Wednesday, July 6, 2011

My Last Post On This Blog

This blog is over. Pretty obvious. It's been a long time since I bothered (for various reasons). I've begun a new blog at No Shit, Sherlock, but that is more to feed my need to empty my brain, than to serve an actual purpose. Anyway...

What the fuck is that? That, is a giant cardboard snake that stretches around 7 feet long. It's hanging out the window of one of my old co-worker's cars and it represents one of the funniest moments I can ever recall having at work. Ever.

The guy that made that snake died today. It is surreal. If you comb back through this blog, he gets mentioned several times here and there (I think I once referred to him as having one of the worst cases of ADHD I had ever seen). He was the one guy that the Chef and I always predicted would die through misadventure. And, he didn't fail to disappoint.

I'm blogging at 3:30 in the morning because I can't stop crying over a guy that would have called me a pussy for crying. Life is full of idiotic ironies like that.

There are people that, despite their obvious failings, manage to have an impact on the lives of every single person they encounter. They are the kind of people that are often born without a filter, and thus speak whatever thought pops into their heads. That thought might be inappropriate, idiotic, hurtful... but it is always true. Matt was one of those people.

Matt, despite his own admitted failures in life, was not afraid to point out the elephant in the room and tell it like it was. He made you reconsider your words and actions through his child-like grasp at the unfailing truth. You didn't have to like what Matt said, but like or not, in the end, you always knew he had cut through the bullshit and called it like it was.

And, oh my God could that idiot make you laugh. The shit that came out of his mouth was just priceless. It was raw honesty brought down to an 8th grade humour level.

Matt also had a great many troubles. A great many. Most people I know thought that those would be his undoing. But, at the end, he had overcome them. He had made things right. HE was pulling his shit together and doing what most people only dream about but lack the courage to do; he was starting over.

And, I have to confess: I admired Matt for his troubles. Because, he owned them. He never cried on your shoulder or let his problems stand in the way of being your friend. I raped Matt's ear with my personal bullshit more times than I care to consider, yet he never once complained to me. He confided, but never complained.

Matt, and the things he said were among the inspirations for this blog. Yet, I don't mean that in a bad way.

God speed, bro.

Sunday, April 24, 2011

Happy Zombie Jesus Day...

...or Easter, if you're the type of insensitive prick that can't take a joke regarding such a taboo subject as religion. I had a coworker shoot me a very dour look this evening upon making that joke. What a hump.

I sometimes can't decide if I'm not as funny as I think, or if my sense of humor is a bit more thought-provoking (or requiring of thought, even) than the people around me are comfortable with. Or is it that people are just so uncomfortable with finding humor in the ultra-serious business of religion, that even the slightest slight is viewed as an offense against God?

God did create man in His own image (or so the story goes), which means God must have a sense of humor, right? If you don't think so, it's probably because you aren't paying that much attention to the world around you, or it's just that His sense of humor is so cosmic and grand, you missed the funny.

I didn't. I can find humor in damn near every situation. It's how I keep my sanity in this fucked-up world. We live in a time where any mad despot is one button push away from plunging the planet into non-existence. We live with the knowledge that a super volcano could erupt, an asteroid the size of Texas could plow into the planet, that a government research facility testing new and fun ways to make us vomit out our blood and feces could have an oops... We live in a self-created world that is but a breath away from fucking itself into nothingness, killing us all in a rather unpleasent fashion, and making mankind a shit stain in the toilet bowl of history. You can dwell on it, or you can have a few laughs before the candle gets snuffed. Period.

Zombie Jesus. It's funny, if you know zombies and can unload the guilt of Christianity for a few seconds.

Let's think it through, shall we? Who rises from the dead? Zombies. Who hosts dinner parties inviting the guests to feast on flesh and blood? Zombies. Who hates brightly colored eggs? Any parent that has drunkenly hidden them the night before, forgot where they all were and discovered one by smell several days later. And zombies.

Math is science folks, and you can't argue with science. Unless you are religious and then it seems to be socially and morally acceptable, for some reason.

What are those? Fossils? Rubbish. The Galapagos Islands? Didn't we invade that during WWII? I'm sure we kicked the shit of some gooks there... Darwin? You mean that guy with all those theories that are actually facts but we can't ackowledge them as such because it makes us uncomfortable? He's gay.

We live in a world where people turn a blind eye to atrocities that are committed directly in front of them, but will find the nearest soapbox and rape your ear the second you make an offhand remark about a savior with all the factual basis of Santa Claus. don't think God has a sense of humor?

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

Pin the Blame on the Donkey

It's no secret that I'm about as disenfranchised with my job as one human being can get. Probably the wonderment lies in why I have failed* to rectify the situation. (* FAIL is the word of the night kids. Get ready to scream Pee Wee Herman style) Well, after this weekend, I have moved from passively seeking a new job to buckling down and aggressively finding anything.

On Friday night, the general manager of the Hell's Kitchen grabbed the four main cooks in the building and sat each of us down for a private 'back to Jesus speech'. And, I'll admit, she was right in every respect...except, she was seriously in the wrong. Keep your hands and arms inside the car at all times folks, and I'll try not to throw this train of thought off track for you.

After my talking-to, I was suitably chastized for about 5 minutes. But, as the others were pulled out, I got to wondering if everyone was getting a different variation of the same song and dance I had just been handed. (After comparing notes later, this was confirmed for me) And of course, me being me, I went from humble to indignant faster than Madonna adopts third world children to save her failing public image.

Each of us was pulled to the side because, in one fashion or another, we had become so frustrated with our environment that we had begun airing our griefs outloud. We were given a lot of: "We expect better from you" and "You know better", etc, etc, etc.

All true. I have been loud and boisterous at work, as of late. I'm frustrated and tired of being frustrated, but I do know better than to spout off about everything and lose my mind in front of the entire kitchen. So do the other guys that got the same hat handed to them.

Yet, this begs to question: if four guys with roughly 20 years experience in this line of work, who all know better, are acting this way... Why is it happening at all?

My personal speech actually consisted of the GM saying: "I can see you are frustrated. I need you to either stop being frustrated or hold inside."

Say what?!

And, here is my problem... There are problems in the kitchen. And, these problems are the reason I am frustrated. Do I know better than to air my frustrations for the general populace? I do. But, as the GM, shouldn't you be solving these frustrations, rather than playing on my work ethic and trying to guilt me into silence?

Oh wait, that would require an actual effort on your part and some self-introspection into the fact that you were the one failing at your job, not us. But, you'd rather take the easy road and lay the blame on four guys 'that should know better'.

I worked with a guy tonight that told me his mother's favorite expression was: "You can explain yourself to Jesus. I just want to see results." I fucking like that. Shit or get off the pot, but eloquent.

As someone that has worked on both sides of the fence in the food service industry, I can say fairly and without hesitation, that frustrated employees are the fault of piss-poor management. Always.

Frustration? The kitchen manager is older than dirt and screams at everyone else for making their part of each check faster than she can do her part. God forbid we make her seem incompetnent.

Frustration? The kitchen manager holds her job due to tenure and not from actual knowledge of managing. This bitch screams about food cost, but has NO IDEA of how to actually control it. How about we write down recipes with portion sizes, rather than screeching about people making shit different everytime? You know... like a real restaurant?

Frustration? I arrive to work everyday in a freshly pressed clean uniform, only to work along side people that are in jeans and T-shirts that aren't being sent home.

Frustration? I am asked to work beside clowns, not cooks. These guys aren't fit to hold my spatula between orders. Seriously.

Frustration? Being asked to create a new and exciting feature dish with the same 7 fucking ingredients. Because, ordering anything different requires a manager to stop eating their free fucking meal and work.

Frustration? A kitchen manager that insists on doing certain things herself, and never doing them, simply because she feels that holding back that information will secure her job and make her seem indispensable.

Frustration? Being asked to man 5 of the 7 stations in the kitchen at once, because, again, the other cooks can't cook.

Frustration? Watching the dish I just prepared sit in the window and get gamey because you refuse to have food runners, but also refuse to keep track of where your servers are at any given moment. Most likely they're either outside smoking during dinner, or your moronic hostesses have triple sat them for no real clear reason.

The reality is: when the people that are holding you aloft are failing at their jobs, it's because you are failing at yours. You can not pull your veteran staff aside and ream them out, one at time, for being frustrated, simply to avoid your job. Because, your job is to relieve those frustrations. It's your job to send home the morons that aren't in uniform, that don't pull their weight, that aren't doing their jobs.

And really, despite the fact that I'm blowing off steam and getting loud and proud... I am doing my job. The orders are being filled in a timely manner. The food I'm cooking is above par. Nothing is being sent back because it's crap. I'm cooking. That's my job.

Your job is to manage. And, when you have four guys, all with a wealth of kitchen history, airing the same frustrations and losing their minds at the same time... it isn't time for you to bring them back into the fold. It's time for you to step up to the plate and hit a fucking homerun.

I'm personally insulted that I was called into question. I'm personally insulted that someone threw my work ethic back in my face as a means to insinuate that I wasn't doing my job, only because it made their job easier. I'm personally insulted that I give my job 100% everytime I walk through the door, despite the fact that I hate it, only to have someone deride me so that they don't have to give the same effort.

You are a bright and shining light of stupidity in a sea of ineptitude when you try and lay your problems at my feet. But, honestly, that ship has sailed. I could do your job. That's a fact. You can't do mine. Also a fact.

I'm done. I quit. The first place that offers me something comparable to what you are paying me has just gained themselves a new employee. One that does his job. One that follows the chain of command, until it falls on deaf ears. One that understands the difference between a restaurant and a place that happens to sell food for money. One that is used to a professional environment.

Fuck you. Fuck you. You're cool. And fuck you...

Friday, April 15, 2011

Bumper Cars Anyone?

Jesus Fucking Christ.

I know it seems like every bad story I have to share starts at a convenience store, but honestly, if you're not out drinking tequila, where else are you going to run into such a rampant variety of total fucking tools? I heard someone scream "Wal-mart!" and I applaud your ability to point out the elephant in the room.

Anyway... Today was my day off. Like most of you, this means that rather than being able to wake and flop down on the couch for some mindless daytime television, I have shit to do. A lot of shit to do. And, I intend to get it all done as fast as possible, because there is beer to be drunk and well, daytime television to be watched. (USA was showing a House marathon today. It's a bit formula-matic, but a guilty pleasure I've recently come to indulge in) Yet, while I was wanting to get done with my errands, I wasn't in a hurry, you know? It was a nice day for a change, and even Superman needs to leave the Fortress of Solitude once in awhile.

So, as I'm tooling along, thinking about how bad I want to get my newly purchased case of Monty Python's Holy Grail on ice, I decide.. a cup of coffee would really make my day. Yes, make my day. Clint Eastwood style. You've all read enough to know how much a good, old fashioned cup of Joe means to me. And friends, nothing but nothing is better than a big steaming cup of gas station coffee. You brewed that shit at 5 am and it's closing in on noon and I don't have to pay extra? Hello-julia!

At any rate, I pull into a CO-GOs that I know. It isn't one that I frequent, because I'm out-of-town, but I've hit it a time or two. It's owned by a pair of Indian brothers that fight in their native tongue (loudly) on a regular basis and has that smell. You know... bad B.O., stale smoke, old coffee, and... Dear God, is that camel urine?

A good deal of things are going to happen to me in this gas station. All at once. It's business as usual.

First of all, I'm not sure who zones these places, but they should be taken out and stoned to death. Naked. No wonder convenience stores are majority run by Middle-Easteners. The parking spaces are set up like the borders in most third world nations. Is that the line? No wait.. I think... Meh, fuck it, I'm just gonna pull in here.

So, after I pretty much abandon my car, I enter the building and run smack into a rent-a-cop that is in the process of emptying the ATM machine. Dude has the biggest Glock I have ever seen strapped to his hip. Okay, its a dangerous job and he needs to go armed. Except... Dude also has not one, not two, but three spare clips full of rounds next to his piece. Been watching Hard Rain one too many times, bro?

I wander over to the coffee area and proceed to fix myelf. Like, fix. I'm a coffee junkie, no lie.

In the meanwhile, there is me and a girl that thinks she is the next Snookie in the store. Snookie is clearly wandering about shoplifting to her heart's content, but it's my mohawk that has caught Mr. Pinkerton's attention. He's shooting me dirty looks and palming his gun as he unloads his machine. I smile and shoot him the finger. Nothing to see here folks, move along.

I walk to the register and draw the short straw. The brother that doesn't speak english is working. It takes a few minutes, but we discover that 'Marlboro' is universal and I'm finally on my way. Not.

I mentioned the parking, right? I start to back out, trying to squeeze my tiny car between the building and the pumps, when another car materializes from nowhere. I pause and the girl behind the wheel waves me on. So, I start to back out again and what does this crazy bitch do? Yep. She lays on the horn.

Guess I was too slow. Whatever. I pull back in and let her pass. Eventually, I clamber out of my spot and wind up behind this same vapid bitch on the road. For someone that waved me out, then decided I was taking too long...she drives like old people fuck.

But, the good news? I've got plenty of reading material to help me pass the time.

Did I open this post with a: Jesus Fucking Christ? Oh good. Because, Jesus Fucking Christ.

I woke up and got dressed. What more do you want?

This was, among many, of the sentiments plastered to the backside of this bitch's car.

Less is more, America.

I love a good bumper sticker. The key words in that statement being: A and Good. If you need the Library of Congress present at your next vehicle inspection, you're doing it wrong.

When the election is over, its time to remove your bumper sticker. No one is really going to dial 1-800-Eat-Shit, and it wasn't even that funny to begin with. No one except your local pedophile cares if you are the parent of an honor student. And, if Jesus is your co-pilot, you should probably just hand over the wheel, because you drive like shit.

Yes! You posted a pro-life/pro-choice sticker on your car! My entire opinion on the matter has been swayed. Cough sarcasm cough.

And OBX? NGF. That's Outerbanks, Nobody Gives a Fuck. I've been a lot of places. I've seen the Golden Gate Bridge, the St Louis Arch, a giant statue of Lincoln taking a poo... I don't feel the need to brag. Get over it.

Nobody cares if you heart your particular breed of dog. Nobody.

Bumper stickers are for displaying your following to bands or an organization you are a member of. Even the wittiest of them aren't worth reading more than once. Your political affiliations are as important to me as your religious stance. Do fuck off.

The only expectation I have for the ass end of your car is that it is out of my way.

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

Shit Rolls Downhill

So, my wake up call this morning consisted of the smell of raw sewage, followed by the discovery of a flooded basement. Par for the course, of course.

This is one of those scenarios that isn't just bad, it's going to get worse before it is resolved. Because, this requires a call to my landlord. Take me home now, Baby Jesus. Take me home, right now.

I can't complain about my landlord. The guy is johnny-on-the-spot when I have a problem. And when my girlfriend switched jobs and her direct deposit took longer than expected to get sorted out, he shrugged about the rent and told us he knew we were good for it, just mail it out whenever. All-in-all, he's good people.

That being said; talking to my landlord (whose name is infamous for rhyming with molester) is an experience. Imagine giving a squirrel about 7 long lines of coke with a few espresso chasers, and you'll get the picture. This guy is all over the board. He's wound tighter than grandma's bun. Whenever I have to call this guy, I envision a scenario where I am forced to grab onto an electric fence to avoid falling off a cliff. It's painful, and forever after I'm wondering if the fall would have really killed me.

But, I have no choice. There is no way to describe the smell that permeated my apartment this morning. I felt like Ewan McGregor in that scene from Trainspotting, where he dives into the shit filled toliet bowl to retrieve his opium.

It turns out, my upstairs neighbors must have run out of toilet paper, and since they are just ghetto fabulous morons living off the government tit, they thought wiping with paper towels would be okay. They also seem to think diapers are flushable.

While my landlord is in the basement, I wander down. I'm that kind of guy. Thanks for coming out, want some coffee, anything I can do to help? Aside from the fact that dude is manic depressive sans the depression...I genuinely like him. And, I feel bad for any human being that has to clean up another human being's feces. (been there, done that, had it thrown at my face) It's a shitty job, pun intended.

I'm listening to the guy tirade. It's a thing of beauty. It's like watching the Micro Machines spokesman lose his mind. Yet, midstream, he utters a little something-something that send me back on my heels.

"Next time you see them, you let them know..."

Stop the presses. Hold the phone. Back the fuck up and shut the front door. Did you just pass the buck?

Listen, I'm a confrontational guy. I don't mind jumping somneone's shit (I'm going to have to clarify about the pun everytime I post the word 'shit' in this post, huh?). But...that's not my job. You're the landlord. I'm a tenant. I pay you to take care of business.

Not only should this guy be telling them, he should have marched his ass upstairs and informed them that my apartment smelled like the public restroom at the mall. He should have insisted that they be down there helping, not me. And, he should have served them with an eviction notice. Directly.

I've posted about the upstairs neighbors before. They're loud. They're obnoxious. They live on welfare and let their children run rampant like Lord of the Flies rejects. It's high time these fuckers were voted off the island of Life.

If you've ever rented, you know the type of people I'm talking about. And worse, you know that landlords just seem to tolerate them, or make them your responsibility. It's a bullshit scenario. When you live next to, above or below someone, getting in their face and creating harsh feelings is a last resort. You can't pick your neighbors, you just have to deal with them on a regular basis. Problems and complaints should be the sole domain of the landlord. You know, the person raking in the cash.

Stuff like this is problematic. I try and rationally explain that you are too loud. You get passive-aggressive and get even louder. I call the cops or pound on your door. You, in turn, vandalize my car. I have no choice but to seek retribution by raping your dog... It's a vicious cycle that never ends. It's a headache that is only equal to the headache I currently have because my apartment still has that lingering smell I know will take days to dissipate.

Neighbors... I view them as cannon fodder in the event of the Zombie Apocalypse.

Landlords? Two Irishmen were walking their landlord out to execute him. It was raining. The landlord says: "Tis a terrible day to die." One of the Irishmen scowls and retorts: "You selfish bastard. At least you don't have to walk back in it."

I hate people that pass the buck. Truly. I have enough shit on my plate to deal with, I don't need to handle your business too. Especially, if your business is number 2.

Friday, April 8, 2011

Snap. Crackle. I Will Pop Your Fucking Jaw.

So, there I was, with my gun in one hand and my knife in the other... Oh wait, thats a whole other story.

Actually, there I was, in mid-sentence when the person I was talking to popped their gum in my face. Twice.

"Is something wrong?," she asks when I stop talking and start staring.

Is something wrong? mean something besides the fact that you have no fucking manners? Or besides the fact that we're in a kitchen preparing food for the public and you're chomping on a piece of gum like a cow chews cud, blowing bubbles, and generally spreading your spit like Angelina Jolie spreads her thighs? Nope, not a thing.

I've given up on the vast majority of people I work with. Most of them wouldn't make for decent Soylent Green. Its pretty fucking sad, and I need to find a new job. Fast.

Let's just throw caution to the wind here, and I'll give you all a glimpse of what has become my life...

The kitchen manager is currently pissed, and has been raping my ear for a week solid, over the fact that her newest idea for a Lunch Feature was shot down. A grilled cheese and jelly sandwich.

Folks, we're not talking about a nice brie with a fresh fruit spread on toasted homemade french bread. This fool wanted to serve buttered white bread with processed American cheese and imitation food service quality jelly for around $7 a pop. This. Is. My. Boss. I have to take orders from this person. I drive home from work looking for bridges high enough to jump off of...

The general manager bases her selection of menu items for the month based off what she, personally, likes to eat. Because, clearly, if she doesn't like it, who would?

We have a veritable cabaret of waitresses-slash-front of house assistant managers that are so terrified of the kitchen, we only see them when it's time for them to graze.

I have actually had servers pick up a dish, look me in the face and inquire, with no shame; "Is this fish or chicken?" And, let's talk about our servers for a minute, shall we?

We have three kinds of servers at work. The good, the bad, and the geriatric. The good servers are our current minority. The old folks home needs the majority of our waitresses home before 8:00, and the bad servers just seem to multiple like mogwai exposed to water. It's terrible. Tragic, even.

It may seem shallow, but as someone that has managed in the service industry for roughly 20 years, I'm here to tell you that you hire your servers on a 50/50 basis. 50% of them have talent, and 50% of them are simply eye candy.

We have an outdoor patio that is set to open back up next month. I'm sure business will be booming once our customers discover the parade of varicose veins and naval-high nipples that we have to offer. Oh baby...

Every single dishwasher we have thinks he's the next David Copperfield. The government had less trouble finding draft dodgers in Vietnam than I do finding a dishwasher when something needs done. It's like trying to find Bill Clinton among the mounds of flesh at a Weight Watchers meeting when I need someone to run downstairs to the walk-in cooler.

And our cooks? Well, they can't. There's me, the chef, a kid with the worst case of ADHD I have ever seen outside the mental health field, and one other guy that has made a career out of pretending he can. Beyond that, I'm surrounded by one-hit-wonders that stare back at me with blank amazement when I ask them for anything beyond the scope of what they've been trained to do. Because, thats exactly how you staff a full service kitchen, kids. You hire clowns instead of cooks and you don't bother to cross-train anybody. Makes perfect sense, if you don't stop to think about it.

I give up. I surrender. I used to care. Honestly. I used to be afraid that coworkers I didn't want to read this blog would hear about it and discover what I really thought about them. No more. I'm over it. I'm done putting on a passive face at work and pretending like the ineptitude of others doesn't affect me. I'm going to start calling spades spades and weilding the bigger club.

I'm done confining my witty retorts to the idiocy of the people that surround me to my blog. I'm going full-blown vocal. Morning, assholes!

Okay and did take a bitch blowing bubbles in my face to push me to the point of no return. I'm stubborn like that. But, now that someone dropkicked me back to a state of ass-kickery, there are a lot of people that are going to wish I had stayed in my self-induced coma of complacency.

I came here to kick ass and chew bubblegum. And, I'm all out of bubblegum...

Thursday, April 7, 2011

The Gender Blender

Or maybe... The Sexism Salad Shooter. I'm not sure which I prefer.

I'm plagued by more than one of our bartenders at work, who seem to have developed a habit of bringing their trash back to the kitchen and depositing it near the back door, as though it is going to walk itself out to the dumpster. Today, as I was suffering through my all day shift, just barely recovered from the worst flu I had ever experienced, one of these vapid whores proceeded to do it, yet again. I less than politely pointed out that her garbage is her responsibilty, and I'm not interested in lugging what I can only assume is an overloaded bag that weighs more than I do, out to the dumpster.

You'll have to imagine the hairflip as she states: "I shouldn't have to take out the garbage, I'm a girl."

Oh. I see. Gender specific roles. Awesome. In that case, how I about I point you to the dishroom and you can start washing? Even better, how about I lose the apron and whilst I haul out the garbage, you make me a sammich? Guess what has two thumbs and no longer has to sweep and mop the kitchen at the end of the night. Maybe I'll jump behind the bar and open beers for the company, instead.

You know, if you hold the belief that certain tasks or chores are gender specific, thats fine. And, in your home, that is certainly your right. However, that shit doesn't float in the workplace.

Personally, I'm a big believer that a man should take out the trash. At home. I don't expect my girlfriend to lug the garbage all the way behind our building. I also don't expect her to change a lightbulb, or unclog a toilet.

Some of you are on the edge of your seats waiting for me to state that I do expect her to cook, clean, and handle the laundry. I don't. Actually, my girlfriend works 40+ hours a week and is a fulltime graduate student. Most of her 'free time' is devoted to school work. The majority of the cooking, cleaning, laundry and dishes usually fall in my hands. Something I fully agreed to take on when she elected to go back to school.

But, what happens in my home has zero bearing in my workplace.

You see, the problem here is: male or female, that particular bag of garbage is something you are being paid to handle. Its not a nuisance that you push off on me because I happen to be a guy. (And, in point of fact, I'm a rather nice guy that would gladly take out the garbage for you. If you asked, rather than assumed.) It's your job.

Equal pay for equal work.

I'm just ever amazed by the amount of women that believe that ending sexism consists of not being shut out of higher paying jobs, while having their husbands willingly pitch in with the housework. The end.

Wait a minute. I thought you wanted to be treated like an equal? Well, I've got news for you. While society may have painted the picture that women should be content to stay home and bake cookies for the boys... Society also painted a pretty expectant picture for the men folk. So, without further ado, ladies...

Why don't you head on down to the post office and be sure to register for the draft? All men over 18 are expected to do this. It puts our names on a lottery list of gun toting cannon fodder that will be forced to catch a bullet for your freedom, should the need arise. And, lets not be coy, by 2012, that nasty little operation we've shied away from since Vietnam is probably going to resurface. I'll gladly stay home and bake cookies while you parade around the desert getting shot at by guys whose names are all consonants and pronounced with a phlegmy accent.

Yes. I know. There are a great deal of women that transcend this level of thought. There are women that have jobs that I wouldn't consider taking on. Yet... it seems like for every one of those women I have ever met, I meet about 10 willing to put equality back to the status of the 1950s.  

Women will never understand the awkwardness of being the only man in a building when something breaks. "Here, you're a guy. Fix this." Because, you know, I wear a toolbelt 24/7 and automatically have the working knowledge to repair anything. Oh wait, I'm not Tim Allen. How about I pull off my holey sock and say: "Here, you're a woman. Darn this,"?

There was a time when that sort of thing made sense. The man spent all day in the wilds hunting, killing, gutting and dragging meat back to the cave. It was pretty reasonable to say; okay, I did my part, now cook this shit. But, hey, since the invention of the grocery store, times have changed a bit. I'm never going to begrudge my turn at the stove or the sink. But, don't hand me a bag of trash and look at me like it's beyond the realm of things required of you because we assume different postures when we urinate. 

Women are designed to do the single hardest thing our species does. Procreate. If your body can endure the rigors of carrying a child to term and giving it life...I'm fairly certain you can carry a bag to a can.

Should you be shoveling out the driveway while I sit by the fire with my feet propped up? Absolutely not. Should I be shoveling the driveway while you're sitting by the fire with your feet propped up? Fuck no. You better pass by the window looking busy while I'm sweating and freezing my balls off at the same time. 

Look, I try my best to be a gentlemen. I hold doors and do all sorts of 'man' things without complaint (and usually before I'm asked) but, let's not try and climb slippery slopes. I have never once presumed it acceptable to walk up to a female coworker and state: "I made a mess. Go clean that shit up, it's beneath me, as a man." And, I've worked with my mother.

Don't ever tell me that you can't do something because you're 'a girl'. If you're going to go that route, then I fully expect you stroke my ego and say: "I need you to do this for me because you're a man and clearly superior." I find those two statements to be equally degrading, and shame on the woman that doesn't. "I can't take the garbage out because I have a spastic colon and I'm afraid I'll shit my pants between here and the dumpster," will get you further with me. 

Its one thing for a woman to put her sexuality to use. I have seen my girlfriend purchase car parts, bat her eyes and inquire which of the guys behind the counter was going to put them on. They usually trip over each other trying to get outside. Its funny, and somewhat enviable. However, I know that the day she purchased something and the salesman told her, with a sigh, that he better just do it for her because, after all, she's just a girl, she would crush his soul.

It is something completely different to come equipped with the expectation that because you are female, men should automatically be willing to do whatever task you simply don't want to do. These types of women make me want to further the cause of femininity by burning their bras for them. Then watch with glee as they run around trying to remove that flaming article of clothing, that would have stumped even Houdini, from their 'delicate' little bodies.

It's funny to me that she wasn't willing to take out the trash, because she was a girl, but apparently, shoveling the shit was more than okay...

Tuesday, April 5, 2011

Here We Are Now. Entertain Us.

Today marks the 17th anniversary of Kurt Cobain's death. You'll have to imagine the single trailing tear making it's way down my cheek...

I'm tired of hearing about it. To be honest, and I'm fully aware that I'm opening myself to all forms of blind criticism, I found Nirvana to be about as overrated as I find Led Zeppelin. I was into and out-of the whole Seattle grunge fad about as quickly as Ellen Degeneres was into and out-of heterosexuality.

Kurt Cobain's debatable musical genius will forever be overshadowed by his heroine addiction and his moronic suicide. (Conspiracy theorists can find a new blog, the man killed himself. The end)

You can not be an icon, legend, whatever when you go about shooting up drugs and taking your own life. That isn't just my opinion, it's pretty much common fucking sense. In order to be an icon or legend, you need to leave behind a legacy. A few songs that were original enough to help forward the movement that finally killed off big hair bands, isn't a legacy.

You know what Kurt Cobain really left us with? Courtney Love and 17 years of watching this strung-out, drowned rat looking whore parade around with a timebomb of self-destruction strapped to her pathetic excuse for a chest. Yeah, thanks a lot, buddy.

This fucking guy falls under my file of: Super Egos that weren't fed enough by American Fandom, so they made one final, desperate cry for attention. Rock stars, professional atheletes, and movie stars... they're all the same. Humble at the beginning, appreciative when they first become famous, expectant when they're at their peak, and petulant when we aren't paying enough attention. Throw a few injected cocktails in that mix and you get a recipe for disaster. Big surprise.

It amazes me. Honestly. How empty is your life that you need to commemorate the death of a celebrity?

Nirvana's biggest single Smells Like Teen Spirit should have clued you all in to the fact that Kurt Cobain looked upon you with disdain and disgust. He viewed his own role as entertainer as a joke. In the end, he was so disenfranchised with his own fame and lack of selfcontrol that he took his own life. Wow...what an icon. What a legend. What a role model for the ages...

Friday, April 1, 2011

The Sampler Platter

It's been a busy few days, both in my world, and in the realm of stupidity. So, tonight, I thought we would try something a bit different and just settle back and discuss a little bit of this and a little bit of that, and not get too heavily tied up in one particular subject. (Fingers crossed, anyway)

So, two nights back I was standing on my front porch, minding my own business, smoking and talking to my girlfriend on the phone. Two guys are walking across the street passing a forty back and forth. It's Ambridge, so nothing out of the ordinary.

Until one of them gives me a "Whats up?"

I nod in return, not really paying attention. I may have mentioned that I was clearly on the phone. I may have blogged once or twice about the fact that I can't seem to step outside and enjoy a coffin nail without being accosted by every drain on society looking for a handout. It was late, I was tired (and heading towards drunk) and I just wanted to be left alone.

Unfortunately for me, Joe Dirt had a stick lodged up his ass.

"I said: 'Whats up?,' mother fucker."

I lower the phone. "Yeah...whats up," I reply, trying to hold my cool. I'm annoyed, but I'm more interested in talking to my girlfriend that I haven't seen all day than getting into it with some drunken piece of white piece trash.

He stops and postures, oblivious to the fact that his friend (who now has the forty) hasn't bothered to stop and back his play. "What the fuck, man? I'm tryin' to say 'whats up'. Is this going to be a problem?"

Now...I'm not a big guy. Never have been. But, first of all, I'm not a pussy. If you walk it to me, I'm not going to run. Little guys get used to fighting real quick.

Secondly, while I may not be a big guy, I pretty much towered over this little four and half foot, drowned rat looking pukebag.

"Yeah, well, I said: 'whats up'," I reply. I'm beyond annoyed now. I'm pissed.

He steps into the street like he's going to come across.

"Honey, I gotta go. Call you right back."

I'm done. You can be an asshole from the otherside of the street all night long. It's no skin off my back. My plan was to finish my cigarette and go back into my apartment and have another beer. Looking at the source, your shit talk isn't worth my time. But... if you think I'm going to go back inside and give you the satisfaction of going home thinking you chased me back inside? Oh, heeeell no.

I start across the street with a serious purpose.

"What, mother fucker?"

"Nothing. You asked what was up. I'm coming to show you."

I wish this story had a better ending. It doesn't. It ends with Homer J. Wannabe suddenly realizing that he stands to my chest and that his friend is already in the car. It ends with him driving away, issuing hollow threats.

Moral of this story: if you're 4 foot 5, and a whopping 110 lbs, in your Lugz, the only place you should be picking a fight is in the arcade at the mall among the rest of the Jr High crowd. Probably not in the street with guys that you don't know. Hell, they might just be a drunken former Marine with a bad temper and a need to misplace from some aggression...

But, maybe my ego was just pumped from my kill just hours before.

If the scientific community has not done a study that encompasses the ratio of naked spider encounters to fully clothed ones, then shame on them. What the fuck is it with spiders and showers? Let me rephrase that: what the fuck is it with gigantic, hairy spiders and showers? Why is it that all of God's creepiest, nastiest crawly critters want to rear their heads and impose upon my naked time?

Just one man's opinion, but anything with less than two legs and more than four deserves to die on sight. And trust me, at this stage in my life, I'm a shampoo bottle wielding warrior that would put Conan the barbarian to shame. (Although I tend to issue girly squeals as I slaughter, rather than shouting 'Crom!' at the top of my lungs)

Sorry, I get easily sidetracked... Back to Idiotville, population: all of us.

I awoke this morning, refreshed from a day of spider killing and douchebag chasing, ready to give the world a fresh start. But, society never lets me down.

As I'm driving home from running my errands before work, I take a street that I only ever drive on when I need beer. Now, this is one of two main roads in our town, so it does get a bit of traffic. As I'm driving, I start to notice yellow ribbons strung on the light poles. I'm guessing this is in support of the war. And, I was right, just about which war.

Strung across the street is a gigantic banner reading: Welcome Home Vietnam Veterans.

Hello Hot Tub Time Machine. Did I hit some kind of space/time vortex and enter into 1974? If so, I'm heading to the nearest gas station to fuel up on those prices. (Seriously folks, the situation has become so dire that you just can't pass up a chance to acknowledge the ridiculous cost of gas if the topic you're discussing is even remotely on topic) Or, is Ambridge about 47 years behind on current events? Or, did I maybe miss something?

I mean, it did take the government about about 20 years to stop referring to Vietnam as a Police Action and acknowledge it as a War. For all I know, maybe we did just finally pull our troops out.

Or not.

Turns out. after some gentle probing on my part, that this was a tribute by the local High School for Vietnam Vets. Now, I support our soldiers, 100%. However...

In a time where this country is refusing to call anything a War, and only a Military Action, so that the President can circumvent needing Congressional approval to keep troops in a location for any extended period of time... I found that banner to be a touch insensitive.

Am I reading too much into an innocent gesture? Perhaps. But, we have had troops in the Middle East fighting a non-war since before my oldest child was born. We're enchroaching on a body count of dead American soldiers that can only be equalled by WWII. America hasn't called any military involvement, anywhere, a War since Korea because we can't tarnish our record...

We have Veterans Day for a reason, thats all I'm saying. There really isn't a need to dedicate a day to Veterans of a specific war, while American blood is being shed over the price of oil. Especially, and this is a true story, when the ceremony consists of different age groups reciting the 'Pledge of Allegiance' (you know, the biggest nose-in-the-air to the whole separation of Church and State that our country was founded upon?)

Wanna peak my interest? How about a banner that reads: Welcome Home Troops That Almost Died Verifying That Obama's Change Was Pocket Change?

So, finally...I get to work.

Don't ask me how, but at some point, the conversation turned to mermaids. Mermaids. This is my life, for those of you wondering.

"Mermaids are fucking hot!"

What? Did you just... You did, didn't you?

Maybe its just me, but as an American male that was brought up through the public education system, I was learned that a female that smells like fish from the waist down is a bad thing.

Not to mention... I'm looking at pictures to add to this post and, I can't seem to find one of a half-woman, half-fish that seems to include a vagina. Fish mate by spraying their semen on their partner. There is no penetration involved. So, sex for fish, is pretty much what I do when I don't have a girlfriend? Oh yeah. Thats so hot.

So, let's end this truthfully. I have no doubts that a good deal of you are only tuning in to see how I bounce back from my public apology. Honestly? I'm over it. I said something stupid, was called on it, and did my best to make ammends. My friend thanked me for me effort. Whether or not she will someday forgive me is between us. It isn't a public spectacle.

I'm not a sensitive guy. I say whats on my mind and don't look back. Unfortunately, I also tend to blog when I'm drunk and tend to rush through my thoughts in an effort to get things off my chest. Such is life.

For those of you only tuning in for further apologies, I offer my middle finger.

Here, its back to business as usual. Between my friend and I... well, thats just it. Its between us.

Good night, America.

Wednesday, March 30, 2011

My Public Apology

In a blog that centers around the massively stupid statements that people manage to make because they refuse to stop and think before they open their idiot holes, even I am not exempt. In fact, as it turns out, I may be the biggest idiot among us.

In my post Somewhere Over the Rainbow, I made the statement that: "in the year 2011, the word 'nigger' has no shock value left". Or something along those lines.

I meant this as a declaration of the stupidity and ignorance of the word. And, I meant to imply that I, personally, found no shock value in the word, in this day and age. I find that the type of person that would use that word is only after the shock value it entails, and that in giving them what they want, we have assisted their ignorance.

That was what I meant.

Sadly, what I said was...pretty fucking stupid.

That whole post was based on the fact that I find racism to be pointless, moronic, hateful and about as significant as a professional sporting thingee. But, I tend to try and lend humor to situations where it isn't really warranted and as an end result, I hurt the feelings of someone that I truly care about. I tend to be an asshole, like that.

As a white person, I can balk at racism. I can view it from any perspective and attempt to be outraged. The reality though, is I have about as much business injecting my opinions or thoughts on the matter as the middle-aged white dudes that stand outside abortion clinics and try to tell women what to do with their bodies. I can say that I find that greatest of racial slurs to be non-shocking, but thats only because I've never had it thrown in my direction.

The problem with writing a blog that looks at our entire society as a subjective thing is, eventually, you hit close to home and offend the people that have always stood behind you.

The person that I offended is someone that I respect more than she will ever know. She took me into her home when I had nowhere to go, she has had my back even when I didn't know I needed someone to have it, and she has never judged me until I put my foot in my mouth and imposed upon our friendship. I would cheerfully finish my beer and fist fight the entire KKK for her, and she knows this. But, if I'm not acting any different than those inbred hill-billies, that seems like a moot point.

If the road to Hell is paved with good intentions, then my post must have been the super highway with an express lane.

99% of you could be offended at my thoughts and I would shrug it off and tell you to go read another blog. I would probably even poke fun at your discomfort in a wholly new blog and pat myself on the back for crushing your soul. But, not this time. This time, I'm truly ashamed of myself. Because, when we accidentally hurt those that we love, shame is the only response we have. And, this is a person that I do love, like a sister (not awkwardly like that hot cousin we all have)...

The reality is: white people can only view racism from one of two perspectives. It is either something we participate in, or something we don't. We will never see the whole picture, because it is not something we are ever subjected to. We can embrace, be mortified by it, ignore it... but, we will never know the depths of hurt it will cause. My post was intended to be an eyeroll that people could still be that ignorant in the year 2011, but I actually did more damage than good. I displayed my own ignorance by discussing a subject that I will forever be ignorant upon because I happen to have been born white.

I truly don't understand racism. I don't. I judge people as they are, white, black, yellow, whatever. Yes, I've made remarks like: "Penndot employees move slower than black people crossing against the light." But, if I had said 'fat' or 'cripple' in place of a skin tone, no one would have blanched. That was a joke made about my current geographic location, and not meant as a racial slur.

I swore I would never apologize if this blog offended someone. Up and down. Fuck 'em all. I was going to be brazen and outlandish and say whatever I wanted without regret. But, then I side-stepped and hurt a good friend with 'good intentions'.

Its easy to make light of certain situations. Humor heals, as the old saying goes. And, maybe thats true. But, maybe, just maybe, if you've never been on the receiving end of the pain, the healing power of humor is just salt in the wound.

I've done a lot of dumb shit in my life. If I listed it all here, it would probably crash the server. But, the dumbest thing I ever did was make light of a situation that a good friend lives with on a daily basis, never considering how she might feel about my off-hand remarks.

I wish I could drag myself out back and kick my own ass. (I tried, but I'm just not that flexible at 36) But, I deserve a good ass kicking, and I hope my friend delivers it the next time she sees me.

Somewhere along the line, my brother was able to transcend our upbringing and scale the walls that we all claim we've climbed. He was able to look at a person as a person and love them as just that. There is no black and white in his world, except where it comes to shades of grey. In other words, my brother is a white person that is just a person. I envy that.

Personally, I'm a white person. I live in that idiotic grey area where there is black and white. I struggle to not notice, to accept, to ignore... But, obviously, I'm not there.

The word 'nigger' does hold shock value. It shocks me that people are still ignorant enough to use it and look for shock value. It shocks me that, in this day and age, some of you are still judging people based upon the color of their skin, and not upon their worth.

I wish I could take back the stupid statements I made. I wish that I could pick up the phone and call my friend and say: "Sorry I was an asshole." I wish I could turn on my kitchen sink and have beer flow forth...but, wishes are cheap.

I apologize to my friend. My intentions were good, I swear. I know that doesn't make what I said right,'s all I have.

I'm exactly the kind of asshole I blog about.

Please forgive me, Di.

Sunday, March 27, 2011

Who Stepped on the Cat?

It's time to discuss one of my biggest pet peeves. Because, gentle reader, stupidity doesn't always escape Joe Average's piehole in the form of words. Sometimes, it's sung. Poorly.

Singing in public is not okay. Its just not. Actually, it's pretty fucking weird. And, I'm not talking about humming along to the tune thats on the radio, or belting it out in your car like a rockstar while you're stopped at a redlight and oblivious to the other motorists staring at you like you've lost your mind. Those, to me, are somewhat acceptable behaviors that even I have been known to engage in.

I'm talking about the people that, despite the fact that they are out in full view of an unsuspecting world, decide to treat all of us to a broad display of their vocal talents. Listen, maybe you can sing, maybe you're the next undiscovered American Idol... But, you still need to shut the fuck up.

I work side-by-side with a guy that sings all night. Did I say all night? Because, I meant: All. Fucking. Night. This cat isn't just in love with the sound of his own voice, he's convinced the rest of us are too. I have more than a few problems with this.

First of all, if you've never worked in a full service kitchen, I'm here to inform you that its already pretty noisy. It generally sounds like a civil war is being fought and lost. And, you usually have about 4 or 5 different areas that are all working independently of each other to create the same order. So, communications is pretty key.

I'm already at the point where I can barely hear myself think, let alone focus on what 3 or 4 other cooks are trying to impart to me over all the noise. Having Captain Karaoke caterwauling in my ear makes me want to bob for apples in the deep fryer.

Secondly, if you don't know all the words to a song... let it go. Lately, the good Captain has been belting out (at the top of his fucking lungs) about three lines of a Conway Twitty song. Over and over and over and over... I'm not sure what late night infomercial he was watching when he picked up that song snippet, but if I ever find out, I'm driving to the television studio and going fully postal on the asshat that aired it.

Thats the worst possible thing to do to another human being. Getting a song stuck in your head is bad enough. Having one stuck in your head that you don't know the lyrics to is worse than the torture we reputedly committed on known terrorists following 9/11. I'm fairly certain it's listed in the Geneva Convention as inhumane.

Third... We're at work, dumbass. It isn't pleasant. In fact, I generally refer to it as: Hell's Kitchen. I equate singing with happiness. What the fuck are you so happy about?! I'm currently only daydreaming about what it will take to facilitate both of our deaths. In case the look on my face and my body language isn't cluing you in, let me be upfront and forward in telling you that you're pushing that little fantasy towards reality.

And finally, Captain, you may knock their socks off at karaoke night, your old high school Glee Coach may miss you with a nostalgia that borders on inappropriateness, you may think you sound like Marvin fucking Gaye, but personally, I'm not impressed. I've heard better. In point of fact, I had to pay to hear better, because, thats what they do for a living. You cook. Shut your face and do that, instead of sending me home with a nightly migraine that has less to do with noise and more to do with the stress of maintaining my self-control in not jumping on you like a spider monkey and choking you until your eyes bugged from your face like a frog. M'kay?

It drives me up a wall that grown adults need to be told that: A, B, and C are acceptable behaviors in public, and D through Z are not.

They have karaoke night at the bar and Open Mic Night at the clubs for a reason. I've never walked into work with three bowling pins and commenced juggling while working on my stand-up routine. I could, but I'm pretty sure someone would pull me off to the side an inquire if I needed medication or had taken some that I bought off the shady looking guy on the street corner. Yet, in my mind, doing that is exactly the same as you coming into work and reminding all of us that William Hung is still alive, somewhere.

It's great that you have an ipod, iphone, iwhateverhelpsbillgatestocontinuefleecingtheamericanpopulace, or any other device that plays your music for you as you go about your day. But, you don't need to sing along. In fact, listening is generally an art that is perfected by you shutting your mouth. So, if you want to listen to music...try that.

Also, if your choice in music has vulgar and/or inappropriate lyrics, you have zero business reiterating that shit outloud in a public place. I can't tell you how many times I've been in line at the gas station or grocery store in my ghetto fabulous community and been treated to someone rapping about women being sluts and hos and wanting to see them shake their booty meat. For real?

I'm not knocking your choice of music. I listen to punk rock. It isn't clean. Not by any stretch of the imagination. But, I also don't sing it at top volume while I'm standing in line at the grocery store behind some poor mother trying, in vain, to shield her kids from it.

Also, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but: rap is not an ethnic trait. It's talent related. Just because you are black, it does not make you The Human Beatbox.

Keep chuckling honkies. I have worse news for you. Just because you're white and choose to dress like a historical figure... You ain't Garth Brooks. Lose the twang, you're from the suburbs.

Here's what I would like from the rest of America: when you're leaving the house, and you're checking to make sure you have your keys, your purse or wallet, and all the other sundries that you tote about...can you make sure you've grabbed your fucking common sense? Because, if you do, I promise you that you will suddenly understand that there is a way to act in public. And, most of you aren't doing it right!

You're an amateur singer? Well shit on me. I'm an amateur porn star. So, if you can rape my ear... Guess I can walk around with my God Given Talents dangling about and proceed with the nut busting, right? And trust me, when it comes to white washing, Tom Sawyer has nothing on me...

Now, if you'll all excuse me, I feel the need to walk over to local convenience store and bust out in air guitar solo...sans pants.

Saturday, March 26, 2011

Stand Up And Be Heard...Pissing

This is a blog that centers around statements made by you, the American people. And while it generally focuses on utterances that range from the outlandish to outright stupidity, there are times where I also hear (or read, in this case) something that I find to be thought provoking enough to be worthy of further examination. My good friend and fellow blogger, Andy, from over at The Blog of the Union Address, left a comment on one of my recent posts (Good to the Last Drop of My IQ) that fits the latter category.

"That right there was a Class A Dennis Leary style rant. I'd like to welcome real men back to America, been gone too long!"

And that, folks, made me think. What, exactly, has happened to the American male?

Sure, okay, if you ask anyone of a generation that is older than yours, they'll tell you that each subsequent generation displays less bravado, machismo, manliness...whatever label you want to place upon that quality that defines a man as a man. An 80 year old man and I might have an arguement over whether I could ever measure up to even the weakest man of his generation, causing me to throat punch him out of his wheelchair and give his colostomy bag a hearty squeeze. Because, I don't buy into all of that.

Life in America gets easier with each passing generation, without doubt. But, the essence of a true male doesn't change. No matter how comfortable technology makes our lives.

Men are supposed to wake up on the weekends, put on a toolbelt and look for shit to fix. We eat meat that comes from a can, and drink beer that comes in the same package. We make dick jokes without caring about our setting or situation. We wear blue jeans and socks with holes. We're not even going to talk about what our underwear looks like. We kill shit, destroy shit, and love fire. We're at the top of the food chain because we have opposable thumbs, which we use to scratch our asses in public. Our women need us to open pickle jars.

Yet, somewhere in the 90's, that all changed. Somewhere, somehow, someway...we allowed ourselves to be neutered by a new politically correct society.

The 90's. What an abortion. 
Men stopped drinking bottled beer and started drinking bottled water. Wearing a flannel shirt and work boots became an indication that you were running down to the local gourmet coffee shoppe, not going to purge the land of uneeded natural resources. Our rock stars started doing more talking than singing. And Tom Selleck shaved his moustache, which led to the greatest of all atrocities; we stooped to importing our action heroes. Outsourcing guys like Liam Neeson, Gerard Butler and Russell Crowe, because the American action heroes had become passe. (It's hard to take you seriously as Rambo, Sly, when you can't scowl due to the massive amounts of botox that restrict your facial movements.)

This country isn't being run into the ground by poor leadership or a bad economy. America is falling apart at the seams because it needs a healthy injection of testosterone. you realize how far we have to look back to find the last real man to sit in the Oval Office? Reagan. The guy was a cowboy actor and he brought that persona to his presidency. "I've got a big swinging dick, and I'm not afraid to use it." Nobody, but nobody, fucked with us when Reagan was in office. And, if they did, they had the misfortune of getting a swift ass kicking...not this prolonged bullshit we've been seeing time and time again and even right now on CNN.

When did we go from being a nation of men that actually threw a football with their friends in the backyard to a nation that hooks up on Xbox Live to compete in the latest version of Madden? When did that eternal pissing contest of 'I have the nicest lawn' turn into 'I pay more for my professional lawn service than you do for yours'? When did we stop using tools and start acting like them?

We're reaching a point in our country where we'll actually have men that have never eaten beef jerky, because they're afraid of what it will do to their health. Are you fucking kidding me?

I'm going to organize the next march that takes place in this country. I'm going to call it: Get Your Balls Back Weekend. About a million of us will march into the nearest public park and summarily piss on a tree. We'll only eat shit full of preservatives and chalk full of salty goodness. We'll tell penis jokes over non-lite beers and we'll end the weekend by clubbing a baby seal to death and seeing who can cook that fucker the best over a non-propane grill. We'll spend the weekend referring to women as 'honey' or 'sweetheart' and ignore their claims that it's demeaning. And, everyone bring a hammer, because...we're going to fix something ourselves, and not call the repair man. We're going to watch movies with explosions and without plots and listen to rock and fucking roll. And, the proceeds we raise won't be used to support some group looking for a handout, it's going to be used to cover our bar tab. Hopefully.

And, we are so going bowling.

Personally, I'm going to chain smoke in public and exhale on babies and puppies all weekend. I'm going to use the word 'GAY' like its going out of style and I plan to beat my personal best at hawking a lugie. This will be the only Sunday I ever attend church. Because I plan on cutting the queen mother of all farts in the history of fartdom and raising my hand to ask for God's forgiveness. And, I'm killing something. Just for kicks.

There was a time in this country, believe it or not, when two guys could step outside to settle a dispute, beat each other to a pulp and then go somewhere and have a beer and laugh about it. I'm not sure where those guys all went, but I bet they're having one fuck of a party. And I bet they're all sporting Magnum P.I. moustaches.