Friday, April 29, 2011

My Computer Hath Exploded

       So if my comments have been lacking a little lately, it's not because I hate you or because I'm cheating on you with other bloggers (you know I'd never hurt you)... it's because my computer exploded.
       On Wednesday I was happily surfing porn the web, when suddenly my computer locked up and wouldn't respond. I shut it down, pushed the power to turn it back on again, and the hard drive gave a death cry that sounded a little like a cat in a garbage disposal. It's completely toast. I did some digging around, and I have concluded the only logical reason why my hard drive would bomb itself out of nowhere.
       It's a terrorist.
       Think about it. There I am, patriotic Joe American, surfing and refreshing myself on the 3 executive branches (or looking at midget porn, whatever) when my hard drive goes all Jihad on me and detonates itself.
       How unamerican.
       The following is a very, very dramatic rendition of this.


       And what happened to me? Well, don't worry about me, folks. I was fine.
       Cue bad-ass, slow motion, walk-away from movie explosion.

Fuck yeah

Stay classy, friends,

Mood: Victimized
Beer: The bastard blew up my fridge
Shower: The sonofabitch blew up my shower, too

Oh, and I got a new netbook that I've been working on since yesterday. Don't worry about him blowing up, though. He's definitely not a terrorist. I think he's Jewish. Well, about running programs, anyway.


Monday, April 25, 2011

The Slumlord of Suburbia

       Well, the missus is being sent back out to Vegas for another week, and again I'm here by my lonesome, but don't you worry about me. I'm not missing out on anything fun. See, the missus is from Vegas. Her family still lives there, and she's actually just going out there to see the doctor, since she still has insurance under her parents' provider.
        She and I have both visited Vegas more times than I care to remember, and believe it or not, it is possible to get tired of it. Plus, I don't gamble. Isn't there a special place in hell for people who gamble away their government issued unemployment money at a craps table in a seedy Las Vegas hotel?
        But like I said, don't you worry about me. When I'm not setting fire to dogs with my psychic abilities, I've got another hobby. Landlord. As you may recall, I live in a townhouse in suburbia, with terrible neighbors that can burn in the furthest corners of hell. My brother-in-law's trainwreck of an ex-wife used to live in the townhouse a few houses down from us, and now that she's gone and my brother-in-law has no money, my fiance's family is left paying for a townhouse that currently resembles a three-story dumpster.
       The ex-wife that lived there smoked like a train, and if you didn't know that, you'd find out quickly enough when you stepped in the door and got hit by a wall of smoke that's like an emphysema flavored slap to the face. There are still cigarette butts everywhere; on tables, on the floor, in the garbage disposal (WTF right?), mashed in the carpet. The carpet, speaking of which, is toast. In addition to the butts/ash stains, her kid had a fun habit of smashing playdough and pudding and many other unidentifiable liquids into the carpet.
       I'm pretty sure every time you walk into this building, you knock 5 years off of your lifespan.
       So my fiance and I have been cleaning it up and getting it ready to rent out, and with her gone to Vegas, that leaves me in charge of everything. I'm now the Slumlord of Suburbia, which is a damn shame because as a guy who's in good shape and doesn't smoke, I don't feel qualified to be a slumlord. But a lot needs to be done to this dump, and I'm starting to feel the role overtaking me. I had to go over there today to throw away some more junk, and the stuff I keep finding is ridiculous.



God I hate that house.

Stay classy, friends,


Mood: A little creeped out
Beer: Bring on many of them
Shower: As long as she isn't in there



Friday, April 22, 2011

Red Light District

It started off as a night like any other. There I was, sprawled out in bed, borrowing the neighbor's unsecured wireless to watch some South Park and being slowly lulled to sleep by the distant wail of police/ambulance sirens as they taxied around that night's haul of gangbangers. I'd barely reached the gates of dreamland, when there was a scream outside my backdoor. This was followed by a series of louder, more rhythmic squeals.

What the fuck? The neighbors weren't usually screamers in the bedroom. And even if they were feeling vocal, I knew for a fact that neither of them was a soprano-voiced midget. Had that goddamned leprechaun finally come back to exact his vengeance by opening a hobgoblin brothel outside my kitchen window? Or was someone out there erotically asphyxiating a chihuahua? After three disturbing minutes, I couldn't take it any longer. I crawled out of bed.

From the hundreds of stoops, crannies, and trashcans surrounding my building, my window had been luckily selected as the site at which to host an impromptu feline fuckfest. What an honor. Six new types of rabies and scurvy were being conceived on my doorstep. Amidst the tangle of furry legs, I made out at least three cats, shaking and wiggling their gibbly bits in contortionist ways that are probably illegal in some States. I was not in the mood for such shenanigans. I needed sleep dammit. What to do?

Well, it wasn't really dynamite, but cats are inherently terrified by the sound of fireworks. I think it's an evolutionary trait passed on by all the generations of cats who've ever dared to prowl the dumpsters of third-rate restaurants in Chinatown. I slept like a baby.


Beer: Goose Island Summertime
Music: The Kinks

Wednesday, April 20, 2011

Not so Fast, Not so Furious

      The following is 100% true, which makes it... well, really pathetic.
      It was Friday night, nearly midnight, and my fiance's flight was coming in. I had just left to go pick her up. She called me about 5 minutes into my trip, informing me that her plane landed 15 minutes earlier than scheduled. I was 20 minutes away, and I needed to get there fast.
      Sure enough, I didn't even take one of my two fast cars; the 400 horsepower Mustang or the 300 horsepower sleeper Taurus. No, I brought the "cute," bug eyed, little-train-that-could 200-horsepower-if-it's-lucky-going-downhill Audi A4. It hits 0-60 in... I don't know. I usually fall asleep by then. But power be damned, I was going to push the little turd to get me there in a respectable time.
      Fortunately for me, if you're a cheap skate (and trust me, I am) and don't want to take the toll road to the airport, you can take this long, 2-lane country road in the middle of nowhere that will lead you there. I took this route, and got inadvertently tangled up in the most pathetic underground street racing organization known to man.
       It started when I noticed that traffic was pretty thick for being midnight. It even came to a dead stop, and no one was moving. I was looking over the steering wheel, trying to figure out why the hell we were stopped... an accident maybe? The police had stopped someone? I saw nothing wrong, but suddenly, everyone took off--very quickly.
        Maybe I was just naive, maybe I was (am) stupid, maybe I was just in a hurry and wasn't thinking, but it didn't occur to me that they were all street racing each other. Nor did it occur to me that I was about to join them. Thinking only about getting to the airport on time, I hammered the gas, flew past some beat up Chevy Silverado belching black smoke, and caught up to this Honda Civic that was absolutely screaming as it was falling behind a very beat up old 80's Mustang.
       I zipped over to the left lane (fuck it, I thought. If these guys are gonna be going fast, then I'll do it too. I'm in a hurry) and passed the Civic. I was coming up hard on the Mustang, and as I passed it, they gave me the biggest, bug eyed expression I've ever seen. Bigger than the stupid bug-eyed front end of my turdmobile.
        I looked down and realized I was going 80 in a 65. Oops. So I coasted over to the right lane and slowed down a hair. Just then the Mustang crept up beside me, with some young guy in a crooked baseball cap rolling down his window and motioning for me to do the same. I looked behind me in the rear view mirror and saw 2 Civics, the Silverado, and what looked to be some kind of Miata.
      ...And I then realized that not only had I just been zipping in and out of a pack of very pathetic street racers, but I was at the front of the line.
        The guy in the junky old Mustang asked me if I was part of the 'crew.' I told him no. He invited me to come race with them, but I told them no, I was in a hurry to get to the airport. He told me my ride was 'sick,' and that they met up in this area at midnight on Friday nights if I ever wanted to join them.
       They turned off to some other dark back road, and I kept going on my way, shaking my head as I wondered if these clowns knew they got bested by a mostly stock 4-banger turbo Audi.
        Ultimately, I only got to the airport 5 minutes late. I was so excited to see my fiance, and she was excited to see me... now that I was... KING OF THE STREET RACERS.

The following is a very, very dramatic rendition:


Game over.
Stay classy, friends,

Mood: Confident
Beer: Not while I'm driving my speed demon
Shower: I'm gonna be showering in money when I go back next week in my Mustang and hustle those kids


Monday, April 18, 2011

No Guilt in the Champagne Room

It has been said that time and tide waits for no man. In my highly philosophical journey of life thus far, I’ve also discovered that this same principle holds true for the bulging bladder of the barroom beer drinker. Naturally, this means that I’ve seen my share of saloon lavatories, ranging in swankiness from gold-plate-and-marble fixtures to “Wow, so that’s what diarrhea looks like in the sink?” I’ve seen some gnarly shit in my inebriated restroom travels, and for the most part I could care less. At worst I’ll take my coffee without cream for a few days. But, to this day, there’s one element in any restroom that I just can’t handle.
            So, there you are (guys), standing at the urinal, melting ice-cubes or washing porcelain with your mighty stream. All is well. Tension drains out with the rented beer, replaced with relief. And then you feel it…expectant eyes on your backside. You cringe. Not because you are in danger, or about to become a giant, psychopathic man-child’s sexual plaything (Unless you live in Cell Block D). No, the unease is brought about by the fellow sitting patiently on his stool beside the sink, grinning at you warmly as you turn to wash your hands.
The restroom attendant.
His tip jar is full of guilt-soaked ones, and next to it an entire toiletry-aisle worth of untouched crap is spread out: mouthwash, hair gel, combs, floss, cologne bottles, breath mints, aspirin, razors, condoms… everything but the bathroom sink, which of course there is hardly room for amid the mountain of hygiene products you already so foolishly used before leaving the house.
Luckily, all you need to do is wash your hands. But wait…your anxious new friend is prepared and eager to assist you in even this menial task. He holds out a wad of paper towels with a smile. Now what do you do? You didn’t ask him for a paper towel, as you have been capable of executing the tugging motion required to operate the dispenser since the age of five. Do you take the towels, or somehow maneuver around him to get at the blocked dispenser? He smiles on, sending out undulating waves of unjust guilt. You take the towels reluctantly, awkwardly and say thanks. Now, it just so happens that this chap does happen to be a giant, psychopathic man-child, but you’ve a sneaking suspicion that’s part of his shtick. Don’t fall for it. Don’t feel bad. And unless you’ve partaken of his wares, do not feel compelled to stuff money in the tip jar. You went into the bathroom to take a piss. And remember, pissing is always free, unless you do it in front of the cops.



Beer: Sofie (Goose Island)
Music: A.F.I.