Friday, July 29, 2011

Now Accepting Applications for Forced Entry

         Among my brother-in-law's many stupid purchases (and trust me, there are many), he used to have a security system at this house, just before he moved out about 2 years ago and handed the place over to us. This left the option of keeping it or cancelling, so the wife had called them for information.
        And for a low, low price of only $150 a month (it's like they're giving the service away), they guaranteed that our house would be safe 24/7. Getting murdered/raped? Well, no sweat, just hang tight for 5-10 agonizing minutes and this company will call the police for you! This is invaluable, because as my house is getting robbed, I just don't have time to pull out my cell phone and call the authorities.
        So, this may be a huge surprise, but we opted out, even if it meant this might happen:













        I shudder at the thought, but since $150 a month is absolutely retarded, I'll have to live with the thought that at any moment I could be raped by angry bunnies.
        But the story doesn't end here. Over the last 2 years, we've battled this company because they've kept sending us bills, thinking somehow, like your typical rapist, that 'no' meant 'yes' and that we wanted their awful service. We had never signed anything, and the equipment was long gone. So after calling numerous times, they put my wife's brother's name on the bill (as it originally was), and we thought the problem was gone. Nope, they just sent HIS bill to our house, no matter how many times we called and said he didn't live here and that he didn't have the damn service, either.
       That brings us to a few days ago, and I can't stress this enough, 2 years later, when we got this little gem in the mail (click to enlarge):

That's right! You haven't paid us in 2 years, so we're going to put our foot down and stop monitoring the equipment you never had!

        So there you go, bloggers. If you're going to come murder or rape me, now's the time to do it, because we no longer have any protection. Well, other than living in a great neighborhood, having thick double locks, and a big, aggressive wolf dog (the other 3 are pussies) that barks at the slightest bit of foreign movement.
        I'll be sure and let you know if I make it through the weekend.

Stay classy, friends,
Bryan

Mood: Paranoid
Beer: Dos Equis Amber
Shower: Awkward with Bun Bun here

Wednesday, July 27, 2011

Hump Day Hullaballoo

Bryan and I are shorthairs deep into writing a new novella (2/3 done?) between novels, and since the ball is in my court for a new chapter, this is going to be a short post today. Mostly, I’d just like to give a shout-out to my liver. I just want you to know your efforts don’t go unappreciated, my friend, even though you’re trapped in what some might see as an abusive relationship. But, don’t listen to them. It’s for your own good. I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t love you. The day you learn to stop giving me hangovers is the day you’ll learn to stop “falling down stairs.” Until then, you’d best be stocking up on the ibuprofen eyeshadow.
            But seriously, domestic violence isn’t funny. So stop laughing, asshole. If you know someone who really does like to punch women, he’d better be a transvestite boxer with a losing record, otherwise he’s earned himself a sledgehammer castration. Call me old-fashioned.
            Sorry for the randomness and lack of general theme here, folks. I promise greater things when Bryan takes the reins again Friday.
Also, as an overdue side note, author friend Kirk Farber recently won the Colorado Book Award for literary fiction for his novel “Postcards from a Dead Girl.” To view a pic of what a real, live, non-self-published fiction author looks like, click here (Kirk's the flame top. Bryan and Brandon are both pictured here too, just in case you’re dying to know what unpublished novelists look like...). Go to a bookstore and buy the book, foo!
Cheers,
-brandon


Beer: Green Line (Goose Island)
Music: Silver Sun Pickups

Monday, July 25, 2011

The Suck-ubus

       So today's another post about the neighbors. See this post, this post, and this post if you need some background. Today's topic: the neighbor that wants my dick. No, I'm not talking about the skanky neighbor girl that wears booty shorts.


       And I'm not talking about her insane father.


      I'm talking about the skanky neighbor woman.



       She's friendly, she's got these nerdy, horn rimmed glasses, and until now, she's kept to herself, which has made her a great neighbor. We don't even care that there's always a huge number of random beat up cars always parking in front of her house (they never drive Lexus's or BMW's I'm afraid), belonging to old, fat, ugly guys that show up at night and leave in the morning, sometimes as much as one a day for a full week.
        We're not sure if she's a prostitute or just has low standards.
        But that didn't matter since she kept to herself... well, until lately. Now, more than ever, she seems to always come outside and talk to me when I'm taking my dogs out for a piss. And she's drunk. And chain smoking. And likes to lean in way too close to tell me something.
         I think she wants my kielbasa.
         What's more, she never talks to my wife. At all. She gives her dirty looks and ignores her.
         Compare:

 
 
 
 
 
 

        Yet when I go outside:

 
 
 
 
(Note: I fully realize that my dog is sleeping in that picture. She's fat and lazy and I only have pictures of her sleeping, so just pretend she's running with me, okay?)

            But if that isn't enough proof, I've got something better.
            A while back I had just finished my daily workout--I worked out extra hard, it was really hot outside, and I was craving some protein--so logically I went out back to grill a hamburger with my shirt off. It seemed harmless at the time. I mean, this was during the afternoon on a weekday, and no one is ever outside. EVER. Well, imagine my surprise when I see a face come to the window, notice me, and then I hear scrambling... moments later, the neighbor lady stumbles out in the tiniest two piece I've ever seen (to accentuate her big fake boobs) and she tries to talk to me... she then lays down on a lawn chair to sun tan, but only for the 15 minutes I'm out grilling. Once I go back in, so does she.
             What a coincidence... right...?

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

           So now I have to close my blinds at all times and can never leave the house for fear that she's going to rape me.
           The end.

Stay classy, friends,
Bryan

Mood: A little creeped out
Beer: Dos Equis Amber
Shower: Is that a hidden camera I see...?

Friday, July 22, 2011

Dances With Salesmen

After six years of faithful service and constant abuse, my old car is no more. The sounds coming from the engine were beginning to resemble mechanical emphysema, and plenty of other expensive problems were cropping up.
So, I sold the PT Cruiser. Yes, I drove a PT Cruiser. And, yes, I realize that only the geriatric own PT Cruisers. In order to save face with my manhood, I’ll claim that I was under-compensating for the size of my schnitzel. You know, like the needle-dick with the lifted monster truck, but in reverse.
Anyway, the point of this post was to talk about car salesmen, and the entertainment my fiancĂ© and I got during negotiations. It was sort of like being on Deal or No Deal, but Howie was black, and instead of models in bikinis, there were fat guys in bad suits. So, there we were at the Subaru dealership…











I really did get the thing for 6k under sticker price. And the kidney paid for a full tank. Go me.

Cheers,

-brandon

Beer: Stella
Musica: The Smiths
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