March 1, 2011

Roseta Stump

I've been trying some things lately-different things than I normally try, and these ones I don't have to worry about mistaking them for amanitas-and thus far the results are far from inconvulsive. Oddly enough some of the funnier things I have written (isn't that a fun word??!) have been while I have been jamming out in my head to good 'ol Trent Reznor. I have based this off of nothing more than a smattering of the comments I have (and have not) received on different posts. Speaking of that, my blog has had 279 views. 158 of those are from me (I know because the most used browser that looks at my blog is Chrome-guess what I use and you don't most likely?) waiting to see what someone has said. I've even changed my setting so that you can post comments anonymously (that's for you gangsta g-ma Betty, yo!). Wow, that wasn't interesting at all. Hang on, let me put on some screaming, wailing and otherwise brashness that is Trenty-boy. Okay, now that he's screaming in my ears AND I CAN'T EVEN HEAR YOU NO MATTER HOW LOUD I TYPE!!! Since that's in caps and has exclamation points you should now be mentally deaf from reading it.

Someone told me today I could be Trent Reznor's doppelganger. That was mildly flattering, though considering it came from a student I teach it could have been meant as an insult. He did just win an oscar, and this time it wasn't for singing dirty little ditties about the naughty bits of life. It was for the score of The Social Network. It's not too bad actually-I gave it a listen after being told I looked like him a little, except I'm a bit fatter, shorter and not quite as pasty white. That and I wear glasses, have some grey hair and do not hate god. Other than that, and I don't own the house the Tate murders occurred in, we're pretty much the same person. I'm also a lot less rich than he is and don't make music, unless its mexican night at our house.

I could never be a real chemist. Yes, I am getting an advanced degree in chemistry, but it's not real chemistry. I work on a computer all day, write programs and the closest thing I do to chemistry while at work is wash my hands in the restroom and heat something up in the microwave. Technically the last of those two is physics and not chemistry, otherwise the food wouldn't taste very good anymore, assuming microwavable food tasted good before you microwaved it. How do we know if microwavable food is really palatable or not? You heat it up, and it either turns to mush because some water got into the package or you're so starved that you can't wait for it to cool down and cram it in your mouth, searing off all of your taste buds in one fell swoop; you could be eating a magoty shoe for all you know at that point and it would taste the same. Try eating a magoty shoe the next time you burn off all your taste buds.

I'm at a very unsatisfied point right now. I just reread everything I have already written (there's that word again that makes me giggle for some unknown reason) and frankly I feel like it sounds like everyone else's blog that's out there. There's sixteen trillion of us, and we're all trying to be funny, though few of us ever really can pull it off. I miss the days when I didn't know I sounded like everyone else. Curse you Al Gore and your stupid invention of the internet!!!! Can we make up an anti-nobel prize? If we can, I think he should receive the first one, and it comes with a cash prize of -(recipients-net-worth), that fluctuates with the recipient. You can pay in one lump sum, or you can do it in installments. Maybe that's how hell works. You show up, they tell you you've been naughty by reading off all the horrible things you've done when you thought no one was watching (sneaking cookie dough while the wife was asleep) and even those that people saw you do (beating the neighbor kid for trying to teach your dog to pee on your back door). Then they take you from the room-of-shame (everyone gets to hear about all your naughtiness in the room of shame, it's a public spectacle) into the room of eternal-damnation-customer-service-center. Even though you can see the workers on the other side of a big window, they make you call them and you have to navigate an automated system that makes the IRS seem warm and comforting, like your first blankey you had when you were a kid. If you are able to navigate the automated system (pressing 0 will only get one of satan's helpers to come and poke you with a pitchfork) without ripping your pay phone, which you have to keep feeding quarters, from the wall you then get to talk to a customer-service agent.

In high school and junior high, do you remember those girls that were like you-know, and they always had like those one like things that were like totally nuh-uh, and they would completely out of who-knows-where be all like up in your like you know business? I'm convinced that no one really acts or talks like that of their own free will, but instead they have unwittingly become subjected to evil-demon-infestation-disease. Those same evil demons that are responsible for this tragic tragic behavior are the same demons that work in the customer-service department (they're being punished as well, even satan hates it when people talk that way). Now you have to give to them your new ID number that has been conveniently tattooed on the underside of your thigh, for convenient reading, and they don't give you those nice tear-away pants in hell either. They also like can't really like understand you very like you-know well because like they have this really really like bogusly bad connection because you know like it's hell and like Verizon is too chicken to cover there, and AT&T just can't cover anything (Sprints thinks they're too high and mighty, but heaven doesn't want them, so they've settled for purgatory, which means your cell phone won't work once you leave). As time marches on you begin to feel your brain start to turn into mush, and you imagine your brain oozing out of your ear, through the phone and behind that wall of glass separating them from you, oozing out of their receiver and into their head, where it easily bludgeons they're mediocre brain to death and then takes over, much like dicrocoelium dendriticum. That doesn't help you much in the long run, but it makes you feel better for the moment.

After an eternity of this, you finally get to the part you were hoping they would forget about. Payment. No HMO, no copay, no Medicaid, no Medicare and definitely no socialist government backed insurance to help with this type of payment. They ask you in a voice so cheery you would expect flowers to start blooming everywhere it was heard, if it weren't for the fact that they work for the dark underlord of evilness, doom and pop-music. Though, if I ever go to hell I'm sure they will have a nice large space put aside for me where there will be bright cheery meadows of a-little-too-pastel flowers, and the sky is the kind of powder blue you would expect a doctor's office to look like. There amongst all this that is amiss they would play over and over and over again certain scenes from The Sound of Puking, aka The Sound of Music. There where hope and sunshine spring eternal, so will my utter agony and discomfiture skip on the scratched part of the dvd to ever repeat and never end. Then I could see flowers blossoming where their voices roamed, but no where else.

The Payment. I imagine that this part is much like buying a house-I just went through that for the first (and sadly not the last) time in August. In all actuality, it started back in March or so. The first realtor we contacted wanted us to buy a house out of our price range (they get commission even if you foreclose a year later), and the banker they recommended we work with reminded me of the people I used to sail vacuums door-to-door with (I've even sold garbage service door-to-door, you hear all kinds of fun things BFI should stand for). They were anything but trustworthy and I wouldn't trust them with the people I hate the most and despise in this world. They were good at their jobs though and given the chance they could probably sell Osama Bin Laden a christian bible. I never met the guy, but I pictured him with jet black hair greased back (a hair net on in the morning to help keep it in place after lathering on the Dapper Dan), cheap yellow gold looking watch, necklace, rings and nose ring. In my mind he had a toothpick in his mouth he was constantly playing with and he sore a wife beater underneath his suit jacket. On casual fridays he would wear his ambercrombie and fitch shorts with his quicksilver t-shirt. Needless to say, I don't think he watched the news much. Then after switching to a new realtor (which is another ball of wax) and lots of very uninteresting details that made me hate loath and otherwise despise US Bank and the spineless realtor that represented them, we finally sat down to sign the final paperwork, hand over the final check and tell them "thank you for being so pleasant to work with..." The final paperwork went something like this:

Them: You don't have to read all of this as we go through, your realtor and banker
           have looked it over all ready and it is fine (big scary smile that's supposed to put
           me at ease but only conjures up images of them biting my head off and eating it
           whole)

Me: Uhm, can you stop smiling, my soul is trying not to die right now.

Them: (Still smiling) Okay then, let's get started! This page just says that you will be
          our monkey-slave for all eternity should you decide to stop paying and that we
          have assessed the house to worth exactly what you're paying for it.

Me: Isn't that statistically impossible? I mean, I'm no mathematician, but my
       father-in-law is and I could ask him...

Them: (Still smiling, but with a hint of unkind fire in the eyes) We just need you to
          initial here and here and date this page here. Oh here's a pen (handing me
          the same pen used to punish Harry Potter) don't worry if it hurts a little, it's
          only temporary.

Me: OUCH!!

Them: (Burning lustful fire of hate seeing their prey might try and escape burns in
          their eyes and the voice from Poltergeist emanating from  her throat) SIGN
          THE PAPER INFIDEL CRETIN!!!

Me: I think your hair's on fire (as I sign the first page)

Them: Shit! Well that just ruined the mood (The room kind of stinks now and
           we all know it)

This went on for about 600 pages. After that we took a bathroom break (I was escorted by an armed guard to and from the bathroom) and began again. Soon the cement floor began to bow under the weight of all the paper work, and I thought we were going to be done-for, when I heard those words you want to hear, but at the same time dread, "Congratulations, it's a boy!" Wait, sorry, wrong story. "Congratulations, you now own your very own first house!" The only thing really running through my head at that point was "I think I'm going to faint from blood loss..."

Later we found out that US Bank is a bunch of bigger idiots than we initially thought. They left out about 10 pages of very important documents. The only reason they bothered us with it though was because without those pages they couldn't get paid. Hahahahaha! Stupid !@#!@(*@!#!@(#*$!*@#)!@_~!!@)#!@$)@*$!@)$*!@#*)@)!#(!@)#(!@$!@#$!@$%!%!@*!%)&@%)(*^&@($%*()&$)$(&)^%(*%^(*%^)(**)*#@$#%_@(_$@#*#$^_^*#!!!!!! I love bunnies and squirrels. In fact I have even trained a small army of them to track down and torment employees of US Bank for all of their lives. See, with a little bit of effort we can all make this a little piece of hell on earth for someone else.

I like owning a house though, and by own I mean paying another bank each month for the next 30 years (25 of which we won't be here any longer) so we have some place to live and hide from other squirrels.

Who wears short shorts? 

7 comments:

Anonymous said...

Wow, I can leave a message. How cool is that?
I don't know where the heck you come up with some of the stuff you write. I'm thinking that you have way too much time on your hands. LOL
Gansta Grandma's don't wear short shorts.
I hate it when people say "Like" and "Ya know". If I knew, why did they need to tell me?
I can hardly wait until I'm "down there" just to see with whom I will be seeing on a daily basis. I hope you will come "down" to visit.
Love ya, Gansta G-ma BettE (got that? E) Loves

Apoliticism said...

Yo G-ma! Right right, I usually don't spell my own name rite, so you will hopefully forgave me.

Anonymous said...

Yeah, I know. You think that Hansen is spelled J e p p s o n.
:0)

Charlie Pulsipher said...

You are so odd it makes me want to lick your face like a puppy. Where are the pretty pictures you promised me?

Love you tons and tons.

Apoliticism said...

Chuck- Ooh, I remember one of the first times we met, and we ended up on Adam and Steph's floor rolling around licking each other. Everyone was grossed out.

I forgot about the pictures. I've been tempted to steal some of Trent and put it up next to one of me to see who thinks we really look alike (we are kind of similar, he has two eyes, so do I, etc.).

I will try to remember pictures for next time (I even just wrote myself a note).

G-ma - The Jeppson last name has to do with Pam has her's changed to Hansen even though it's still Jeppson, so I did the same thing. ;-)

Joseph said...

I'm pretty sure you need to call me one night and tell me a story till I fall asleep. That would be so pleasant and would remind me of when we were together. :-D

Apoliticism said...

Won't your wife get jealous?