October 25, 2012

Hell's bathroom probably looks and smells like the DMV, but with nicer toilet paper

For the most part I am glad that I was a child in the 80's and don't have to pretend I never participated in the atrocities that were promulgated during that era. It's too bad the 80's couldn't be decimated, then again, that would be a lot of spandex to fit into one year. Billy Idol's hair would have poked out a few eyes, and a few too many people would be related to Neil Diamond if the 80's were decimated. There is one thing I do like about the 80's though, other than my wife, and that is the metal bands. Just to clarify, Bon Jovi is not metal, I'm not even sure if he's human; Van Halen doesn't fall into this category either.

Everyone keeps talking about the national deficit, the debt (it sound like 'death' when most people on the news say it) ceiling and all of the problems that come with it. Personally it just makes me want to jump in a mosh pit and get the tar beaten out of me by other people. Mosh pits really aren't that bad, I enjoyed them immensely back when I was slightly more crazy in a different direction than I am now. VECTOR! Committing crime with both direction and magnitude! I loved to go to the Warped tour back before it was infected with screamo bands that complain about how hard high school was for them (i.e. I don't even know any of their names, I despise them that much). It was awesome! Less than $30 for an entire day of rocking out and kicking it with some of the strangest people you'll ever meet. I know in Europe you have week and month long festivals that are truly stupendous, but I'm not a fan of the bands that play at the week long festivals here-mostly country and celine deon style music. The first time I jumped in the pit, the people I was with were trying to talk me out of it, telling me all kinds of horror stories of awful things that they had seen happen. Being the wonderfully responsible person that I am, I threw caution to the wind and jumped into the pit. (updated, since I left this post for awhile and when I came back I didn't have the common sense of decency to finish where I was going, but now I do) I remember my first mosh pit experience as nothing less than grand and the highlight of that summer. What I call my "first" mosh pit experience is an entire days worth of moshing, thrashing and otherwise getting knocked about. My brain now has a slight, very slight, idea of what it's like to live in the head of a boxer. The most memorable pit of that day though was while Lagwagon was playing (an awesome band, if there ever was one) and not just because they're awesome. The stage was in front of not grass, oh no, that would be for the faint of heart and the not-too-serious-concert-goer. This was in front of an asphalt patch of parking lot. While the other stages had nice soft grass and dirt to mosh on and land on when you got knocked down, this one had hard, hot, sticky asphalt. There was this big dude. I remember him to be about the size of a semi. I say this because that's what I recall him as being. He cleared out a nice area for a pit and was the only in it. Being the brilliant person that I am, I said, "Hey, there's no one else in there with him, I'll join him!' and I did. We were having a grand 'ol time moshing in the same pit together, but not actually coming into contact with one another. Then they started playing a more vigorous song, and we both got into it. That's when disaster struck. We ran head first, full on into each other. The last thought that went through my head as I suddenly noticed what was happening was, 'Gee, I'm thirsty.' That's when he hit me. It's kind of like a bug smashing into your car. They don't really collide. The car hits the big. End of story. I went flying about 10-15 feet and landing on that wonderful asphalt. The best part about it, other than I wasn't really hurt, was that he immediately stopped what he was doing and came rushing over to make sure I was okay. That's what it used to be about, and that's what life should be about, making sure we all have a good time but that we're all taken care of as well. Who says the punk scene isn't good for anything? =D

Once upon a time there was a little girl named Little Bled Biting Wood, and one day she went into the forest. There she met an evil wolf who gave her a green card. She lived happily ever after.

When I was a kid, yes I was once young though you wouldn't guess from my grey hair, which is now even more apparent since I've put on weight and let my hair grow out (interestingly enough, my left side seems to grow faster than the right-that or the last barber I went to was cross-eyes), I was confused by the Fabio commercials for fake butter. First, who wants to eat fake butter? The body has a hard enough time processing real butter, what makes you think fake butter is going to work out any better? At least real butter is gluten free. Second, the whole buffed-out-guy-wearing-an-open-shirt/vest-with-a-lady-in-something-skimpy fawning over, not each other, but fake butter, of all things. I kind of understand why that bird flew into his face, not that I condone such behavior. It wasn't until later when the Harlequin romance novel was explained to me did I understand what the commercials were trying to do. I didn't understand Harlequin romance novels, but I understood why they made the commercial the way they did. I always understood why it seemed to only run during the day and seldom later at night.

I decided that if this is what girls wanted, then it was what I was going to give them. I started to grow my hair out, walk around in open shirts and vest, and started eating fake butter (the last part wasn't easy). The part that no one ever tells you is that unlike Sampson, regardless of how long we mere mortals grow out our hair, without exercise and a personal trainer, our body will not fall into line and be a good soldier, whipping itself into that manly and masculine form. After a while I had to cut my hair and start eating real butter again. That doesn't help with your masculine figure either. Later in my childhood I took up swimming. Much like running, this will not rip you out and give you man-sized muscles. Oh no, it will make you look emaciated and like you just arrived from a third world country. Unknowing doctors will try to test you for malnutrition and have you placed under special care while social services looks into your parents/guardians for mistreatment and abuse. This is also not a good sport if you want to grow your hair out. At least once a year the entire team gets together, men with men and women with women, put on their extremely tight fitting swim suits (I have a size 0 speedo I used for competition swimming, this also didn't help with the ladies, seeing my emaciated body in all of its glory) and shave off any and all hair that is showing. Usually the women don't shave their head. Usually. The final result is a bunch of alien looking emaciated people walking around in very little clothing. It's kind of like a bad dream. Come to think of it, it was a bad dream.

I'm just glad we didn't have to swim in cream until it turned into butter and we could climb out of the pool. I wouldn't have drowned, I would just hate cream and butter even more than I already do for not giving me a Fabio body, but without the accent. 

October 2, 2012

Peninsula of Doom

If I ever own my own island I will name it the Peninsula of Doom, and it will be a happier place to be than Disneyland (plus it will have fewer pedophiles)!

My wife just bought me a donkey, and by donkey I mean banjo, and by bought me I mean she let me buy. The one thing the donkey and the banjo have in common (other than they both make horrendously awful noises that most all but country folk seem to think sounds good) is that I have no idea how to handle either one of them. Sure, you could put a bridle on a donkey and lead it around, but I can also hold a banjo and make noise with it. That doesn't mean I'm going to leap onto the back of said donkey and start riding it around as it bucks, bites and farts (yes, they do that when they buck and run; fart is not a cuss word, according to my sagely grandmother that I loving refer to as the most gansta g-ma this world has ever seen), and have a grand 'ol time as I have my head nearly tore from off the stump of flesh and bone I like to call my neck. A vampire might like that though, less work for them to do. They should have put some vampires in the Final Destination movies, that way all that gore would have gone to waist. =D

A night at the opera would be the perfect date, if I wasn't in love with my car. Queen was genius.

Halloween is coming!!! Forget Christmas, I want my holidays bloody, scary and just plain awesome. Besides the idea of a several hundred year old man keeping tabs on me all year (yes, I did stuff that dead rat in the dryer hose) and then sneaking into my house while I'm sleeping, kind of creeps me out. Not only that, but his name is an anagram of Satan, Lord of all that is unholy, wicked and evil (I probably should have capitalized all that since it's technically part of his title, but that's just me being naughty, oh yeah, who's gettin' coal this year? Not the republicans! And it's not because they haven't been naughty either, they just have gone above and beyond the normal rank-and-file naughty person so much so that they will be getting live alligators in their stalkings by this crazy old man). The only old man that should be sneaking around my house in the middle of the night for no real good reason, is me. I guess if Pam wants to she could too, but she's not an old man and thus doesn't fit into the same category. I know, I'm being sexist by not letting her participate in this farcical aquatic ceremony, but let's face it, how many women want to be compared to men? Seriously. Men are in general stinky, sweaty, smelly, gross and just plain nasty. I can say that because I am a man (or at least, I like to tell myself I am) and to prove it, I'm going to go fix something....with MY FACE!!! To be a true man you have to fix things, uncommon things, with your face. Nails need to be pounded into a board, forget the hammer, I've got my face! Axel on the car needs to be bent back so it's straight, use my face why don't you?! The neighbor's house is on fire? No problem, I'll put it out WITH MY FACE!!! The list goes on and on. I'm sure there are plenty of people reading this and rolling their eyes, to them I say, you're obviously not a real man, and open a tall one with my face.

See, women aren't the only ones obsessed with their faces, though it's for entirely different reasons. It's a miracle more men don't look like Quasimodo with all the things we can fix with our faces. I changed a faucet to our washer this last weekend, yes, it was with my face, and I'm happy to say I did not break any pipes nor have any leaks. That's another thing men do with their faces (mostly their mouths) let you know how bad they messed something up. While growing up, I think I've talked a little about this before, but I could be wrong, I 'helped' my dad with various projects around the house. One of them involved plumbing and hanging dry wall. The plumbing usually goes behind the dry wall, though I'm sure someone has done it the other way just to prove a point (go men!). While hanging up a piece of dry wall after doing the plumbing, he was pounding in a nail, there was a sudden "sploosh" sound, followed by, I'm paraphrasing here, "Raggin'! Darg mag ackfin hockle flaggin plargen fratkern mirkten hurgle!" My family is religious and all, but this was definitely not the gift of tongues. Needless to say, a good piece of dry wall was ruined, the water to the house was shut off for the next few hours, and eventually it was turned on without being followed by "SHIT!!! TURN IT OFF, TURN IT OFF!!!!!!!" Shit is also not a cuss word, according to my aquatic grandmother, just don't say it around the other grandkids.