You are currently browsing the monthly archive for June, 2006.
Yes, yes, I know. I didn’t diatribe last week. The truth is, well, I was lazy. None of the stories I had really struck a chord with me, so I just sat out, relaxed, and read everyone else’s blog instead. There’s no crime in that, right? And you people aren’t exactly paying me to rant, so I’ll take a week off if’n I feel like it from time to time. And don’t you dare try to bow up at me, either – You’re in Damiana now. Word.
By the way, thank you all for not mentioning the Mavs. I took the losses hard, and it hurt me all the way to my soul. I had already planned on calling in with a bad case of rheumatic fever or vitiligo or leprosy, just to attend the victory parade, and instead, I’m having to relocate my Western Conference Champions banner I got from Wal-Mart over to the other, less-visible side of my cubicle wall so that haters will stop shooting Nerf darts at it. So…thank you for leaving my wounds sodium-free.
Let’s see what’s cooking this week.
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NEW DELHI – Husbands in India have found a new way to make some extra cash – they rent out their wives to other men. Atta Prajapati rents out his wife Laxmi to a landowner for $175 US a month. She is expected to live with the man, look after him and his house, and even have sex with him. The Times of India reports that several men rent their wives to other men on a month-by-month basis. These husbands are cashing in on the shortage of single woman in India, caused by the fact that many parents abort female fetuses, preferring sons to daughters. The reason for this is because a daughter’s parents usually have to pay the groom’s family a dowry, which is often a big financial burden.
You have to love the entrepreneurial spirit sometimes. Without it, we wouldn’t have traffic lights, Gameboys, or TiVo. Or, in this case, wife rental. My question is this: if you rent your wife out to some other dude, wouldn’t you then have to rent a wife yourself, just to handle all the household duties in YOUR crib? ‘Cause I KNOW these men aren’t doing it themselves. What if the renter gets the wife pregnant? Would that be the equivalent of adding a room onto a house you’re renting? You know, ultimately, that room belongs to the landlord, even if you do sink money into it. Worse, what if the wife is doing things with the renter that she won’t do with the husband? I could just see him saying “But Laxmi, I’ve been begging you for 3 years to do that thing with your mouth, and you did it for HIM?” Of course, she’d likely say “Well, unlike you, he had a contract. Maybe you need a better real estate agent.” Paid polyamory, table for three!
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BEIJING – The Fangji Cat Meatball Restaurant in the Chinese city of Shenzhen will no longer be serving cat meat after a group of animal rights protesters barged into the business wielding banner that said “cats and dogs are friends of human beings.” The demonstrators demanded the owner to free any live cats on the premises, but there were none since the owner had already moved them. However, some of the demonstrators were distraught to find a skinned cat in the fridge. “I cannot go on with my business, and I will not sell cat meat any more,” the restaurant owner was quoted as saying.
…
Do I even need to say anything here?
I thought not.
Fangji Cat Meatball Restaurant.
Classic.
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WEST VANCOUVER, British Columbia – Goldilocks and the Three Bears sort of came to life when a woman came home to discover a bear in her kitchen munching on oatmeal. The bear came through an open sliding glass door looking for a meal, and found the container of oatmeal. “It sounds like a nursery rhyme, doesn’t it?” West Vancouver police Sgt. Paul Skelton said. “At least we have a health-conscious bear on our hands.” The bear wouldn’t move when police officers came to the home, so they let him finish eating first. Once the bear was done with its meal, it left the house and headed towards a forested gully. “It ended the best it could,” Skelton said.
HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! As scary as this must’ve been for the poor lady, the shit’s pretty funny, too. I bet the bear looked at her like “What? Like you’re eating this. Bitch, settle. I’ll be done in a minute. Oh yeah, you need some milk.” I’m really surprised they didn’t just shoot the bear, ’cause that’s what would’ve happened down here in the good ol’ U S of A. We don’t fuck around. What did the BC officers do? Did they just ask the bear to leave?
Officers: “Excuse me – exCUSE me!”
Bear (sighing): “WHAT? Can’t you see I’m busy? Damn! (mumbling to himself) Bear can’t even eat a meal without muhfuckas all up in his grill.”
Officers: “We’re terribly sorry – are you almost finished?”
Woman: “GET IT OUT, GET IT OUT!”
Bear: “I’ll be finished when I’m finished. And bitch, I TOLD you to settle! Swear to God, I’ll knock out this oatmeal and start in on the Crunch Berries! You better chill! Oh yeah, don’t go in the bathroom for 35, 45 minutes. Bring some Glade. And a plunger.”
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***And since I didn’t do a diatribe last week, here’s some bonus coverage!***
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BOCA RATON, Fla. – Rich diners at a posh Boca Raton, Fla., restaurant can now fork over $100 for a hamburger made of beef from three different countries. Marc Sherry, owner of the Old Homestead Steak House, introduced the Tri-Beef Burger Tuesday in a ceremony fit for an extravagant patty of ground beef. A Hummer limo picked the beef up from its flight to Fort Lauderdale and TV cameras and reporters were on hand when it arrived at the restaurant, the St. Petersburg Times reports. Culled from cows raised in Colorado, Argentina and Japan, the 2 1/2-inch thick, 5 1/2- inch in diameter burger is fried in grape seed oil and topped with top-shelf vegetables and Maytag Blue cheese.
First things first – since when does an appliance maker make bleu cheese? Bet that shit tastes like Tide.
Second – it’s “bleu” cheese, not “blue” cheese. Bleu cheese is for salad dressing. Blue cheese will kill you. I don’t even eat cheese, and I know this.
Third – The best hamburger in the world only costs about $10, and it’s made from one kind of beef – cow. Period. No fancy names, no 3 country potpourri meat, no limo rides from the airport. Anyone who willingly pays $100 for a damn hamburger needs to be slapped around with his checkbook.
Fourth – Why, someone please explain, why would you cook a hamburger in grape seed oil? Canola. Peanut. Hell, bacon grease! THIS is how you cook a burger, not in some damn fancy-pants grape seed oil. What the hell IS grape seed oil, anyway? Won’t the burger taste like communion wine after you cook it? Ridiculous.
Take your hungry, needing-a-burger ass down to TGI Fridays, order the Jack Daniels burger, and have an orgasm in your mouth.
Well. That sounded dirty.
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FJORDANE, Norway – A Norwegian man arrested Tuesday says he only struck his former girlfriend with a dildo, despite her being hospitalized with a concussion and broken bones. The 28-year-old victim remained in the hospital with two broken fingers and several cuts. According to local newspaper Firda, she told police she feared for her life during the assault, Aftenposten reported. The 37-year-old defendant appeared in the Fjordane court in the scenic western town of Nordfjordeid on Monday. He said he was sorry for his actions, and attempted to downplay the assault. “It lasted 10 to 15 minutes max,” he told the court. “I didn’t hit her with anything other than a dildo.” He also suggested the woman may have had bruises from before the assault.
Silly Norwegians. He beat her ass with a dildo. Maybe he considers that cheating, who knows. Doesn’t make it ok, though. But imagine the embarrassment she has to suffer – she has to tell her friends and family that she was attacked for 10 to 15 minutes with a sex toy. What the hell kind of attachments did she have on that thing? Next time, she should remove the chain saw/nail file/hammer/pumice stone from the base, just in case someone tries to whup her with it.
Domestic battery is no laughing matter, and I don’t condone violence for any reason, especially against supposed loved ones. But ladies…hide your shit, OK? Don’t be the chick with imprints of anal beads on your face and neck. That ain’t cool.
Peace.
All stories come courtesy of Bizarre News. I couldn’t make this shit up for money.
The waterpark is a popular summertime destination. Who doesn’t like it there? When it’s 100 degrees outside, and you see dogs breaking into barbershops just to steal the clippers so they can shave themselves, there’s no better place to chill than a place that has water, rides, and half-naked people waking around. Hell, they’ll even sell you ice cream there – and not that ordinary shit you get in the grocery store, either. We’re talking high-quality frozen goods. We’re talking about the dots, people. Have you HAD ice cream dots yet? If not, retire from popular culture right now, turn your TV to C-SPAN, and crush the remote control. You can turn the channel once you understand why Buffy and Angel broke up, and why he moved to L.A.
(Speaking of “Angel”, do any of you watch that show “Bones” on Fox? David Boreanaz is the star, and it’s pretty good.
Tangent!)
I asked you a question, dammit. Who doesn’t like it at the waterpark?
Me.
Ooooh, yes. I’ll say it right here, in front of everybody:
Fuck the waterpark.
It’s warmer than Camryn Manheim’s inner thighs, the pavement is made of molten lava covered by fire ants and hot grits, and the water….dear God, the water. Things float by you in the water that you have to question how it wound up at the waterpark in the first place. A dog collar? Come on, man! That’s just not right. Well, the waterpark is just where we ended up yesterday, much to my chagrin. But I’m a trooper, and the Minions (3YO and 6YO) really wanted to be there, so there we went. First of all, what is the rule that says that the waterpark’s parking lot can only accomodate 7 cars, and the rest of you can either (a) valet park in the other 43 spaces, or (b) walk like Moses in the desert for 40 years after you park your car in the next school district. Since I’m not one for paying someone to do something that I can do with the same amount of effort and expertise and withing the same amount of time, we opted for the Exercise Parking Plan. I got a tan just from walking from the car to the front gate. It was that far and that hot. We passed a camel, staggering from the heat, as he tried to make it to the gate. It was THAT FAR.
Once we got inside, the real fun began.
**Commence showing Secret Squirrel pictures of the waterpark**
Me, the anti-jonx. The hat is ridiculous, I know. Look, it was hot out there, ok? And I had just shaved my head the night before, and I wasn’t ABOUT to get my scalp sunburned. That shit hurts. Oh, that expression on my face? It’s called the “Word mouth”, because that’s what you do after you say “Word.” to someone. Jot that down.
Looks idyllic, doesn’t it? It would be, if it didn’t have…
No, not my son – the damn JUNGLE back there! Look at that shit! It looks like Vietnam’s cousin back there. You know there’s a bear in there, and I bet you dollars to doughnuts that the snakes swim in the water at night.
Believe me, I’m not one to piss all over someone else’s religion, but seriously – if you can’t come out of the burka, why are you at the waterpark? It was 600 degrees out there, and you looked a little out of place next to the chick in the two-piece with tattooes of butterflies on her lower back. Just sayin’.
Not the woman in the foreground – she’s fine. Well, I mean “OK”, not attractive. Look at the woman in the background. And feel free to click the picture to see what I wrote. She looked like she got dressed by two blind circus acrobats.
No.
Yes.
This was just sad, y’all. I damn-near dropped the camera trying to get a shot of her, though. See those stairs to the right? It took her nearly 3 minutes to go up. There were 7 of them. Later on, she tried to sit on one of the many plastic lawn chairs scattered around, but she fell. And she couldn’t get back up. She sat there, on the hot concrete, for a long, long time, just…chillin’. It was really sad, and I did not laugh at her plight.
But I laughed on the inside, because I’m evil.
See that guy in the white shirt? Water was falling on him, where he was standing. When he turned sideways, 3 little kids tried to slide down his stomach.
Freezing water, hot sun, high prices…it was good to leave. And I swear to you, I will NOT go back to that place…until next weekend.
We have season passes.
Peace.
Yeah, yeah. I didn’t diatribe this week. Suck it. I’ll do it next week. My black ass has been a wee bit busy, now that I’ve been really working for a living, and not just chillin’ in an empty cube IMing all day.
(Damn, I miss IMing. It’s amazing how used you get to instant communication. Gah!)
I’ve been at Fortune 25 Company now for 3 weeks, and I gotta say, I love it here. Love. It. The people there are wonderful – smart, funny, my age, and very unique. Evidently, I’m rolling with the bad boys and girls, because in the last three weeks I have witnessed:
- At least 47 unique instances of sexual harassment
- No less than 29 instances of racial profiling and stereotyping
- 52 crude jokes
- 14 homosexual references
- 12 inappropriate touches
- 10 short jokes
- 4 admissions of slight bisexuality
- 492 curse words
This place is awesome. My kinda joint. When I was at Chinaland, I went out to lunch with coworkers exactly three times – twice with the receptionist, and once with the whole gang on the now-infamous bad company lunch. Other than that, I sat at my desk everyday, reading blogs or CNNSI.com, or something equally anti-social. If you know me personally, you know that that ain’t me. I’ve already been out to lunch 5 or 6 times in the last 3 weeks. I’m back in my element. I’m sure fun times will ensue.
(I’m almost certain that this is the most boring blog post I’ve ever written. If you don’t like it, bite me politely just to spite me.)
Peace.
I’ll diatribe tomorrow. I’m in a picture mood today. Enjoy!
And oh, go check us out at www.ntlband.com. Now. And tell your friends that we rock balls and concert halls. Go.
Me and Gordie, rocking out. Funny thing is, as cool and bad-ass as I look in those shades, I couldn’t see a damn thing, and was playing all KINDS of wrong notes. But I look good.
Jmart, before removing his shirt, which usually takes place about 17.4 seconds into the first song of the set. Gordie’s behind him, and I’m back there, arms looking like cannons. Oh yes. I’m rockin’ the arms.
Gordie and Trip, playing a solo or something. Swear, when I’m on stage, I have NO idea what they do over there. After the show, a guy said “What happened to Trip’s guitar?” And I had no clue what the hell he was talking about. My own little world, people. That’s where I live.
“Hey! Sound Guy! This mic STILL isn’t working – HEY! THEY CAN’T HEAR MY MELIFLUOUS VOICE, ASS! Turn me UP! What? Look it up – what am I, Merriam-Webster? Jeez. And LOOK AT THESE ARMS!”
Just for you, Fyrchk. Just for you. Jmart, shirtless and sweaty.
“I guess…you say…what can make me feel this way? Bacon (bacon) BACON! Talkin’ ’bout baaacon….BACON!”
Peace.
Spectacular injuries take real talent, ladies and gentlemen. You can’t just fall down from an upright position and expect to have some type of memorable accident – unless, of course, you’re at the top of a spiral staircase at the moment, which would be funnier than two chipmunks battling over acorns in a bag placed over Ann Coulter’s head. No, a spectacular injury requires forethought, luck, skill, and sheer stupidity to pull off correctly. A spectacular injury should have people making the “O” mouth when you tell them what happened. A spectacular injury should also not be fatal or utterly life-altering, in the grand scheme of things, because paralysis ain’t funny at all. A spectacular injury should just barely miss the Darwin Award cut. This story is about such an injury.
1986. 8th grade. Chubby smart little fat kid (me) who would walk around West Conway Middle School with his arms pulled into his jacket, flapping them up and down, singing “Broken Wings” by Mr. Mister in the same voice used by the mogwai in “Gremlins”. Can you say “ladies man”? Yeah, me neither. But I was funny, therefore I was well-known if not popular. Conway was a small town then, and everyone knew everyone else. Those were the days when you could tell your mom at 11am “Hey, I’m going over to [friend's name]’s house”, and you could literally be gone until 8pm without her worrying about you. Nowadays I wanna give my kids a switchblade and a stun gun just to play in the fenced-in back yard. Of course, my kids would be busy stunning themselves and the dogs, but that’s a story for another time.
On the day in question, I left my house around noon, heading to my friend Lamont’s house to chill and jump ramps with my 10 speed bike. It was my prized possession. I had gotten it earlier that summer, after years of riding a yellow 4 speed monstrosity my friends liked to call “The Banana Hearse” because it was long, yellow, and looked like it could transport a body. Upgrading to this luxury sedan of a bike was like winning the Kid Lottery, and I rode that bastard at every opportunity. Lamont’s house was to be the gathering point for the ghetto version of the X Games, or as we called it, “Let’s put some plywood over some cinder blocks and make ramps so we can jump”. And jump, we did. All afternoon, doing incredible stunts like landing without falling and coming to a complete stop before rolling into the ravine. Around 3, I decided to go home for a bit to see what was for dinner, hoping it would be a pot roast or my mom’s famous chicken bog. It was neither, and that proved to be par for the course that day. I ate, and told Mom I was heading back over to Lamont’s to play some video games, to which my mom said “Go! Bye!” This was before we adopted my sister, and I think she enjoyed her time alone. I don’t even wanna THINK about what she did. That’s my MOM, you sick freaks! Jesus. And so it began.
From my house to the corner was about 100 yards or so, give or take a soda can. The intersecting street was a busy one, but on Sundays it wasn’t usually too bad. I was known to take a rolling stop into the intersection before veering left to my friends’ houses, and that day was no different.
While still rolling, I looked to the right. Nothing.
While still rolling, I looked to the left. Car. Coming hard. Shit.
I immediately applied the brakes and turned the handlebars hard to the left, hoping to kinda swoop underneath her and curl back around before she actually reached me, only…the handlebars did a funny, funny thing. You see, in the old-school 10 speed bikes, the handlebars (those curly ones, not the straight ones you see on mountain bikes today) were held on by one center bolt. This center bolt was key; it held the handlebars in position and kept them from sliding. When I tried to turn my bike, my handlebars slid like they had been sprayed with WD-40 and dipped in bacon grease. They slid like an old-timey typewriter. ALLLLL the way to the right – the opposite direction of where I was turning. Time slowed down at this point. All of the things I’m about to list happened in about 15 seconds, if not less:
- I look down to see what the fuck just happened, and I noticed masking tape where the center bolt should be. FUCK!
- I look up to see the oncoming car SPINNING 180 degrees as the driver tried to avoid hitting me.
- I realize that the car’s gonna hit me REAL HARD in my side, so I kick the bike away from me.
- I spin back toward the car, raising my hands up just as the rear passenger bumper slams into me.
- I flip.
- In the air.
- Like a trained professional acrobat from Ringling Bros. or an extra from “The Matrix”.
- I land, face-down, on the hot asphalt, with my hands again taking the brunt of the force.
- The wind is completely knocked out of me, and I can’t move.
- The driver runs out of the car and thinks I’m dead ’cause I’m not moving.
- I’m trying like hell to catch my breath, and wondering why my arms hurt so much.
- I manage to breathe, and roll partly onto my side.
At ths point, the poor lady who hit me was freaking. The fuck. Out. I gasped out that my house was just down the street and that my mom was at home. While she went to get her, I laid back down on the hot asphalt, staring at a bottle cap imbedded there for years. When I looked up, I saw the most hilarious thing ever: my mom, all 200 pounds of her, in her flowery housecoat and worn slippers, running up that street like she was Jesse Owens and the entire Nazi Olympic team was SUPER-PISSED that she had won the gold medal. With a rottweiler chasing her. I swear I heard the “Chariots of Fire” theme song as she sprinted full-speed up the street. Swear to GOD, I laughed when I saw her, which turned out to be a good thing, ’cause then she knew I was okay. Then I told her what had happened, starting with the time-honored kid phrase “See, what had happened was…”. The joy she surely felt lasted approximately 4 seconds before Typical Black Mom reappeared, yelling at me for getting hit by a car and messing up this poor lady’s whole day. I said “Mom, I think I broke my arm.” She said “That’s what you get for being dumb.” I love her, really.
What had happened was, my friends thought it would be REALLY FUNNY if they removed the center bolt without my knowledge and replace it with masking tape, thinking I would discover it immediately upon getting on the bike. When I didn’t, they promptly forgot to mention it to me. They felt pretty awful about it, and I actually thought it was a pretty good prank, aside from the whole getting hit by a car part. The aftermath was that I had broken both wrists, though the doctor didn’t catch the 2nd fracture until 2 days later when I went to a bone specialist. 2 days I walked around, doing shit with my right hand. Idiots. I had casts on both arms up to my elbows, and I was the King of the School, getting more play than a Broadway stage – until that kid had a seizure in the playground.
Showoff.
And that, folks, is a spectacular injury.
Peace.
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