the fucker.  I think that's a quote from the Book of Revelation, though I may be wrong.


And still a lot of folks celebrate the zombie uprising that took place some 2000 or so years ago.

When the zombie uprising of 2027 happens, I'm going to be ready.  I've already got tons of sharp implements at my home.  Chainsaw, axes, knives, CDs.  Hell, I'd probably chuck all the CD's at 'em first since they're really only backup if my hard drive kicks out on me.

I could also sharpen up one of my guitars if needed.  But really, that would be a last resort, as it may effect the sound... and who wants a funny sounding guitar?

But this brings up a point, people.  Really, you should consider being cremated, unless you want to participate in the next zombie uprising.  I've already made that decision... as I've said before, I'm not a fighter.  I'd be dead one second, living dead the next, and then re-dead about a minute later after some random nerd pummels me into the ground with a stack of books or something.  That's just spending way too much energy just for a moment of reanimation.  It's silly.

Speaking of silly... so is this post.  But when asked ridiculous questions, I have a tendency to respond in kind.  So, again, I say fuck you, Plinky.  May you rot in hell.

Tuesday, April 14, 2009

Health Care: Life at da club...

Another week, another beat down.  But this time I found it difficult to walk out of da club, and was considering my options.

My problem wasn't that I wanted the exercise to stop, but rather that I actually found it difficult to maintain a standing or walking position.  My balance was shot and my muscles burned deeply.

I arrived a little early so that I could jump on an elliptical or a bike for a few minutes to warm up.  The wife had decided not to come, as she was planning on dusting off her Jane Fonda-ish workout video and giving it yet another shot.

"But who's going to drive me home?" I begged.

She then reminded me that I did have a cell phone, and that we only lived minutes from da club.  Bitch.  Pain is much easier to deal with when you have someone to whine to immediately after the experience.  Doesn't she fucking know that?

I saw Danny when I was all ready to go, and he passed me off to Brendan.  I knew it was going to happen sooner or later.

There are two kinds of employees down at the trainers' desk.  There are the black shirts and the blue shirts.  It's kind of like Star Trek in that way.  If you try to think of everything in terms of Star Trek, life does become a little easier.

Until you try to explain it to normal people.  Then it's kind of... weird.

The black shirts are the leads.  They sell the "all the pain you can take and more" packages, start the training so they can analyze your needs and your style to find the right blue shirt for you.

The blue shirts are the trainers.  Generally speaking, they don't have as much personality and are not nearly as fun as the social butterflies that are known as the black shirts.  And of course I'm taking that from my vast knowledge of blue shirts I've talked to.  Two.

When this had all clicked in my brain, I realized something.  And in the Star Trek context, it's perhaps the worst thing ever.  I was wearing a red shirt, and this is technically an away mission.


Fuck me running.

My new blue shirt friend is a professional Martial Arts fighter, and has been for 9 years.  He looks like he's barely old enough to drink and weighed roughly 8 lbs, 4 oz., but what the fuck do I know about that?

The only real "fight" I was in lasted for about a tenth of a second.  However, the teasing afterward went on for about a week.

I was in high school.  One of my football teammates (you know the one... the asshole of the team), started talking to me and my actual friends on a Saturday night at the local hang out.  I was drunk, because hey... it was Saturday night and I wanted to get a jump start on training for college and beyond.

He gave me shit for it since we were only 16, and I told him to go to hell (I think).  He pushed me, and my head hit the wall of a building and I was done.  

Yes, I cried.

Not a great story, I'll admit.  But when I see this guy at the 20 year reunion, I'll wait until he's drunk and then blindly try to punch him in the face, shrieking like a little bitch, "Who's the loser now, asshole?"  

But I'll be drunk too, so maybe I need to come up with a different plan.  I definitely need to get in better shape.  At least I've got a year to train for it.

"I'm not a professional fighter," I said to the blue shirt.  "I'm an amateur lover."  I'm so witty.

I don't know whether he just didn't get it or if he was ignoring me.

"Though I have been thinking of going pro."

Crickets.

This blue shirt had all the personality of an on duty cop.  What a hard ass.

So the blue shirt beat me down like only a redshirt knows how to take... and I think that would be a great title for a country song, at least in the Star Trek realm.  And at Sci Fi Conventions.  Whether you call them Trekkies or Trekkers or Trekkors, they're still fucking geeks, and they just eat up shit like that.

Taking a cue from last week's beating, I decided to go to the strongest part of my body, my legs.

As a side note, during my evaluation, Danny (the black shirt) was surprised by my leg strength.  I did a max of about 330 lbs. on the leg press.  However, I think he was also equally confused by my lack of arm strength.  So maybe it all evens out in the end.

I've always had solid legs.  I get that trait from my dad's side of the family, who are mostly all "sturdy" folk.  Let's just put it this way... none of them are wearing skinny jeans, even the skinny ones.  

I tried on skinny jeans once (when I was skinny) and felt like I was going to burst out of them like the fucking Hulk, only I would have been the Incredible Albino Hulk -- or the Great White Hulk, which I think sounds a little more ominous.

Though, does the name really matter if you can't fight and are prone to cry easily and often?  Might as well be the Great White Hulking Mass of Grown Up Baby.

The blue shirt took me around the gym, beating my legs senselessly.  Or maybe it was sensefully, as it was with purpose.  

Either way, it still fucking hurt.

It was kind of a blur.  I remember lots of different modified lunge positions, a large step, squats, leg curls and more lunges.  Of course, all were done in combination with each other, multiplying the pain factor by 10 to the sixth power.

We finished it all off with a tough but fairly light core workout on the mat, and we were done.  I was breathing heavily, my red shirt drenched in sweat, but didn't feel nearly as shitty as the week before.

Then I tried to get up.

Then I thought about what it would be like to just stay there until I could stand.  

Then I thought about staying the night.

I figured that I could sleep on the mats, though I'd probably need a blanket or a fire... or a different fucking shirt that wasn't completely fucking drenched.  I looked like I had just been in a water park with a half-day pass.

Considering I was a redshirt, I knew that if I stayed I was doomed for sure.  I'd get eaten by an invisible creature or get a laser beam to my brain.  Either that or one of the gym's numerous cougar population would surely devour me, most likely out of sheer desperation.  

Especially the mother of all cougars.  The wife and I can't help but notice her in da club every single time we go.  She prowls around, always in a different tight outfit to show off the hardened muscles under her leathery, over tanned skin.  That, combined with her bleach blonde hair and the creepy vibe she throws off (kind of a cross between a realtor and an axe murderer, or Suze Orman), she has come to be one of the ones to watch (out for) at da club.

And, like the wild cats in the fucking zoo, she has a particular route she always takes in her lair.  She walks from the classroom, winding around through the machines to the main aisle so she can get a look in the free weights section, bounding up the stairs to scope out the ellipticals and bikes before grabbing one of the treadmills.  Then she'll hop off the treadmill and head back down the steps to stop at the basketball court, walk past the racquetball courts (especially during the weekly tourneys) and walk back to the classroom.

I'm never sure if she's looking to find a free machine or if she's looking at the people.  Though I usually feel violated in some way when she breezes past me.  

But if I remained on the mat, I don't think she'd be able to resist a helpless, brightly colored animal.  And I don't think my wimpy arms or terrible fighting skills would help any.  I had to get up.  

So I pushed off and wobbled up on my feet like a fucking newborn foal.  I then proceeded back to the trainers' desk, walking like I just had my first colonoscopy (or a really shocking time at a roadside rest area).

I thanked my blue shirt for kicking my ass without killing me and scheduled my next beating.  I can already tell this is going to be... fun.  Riiiiiiight.

Wednesday, April 8, 2009

Health Care: Getting a beat down...

"I think this will be more informational than anything else," I said as we walked toward the door.

"Oh," she said, looking a little confused.

"So who knows? Maybe I'll join you when I'm done."

She nodded, whipped out her key card and threw it in front of the scanner. As the machine beeped, I pulled my card out from my sweatshirt pocket, waited for the beep and followed behind her.

After going up to the desk, I filled out some paperwork, thinking about the events that led me here, my goals and aspirations... you know, all that standard fru fru shit you think about when trying something new.

I wish I had thought harder about the pain.

The worst ongoing torture I've ever suffered was at the hands of my sixth grade gym teacher, Mr. Melonich. And no, his fucking name wasn't John, and I never wished to be be him. He's really not even one ounce of cool.

Mr. Melonich was a forty something guy with a beer gut and greased back hair full of Grecian Formula. He also always wore blue polyester trainer shorts -- the same kind you'll see trainers and coaches wearing on the sidelines at football games... any football games for you foreign fuckers, even soccer.

He was, for lack of a better term, both a hard ass and a crack pot. And I think he subjected us to the same torture as he received as a POW in Viet Nam. I don't know if he was actually in the war, but I can at least imagine him in a movie about that war. He's the guy that breaks from the pressure and leaps up screaming, firing his goddamn gun in every direction as he runs through the jungle, never to be seen again.

The torture he made us endure: Neil Diamond.

To start off every session of gym class, we had to do the same fucking thing over and over and over and over and over and over and over again. It was a warm up, he said. But I think this unimaginative asshole thought his brand of consistency didn't stink. Think again, you fuck nut wing job. Or is the phrase fuck wing nut job? Either way, he was plenty nuts.

When we entered into the gym for class, he would be waiting for us with his record player out, his itchy trigger finger on the needle just dying for us to take our places. We would stand in lines, a couple of feet from each other, and that familiar beat would ring through our ears and into our brain pans. We would wince as we started stepping.

"Right, two, three, four. Left, two, three, four," he chimed, watching us dance. It wasn't just some aerobic workout he made up just for the kids in his class. It wasn't just any Neil Diamond song.

He made us perform the Electric Slide to "Sweet Caroline." Every fucking day we had gym class.

I still can't listen to that song without thinking back to how I really wanted to break that stupid record over Mr. Melonich's head, shoving the shards into his skin and telling him to dance like a shit-throwing monkey. Yeah, I know that sounds over the top, but even as I write this my blood starts to bubble harkening back to "ye good olde days."

Actually, maybe I'll try to look him up after all these years and tie him to a chair for 8 hours and play that fucking song over and over and over and over and over and over and over again. It'll be just like he's back in Viet Nam... or at least back on the movie set.

Then there was my football coach, Mr. Soukup. It sounds like "soup cup," without the P. Actually, I wouldn't mind peeing in his soup cup and watching him drink it down for all the pain I've suffered on his orders.

He would grab my face mask with two fingers and pull me close to his head just so I could watch it explode all over me. He barked his orders in a rough, gravelly voice not unlike that of a seasoned war general. "When I tell you to do sumthin, you DO it! Now get in that B gap, you son of a buck!"

"Son of a buck" was that guy's catch phrase. He might as well have said "flibberty jibbet" or "monkey moots." Everytime he got on a rampage though, the entire team was saying, "Mother fucking piss cock whore-ass butt-munching fruit-tard!"

I played as a backup guard in 9th and 10th grade football, and after two years of hell with Mr. Soukup, I opted out of continuing my high school football career. Well, that and I hurt both my fucking knees doing tackle drills and wind sprints and shit like that. But i was only ever hurt in practice, as I usually only saw about two minutes of game time each week.

Did I mention that I sucked at football too? I didn't suck as hard as, say, fucking basketball... but I still sucked.

One of Mr. Soukup's favorite things to do was nothing short of pure evil. The practice field was atop a steep hill just beyond the high school's parking lot. It was probably a forty foot climb to the top, at roughly a 40º angle.

With all of our pads on in the heat of the August 2-a-days, he would have us crab walk up that entire stretch. A crab walk, for those that don't have a fucking clue as to the torture this could be, is when you "walk" using your hands and feet with your chest facing up toward the sky instead of the far more comfortable way with your chest toward the dirt.

This asshole wouldn't just make us run it once either. We crab walked up the hill, head pointing uphill -- which is tolerable as a stand alone exercise. However, we would then be forced back down the hill to crab walk with our heads pointing downhill.

Our arms gave out. Our brains melted. We spat up blood. We died. But no one bitched. If you bitched, you ran it twice more. I wasn't going to run it any more than I fucking had to. I'd see some of the other assholes I rode the bench with try to speak up only to be sent back down the hill as the rest of the players watched. Like failing the first time wasn't humiliating enough!

Other than that, though, my life has been pretty clear of people who offer me pain. Maybe a little too clear.

So, I made an appointment at my gym for a trainer.

It seemed to me to be the next logical step in my evolution. I've reached a point in my life where I was going to set a healthy goal. In part, this is because I've changed my life from when I could eat anything I wanted to eating reasonably well. At first I did this so that I could drink more -- why spend all those calories on food when it only hampers your buzz? Then I started eating less so I could drink more because I was too fucking fat and I wasn't about to stop drinking.

Maybe I should have stopped eating all together, to concentrate on just drinking. I digress.

But I recently made a commitment, which I know others my age have made all the time. They continue to make the empty promises and new year's resolutions to get into shape... other than round, that is. But I had never made this commitment to myself before. It actually felt exactly like the time I quit smoking, that mental switch just clicked on and I knew I was ready.

That, and I'm 37 years old and I still don't know how to use the fucking gym.

So I made my appointment with Danny, the buff model superstar athlete quarterback asshole. But he seemed like a nice guy. He actually looked like he stepped off the set of a workout video. He was a little too tan, his teeth glowed a little too white, and he was packed full of knowledge, energy, and optimism.

So yeah. I hated him pretty much right away.

We chatted, and he told me everything I already knew about health clubs and routines.

"We don't do routines here," he said.

"You want to shock the system and be able to adjust and compensate for optimal performance, eh?" I said. He didn't hear me.

"We want to be able adjust everything for optimal performance and results," he smiled back, his gleeming teeth burning small holes in my retinas. "And sometimes we like to really shock the system and shake things up."

And that was twenty minutes of my life... listening to his infomercial on why personal trainers rocked serious monkey cock.

He led me along, me actually jumping three steps ahead of him in my mind. Yeah, yeah... let's get to the pricing already!

He didn't show me the pricing. Instead he decided to really, really hurt me. Badly. You don't know how painful it is to write today, actually. I never realized I used my triceps this much in order to push buttons.

He pulled me out of his little makeshift cubical and led me into the free weight section. I hadn't walked into the free weights on purpose since fucking high school. Of course, I looked the part too, especially in comparison to all the meat heads working out beside me.

I did the bench press, concentrating on the down motion instead of the up... after 10 reps, I did 10 pushups with my hands pushing on two medicine balls on the floor. My arms were already burning. Eight more reps on the bench press, 6 push ups, 5 more bench press.

My arms were fucking dead. We could have stopped there, but noooooooooooo.

He worked me out for a solid half hour, and with each passing moment, each set, each rep, each weight, my arms became mushy appendages attached loosely to my torso. It went beyond pain back into that numbing feeling some say they achieve just before death.

My face contorted into shapes I didn't know it could make as I grunted and panted my way through each exercise, staring into the mirror as I tried to block out everyone around me. Sweat poured off my head, leaving the floor as if some pregnant woman's water burst where I stood.

But I didn't quit, even when my body did. At one point toward the end, I was doing an alligator crawl, using one of those blow-up aerobic balls to slide on with my chest, pulling myself forward with my hands until only my knees were supported by the ball. Then I crawled back with my hands to a resting position. I went forward again on Danny's command.

"Now do two pushups."

What the FUCK do you mean by that???

My muscles felt like they had been put in a blender on puree for 10 minutes. They felt like they had been left in the Magic Bullet for a full 10 seconds. There was no fucking way...

I tried.

"One," he chimed.

My muscles burned so badly a small fire actually started. The sweat sheeting off my body quickly put it out.

I went down for the second pushup and my face almost hit the floor as I quickly rolled off the ball and lay back staring up at the ceiling. Bloody mother fucking douche bag asshole cock pushup!!!

I saw a white light through my bleary vision, and I thought about what a great life it had been. Well, it was at least better than some, I reasoned. I saw a shadow encroaching on my lighted tunnel to heaven. It was... Danny.

"It's okay," he smiled, staring down into my sweat drenched face on the sweat drenched floor. "I'm supposed to do that." He was ecstatic. "Let's move over here!"

Fuck you, Danny! I could think of nothing else I wanted to say to him. You're a real piece of shit, Danny! You come off as this nice Louisiana boy with great posture and perfect fucking teeth, but deep down you're a sadistic prick with a deep hatred and severe intolerance to people that maybe have a few pounds to lose. Okay, 30 pounds. Fuck you! 35!!!

The wife decided to present herself a couple of times during my workout. She was doing cardio. I wanted to be doing cardio. I wanted new goddamn arms. I also wanted her to drive us back home.

I needed her to drive us back home.

After a good beating, Danny likes to go back to the paperwork and talk about his packages. Well, not his packages, but the club's packages. His whole plan was to disorient, then pounce. He's like a cat that plays with a mouse before ending its life. He's like that deep water fish with the stupid fucking lightbulb on its head from Finding Nemo.

We talked about options, and I put up a little resistance here. I know he's looking out for what's best for the club while still trying to help me out. I know he's got a bottom line and projections and spread sheets and graphs and things like that, even if he won't let the public see them.

I wouldn't let him out-savvy me!

"Then we'll see you Thursday for your full evaluation," he said after another five minutes of wearing me down.

"See you Thursday. Assuming I can still move."

Asshole.

Tuesday, March 31, 2009

Reader's Choice: Kickin' it with the Prez...

[Editor's note: I took a vote of anyone who happened to happen on this site, and apparently people like to read about the absurd above all things. So here's a story that's completely that. Enjoy, and don't forget to vote on other crazy crap over in the sidebar!]

So, I had this thought about what it would be like to take an hour or so out of President Obama's busy schedule. What would we do? What would we talk about? What would happen?

Without basing any of my thoughts firmly in reality, the event has already taken place in my head... here are the details.

I walked into the Oval Office, led in by Rahm Emmanuel, to see the back of the president's chair behind the Resolute Desk as he looked out the very large windows and took an even larger breath... most likely in anticipation of yet another asshole that wanted to bend his ear about something and waste the time he could be spending on fixing all the shit going on in the world today.

He spun around slowly to see me wearing jeans, tennis shoes and a solid colored short sleeve t-shirt underneath a striped long sleeve button down shirt that was untucked and wrinkled. He was taken aback a bit, and a hint of confusion could be seen in his eyes. But he remained cool.

Rahm introduced me, telling the President I had won a crazy contest or some such shit... no one was really sure why I was there, only that I had an hour of his time.

"Even Hillary and Bill together don't get an hour," he said, not completely convinced of the situation. "Not even when there's a crisis overseas."

"Well, I don't know what to fuckin' tell you," I said. "Shit happens.  It's not like I'm asking you to be my Facebook friend or something."

He nodded and shrugged, begrudgingly accepting his fate for the next sixty minutes or however long it's going to take in order to tell this goddamn story. He glanced at his watch and stared back at me.

I sat down in one of the chairs facing his desk, reached out my arms, and started banging on some of the wood panels in front of me with the palms of my hands.

"Excuse me," he implored. "Just what are you doing?" He remained cool.

"Looking for fucking secret panels, what else? I saw Nick Cage doing all sorts of crazy things with this desk and wanted to check it out for myself."

"Ehhh... Look," he started, pausing for a couple of seconds. "I can assure you that this desk doesn't have any secret compartments or anything of the sort."

"Yeah, right. If it did, I'm sure you'd tell me, right?"

With a quick, hard look in his eyes, I knew I was right. I kept searching the desk until I was satisfied. Then I kicked back in the chair, gazing around the room to get a feel for it.

"Can I call you Barry?" I asked.

"I'd rather you didn't."

"Okay... Mr. President," I sniped back. "Let's get out of this office. It gives me the fucking creeps."

"Me too," he said, raising his eyebrows as if to call me a looney.

He clearly hated me already. Everything in his body language said he hated me, not that I could really blame him for it. Obviously his first impression of me wasn't awesome, but maybe I could turn him around without being a complete fucking psycho sycophant like all of his political butt-buddies that try to leach off his popularity, at least until his numbers start to go down.

I'm sorry, but I won't treat "famous" or "important" people any differently than I treat my friends. My friends are far more important to me than any person that I'll meet once in my life. Who gives a rat's ass what the President of the United States of America thinks about one guy?

We walked through the West Wing, the President showing me this room and that as he walked like his suit was over-starched. But he was cool. Kind of.

"If I wanted a fucking tour of the White House, I'd find a better guide. Let's do something fun."

He stopped in his tracks, and the level of contempt he had for me had just grown tenfold. He had that look that fathers give their kids when being completely unreasonable, just before they ask, "Well what the fuck do you want to do about it?" He was just about to lose his cool.

"How about some hoops?" I replied, watching as his face was tightening into crazy knots. "You know, a little one on one, a game or two of horse... whatever." He looked at me and shrugged in agreement. "Or we could go bowling. I think we both suck pretty hard at that. Though my top score is a 174."

He smiled rigidly, then shook his head and winced. Then his shoulders dropped as he regained a small sense of humor about everything and lightened the fuck up. I was just glad to be making a little bit of progress with the dude. We quickly changed and warmed up a bit, and were ready for action.

Of course when it came to playing basketball with the leader of the free world, I completely sucked ass. Then again, basketball really isn't my thing. I'm okay on defense, but offensively I can't do jack squat. I was guarding him all right, and got a few tough rebounds without managing to kill myself. And I was especially relieved when the secret service didn't get in the way when I gave him a couple of elbows to the rib cage.

I had the ball at the top of the key and checked it. He passed it back and I assumed the pre-dribble pose, moving the ball quickly to my hip, elbows out, ready for action. I pump faked the three pointer without a dribble and he didn't bite. Fuck.

So I dribbled out, and at first he backed off, giving me room to roam outside the three point line. I wasted some time there, looking for a way in. I knew that if I could try for a layup, there's about a 90% chance that I'd make it... though under pressure maybe it's more like 75%, maybe even less. But he was blocking the lane pretty well, plus he's taller than me and has a damn good reach.

Plus, he's good at the game and I suck big hairy moose cock.

I played hoops in Junior High (13-14 years old, for those folk who don't fully fucking understand the american school system), and was the point guard for the team. In two years I managed to score a whopping four points, half of which were made at the free throw line.  But I was still nicknamed after Kareem Abdul-Jabbar... I had the sports glasses.  Of course, with me they smashed the first syllables together so that I was Cream Abdul-Jabbar.  The alabaster skin didn't improve my rep.  

They also called me Casper.  Assholes.

I don't watch college hoops or the pros, and haven't been to watch a game since watching my little brother in high school a couple years back. I haven't even touched a basketball in more than a year, despite having a hoop above the garage doors at my house.

So when it came to my "move" on President Barrack Obama, I failed miserably. He rushed me, tipped and stripped the ball away from me, and otherwise humiliated me on the court. My shots were those of pre-schoolers compared to his smooth style. I would hurl and fling the ball toward the hoop watching it bounce off the rim (along with a few air balls) as he gracefully glided the ball into the net, swishing it elegantly.

But I did score once. I had the ball at the top of the key, and started talking smack. He had me beat on skill, but I knew that I had the range to say whatever the hell I wanted and he wouldn't be able to retort. Being President and all, he had to play it clean in the war of words.

"Barry," I taunted. "Which way am I gonna go... BARRY?"

He was getting flustered again, I just knew it.

"Dave Barry, Chuck Berry, Barry Manilow, Barry Sobel," I riffed.  "Ping pong balls?  I thought you said King Kong's balls!  Eh, Baaaaaaaaa-rryyyyyyy?"

"Now, look..."

"Look at what.... Baaaa-rryyyy? Cat got your fucking tongue, Baaaaaaaa-rryyyyyyy?"

"Please stop calling me Barry," he said sternly. "How about just plain old Barrack?"

"Okay... Baaaaaaaaaaa-rryyyyyyyyyy," I chanted.

He stood up, giving up his position to take the high moral ground. While he went back on his heels, I lurched forward, taking my first dribbles with my right hand while striking hard into him with my left shoulder as I made my way to the hoop for an easy layup.

I helped him to his feet wearing a smirk the size of Roseanne (formerly Barr)'s underpants. "Suck on that one, Mr. President."

"You got me that time," he laughed as I helped him up. "But I'll win."

I had never been so completely sure of anything in my life before.

The final score was 10-1 and then we played a quick game of horse which I lost of course, of course. He only got an H because I actually sank a lucky bucket by bouncing the ball in from the free throw line. All of my long range hook shots and half court bombs barely ever came even remotely fucking close to the rim while the Prez played a steady game, sinking shot after shot, finishing me off with a slam dunk.

"Do we have a ladder or a fucking trampoline?" I begged.

We talked shit about how badly I sucked, and we told stories of the greatest shots and players of all time. It was an interesting, though lopsided conversation though, mainly because the greatest shots I've ever seen are the ones show on the news with the random guy off the street sinks a half court miracle shot to win a million bucks or whatever.

Of course on the court all the worries of the day can easily slip away in these friendly competitions. That's why we humans made up games in the first place.

When we finished, sweat was pouring off my forehead like the Minnehaha Falls while my new friend was as calm and cool as a cucumber.

Rahm Emmanuel peeked his head in and signaled the President by tapping his finger on his left wrist.

"Well, Pat," he started. "Look... They're telling me it's time to get back to it."

"Rahm is such a nazi prick," I countered.

"Yeah," he said. "But in a world filled with as many problems we have today, I need people to help keep me on task."

"Crap," I said, dropping my head down. "I didn't get to even eat lunch with you or anything..."

"Look... next time I'll bring the Subway and some soda."

"You Jared Fogle loving mother fucker! No way... we're having a burger and some beers, asshole. And not one of those cheap, piece of shit burgers either. If I'm gonna eat with the damn President, I'm gonna have all the calories I can."

"Then we should have gone bowling," he said grinning as he shook my hand. "I wasn't sure about you at first, but you're a pretty okay guy."

"You're not too bad either, Barry," I said with a shit-eating grin.

"Now look," he started, pointing his politician's thumb the way Bill C. had always done during his term in office. But he didn't finish. He laughed, gave a slight wink, and turned to his chief of staff, heading out the door to leave me alone in an empty room.

That's when I dropped my pants and took a massive shit on the floor.

"Suck on that one Mr. President," I whispered, hearing the S's of my speech bouncing back off the hard walls of the gym. "Suck on that one."

When asked later by the police why I had taken a dump on the floor of the White House, I replied simply that it seemed like the right thing to do and had no political meaning behind it whatsoever. "Hell, I voted for the guy," I said, "and I think he's pretty cool."

"I just thought he could take a fucking joke."

[Editor's Note: Okay... even I'll admit I didn't see that ending coming.  But it is absurd!]

Monday, March 30, 2009

Home Life: Some assembly required...

I'm trying to think back to who really gave me the raw thumbs and forefingers that I have right now.  Do I blame myself for being too stupid?  Hell no!  America is a litigious society, and if I was too ignorant, how can it possibly be MY fault.  

I could blame my parents, but I don't think I could do that without sounding like a whiny bitch that needs to gain everyone's approval through an appearance on Maury Povich.  I might as well be a midget stripper with a crack habit that sleeps around.  

"It ain't my kid, Maury?  YES!  In your face, biatch!  Time to kick it with an 8 ball back at the trailer park and celebrate by boinking some other white trash ho.  See you in 9 months, Mr. Connie Chung!"

Maybe some insight can be gleaned with a little flashback to "back in the day."  Ah, to be back in the simpler times...

When I was a young kid, I loved to play with blocks.  You know... the set included various sized chunks of wood all smoothed down and splinter free and ready for a kid's imagination.  Usually I'd build a complex roadway for my Hot Wheels, or stack up large towers for my action figures to have adventures on.  It was pretty rad.

No, I do not call them dolls.  They are fucking action figures.  The big ones are called stuffed animals, and are not dolls either... no matter how you dress them up, or even if you have tea parties with them.  And, no, that's not an admission of guilt, asshole.  Them's the facts!

Even in the doll world, I think you have to be careful with terminology though.  Barbie isn't really a doll, she's an action figure too.  She has moveable parts, and she really is ready for action.  She's the biggest slut of the Mattel line up (and quite possibly of all toys).  But can you blame her?  If you had a boyfriend that wasn't anatomically correct, you'd be pretty horned up too... especially after 50 years or so without getting anything more than a little light petting and a lot of cold showers in her Malibu dream house.

At least G.I. Joe has the kung-fu grip.  That's gotta count for something.

Back to blocks... The set that I had was a natural wood color, not that bright colored pablum that you see in stores these days.  All I needed was my blocks, my Hot Wheels, and maybe some Lincoln Logs, and I was ready for a full day of entertainment!

Over the years, I tricked out my blocks quite a bit.  Some of them I colored various shades from the big box of 64 crayons (with the sharpener in the back), markers and paint.  And as I got older I actually broke out the caulking gun and permanently affixed parts together for maximum stability.  When you're trying to see how far a die-cast mini '65 Mustang will fly and the jump keeps sliding around, you have to do something drastic!

After the blocks, I moved up to Legos.  Legos really do open up a new world for kids.  Yes, a smaller kid will fuck around building crazy multicolored houses and lego brick turds that are supposed to be dogs and all kinds of fucked up shit.  Hell, I'm sure I did all kinds of crazy crap like that.

I still do.  Though, I've moved away from Legos.

It's the ten year olds that start to feel that urge to build stuff that actually works and looks good.  So they start following the instruction booklet in the Lego Super Space Kit or whatever.  Then they have to get the Moon Mobile Unit (with wheels that have a motor!) and the Solar Panel Satellite Package and the Space Shuttle Deluxe and whatever else the kid needs.  And parents rationalize it because, "They're being creative," or, "It keeps them off drugs," or, "At least they're not bothering me anymore."

And it's at this point that the seed of a problem is planted.

Later, in college, I went to my tiny little dorm room and met my roommate.  He had a great idea.

"Let's get these beds off the fucking floor and build a loft," he said with a smile.

It sounded completely reasonable.  So we bought all the tools and lumber and made a loft for both of our single beds, so we'd sleep heads to opposing walls, toes to toes.  He was  Chad Vila, and I was Pat Vila.  At least that was the stupid fucking joke we repeatedly made as we cobbled together the rickety piece of shit that somehow managed to last all school year.  I think I only bled twice.

The one thing that was really different from my youth was the beer.  That sure did hit the spot after working hard all day.  Of course I was only 18 and I was living on a dry campus, so I had to be doubly sneaky about it.

I built a loft the next year too with my next roommate, having a couple of cold ones along the way.  It was just like playing with blocks with a buzz.  Natural wood and attach them together.  But instead of a cool ramp to watch a soaring mini Micro-Bus, I was building shitty furniture that no one would ever buy themselves.  But, then again, we weren't using a manual.

It all started to go terribly wrong in the late 90's, early 00's, or as my sister called the year 2000, "20 balls."  There was a switch in the economy, and everyone was turning into do-it-yourselfers.

And that was especially apparent in the furniture market.  The idea of build it yourself furniture was so simple!  There were no craftsmen involved.  It was just machines to cut up particle board and laminate it, stuff the pieces into a box and ship it off to market.

And of course there were plenty of technical writers employed to make sure that people could comprehend the directions and be satisfied with the results.  Then again, who the fuck can understand a technical writer?

The directions were translated (and probably poorly done) into German, French and Japanese, and there were plenty of schematic drawings to aid in the confusion about how it all comes together.  Parts were labeled with letters of the alphabet or numbers, at least in the booklet, but rarely on the pieces themselves.  But you had to lay the whole mess on the living room floor, spend 2 hours looking from the manual to the parts... and you found yourself scratching your balls because a) you couldn't figure out the instructions, and it's a good alternative to strangling the dog, b) it felt better than scratching your head, and c) it provided more satisfactory results than that cheap ass end table ever would.

Then IKEA came to town, and we were all fucked.

Now, instead of mildly helpful instructions in English, German, French and Japanese, IKEA decided to do away with all of that and rely strictly on pictures.  Not only that, but they called their furniture and accessories by strange, outlandish names like EKTORP, KVIBY, BEDDINGE MURBO... and using all the fucking crazy letters in your dingbat collection of fonts.  So now not only can we not even put it together, we can't even pronounce its fucking name.

Needless to say, people have been confused ever since.

"Uh, yes... I'd like to return this... whatever you call it... please," says Joe Customer to the IKEA employee after spending 4 hours trying to build a desk and finally giving up in frustration, miraculously without breaking anything noticeable.

"Hur stå det till idag?" she asks gleefully.

"Excuse me?" Joe says, his breath smelling of the half dozen barley pops he quaffed to suppress his rage.

"Du skulle lik till återvanda den har?"  She smiles.

"Huh???" Joe pleads, starting to scratch his balls.

"˙∂߃˚¬∫ß∂©ƒøˆ ∂ˆß¨ƒøˆßœº £§®∂߈ •åπø πßø˙ƒß˜ ˚∆˜√∆˚??" she replies.

Just when Joe is ready to leave, she looks to the security camera quickly and notices it's turned the other way.  She grabs his arm and talks quietly, not moving her mouth.  "Please help," she mutters in her thick swedish accent.  "I am being held captive against my will."

Before Joe can react, her supervisor in a bright blue and yellow jacket comes out and removes her from the register, never to be seen again.  He will never forget the look of abject terror in her eyes.

And it wasn't just IKEA that broke all the rules.  They gave other companies the moxie to join in on screwing everyone right up the ol' poop hole, like Target, Wal-mart and a host of others.  Soon everyone was doing it.  Regular furniture stores were making this shit available too!

For about five years, it seemed like every time I bought furniture it was the same story.  No words, bad pictures, no satisfaction and limited results.  Fuck me!

The tide has turned a little bit for us that have been forced into do-it-yourselfitude.  I went to Target with the wife, and we picked out a six foot tall (media) cabinet/bookshelf.  And it said, "No tools needed!"  

What a crock.

But I unpacked it, opened up the manual expecting a technical writer's bad date in a Pictionary contest, and was surprised by... words!  Not only were they words, but they were English words.  Fuck the Frogs, Krauts, and all the ones that still have a solvent auto industry... English only, assholes!

And, surprisingly, the words on the box were right.  No tools were actually needed to put it together.  However, I found a few taps with a hammer to be helpful from time to time.

But that doesn't mean that it wasn't a bitch to do.  First off, all the little plastic pieces came from a mold, so you had to snap off pieces from the framework, like that time I tried to put together a model car and gave up after about an hour.  I hate that shit.

And again, no tools doesn't mean no work.  Flexing your digits to break off plastic pieces and stick them in particle board with a thin laminate covering that will seriously peel away with the slightest nudge is enough to work up a sweat for me.  And the skin of my fingers was slowly skimmed away from rough edges, pointy plastic parts and trying to exert maximum force with minimal breakage to fit it all together while trying not to drip sweat in the project area.

Of course, both my mother's and father's sides of the family are all serious sweaters.  I always try to laugh it off by saying that my gene pool is deep with sweat, which some smarter folks find clever and some dumb asses find confusing.  But none of that helps when the temperature hits 95 and my face looks like a fucking slip-n-slide.

If it weren't for all the guitar playing I've done my whole life, I don't think my fingers would have survived nearly as well.  If it weren't for the beer, I think I would've broken something on purpose.

And, here's a little tip for all you break-it-yourselfers.  Get a bunch of different colored furniture markers.  You know you're going to fuck up somehow, and it's a great way to cover it all up and make it less noticeable.  And it's as easy as coloring the blocks I used to have.

So, now I've typed out this whole post, my fingers still raw from the weekend.  But who do I blame:  The blocks?  Legos?  Maury Povich?  My parents for buying me all that shit?  My first college roommate?  What's a descendant of a Norwegian grandfather to do?

I'll do what Norwegians do best.  I'll blame the Swedes.