Now even my headlines are getting hostile. I’m sorry. I’ll try to calm down.
Here’s the deal. I don’t really consider myself a geek. I may be a kook, a psycho, a clueless person, a queueless person. I could be a dweeb, a flake, maybe even a nerd. But I am not a geek. But I am on the cusp of being a geek. I seek geekdom. I seek to know what cusp means.
In the early ’80s I did haul a Compaq portable computer that weighed 60 pounds back and forth from the office. My right arm is still three inches longer than my left arm, and I still walk tilted to the right, which kind of works with my political leanings. Also, I can run in circles really fast. But does hauling a Compaq make me a geek? I doubt it.
What is turning me into a semi-geek is simple: I bought a Palm Pilot and an iPhone. I bought the Palm Pilot about three months ago to help me with my feeble Scrabble game. But I did not know it would open up a new world of having fascinating, useless information at my fingertips. Then last week I was able to get an iPhone with my American Express premium points reward goodie. I just couldn’t resist. It was either that or six toasters.
So now I have complete Palm Pilot and iPhone access to everything I ever wanted to know and most things you wanted
to know. I have dictionaries, almanacs, programs on this, on that, utilities, special stuff I can’t tell you about or I’d have to marry you. I now have this information and I want to share it with you, my sometimes loyal audience. I not only want to share it, I need to share it. So ask me something. Ask me anything? Ask me a question, dammit!
For example, don’t you want to know what time it is in, say, Santiago? Well, it is 4:51 p.m. — depending on what time you asked me the question, of course. You want to know the population of Aruba? Well, do you? I’m telling you anyway. It’s 71,218. And do you want to know what the double hey hey a Burkina Faso is? I know you do. Don’t play coy-ass with me. It’s a freaking country, that’s what Burkina Faso is. If you had asked me what Burkina Faso was on “Jeopardy” I would have said, “What is a rash, Alex?” And it’s larger than Colorado! No, not the rash, the country.
Pretty impressive, huh? Damn straight. We’re not done yet. You want to ask me what the zip code of Mesquite, Texas, is. Ask me. Uh, wait one nano-second while I whip out my stylus … it’s 75181. That was tough. Mesquite, Nev. — 89024. Mesquite, NM — 88048. Oh, you want the area codes, too. 846, 345, 910. They don’t correspond to Mesquites, but you didn’t make that clear when you asked me. Shape up, huh.
Hey, this is the most fun I’ve had with my palm since I was in high school. Ask and you shall receive. Who said that? Jesus. I think it was him. And me. Ask me what the birthstone for January is. It’s garnet. What is the median price for a home in Akron, Ohio? It’s $116,900. Ask me what we’re paying professors to turn our kids into little commie parrots. $129,237. And they get summers off! No, not the parrots.
I think you can see what I have to offer in the question-answering game. It is just frosting my frijoles that nobody is asking me anything. I’m retired. I spend all day doing Palm Pilot/iPhone research for you slackers and you still don’t ask me anything. By the way, did you know that Apple stock is now worth $186 a share? How could you? You didn’t ask me. You know, I could have bought Apple at $17 a share. I am not kidding. And why didn’t I? Go ahead and ask me. Why didn’t you buy Apple at $17, Jim? Because Jim is a weak-assed, sniveling coward suckface who has shit for brains and never stands up for anything he believes in and deserves to die or, at least, be laughed at. That’s why. (Wow, I didn’t realize this would get so heavy. Do you know how many psychiatrists there are in California? I don’t either.)
I have to tell you one last story. I was out eating dinner at Cameron’s the other night with the little woman. (I hope Marge doesn’t find out.) And we just happened to overhear a large group of people eating next to us. There were eight people and they had just finished dinner and were looking at their check. And they were kind of fumbling around trying to figure out how much each person should pay.
Well, I was pretty damn happy. I whipped out my Palm T/X and I got into this little utility program that figures out restaurant bills. It figures in the taxes and calculates the tips at 10, 15, or 20 percent. It gives exactly what each person should pay. It’s beautiful.
So I said, “Uh, excuse me, I couldn’t help but overhear you guys discussing your check. And I took the liberty of using my little hand-held wizard here, (and I chuckled good naturedly) and I have figured out that each of you owes exactly $26.78 if you leave a 15 percent tip. How does that sound?”
And the big guy in the corduroy coat said, “It sounds as if you better mind your own frigging-ass business if you want to still stutter out of that yapping yap of yours, freak-face.” Well, he kind of pissed me off, so I didn’t give him the alternative figures for 10 or 20 percent. Screw him.
I just looked up the word geek on my Palm Pilot and I cross-referenced it with a dictionary on my iPhone and it says that there are two definitions. One is a circus guy who eats the heads off small animals and the other is a bore. I don’t eat the heads off anything. Hmm.
Thursday, November 1, 2007
Thursday, October 25, 2007
I'm Queueless (Cigar Smoke 10-25-07)
Well, it’s nice to be back after a week off. Although I’m still trying to recover from the news that Al Gore won the Nobel Peace prize. I’ve witnessed a lot of disgusting things in my life, but that’s right up there. At least ole Al is in good company. Right there with Arafat and Carter and the United Nations. Now, there’s a trifecta of throwing up. I hear next year the Nobel is going to OJ.
OK, I’m getting off my political podium. And jumping on my mundane podium. It’s lower. Something has happened to me that I think may be the only time this has happened to anyone in the history of happenings. I do not have any movies in my Netflix queue. Yes, I am queueless.
First, a little background. Marge and I are pretty big movie fans. We see a lot of movies. Kind of like Britney Spears sees a lot of penises. We go to the show almost every Friday night. Usually, we go to the Pasadena Playhouse and see some art movie and get out and look at each other and say, “Quite meaningful and insightful and ground-breaking -- for a piece of shit movie.”
Then we go next door to Vroman’s and buy an armful of books and then go eat dinner at Coco’s and Marge says, “You know, that wasn’t very good.” And I, being a what, a great conversationalist, say, “Huh.”
Anyway, we see a lot of movies. And not only in the theater. We watch movies on TV. We TiVo movies. We watch DVDs. We even watch VHSs. We search for movies. We find good movies. We find bad movies. We watch all of them. But finally, when we couldn’t even find any acceptable bad movies, I suggested to Marge that we join Netflix. And Marge said, “What is Netflix?” And I said, “I don’t know, but it did win the Nobel Peace prize, so it must be good.”
Netflix, in case you’ve been living on Jupiter or in Barbara Boxer’s head for the past decade, is an online movie service that has, maybe, four billion movies in its database. They have movies classified by drama and comedy and romance and crime and action and sci-fi and horror and childrens (very similar to horror) and gay and lesbian and thrillers and something called blu-ray. I’m afraid to even look at what’s in the blu-ray section. Maybe it’s a movie about a guy named Ray who painted himself a color he couldn’t spell correctly. I don’t know. I don’t care.
And if that’s not enough choice, you can search in special categories like New Releases and Netflix Top 100, and Critics’ Picks and Award Winners. And believe me, I have looked. And we have found some good flicks. A lot of them. We have enjoyed our home movie experience. All in all, Netflix has been a pretty good deal. And I just love to get and send back movies in the mail. Really. Their system is slick. I love it.
You have all the movies you want in what they call an online queue. I call it a cue. Anyway, they send you two movies in two little cool envelopes and you open the envelope and take out your disk and then after your movie enjoyment is over and you’re wiping away your tears of pleasurable movie-going experience you return it in the same envelope and you don’t even have to put a stamp on it. And then they send you two more movies from your queue automatically. Wow! I think this idea will work. Send me money and we’ll start a business. Send me as much money as you can. Your kid can wait until next year for that operation. We have to act fast. I’ll be the idea man, you can take care of the details.
OK, the background is over. Now, for the nowground. (By the way, my spellchecker actually makes little beeping whimpering noises when I write a sentence like that last one. Ah, damn spellcheckers. Spyllchek this!) So I get this email message from Netflix central command headquarters the other day and it says, and I am not kidding here, “You do not have any movies in your queue!” Yes, with the exclamation point. These Netflix guys I can only assume are both incredulous and pissed. What right thinking American moviegoer would have an empty queue? What non-commie flick-appreciating person would do something like this? It is inconceivable. To them. And, I guess, to me.
I really felt kind of guilty. I was paying for something I wasn’t using. And with all their movie-choosing aids, I had failed them. I couldn’t even stoop to the lowest movie-deciding level possible and pick a documentary. Not even a fitness video. I could not find a movie to put in my queue. I was, indeed, queueless. Who knows, maybe at some point I would have had to send back fake empty envelopes, weighted with cardboard, to keep their system going.
I didn’t want it to come to that, so I asked Marge, “Say Honey Bunny Poo Poo Face, which movie would you like me to get from Netflix: Hot Fuzz, The Astronaut Farmer, or Freddie’s Dead: The Final Nightmare.” She said, “How about if you get They Shoot Husbands Don’t They?” I laughed to myself a laugh of the queueless, “Uh, don’t you mean horses?” Honey Poo Poo never answered that. She probably has a hearing problem.
Well, I don’t think I’ll always be queueless. I know there will be new movies made. And I know that I may have missed a few good movies. And I’m sure now that my queuelessness is outted, I’ll receive some good movie tips from you queued-in people, and I just remembered that I forgot to look for 300. How bad can a movie with 300 Greeks throwing scum-suckers off cliffs and sweaty stallions and wenches (sweaty or not) and a lot of screaming and swearing and quaffing of ale be?
I may be queueless but I’m not quaffless.
OK, I’m getting off my political podium. And jumping on my mundane podium. It’s lower. Something has happened to me that I think may be the only time this has happened to anyone in the history of happenings. I do not have any movies in my Netflix queue. Yes, I am queueless.
First, a little background. Marge and I are pretty big movie fans. We see a lot of movies. Kind of like Britney Spears sees a lot of penises. We go to the show almost every Friday night. Usually, we go to the Pasadena Playhouse and see some art movie and get out and look at each other and say, “Quite meaningful and insightful and ground-breaking -- for a piece of shit movie.”
Then we go next door to Vroman’s and buy an armful of books and then go eat dinner at Coco’s and Marge says, “You know, that wasn’t very good.” And I, being a what, a great conversationalist, say, “Huh.”
Anyway, we see a lot of movies. And not only in the theater. We watch movies on TV. We TiVo movies. We watch DVDs. We even watch VHSs. We search for movies. We find good movies. We find bad movies. We watch all of them. But finally, when we couldn’t even find any acceptable bad movies, I suggested to Marge that we join Netflix. And Marge said, “What is Netflix?” And I said, “I don’t know, but it did win the Nobel Peace prize, so it must be good.”
Netflix, in case you’ve been living on Jupiter or in Barbara Boxer’s head for the past decade, is an online movie service that has, maybe, four billion movies in its database. They have movies classified by drama and comedy and romance and crime and action and sci-fi and horror and childrens (very similar to horror) and gay and lesbian and thrillers and something called blu-ray. I’m afraid to even look at what’s in the blu-ray section. Maybe it’s a movie about a guy named Ray who painted himself a color he couldn’t spell correctly. I don’t know. I don’t care.
And if that’s not enough choice, you can search in special categories like New Releases and Netflix Top 100, and Critics’ Picks and Award Winners. And believe me, I have looked. And we have found some good flicks. A lot of them. We have enjoyed our home movie experience. All in all, Netflix has been a pretty good deal. And I just love to get and send back movies in the mail. Really. Their system is slick. I love it.
You have all the movies you want in what they call an online queue. I call it a cue. Anyway, they send you two movies in two little cool envelopes and you open the envelope and take out your disk and then after your movie enjoyment is over and you’re wiping away your tears of pleasurable movie-going experience you return it in the same envelope and you don’t even have to put a stamp on it. And then they send you two more movies from your queue automatically. Wow! I think this idea will work. Send me money and we’ll start a business. Send me as much money as you can. Your kid can wait until next year for that operation. We have to act fast. I’ll be the idea man, you can take care of the details.
OK, the background is over. Now, for the nowground. (By the way, my spellchecker actually makes little beeping whimpering noises when I write a sentence like that last one. Ah, damn spellcheckers. Spyllchek this!) So I get this email message from Netflix central command headquarters the other day and it says, and I am not kidding here, “You do not have any movies in your queue!” Yes, with the exclamation point. These Netflix guys I can only assume are both incredulous and pissed. What right thinking American moviegoer would have an empty queue? What non-commie flick-appreciating person would do something like this? It is inconceivable. To them. And, I guess, to me.
I really felt kind of guilty. I was paying for something I wasn’t using. And with all their movie-choosing aids, I had failed them. I couldn’t even stoop to the lowest movie-deciding level possible and pick a documentary. Not even a fitness video. I could not find a movie to put in my queue. I was, indeed, queueless. Who knows, maybe at some point I would have had to send back fake empty envelopes, weighted with cardboard, to keep their system going.
I didn’t want it to come to that, so I asked Marge, “Say Honey Bunny Poo Poo Face, which movie would you like me to get from Netflix: Hot Fuzz, The Astronaut Farmer, or Freddie’s Dead: The Final Nightmare.” She said, “How about if you get They Shoot Husbands Don’t They?” I laughed to myself a laugh of the queueless, “Uh, don’t you mean horses?” Honey Poo Poo never answered that. She probably has a hearing problem.
Well, I don’t think I’ll always be queueless. I know there will be new movies made. And I know that I may have missed a few good movies. And I’m sure now that my queuelessness is outted, I’ll receive some good movie tips from you queued-in people, and I just remembered that I forgot to look for 300. How bad can a movie with 300 Greeks throwing scum-suckers off cliffs and sweaty stallions and wenches (sweaty or not) and a lot of screaming and swearing and quaffing of ale be?
I may be queueless but I’m not quaffless.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
It's the Thought That Counts (10-18-2007)
A couple of weeks ago, I got up, I took my pills to keep the pharmaceutical industry executives high-fiving, and I sat down at the breakfast table. Marge was sitting across from me and I asked, “You come here often, baby?” She didn’t respond; she just kept reading her paper and eating her oatmeal. Hadley kind of dog-chuckled though.
Before long I took Hadley out to the Hemi for his daily walk. Because he’s older than I am (in dog years he’s 70), I have this ramp that we use to help him get into the van. So he ran up the ramp, and then, as soon as he got inside the van, he started to poop! Inside the van! I’m sorry to talk about oatmeal and poop in the same time frame, but that’s what he did. He started pooping.
So I started yelling. And I yelled and grabbed him and lifted him down to the driveway right in mid-poop. I couldn’t believe it. I know he’s getting old, but I was pretty ticked off. So I called him a bad dog, and an Airedale loser, and then to punish him, well, I had him stuffed. He really looks great. He doesn’t “come” very well, but man can he “stay.”
But I digress. By the way, what is the opposite of digress? Egress? Regress? Ungress? Gress? I just don’t know. And I don’t have time to look it up. And even if I had the time to look it up, I wouldn’t know where to go to look it up. And if you say I can just Google it, I’ll say “Google this!” I don’t know why I’m so hostile.
But to get back to the nondigression: After Hadley and I got back from our walk and before I had him stuffed, I was sitting at my computer. I went into my email account and found an email message from Barnes & Noble. They had this wonderful promo going: If I would buy $75 worth of books, I would get a free Itty Bitty Book Light — an $11 value.
How could I pass that up? It was almost Marge’s birthday and I thought she would love some books and especially love her very own Itty Bitty Book Light. Maybe I could have it monogrammed. Do any of your wives have a monogrammed Itty Bitty Book Light? No, I didn’t think so. And why don’t they? Because you guys don’t love your wives enough like some thoughtful gift-givers I know.
So I hit the button to buy the books and get the free Itty Bitty Book Light. Barnes & Noble said that the charge for the Itty Bitty Book Light would be deducted at the end of the transaction in checkout. I decided to get the $75 gift certificate and everything went fine in the checkout until I was ready to pay. And I noticed that the $11 charge for the you-know-what was still there.
I was a little concerned. But I went ahead and clicked the final purchase and I thought for sure the deduction for the free Itty Bitty Book Light would kick in. Well, like those penis enlargement ads, nothing happened. They charged my credit card for $86 plus shipping.
So I sent Barnes & Noble an email asking them why I was charged for the light. They responded that the offer wasn’t good for any gift certificate purchases. You had to actually buy books on the Internet.
Well, you know me. I’m a mild-mannered guy. I make Clark Kent look like Alec Baldwin. I know I have somewhat of a rep for getting mad, but I only get mad if I’ve been wronged, damnit. And I was wronged here. Really wronged. I was just happily sitting at my computer looking at my email and they, the Barnes & Less Than Noble people, asked me to spend $75. I didn’t go to them. I didn’t ask for a discount. They offered it. And they didn’t say anything about it only being good for online books and not for gift certificates. Nope. They bamboozled me. And I don’t like it. I can be bammed and I can be boozled, but just don’t ever bamboozle me.
Finally, I’m getting to the point of my column. On Marge’s birthday I gave her the gift certificate for the books and I gave her the Itty Bitty Book Light. She kind of liked the book gift certificate. She said it was very, uh, well, uh, personal and intimate. I felt good, even though I could hear a little retching sound in her throat.
Then I gave her the Itty Bitty Book Light and she opened it up and she looked at it and that’s about it. She just kept looking at it. She didn’t say anything; just stared at it. I said it was a light for her books. She could hook it onto the book itself and it would make light, at night, to help her read. She said, “Hmm. A book light.”
I said, “Is that all you have to say?” And she said, “I guess you couldn’t find that turquoise necklace, huh? “
And then I said the stupidest thing I have ever said in my life, and believe me, that is saying something. I said, “I thought you’d like the Itty Bitty Book Light more than the turquoise necklace.”
She just stared at me — kind of like that old mythical chick who turned some dude into stone. That kind of a look.
I said stonily, “You know, it’s the thought that counts.”
And I think she said, although it is hard to hear with stone ears, “Where does your thought come from? Your Itty Bitty Brain.”
Before long I took Hadley out to the Hemi for his daily walk. Because he’s older than I am (in dog years he’s 70), I have this ramp that we use to help him get into the van. So he ran up the ramp, and then, as soon as he got inside the van, he started to poop! Inside the van! I’m sorry to talk about oatmeal and poop in the same time frame, but that’s what he did. He started pooping.
So I started yelling. And I yelled and grabbed him and lifted him down to the driveway right in mid-poop. I couldn’t believe it. I know he’s getting old, but I was pretty ticked off. So I called him a bad dog, and an Airedale loser, and then to punish him, well, I had him stuffed. He really looks great. He doesn’t “come” very well, but man can he “stay.”
But I digress. By the way, what is the opposite of digress? Egress? Regress? Ungress? Gress? I just don’t know. And I don’t have time to look it up. And even if I had the time to look it up, I wouldn’t know where to go to look it up. And if you say I can just Google it, I’ll say “Google this!” I don’t know why I’m so hostile.
But to get back to the nondigression: After Hadley and I got back from our walk and before I had him stuffed, I was sitting at my computer. I went into my email account and found an email message from Barnes & Noble. They had this wonderful promo going: If I would buy $75 worth of books, I would get a free Itty Bitty Book Light — an $11 value.
How could I pass that up? It was almost Marge’s birthday and I thought she would love some books and especially love her very own Itty Bitty Book Light. Maybe I could have it monogrammed. Do any of your wives have a monogrammed Itty Bitty Book Light? No, I didn’t think so. And why don’t they? Because you guys don’t love your wives enough like some thoughtful gift-givers I know.
So I hit the button to buy the books and get the free Itty Bitty Book Light. Barnes & Noble said that the charge for the Itty Bitty Book Light would be deducted at the end of the transaction in checkout. I decided to get the $75 gift certificate and everything went fine in the checkout until I was ready to pay. And I noticed that the $11 charge for the you-know-what was still there.
I was a little concerned. But I went ahead and clicked the final purchase and I thought for sure the deduction for the free Itty Bitty Book Light would kick in. Well, like those penis enlargement ads, nothing happened. They charged my credit card for $86 plus shipping.
So I sent Barnes & Noble an email asking them why I was charged for the light. They responded that the offer wasn’t good for any gift certificate purchases. You had to actually buy books on the Internet.
Well, you know me. I’m a mild-mannered guy. I make Clark Kent look like Alec Baldwin. I know I have somewhat of a rep for getting mad, but I only get mad if I’ve been wronged, damnit. And I was wronged here. Really wronged. I was just happily sitting at my computer looking at my email and they, the Barnes & Less Than Noble people, asked me to spend $75. I didn’t go to them. I didn’t ask for a discount. They offered it. And they didn’t say anything about it only being good for online books and not for gift certificates. Nope. They bamboozled me. And I don’t like it. I can be bammed and I can be boozled, but just don’t ever bamboozle me.
Finally, I’m getting to the point of my column. On Marge’s birthday I gave her the gift certificate for the books and I gave her the Itty Bitty Book Light. She kind of liked the book gift certificate. She said it was very, uh, well, uh, personal and intimate. I felt good, even though I could hear a little retching sound in her throat.
Then I gave her the Itty Bitty Book Light and she opened it up and she looked at it and that’s about it. She just kept looking at it. She didn’t say anything; just stared at it. I said it was a light for her books. She could hook it onto the book itself and it would make light, at night, to help her read. She said, “Hmm. A book light.”
I said, “Is that all you have to say?” And she said, “I guess you couldn’t find that turquoise necklace, huh? “
And then I said the stupidest thing I have ever said in my life, and believe me, that is saying something. I said, “I thought you’d like the Itty Bitty Book Light more than the turquoise necklace.”
She just stared at me — kind of like that old mythical chick who turned some dude into stone. That kind of a look.
I said stonily, “You know, it’s the thought that counts.”
And I think she said, although it is hard to hear with stone ears, “Where does your thought come from? Your Itty Bitty Brain.”
Thursday, October 4, 2007
A Man of Good Will (10-4-2007)
Well, I haven’t been the victim of any new crimes lately. No mailbox smashings or laptop thefts to report. I was kind of hoping some slug would kidnap me or kick my dog or something, but nothing has happened. So, I don’t have a column idea.
Just kidding. As most of you know, I could write a thousand words about not writing a thousand words.
The other night I was getting ready to go to bed, and I was standing in front of my dresser, holding my stomach up so it wouldn’t fall on my toes, and damned if I couldn’t find my ratty robe. No, it wasn’t in one of my tummy folds. I knew it was on the dresser top but, alas, it was not alone. There were many sartorial companions sharing the dresser space: pants, shorts, tee shirts, bathing suits, sweat pants, plus a few towels and a half of a ham sandwich. (Marge is so sloppy.)
I finally found my robe. It was the piled on garment with the most holes and I could smell the hardened syrup. Anyway, Marge made a nice little suggestion, “Honey, you think you could maybe get rid of some of those old clothes if you still want to be married and have meals prepared for you and not have to live on the street, darling?” I got her drift. I’m a drifter.
The next day I went to work. No, not work like you guys go to, fake work like throwing out old sartorial stuff. First, of course, I took all the stuff off the dresser top. Threw it on the bed. Then I opened some drawers and pulled out, and I’m not exaggerating here, 42 tee shirts that I had collected from minor league baseball games and minor league hockey games and minor league country concerts. Shirts from Red Deer and Medicine Hat and Alaska and Georgia and Texas and one that had Merle Haggard on it shooting a commie and one from Brandon, Manitoba, and one from Regina, Saskatchewan, and if I keep going I’m going to cry. It’s too late. I’m sobbing. OK, I’m balling. Like a crybaby.
When I finally stopped blathering, I went into my closet to look for other contributions to take to The Good Will store. My closet, thinking I guess that I would be pleased, was stuffed. I had slacks from when I actually could buy belts at regular stores. I had slacks with 36-inch waist seizes. Antiques. It was unreal. I kept throwing things on the bed. It was like a mountain of cheap wool and polyester. People from trailer parks were at the door. It was kind of neat. I traded some old pants for a Jeff Foxworthy CD.
I put, excuse the expression, a ton of pants on the bed. And not only pants. I found old pairs of dress shoes and cowboy boots and lumberjack boots and work boots and pissy-little colored belts and sport coats that Marty Robbins wouldn’t wear and suits and jackets and sweaters and I kept stacking them on the bed. You talk about a mountain. Sir Hillary would have gotten a Sir Hernia climbing that peak.
So I said to Marge, “Margie Pargie Wargie, would you please put the stuff on the bed in my bad-daddy Hemi SUV?” And Marge said, “You want to hear a Tammy Wynette song? D-I-V-O-R-C-E.”
OK, so me and a buddy and his friend, Mr. Forklift, got that mountain of crap, I mean, donation items, into the SUV. And then, because I am what, I am a wonderful, caring human being, I drove down to the Good Will Store. You know, the one on the corner of Altadena Drive and Foothill. Right across the street from the biggest giant-ass Mobil gas station on earth and right next to the Just Tires store. That one. I would have gone to the little thrift shop place up in Altadena on Lake but I thought they might kill me behind the store when I opened the door and just bury my dead poorly dressed body under my own old clothes.
Anyway, I get to the Good Will Donation Center, and I go inside to donation headquarters and the guy comes out to help me unload, and I open the door and we start taking the clothes out, and he looks at a few of the items and he kind of pauses and finally says, “You know, sir, we like to give people clothes that will, uh, increase their feeling of self-esteem.”
I laughed to myself with kind of a “if you weren’t with this Good Will outfit I would probably whack your ass” laugh. Then I said, “Uh, well these clothes were good enough for me for forty years. You think maybe your needy sumbitches could lower themselves just a tad.” And the donation guy says, “I think maybe you better take your stuff up the street.”
So I did. I took all my stuff to the Bad Will Store. Funky little place up on Colorado Blvd. Run by Pete Rose and Barry Bonds. Terrell Owens is their public relations guy.
I left some really neat stuff in there, too. There’s this one pair of brand damn new walking shorts that I bought on EBay. Beautiful pair of shorts. Size 46. Never worn. If you added a few tent poles, they would make a good starter home for some nice young family.
Just kidding. As most of you know, I could write a thousand words about not writing a thousand words.
The other night I was getting ready to go to bed, and I was standing in front of my dresser, holding my stomach up so it wouldn’t fall on my toes, and damned if I couldn’t find my ratty robe. No, it wasn’t in one of my tummy folds. I knew it was on the dresser top but, alas, it was not alone. There were many sartorial companions sharing the dresser space: pants, shorts, tee shirts, bathing suits, sweat pants, plus a few towels and a half of a ham sandwich. (Marge is so sloppy.)
I finally found my robe. It was the piled on garment with the most holes and I could smell the hardened syrup. Anyway, Marge made a nice little suggestion, “Honey, you think you could maybe get rid of some of those old clothes if you still want to be married and have meals prepared for you and not have to live on the street, darling?” I got her drift. I’m a drifter.
The next day I went to work. No, not work like you guys go to, fake work like throwing out old sartorial stuff. First, of course, I took all the stuff off the dresser top. Threw it on the bed. Then I opened some drawers and pulled out, and I’m not exaggerating here, 42 tee shirts that I had collected from minor league baseball games and minor league hockey games and minor league country concerts. Shirts from Red Deer and Medicine Hat and Alaska and Georgia and Texas and one that had Merle Haggard on it shooting a commie and one from Brandon, Manitoba, and one from Regina, Saskatchewan, and if I keep going I’m going to cry. It’s too late. I’m sobbing. OK, I’m balling. Like a crybaby.
When I finally stopped blathering, I went into my closet to look for other contributions to take to The Good Will store. My closet, thinking I guess that I would be pleased, was stuffed. I had slacks from when I actually could buy belts at regular stores. I had slacks with 36-inch waist seizes. Antiques. It was unreal. I kept throwing things on the bed. It was like a mountain of cheap wool and polyester. People from trailer parks were at the door. It was kind of neat. I traded some old pants for a Jeff Foxworthy CD.
I put, excuse the expression, a ton of pants on the bed. And not only pants. I found old pairs of dress shoes and cowboy boots and lumberjack boots and work boots and pissy-little colored belts and sport coats that Marty Robbins wouldn’t wear and suits and jackets and sweaters and I kept stacking them on the bed. You talk about a mountain. Sir Hillary would have gotten a Sir Hernia climbing that peak.
So I said to Marge, “Margie Pargie Wargie, would you please put the stuff on the bed in my bad-daddy Hemi SUV?” And Marge said, “You want to hear a Tammy Wynette song? D-I-V-O-R-C-E.”
OK, so me and a buddy and his friend, Mr. Forklift, got that mountain of crap, I mean, donation items, into the SUV. And then, because I am what, I am a wonderful, caring human being, I drove down to the Good Will Store. You know, the one on the corner of Altadena Drive and Foothill. Right across the street from the biggest giant-ass Mobil gas station on earth and right next to the Just Tires store. That one. I would have gone to the little thrift shop place up in Altadena on Lake but I thought they might kill me behind the store when I opened the door and just bury my dead poorly dressed body under my own old clothes.
Anyway, I get to the Good Will Donation Center, and I go inside to donation headquarters and the guy comes out to help me unload, and I open the door and we start taking the clothes out, and he looks at a few of the items and he kind of pauses and finally says, “You know, sir, we like to give people clothes that will, uh, increase their feeling of self-esteem.”
I laughed to myself with kind of a “if you weren’t with this Good Will outfit I would probably whack your ass” laugh. Then I said, “Uh, well these clothes were good enough for me for forty years. You think maybe your needy sumbitches could lower themselves just a tad.” And the donation guy says, “I think maybe you better take your stuff up the street.”
So I did. I took all my stuff to the Bad Will Store. Funky little place up on Colorado Blvd. Run by Pete Rose and Barry Bonds. Terrell Owens is their public relations guy.
I left some really neat stuff in there, too. There’s this one pair of brand damn new walking shorts that I bought on EBay. Beautiful pair of shorts. Size 46. Never worn. If you added a few tent poles, they would make a good starter home for some nice young family.
Friday, September 28, 2007
Laptop Losers (9-27-07)
Just when I thought it was safe to go out into the world after dealing with Them Mailbox-Bashing Bastards, I have to report that Mr. Recluse here has been struck again by a second set of bastards. How about if we call them These New Bastards.
Now I can't prove it, (as if that's ever stopped me from popping off) but I think These New Bastards were just waiting for me to start writing a column again and going out into this wonderful world and pretending I was Julie Andrews. I knew they were out there, just lurking. Nothing else to do. No, no. Just gotta lurk. Just wait around and lurk. I think we should put all lurkers in Guantanamo. And pee on something they like.
OK, These New Bastards did not attack my mailbox. They were smarter than that. They knew if they did any mailbox-whacking, there would be a little comes-around shotgun-whacking they would have to deal with themselves. No, These New Bastards stole my beautiful MacBook Pro laptop computer. I am still sick about it. They ripped it off last Sunday night, and my guts are still grinding today. I am not lying to you. My stomach is spitting out my old ulcers and making brand new ulcers. Second-generation ulcers. The worst kind.
Here's what happened. I was returning from a Scrabble tournament in Albuquerque. (Yes, yet another Scrabble tournament. No, I'm not telling you how I did.) It was a little Friday-to-Sunday deal and I was waiting for my plane in the Albuquerque (I just like writing Albuquerque) Airport. I had two hours to kill, so I went into this airport fake-Mexican restaurant. You know, the kind with serapes all over the walls and black and gold sombreros everywhere and the sweet smell of lard and grease and taco shells and spilled Corona and guacamole that was moving. And I said to the waitress, “I'm going to say words that have never been heard in this muy malo establishamente before.” She rolled her eyes and sighed, and I said, “I'll have a tuna sandwich.”
And, of course, all this time I am keeping close watch on my laptop. It's in my carry-on bag and I have it right next to me. So I'm not completely stupid. Yet. Then I go to the United Airlines gate where my plane will be boarding and I sit down in the waiting area and I'm probably happier than maybe 80 percent of the clams I know. And then this voice comes over the speaker announcing that our flight will be an hour late. OK, I can deal with that. I'm an adult. I can handle heartbreak — I'm an LA Kings fan.
So to pass the time, I pull out my computer and surf the Net and read a couple of chapters on my e-book and even order something from eBay. I am one tech-happening dude, baby. But I guess that is where These New Bastards spotted their prey. They must have seen just how wonderful my laptop was and just how savvy its owner was. Sumbitches.
OK, now here's where the rubber hit the road. United is finally boarding our flight and just when I get to the door of the plane, the flight attendant tells me that the plane is very full and would I mind letting them store my carry-on bag. I say, “Would I mind? Uh, would I mind if you cut off my ding-dong and threw it on the tarmac?” OK, I didn't say that, but I did inquire as to how safe the bag would be. They guaranteed me that it would be safe and they gave me a claim check and said that they would hold the bag until I gave them the claim check and that they would never let the bag out of their sight. They also said they liked to date lanky guys. So, I committed stupidity.
Well, when we landed in LA, I happened to be one of the last people off the plane. When I get just outside the airplane door, I see one lonely bag leaning up against the wall. It is my bag. I go over to it. There is no attendant there. There is nobody who asks me for my claim check. There is just my damn bag and the outer compartment, where I have cleverly hidden my $2,300 computer, is zipped open like Michael Jackson's fly.
My heart sank. I reached into the open unzipped hole of hell and I felt nothing. (Kind of like in high school.) It was devastating. My laptop was gone. Some New Bastards had gotten it. I was really mad. I won't go into it here, but I did some serious yelling. All I can say is that when one baggage clerk in the main office suggested that it was “your own fault, sir” I did lose it. I yelled, “How dare you?!” along with a few other thoughtful phrases. And she actually ran out of the office we were in. I think she's still running. I hadn't even used obscenity or threatened her or anything, but I was indeed mad. I guess she got my drift and caught the first stagecoach out of Dodge.
I'm still pissed off. I have fantasies about finding out who These New Bastards are. And ripping off their ears and stuffing them up their noses and making them sneeze and pinching their noses closed and watching their ears come out the holes where their ears used to be hooked onto the sides of their heads. Yes, I am that mad.
I want to find These New Bastards. How hard could it be? There were only 60 seats on the plane. And let's assume that the two pilots and the three flight attendants didn't do it. And I know I didn't do it. And I don't think Pasadena's Mac-hating PC guru Steve Bass was on the plane. So that leaves only 54 suspects. All I need is the passenger list and I'll deputize all you readers. (Sorry, but I can't deputize you readerettes. It's too dangerous.) And we'll mount up and go after these thieving varmints.
Let's ride!
Now I can't prove it, (as if that's ever stopped me from popping off) but I think These New Bastards were just waiting for me to start writing a column again and going out into this wonderful world and pretending I was Julie Andrews. I knew they were out there, just lurking. Nothing else to do. No, no. Just gotta lurk. Just wait around and lurk. I think we should put all lurkers in Guantanamo. And pee on something they like.
OK, These New Bastards did not attack my mailbox. They were smarter than that. They knew if they did any mailbox-whacking, there would be a little comes-around shotgun-whacking they would have to deal with themselves. No, These New Bastards stole my beautiful MacBook Pro laptop computer. I am still sick about it. They ripped it off last Sunday night, and my guts are still grinding today. I am not lying to you. My stomach is spitting out my old ulcers and making brand new ulcers. Second-generation ulcers. The worst kind.
Here's what happened. I was returning from a Scrabble tournament in Albuquerque. (Yes, yet another Scrabble tournament. No, I'm not telling you how I did.) It was a little Friday-to-Sunday deal and I was waiting for my plane in the Albuquerque (I just like writing Albuquerque) Airport. I had two hours to kill, so I went into this airport fake-Mexican restaurant. You know, the kind with serapes all over the walls and black and gold sombreros everywhere and the sweet smell of lard and grease and taco shells and spilled Corona and guacamole that was moving. And I said to the waitress, “I'm going to say words that have never been heard in this muy malo establishamente before.” She rolled her eyes and sighed, and I said, “I'll have a tuna sandwich.”
And, of course, all this time I am keeping close watch on my laptop. It's in my carry-on bag and I have it right next to me. So I'm not completely stupid. Yet. Then I go to the United Airlines gate where my plane will be boarding and I sit down in the waiting area and I'm probably happier than maybe 80 percent of the clams I know. And then this voice comes over the speaker announcing that our flight will be an hour late. OK, I can deal with that. I'm an adult. I can handle heartbreak — I'm an LA Kings fan.
So to pass the time, I pull out my computer and surf the Net and read a couple of chapters on my e-book and even order something from eBay. I am one tech-happening dude, baby. But I guess that is where These New Bastards spotted their prey. They must have seen just how wonderful my laptop was and just how savvy its owner was. Sumbitches.
OK, now here's where the rubber hit the road. United is finally boarding our flight and just when I get to the door of the plane, the flight attendant tells me that the plane is very full and would I mind letting them store my carry-on bag. I say, “Would I mind? Uh, would I mind if you cut off my ding-dong and threw it on the tarmac?” OK, I didn't say that, but I did inquire as to how safe the bag would be. They guaranteed me that it would be safe and they gave me a claim check and said that they would hold the bag until I gave them the claim check and that they would never let the bag out of their sight. They also said they liked to date lanky guys. So, I committed stupidity.
Well, when we landed in LA, I happened to be one of the last people off the plane. When I get just outside the airplane door, I see one lonely bag leaning up against the wall. It is my bag. I go over to it. There is no attendant there. There is nobody who asks me for my claim check. There is just my damn bag and the outer compartment, where I have cleverly hidden my $2,300 computer, is zipped open like Michael Jackson's fly.
My heart sank. I reached into the open unzipped hole of hell and I felt nothing. (Kind of like in high school.) It was devastating. My laptop was gone. Some New Bastards had gotten it. I was really mad. I won't go into it here, but I did some serious yelling. All I can say is that when one baggage clerk in the main office suggested that it was “your own fault, sir” I did lose it. I yelled, “How dare you?!” along with a few other thoughtful phrases. And she actually ran out of the office we were in. I think she's still running. I hadn't even used obscenity or threatened her or anything, but I was indeed mad. I guess she got my drift and caught the first stagecoach out of Dodge.
I'm still pissed off. I have fantasies about finding out who These New Bastards are. And ripping off their ears and stuffing them up their noses and making them sneeze and pinching their noses closed and watching their ears come out the holes where their ears used to be hooked onto the sides of their heads. Yes, I am that mad.
I want to find These New Bastards. How hard could it be? There were only 60 seats on the plane. And let's assume that the two pilots and the three flight attendants didn't do it. And I know I didn't do it. And I don't think Pasadena's Mac-hating PC guru Steve Bass was on the plane. So that leaves only 54 suspects. All I need is the passenger list and I'll deputize all you readers. (Sorry, but I can't deputize you readerettes. It's too dangerous.) And we'll mount up and go after these thieving varmints.
Let's ride!
I've Got Mail (9-20-07)
You’re probably thinking this will be a column about America Online. I wish it was. No, this column is about me finally getting actual real mail, snail mail. Letters, bills, magazines, 19th century stuff.
A few months back, I was just minding my own business in peaceful, law-abiding Altadena, living life, watching Jeopardy, eating food with trans fat still in it, and then them bastards struck. I went out one morning to pick up the newspapers and the mailbox was all smashed in. It appeared that some low-life, snot-snorting, knuckle-dragging, joy-riding, mutant jerk-off had maybe gotten malt liquored up and had taken a baseball bat to my mailbox.
I thought it was probably a teen-age right of passage deal, and being the forgiving type of guy I am, or at least hope to be some day, I let it go. I repaired the mailbox and went back to my regular life of getting angry at things I have no control over. And then them bastards struck again. I go out another morning to pick up the papers and let my robe fall open to give the neighbors a thrill, and damned if the entire mailbox has been whacked off its post. It’s just lying there, whimpering to me, “Jim, my owner, help me. Help me hold your mail once again. Help me do my job. Help me be a mailbox.” It was very sad.
However, I got over the sadness pretty fast and got in the car and started driving around the neighborhood to see if I could spot a pattern of other whacked mailboxes. Well, I found a few other banged up boxes, but nothing quite as bad as mine. A couple of them looked like maybe, Juan Pierre hat hit them, but mine looked like it had been Barry Bondsed, baby. It was ugly. I think it even had growth hormones on it. I bet AOL has never had that problem.
So this time I go over to Osh Hardware and I buy this industrial strength heavy titanium metal mailbox Superman would get a hernia hitting. I mean this mailbox was tough. You could make airline black boxes out of it.
And I go back to my house in the hills of life, and I attach this new iron box to the post, after many pathetic handy-man attempts, and I’m very pleased with my new indestructible creation. I’m thinking to myself, “Smash that you smash-ass bastards!” And I smiled and I kicked a few loose stones in my driveway really hard and I yelled, “Yeah! Me, the Man!”
And then, maybe a month later, I hear Hadley, my dog, barking his watchdog, psychotic bark, about midnight, and, well, like I handle most problems, I just ignored it. He was going nuts, barking and jumping at the front door, his canineacal head was whip lashing around spewing irate dog drool all over the hallway, and me, smart human-face, was yelling at him, “Quiet! I’m watching Letterman.” And I go to bed.
I get up the next morning, brush my teeth and my tongue, and go out in the kitchen and give Hadley his water and I take my 27 pills to keep me a movin and a groovin, and I start the coffee pot and I wander out to get the papers. Well, Virginia, I could not believe what I was seeing. (Hadley, however, could believe it. He was giving me the finger with his paw.) Them bastards had not hit my mailbox at all. But they had whacked out the wooden post on which the indestructible mailbox had been expertly installed by yours truly, Mr. Handyman Face.
It was quite a scene. The entire post was in splinters. I was devastated. Really. It was just a pitiful mess out there. And I felt hopeless. Just splintered wood everywhere and the jagged edge of the post sticking up from the ground and the mailbox was crying. I was almost defeated. But I wasn’t defeated. Just almost. No, nothing defeats me. Nothing. Except, chocolate.
So I called the Altadena Sheriff’s Station and a squad car comes out and I tell him my sad story and I show him the splintered mess and he takes my name for the report and then he says, “Aren’t you the guy who writes that smoke column?’ And I say, “Well, yeah. That’s me. Do you think it’s one of my critics who did this?” And the sheriff guy says, “I don’t know, but I can’t arrest 5,000 people, sir.” Those cops are kidders.
So now I have to figure out to stop them bastards for good this time. I go to Crown City Hardware down on Allen and I buy, I’m not kidding, I buy a $375 iron post, iron mailbox combo sumbitch that I can barely lift to get in the car. I spend $375 on a mailbox! 375 dollars. It did have an Eagle on the front of it.
Then I go to the Altadena Hardware Store on that little street off Lake that I don’t know the name of, and I go in there and I ask the guy for a post hole digger. And he says, “ We don’t employ any illegal aliens in here.” (I think he was the cops’ brother.) I didn’t laugh. Eventually I bought this big five-foot iron rod thing with a sharp pointed end and a 50-pound bag of cement.
I go home and I dig a post hole two feet deep and eight inches square and I fill that sucker with instant drying cement and I put in the iron post and iron mailbox all meshed together into one anti-bat-bashing-bastards unit. And that damn instant cement lives up to its name and now that mailbox is in, baby. I mean it is in. It is strong. It is iron in cement. It is solid.
If Them Bastards get this one, I guess I’ll have to open an AOL account. Or buy a shotgun. I’m going with B.
A few months back, I was just minding my own business in peaceful, law-abiding Altadena, living life, watching Jeopardy, eating food with trans fat still in it, and then them bastards struck. I went out one morning to pick up the newspapers and the mailbox was all smashed in. It appeared that some low-life, snot-snorting, knuckle-dragging, joy-riding, mutant jerk-off had maybe gotten malt liquored up and had taken a baseball bat to my mailbox.
I thought it was probably a teen-age right of passage deal, and being the forgiving type of guy I am, or at least hope to be some day, I let it go. I repaired the mailbox and went back to my regular life of getting angry at things I have no control over. And then them bastards struck again. I go out another morning to pick up the papers and let my robe fall open to give the neighbors a thrill, and damned if the entire mailbox has been whacked off its post. It’s just lying there, whimpering to me, “Jim, my owner, help me. Help me hold your mail once again. Help me do my job. Help me be a mailbox.” It was very sad.
However, I got over the sadness pretty fast and got in the car and started driving around the neighborhood to see if I could spot a pattern of other whacked mailboxes. Well, I found a few other banged up boxes, but nothing quite as bad as mine. A couple of them looked like maybe, Juan Pierre hat hit them, but mine looked like it had been Barry Bondsed, baby. It was ugly. I think it even had growth hormones on it. I bet AOL has never had that problem.
So this time I go over to Osh Hardware and I buy this industrial strength heavy titanium metal mailbox Superman would get a hernia hitting. I mean this mailbox was tough. You could make airline black boxes out of it.
And I go back to my house in the hills of life, and I attach this new iron box to the post, after many pathetic handy-man attempts, and I’m very pleased with my new indestructible creation. I’m thinking to myself, “Smash that you smash-ass bastards!” And I smiled and I kicked a few loose stones in my driveway really hard and I yelled, “Yeah! Me, the Man!”
And then, maybe a month later, I hear Hadley, my dog, barking his watchdog, psychotic bark, about midnight, and, well, like I handle most problems, I just ignored it. He was going nuts, barking and jumping at the front door, his canineacal head was whip lashing around spewing irate dog drool all over the hallway, and me, smart human-face, was yelling at him, “Quiet! I’m watching Letterman.” And I go to bed.
I get up the next morning, brush my teeth and my tongue, and go out in the kitchen and give Hadley his water and I take my 27 pills to keep me a movin and a groovin, and I start the coffee pot and I wander out to get the papers. Well, Virginia, I could not believe what I was seeing. (Hadley, however, could believe it. He was giving me the finger with his paw.) Them bastards had not hit my mailbox at all. But they had whacked out the wooden post on which the indestructible mailbox had been expertly installed by yours truly, Mr. Handyman Face.
It was quite a scene. The entire post was in splinters. I was devastated. Really. It was just a pitiful mess out there. And I felt hopeless. Just splintered wood everywhere and the jagged edge of the post sticking up from the ground and the mailbox was crying. I was almost defeated. But I wasn’t defeated. Just almost. No, nothing defeats me. Nothing. Except, chocolate.
So I called the Altadena Sheriff’s Station and a squad car comes out and I tell him my sad story and I show him the splintered mess and he takes my name for the report and then he says, “Aren’t you the guy who writes that smoke column?’ And I say, “Well, yeah. That’s me. Do you think it’s one of my critics who did this?” And the sheriff guy says, “I don’t know, but I can’t arrest 5,000 people, sir.” Those cops are kidders.
So now I have to figure out to stop them bastards for good this time. I go to Crown City Hardware down on Allen and I buy, I’m not kidding, I buy a $375 iron post, iron mailbox combo sumbitch that I can barely lift to get in the car. I spend $375 on a mailbox! 375 dollars. It did have an Eagle on the front of it.
Then I go to the Altadena Hardware Store on that little street off Lake that I don’t know the name of, and I go in there and I ask the guy for a post hole digger. And he says, “ We don’t employ any illegal aliens in here.” (I think he was the cops’ brother.) I didn’t laugh. Eventually I bought this big five-foot iron rod thing with a sharp pointed end and a 50-pound bag of cement.
I go home and I dig a post hole two feet deep and eight inches square and I fill that sucker with instant drying cement and I put in the iron post and iron mailbox all meshed together into one anti-bat-bashing-bastards unit. And that damn instant cement lives up to its name and now that mailbox is in, baby. I mean it is in. It is strong. It is iron in cement. It is solid.
If Them Bastards get this one, I guess I’ll have to open an AOL account. Or buy a shotgun. I’m going with B.
Ship to Shore (9-13-07)
I always thought “ship to shore” had something to do with phones. Like you’re on the ship and you call someone on the shore. Even I could understand that. Simple. You don’t need to be a Mensa member to get it. (By the way, a few years back I tried to join Mensa, but they said I didn’t have what most of their members had in their IQ scores. Three digits. I responded with one digit.)
Anyway, I discovered a new meaning to “ship to shore” last year while taking a cruise. Yes, while you were working your buttooskies off to feed your sniveling offspring and ungrateful spouses and you were getting up early to go to work and fight traffic and fight halitosis and contribute something relatively positive to society, I was on a cruise ship. What can I tell you? I also own an SUV and I smoke. And you thought George Bush had a low popularity rating. I’d kill for his numbers.
This was my fourth cruise. And in all the other cruises something would always happen. And that something would be that they would have to take some old fat guy off the ship with a heart problem. It was like a damn clock. One time they had to come for some poor hump on a helicopter. They hauled his ass off and we all watched from the Promenade
Deck. It was kind of a nice break from our usual promenading without anything to see.
Another time we were in port where some native people of indistinguishable heritage were dancing or jumping or having seizures, and they hauled another old fat guy off on a stretcher. I felt bad for him, too. But mostly I felt I’m glad it’s him and not me. Mother Teresa, eat your heart out.
And the other time they came for the HHH – the Hapless Heart Hump -- with this pissy little boat called a tender and they get this latest old fat guy and they are trying to take him down the gangplank from the ship to the tender and the waves are waving and the boats are rocking and the poor sumbitch has this look on his face like “I spent 6,000 bucks for this.” It was pitiful.
Well, gangplankers and gangplankettes, you guessed it. It was your lovable, lanky, column-writing, cigar-smoking, Dodge Durango-driving, red-meat-eating buddy who would be the latest old fat guy hump sumbitch. Yes, it was my turn in the barrel. And many people were rooting for the barrel.
So how did I become this HHH? Well, it all started at dinner. Oh, and it was my birthday, too. So it was my birthday dinner I guess. (Maybe Mensa will reconsider.) We were down in the beautiful, luxurious main dining room called Bowels Revenge where we were eating our usual five course meals. An appetizer and four entrees. I pulled the waiter over and said, “I’m not bloated. Who is responsible, dammit? And everything was going fine and then my buddy, Vic Vieira, started giving me birthday pirate toasts. And we were drinking some 18 year-old scotch (instead of chasing 18-year old women) and yes, we maybe had a few too many. Or, if you were Ted Kennedy, maybe we didn’t.
Every two minutes Vic would stand up and hold his left hand over one eye and say something with a pirate accent, “Let’s drink to our favorite fat ass, Jim Larnis, or Jim Loonis, or whatever the hell that lanky peg-legged loser’s name is.” He would raise his glass, and continue, “We drink to friendship and yardarm-ass is our friend and he’s on a ship so that’s gotta be friendship, get it, Matee.” It was quite eloquent. And he’d bribe the bartender-guy to give me doubles. And geez, I may have had, oh, five or six of the suckers. And we had a little celebration champaigne and some roast beef and baked potatos with sour cream and chives and onions and bacon and butter and someone’s martini olives. It was so much food we could barely eat our ice cream sundaes. And alas, I was kind of feeling a bit heart-humpish even then. Go figure.
So we finished dinner and we were heading back to our room and I said quietly to myself, “This would be a nice night for a little vagina.” But because I stutter, God heard it a little differently and he gave me a little angina.” Hey, I forgive him. I kind of slurred my request. And between the slurring and the stuttering, hell, you gotta cut God a little slack. But somewhere there’s a guy expecting a heart attack who got lucky.
Actually, it wasn’t even angina. It was just some other heart-related, life-threatening, Gods-a-kidder, ventricular tachycardia stuff. At least that’s what the African Bush ship doctor told me. He said if my heart monitor reading got any higher they would need taller nurses to read it. (I did learn later that I had an EKG of 272 which didn’t mean much to me until I saw Tony Soprano get a reading of 242 on HBO. The wimp.)
Well, the bottom line, is that, yes, I was the poor sumbitch old fat guy hump who got hauled off the ship. They put me on a stretcher and took me down the gangplank to the waiting ambulance. And as I looked up to the Promenade Deck I saw some future heart humps up there and I waved a brave wave and one of them hollered down, “You’re interrupting our mid-afternoon-after-lunch-before dinner buffet, asshole.”
Ah, the memories.
Anyway, I discovered a new meaning to “ship to shore” last year while taking a cruise. Yes, while you were working your buttooskies off to feed your sniveling offspring and ungrateful spouses and you were getting up early to go to work and fight traffic and fight halitosis and contribute something relatively positive to society, I was on a cruise ship. What can I tell you? I also own an SUV and I smoke. And you thought George Bush had a low popularity rating. I’d kill for his numbers.
This was my fourth cruise. And in all the other cruises something would always happen. And that something would be that they would have to take some old fat guy off the ship with a heart problem. It was like a damn clock. One time they had to come for some poor hump on a helicopter. They hauled his ass off and we all watched from the Promenade
Deck. It was kind of a nice break from our usual promenading without anything to see.
Another time we were in port where some native people of indistinguishable heritage were dancing or jumping or having seizures, and they hauled another old fat guy off on a stretcher. I felt bad for him, too. But mostly I felt I’m glad it’s him and not me. Mother Teresa, eat your heart out.
And the other time they came for the HHH – the Hapless Heart Hump -- with this pissy little boat called a tender and they get this latest old fat guy and they are trying to take him down the gangplank from the ship to the tender and the waves are waving and the boats are rocking and the poor sumbitch has this look on his face like “I spent 6,000 bucks for this.” It was pitiful.
Well, gangplankers and gangplankettes, you guessed it. It was your lovable, lanky, column-writing, cigar-smoking, Dodge Durango-driving, red-meat-eating buddy who would be the latest old fat guy hump sumbitch. Yes, it was my turn in the barrel. And many people were rooting for the barrel.
So how did I become this HHH? Well, it all started at dinner. Oh, and it was my birthday, too. So it was my birthday dinner I guess. (Maybe Mensa will reconsider.) We were down in the beautiful, luxurious main dining room called Bowels Revenge where we were eating our usual five course meals. An appetizer and four entrees. I pulled the waiter over and said, “I’m not bloated. Who is responsible, dammit? And everything was going fine and then my buddy, Vic Vieira, started giving me birthday pirate toasts. And we were drinking some 18 year-old scotch (instead of chasing 18-year old women) and yes, we maybe had a few too many. Or, if you were Ted Kennedy, maybe we didn’t.
Every two minutes Vic would stand up and hold his left hand over one eye and say something with a pirate accent, “Let’s drink to our favorite fat ass, Jim Larnis, or Jim Loonis, or whatever the hell that lanky peg-legged loser’s name is.” He would raise his glass, and continue, “We drink to friendship and yardarm-ass is our friend and he’s on a ship so that’s gotta be friendship, get it, Matee.” It was quite eloquent. And he’d bribe the bartender-guy to give me doubles. And geez, I may have had, oh, five or six of the suckers. And we had a little celebration champaigne and some roast beef and baked potatos with sour cream and chives and onions and bacon and butter and someone’s martini olives. It was so much food we could barely eat our ice cream sundaes. And alas, I was kind of feeling a bit heart-humpish even then. Go figure.
So we finished dinner and we were heading back to our room and I said quietly to myself, “This would be a nice night for a little vagina.” But because I stutter, God heard it a little differently and he gave me a little angina.” Hey, I forgive him. I kind of slurred my request. And between the slurring and the stuttering, hell, you gotta cut God a little slack. But somewhere there’s a guy expecting a heart attack who got lucky.
Actually, it wasn’t even angina. It was just some other heart-related, life-threatening, Gods-a-kidder, ventricular tachycardia stuff. At least that’s what the African Bush ship doctor told me. He said if my heart monitor reading got any higher they would need taller nurses to read it. (I did learn later that I had an EKG of 272 which didn’t mean much to me until I saw Tony Soprano get a reading of 242 on HBO. The wimp.)
Well, the bottom line, is that, yes, I was the poor sumbitch old fat guy hump who got hauled off the ship. They put me on a stretcher and took me down the gangplank to the waiting ambulance. And as I looked up to the Promenade Deck I saw some future heart humps up there and I waved a brave wave and one of them hollered down, “You’re interrupting our mid-afternoon-after-lunch-before dinner buffet, asshole.”
Ah, the memories.
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