Nothing says stupid like smitten.
Nothing says smitten like cleaning the bathroom.
Oh well... jon's tidy at least.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
There really isn't a tactful means to express to someone that their new brand of hygiene product makes them smell like five day old sweaty ass crack more than if they had bathed in rancid elephant lard using a moose scrotum loofah, is there?
I'm sure it's good for the environment though. All organic or something. Doubtless good for the economy, and carrying a steep price tag too.
I'm sure it's good for the environment though. All organic or something. Doubtless good for the economy, and carrying a steep price tag too.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
The good, the bad and the ugly.
Or backwards of that...
I'm the Ugly. Inside and out. Get over it, I did.
The Bad:
I have to be very careful here, because I don't want to give too much away. I certainly don't want to put any ideas in anyone's head. Not that they haven't had them already, I just don't want to accelerate what may be unavoidable. Except that it is TOTALLY fucking avoidable if certain people would quit being stupid.
I work nights. I take my last break at 9:00 pm. I smoke, so I go outside and stand on the sidewalk for a few minutes. Across the street is a restaurant. I myself do not care for their food, but many do, and despite the economic downturn that the media won't let us forget about, they seem to be doing brisk trade. They are so successful that they even have a help wanted sign out front.
They close the shop at 9:00 when I take my break. They leave the doors unlocked and allow the few straggling customers with call ahead pick up orders come in to get them. The crew moves in and out sweeping the floor, shaking out rugs, taking out the trash, and bringing in the signs they put out each day.
The front of the building is all glass. One great big window broken up only by supports and the big glass doors. I can watch the place clean up and see the expressions on the faces of the workers from where I smoke, just as clearly as I can the hobo's and crazies that mill about in and out of pot smoker park at this time.
I can see, every night, at 9:05 pm one man that works in the restaurant empty the registers and count out the till. He piles big stacks of money on the big counter right in front of the big window.
And there's nothing wrong with that. Except...
There have been strings of robberies in town. Because of a tax increase that didn't go through and budget shortfalls, the city is reducing police presence and shutting off streetlights. Unemployment is high and a fair number of people are desperate.
Every night I stand outside and I watch the man count the big piles of money on the big counter right in front of the big window in the big unsecured building. Every night I stand there and I wonder "Why is this man begging people to rob his place of employment? Doesn't he like his job? Does he want to endanger his co-workers? Doesn't he understand that $150.00 cash is enough to get a person shot to death?"
It's his job, and his money to count, in his restaurant, in the United States of America, and by god, if that's what he wants to do he has the freedom to do that. But it doesn't seem terribly wise to me.
I'd be willing to bet that even before the previously mentioned cut backs that in 999.9 out of 1000 cases, the police don't stop crimes. Rather they show up and take a report after the fact. If they even bother to do that much any more. For a petty crime you'd likely be advised to go to a website and file your own damned report.
Yes, if the restaurant got robbed the police would show up. Yes they would file a report. There would likely even be an investigation, especially if a weapon was involved. There's a fair chance that the perpetrators will be caught and tried, and possibly even incarcerated. AFTER the fact.
But that's not going to bring the money that the restaurant needs to make payroll with back. That's not going to un-hurt anyone who got in the criminals way. That's not going to un-kill the young woman working her way through college in her over tight, tip generating, khaki pants that show off her curvy backside bringing a bit of cheer to my evening break.
Is it fair? Is it right? Probably not. In a perfect world people wouldn't get desperate, or stupid, or lazy and resort to hurting other people and taking their shit. There are laws against robbery. But they get broken. This kind of thing happens. It's not a perfect world. The imperfect world is full of great people, and a crap load of really shitty primates that try to pass themselves off as human.
It's going to be a lot more inconvenient for you to clean up the blood stains of a dead employee than it is to carry the money 20 paces to the back room away from the window and count it there. It is not going to hurt you to look out for number one. It's not a bad thing to take care of yourself, your possessions, your place of business, and the people you care about (even if you don't care, then consider them a puddle of guts that you're going to have to mop up).
In fact, it's a good thing. Kind of like....
The Good:
I make my own cigarettes these days. It's more economical for me. That means I need to buy loose tobacco and the tubes that I stuff it into. I can't get that at a 7-11. It requires a specialty shop. A tobacconist if you will.
I have one that I like. It's close to home, and on the way from dropping the kids off at school. The owner is a great guy, super friendly, I suspect he may be an immigrant from the middle east somewhere. He's living the American dream.
He worked hard, saved his money, put thought and effort into his life, and he owns a successful small business. He keeps his prices fair, and his standards of service are decent. He does a good job at what he does and is rewarded with many loyal satisfied customers. He fuels the economy. He has always had one employee, and now has a second one.
I'm out of smokes. I walk in past the big front window. I walk past he big front window with steel bars behind it. That's through the door with more steel bars. I bet the door gets locked at night when the till is counted.
It's early in the morning and I haven't been getting as much sleep as I like, and I'm a bit fuzzy headed so it takes a bit for events to sink into my head.
I walk in and I wipe my feet on the provided door mat. That's just the polite thing to do. There's more mats in the high traffic areas, as a janitor, I notice this stuff. The owner is using his god given wit to protect his investment. He's taken 15 seconds to realize that it snowed, and that means mud, and someone has to pay for the carpets to be cleaned and it will take me all of 2 minutes to prevent that, thereby protecting the carpet that I own, and the funds that I would otherwise have to spend on cleaning said carpet. I can appreciate that.
I grab a bag of tobacco off the rack. I wander further into the shop and pick my tubes off of the shelf. I amble over to the counter and pay for my goods. I notice something.
The clerk that rings me up is the new guy.
The new guy has a pistol in a holster on his belt. I'd guess a Glock, black polymer thing. It was probably a .45.
I'm guessing a .45 because I then noticed that the other clerk, who I'm used to, has what appears to my somewhat uneducated eye to be a 1911 in a holster on his belt.
I was amazed.
I approve whole heartedly. Throw rugs on the floor. Steel bars on the windows. Pistols on the belts of the clerks. It put a new perspective on the pair of well behaved German Shepherds that are usually behind the counter. I don't bet, I KNOW that the door gets locked before the money comes out of the cash drawer.
This guy has worked hard for everything he has. He appreciates the things that he's been able to obtain. He is willing to protect them. He's willing to protect them by realizing that shit happens and there are simple steps that he can take to prevent it, or minimize the effects as much as he is able.
He understands that shitty people happen. He understands that the steel bars on the window prevent some jackass from throwing a chair through his window. There's nothing to be gained by it.
The very obvious presence of the pistols is going to keep him from being robbed. As long as they keep the fact secret, hell, the guns don't even need to be loaded. The could even be convincing replicas.
Any person that walks into that shop with the intent to rob it is going to get to the counter, see the weapons, probably say "Oh...." and change his mind, pay $1.00 for a Bic lighter, and walk out. That of course assumes that he doesn't just run like hell.
In the end:
These are pretty extreme ends of a spectrum. There's a lot of middle ground that could be covered.
Some people don't care for firearms. Mostly, I'm OK with that. I don't think everyone should wander around armed. But I don't think that those who choose not to should interfere with those of us who choose to do so.
While in the context of my tobacconist, the pistols work very well, and frankly made me feel more comfortable shopping there, I would honestly feel less safe if every clerk and stocker at Walmart were armed. But I wouldn't have a problem with them having armed security on duty.
The weapons, or the possession and display of weapons isn't really the point I'm trying to make. If you're on your liberal gun hating rant pony, get off.
The thing I'm trying to get across is that you need to protect yourself. You need to protect your possessions. You need to protect your friends and your family. You need to protect the people in your life. You can do a lot to do this without a weapon.
Lock your doors.
Leave a light on when you're not home.
Don't wave piles of money at every person that walks by your shop.
Get a dog.
Put a rug out for people to wipe their feet on.
Rake your leaves so that the jackass that flicks his cigarette into your yard doesn't burn your house down.
Pay attention to what's around you. If you're walking alone and you see someone that gives you a 'bad feeling' don't wait for them to get close enough to fuck you up. Pull out your cell and have 911 dialed and your thumb on the little green phone button.
Wait for the light to change before you cross the street. The little white lines painted on the road will not stop a car just because you're standing on it.
If you have the light, and it still ain't stopping them, get the fuck out of the way! You should be paying attention to that. The lights don't stop cars either.
Don't bitch when the security guard at the bank asks you to take off your hat.
THINK!
Don't assume that just because you're honest that anyone else is. Don't assume that someone else is going to take care of you. Don't assume that because someone is supposed to do something that they will. Don't assume that people won't do the things they're not supposed to.
Don't assume that anyone really cares about you.
Find out for sure, and hang on tight to the ones that do.
I'm the Ugly. Inside and out. Get over it, I did.
The Bad:
I have to be very careful here, because I don't want to give too much away. I certainly don't want to put any ideas in anyone's head. Not that they haven't had them already, I just don't want to accelerate what may be unavoidable. Except that it is TOTALLY fucking avoidable if certain people would quit being stupid.
I work nights. I take my last break at 9:00 pm. I smoke, so I go outside and stand on the sidewalk for a few minutes. Across the street is a restaurant. I myself do not care for their food, but many do, and despite the economic downturn that the media won't let us forget about, they seem to be doing brisk trade. They are so successful that they even have a help wanted sign out front.
They close the shop at 9:00 when I take my break. They leave the doors unlocked and allow the few straggling customers with call ahead pick up orders come in to get them. The crew moves in and out sweeping the floor, shaking out rugs, taking out the trash, and bringing in the signs they put out each day.
The front of the building is all glass. One great big window broken up only by supports and the big glass doors. I can watch the place clean up and see the expressions on the faces of the workers from where I smoke, just as clearly as I can the hobo's and crazies that mill about in and out of pot smoker park at this time.
I can see, every night, at 9:05 pm one man that works in the restaurant empty the registers and count out the till. He piles big stacks of money on the big counter right in front of the big window.
And there's nothing wrong with that. Except...
There have been strings of robberies in town. Because of a tax increase that didn't go through and budget shortfalls, the city is reducing police presence and shutting off streetlights. Unemployment is high and a fair number of people are desperate.
Every night I stand outside and I watch the man count the big piles of money on the big counter right in front of the big window in the big unsecured building. Every night I stand there and I wonder "Why is this man begging people to rob his place of employment? Doesn't he like his job? Does he want to endanger his co-workers? Doesn't he understand that $150.00 cash is enough to get a person shot to death?"
It's his job, and his money to count, in his restaurant, in the United States of America, and by god, if that's what he wants to do he has the freedom to do that. But it doesn't seem terribly wise to me.
I'd be willing to bet that even before the previously mentioned cut backs that in 999.9 out of 1000 cases, the police don't stop crimes. Rather they show up and take a report after the fact. If they even bother to do that much any more. For a petty crime you'd likely be advised to go to a website and file your own damned report.
Yes, if the restaurant got robbed the police would show up. Yes they would file a report. There would likely even be an investigation, especially if a weapon was involved. There's a fair chance that the perpetrators will be caught and tried, and possibly even incarcerated. AFTER the fact.
But that's not going to bring the money that the restaurant needs to make payroll with back. That's not going to un-hurt anyone who got in the criminals way. That's not going to un-kill the young woman working her way through college in her over tight, tip generating, khaki pants that show off her curvy backside bringing a bit of cheer to my evening break.
Is it fair? Is it right? Probably not. In a perfect world people wouldn't get desperate, or stupid, or lazy and resort to hurting other people and taking their shit. There are laws against robbery. But they get broken. This kind of thing happens. It's not a perfect world. The imperfect world is full of great people, and a crap load of really shitty primates that try to pass themselves off as human.
It's going to be a lot more inconvenient for you to clean up the blood stains of a dead employee than it is to carry the money 20 paces to the back room away from the window and count it there. It is not going to hurt you to look out for number one. It's not a bad thing to take care of yourself, your possessions, your place of business, and the people you care about (even if you don't care, then consider them a puddle of guts that you're going to have to mop up).
In fact, it's a good thing. Kind of like....
The Good:
I make my own cigarettes these days. It's more economical for me. That means I need to buy loose tobacco and the tubes that I stuff it into. I can't get that at a 7-11. It requires a specialty shop. A tobacconist if you will.
I have one that I like. It's close to home, and on the way from dropping the kids off at school. The owner is a great guy, super friendly, I suspect he may be an immigrant from the middle east somewhere. He's living the American dream.
He worked hard, saved his money, put thought and effort into his life, and he owns a successful small business. He keeps his prices fair, and his standards of service are decent. He does a good job at what he does and is rewarded with many loyal satisfied customers. He fuels the economy. He has always had one employee, and now has a second one.
I'm out of smokes. I walk in past the big front window. I walk past he big front window with steel bars behind it. That's through the door with more steel bars. I bet the door gets locked at night when the till is counted.
It's early in the morning and I haven't been getting as much sleep as I like, and I'm a bit fuzzy headed so it takes a bit for events to sink into my head.
I walk in and I wipe my feet on the provided door mat. That's just the polite thing to do. There's more mats in the high traffic areas, as a janitor, I notice this stuff. The owner is using his god given wit to protect his investment. He's taken 15 seconds to realize that it snowed, and that means mud, and someone has to pay for the carpets to be cleaned and it will take me all of 2 minutes to prevent that, thereby protecting the carpet that I own, and the funds that I would otherwise have to spend on cleaning said carpet. I can appreciate that.
I grab a bag of tobacco off the rack. I wander further into the shop and pick my tubes off of the shelf. I amble over to the counter and pay for my goods. I notice something.
The clerk that rings me up is the new guy.
The new guy has a pistol in a holster on his belt. I'd guess a Glock, black polymer thing. It was probably a .45.
I'm guessing a .45 because I then noticed that the other clerk, who I'm used to, has what appears to my somewhat uneducated eye to be a 1911 in a holster on his belt.
I was amazed.
I approve whole heartedly. Throw rugs on the floor. Steel bars on the windows. Pistols on the belts of the clerks. It put a new perspective on the pair of well behaved German Shepherds that are usually behind the counter. I don't bet, I KNOW that the door gets locked before the money comes out of the cash drawer.
This guy has worked hard for everything he has. He appreciates the things that he's been able to obtain. He is willing to protect them. He's willing to protect them by realizing that shit happens and there are simple steps that he can take to prevent it, or minimize the effects as much as he is able.
He understands that shitty people happen. He understands that the steel bars on the window prevent some jackass from throwing a chair through his window. There's nothing to be gained by it.
The very obvious presence of the pistols is going to keep him from being robbed. As long as they keep the fact secret, hell, the guns don't even need to be loaded. The could even be convincing replicas.
Any person that walks into that shop with the intent to rob it is going to get to the counter, see the weapons, probably say "Oh...." and change his mind, pay $1.00 for a Bic lighter, and walk out. That of course assumes that he doesn't just run like hell.
In the end:
These are pretty extreme ends of a spectrum. There's a lot of middle ground that could be covered.
Some people don't care for firearms. Mostly, I'm OK with that. I don't think everyone should wander around armed. But I don't think that those who choose not to should interfere with those of us who choose to do so.
While in the context of my tobacconist, the pistols work very well, and frankly made me feel more comfortable shopping there, I would honestly feel less safe if every clerk and stocker at Walmart were armed. But I wouldn't have a problem with them having armed security on duty.
The weapons, or the possession and display of weapons isn't really the point I'm trying to make. If you're on your liberal gun hating rant pony, get off.
The thing I'm trying to get across is that you need to protect yourself. You need to protect your possessions. You need to protect your friends and your family. You need to protect the people in your life. You can do a lot to do this without a weapon.
Lock your doors.
Leave a light on when you're not home.
Don't wave piles of money at every person that walks by your shop.
Get a dog.
Put a rug out for people to wipe their feet on.
Rake your leaves so that the jackass that flicks his cigarette into your yard doesn't burn your house down.
Pay attention to what's around you. If you're walking alone and you see someone that gives you a 'bad feeling' don't wait for them to get close enough to fuck you up. Pull out your cell and have 911 dialed and your thumb on the little green phone button.
Wait for the light to change before you cross the street. The little white lines painted on the road will not stop a car just because you're standing on it.
If you have the light, and it still ain't stopping them, get the fuck out of the way! You should be paying attention to that. The lights don't stop cars either.
Don't bitch when the security guard at the bank asks you to take off your hat.
THINK!
Don't assume that just because you're honest that anyone else is. Don't assume that someone else is going to take care of you. Don't assume that because someone is supposed to do something that they will. Don't assume that people won't do the things they're not supposed to.
Don't assume that anyone really cares about you.
Find out for sure, and hang on tight to the ones that do.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
I wish I could get that damned high.
I really do.
http://movies.yahoo.com/feature/hmg-avatar-hidden-messages.html
Hidden? What the fuckin fuck?
Look. When you run at me screaming a message, and beat me over the head with a Louisville Slugger until I can repeat it by heart, it's not "hidden."
The so called "hidden" messages are no more hidden than the stink of lightly tuna flavored feces when you stuff cat turds up your nose.
It's right there. Right out in front of everything, including overdone special effects. Just because you painted the little tribal dudes blue doesn't mean your message is camoflaged.
It's all about as subtle (and stupid) as throwing a bucket of red paint on a little old lady wearing a fur coat and screaming at her that "meat is murder!"
And really... haven't we heard this same story before? About a million times? I have not, nor am I going to go see this. I'll just rent Dances with Wolves or The Last Samurai or some other version of this crap and fiddle with the color settings on my TV till the poor indiginous folk being oppressed by corporations and that evil technology shit turn blue. Some blue Hobbits riding to war on blue Ents would be funny as hell. Or it might be funny, if I were smoking some really good shit.
I don't know what's more depressing.
1> James Cameron thinking that he's got an original idea anywhere in his head.
2> The fact that someone somewhere thought that these same worn out, unoriginal, beat to death concepts were so subtley implemented by beating people over the head with it that they needed to write and article to point it out to the rest of the world.
3> The fact that there are people out there that probably don't and/or didn't get it until someone else pointed it out to them. Though, no one that reads my blog. Not that you're that much smarter, just... yeah no one reads this crap.
4> People paid money to see it.
5> You stingy bastards aren't sharing the crap you're smoking with me. It's got to be a god damned happy place where you're at, and I'd really like to see those rainbow sparkles.
Puff puff PASS already.
http://movies.yahoo.com/feature/hmg-avatar-hidden-messages.html
Hidden? What the fuckin fuck?
Look. When you run at me screaming a message, and beat me over the head with a Louisville Slugger until I can repeat it by heart, it's not "hidden."
The so called "hidden" messages are no more hidden than the stink of lightly tuna flavored feces when you stuff cat turds up your nose.
It's right there. Right out in front of everything, including overdone special effects. Just because you painted the little tribal dudes blue doesn't mean your message is camoflaged.
It's all about as subtle (and stupid) as throwing a bucket of red paint on a little old lady wearing a fur coat and screaming at her that "meat is murder!"
And really... haven't we heard this same story before? About a million times? I have not, nor am I going to go see this. I'll just rent Dances with Wolves or The Last Samurai or some other version of this crap and fiddle with the color settings on my TV till the poor indiginous folk being oppressed by corporations and that evil technology shit turn blue. Some blue Hobbits riding to war on blue Ents would be funny as hell. Or it might be funny, if I were smoking some really good shit.
I don't know what's more depressing.
1> James Cameron thinking that he's got an original idea anywhere in his head.
2> The fact that someone somewhere thought that these same worn out, unoriginal, beat to death concepts were so subtley implemented by beating people over the head with it that they needed to write and article to point it out to the rest of the world.
3> The fact that there are people out there that probably don't and/or didn't get it until someone else pointed it out to them. Though, no one that reads my blog. Not that you're that much smarter, just... yeah no one reads this crap.
4> People paid money to see it.
5> You stingy bastards aren't sharing the crap you're smoking with me. It's got to be a god damned happy place where you're at, and I'd really like to see those rainbow sparkles.
Puff puff PASS already.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
No... you don't.
Dear Teenage Girls,
Do not espouse to me, or anyone else, including him, how much you love and adore your boyfriend.
Because you don't.
You don't even understand what love means.
I'm not trying to be an ass, but the thing is you're just young.
Go log some hours at your local hospice. Spoon feed some poor dying slob something that has the consistency of mud and smells like death or spoiled milk, then change the bed pan and wipe his ass for him. Make sure you get all the urine and feces off of his unmentionables or he'll get a rash. EEEEEWWWW!!!! GROSS!!! Right?
Now.
Understand that your boyfriend, that you love so dearly, could get hit by a truck at any time and end up just like that. Now, imagine dropping out of school, and getting a shitty job that you hate. Work that job for 10 hours a day so that you can pay the bills, then go spend 6 hours spoon feeding and ass-wiping your boyfriend. Your boyfriend, incidentally, is way too fucked up to stick it in you any more, just in case you hadn't figured that out. You're lucky if you can have simple conversations. More than likely it's moans and grunts.
Fuck that shit right?
Well. That's what love is. It means being there no matter what.
Your boyfriend may not have said 'I love you too'. Give him credit for that. He probably doesn't know why, he doesn't really understand what love is either. But he does know that he's not going to wipe drool off of your face, and clean you up when you shit all over yourself. Don't nag him, and ask him why he never tells you he loves you. It's because he doesn't, and he knows it, and he doesn't want to lie to your face. He damned well may love you some day. He damned well may be willing to give up the entirety of his life to take care of you. But today is not that day. You should admire him for this, and give credit where credit is due.
Your boyfriend may well have told you that he loves you. He lied. Don't get too pissed off. He probably doesn't even know it. He didn't set out to lie to you. He just doesn't understand what he's saying, any more than you do. But I can tell you what he really meant when he said "I love you." What he really meant was "You make my dangly parts quit dangling!" or maybe he meant "I like it when you let me stick it in you!"
That's ok. Really it is. Boys, and men have this thing where we like to stick it in girls or women. Women and girls sometimes like it when we do that. It's part of life. It's part of growing up. Sometimes, we even go further than that, and enjoy each others company. We hang out and we do stuff together, and it's fun. We like it. All of us are pretty hard wired to want sex and companionship. That's in almost every case a very good thing. But that's not love.
So let's just try to be more honest.
Don't tell him you love him.
Don't tell me you love him.
Don't tell your friends how much you love him.
Don't tell his friends how much you love him.
Don't tell his parents, or your parents you love him.
Don't post on the internet how much you love him. The more you do this, the less the rest of us believe you. It's like you've stopped trying to tell us, and started trying to convince yourself. That can't be healthy.
And damned sure don't write "I love Darwood! <3" on the fucking bathroom wall.
Do not espouse to me, or anyone else, including him, how much you love and adore your boyfriend.
Because you don't.
You don't even understand what love means.
I'm not trying to be an ass, but the thing is you're just young.
Go log some hours at your local hospice. Spoon feed some poor dying slob something that has the consistency of mud and smells like death or spoiled milk, then change the bed pan and wipe his ass for him. Make sure you get all the urine and feces off of his unmentionables or he'll get a rash. EEEEEWWWW!!!! GROSS!!! Right?
Now.
Understand that your boyfriend, that you love so dearly, could get hit by a truck at any time and end up just like that. Now, imagine dropping out of school, and getting a shitty job that you hate. Work that job for 10 hours a day so that you can pay the bills, then go spend 6 hours spoon feeding and ass-wiping your boyfriend. Your boyfriend, incidentally, is way too fucked up to stick it in you any more, just in case you hadn't figured that out. You're lucky if you can have simple conversations. More than likely it's moans and grunts.
Fuck that shit right?
Well. That's what love is. It means being there no matter what.
Your boyfriend may not have said 'I love you too'. Give him credit for that. He probably doesn't know why, he doesn't really understand what love is either. But he does know that he's not going to wipe drool off of your face, and clean you up when you shit all over yourself. Don't nag him, and ask him why he never tells you he loves you. It's because he doesn't, and he knows it, and he doesn't want to lie to your face. He damned well may love you some day. He damned well may be willing to give up the entirety of his life to take care of you. But today is not that day. You should admire him for this, and give credit where credit is due.
Your boyfriend may well have told you that he loves you. He lied. Don't get too pissed off. He probably doesn't even know it. He didn't set out to lie to you. He just doesn't understand what he's saying, any more than you do. But I can tell you what he really meant when he said "I love you." What he really meant was "You make my dangly parts quit dangling!" or maybe he meant "I like it when you let me stick it in you!"
That's ok. Really it is. Boys, and men have this thing where we like to stick it in girls or women. Women and girls sometimes like it when we do that. It's part of life. It's part of growing up. Sometimes, we even go further than that, and enjoy each others company. We hang out and we do stuff together, and it's fun. We like it. All of us are pretty hard wired to want sex and companionship. That's in almost every case a very good thing. But that's not love.
So let's just try to be more honest.
Don't tell him you love him.
Don't tell me you love him.
Don't tell your friends how much you love him.
Don't tell his friends how much you love him.
Don't tell his parents, or your parents you love him.
Don't post on the internet how much you love him. The more you do this, the less the rest of us believe you. It's like you've stopped trying to tell us, and started trying to convince yourself. That can't be healthy.
And damned sure don't write "I love Darwood! <3" on the fucking bathroom wall.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Things you should know Part I
There are some things you should know about life on earth. There used to be this stuff called common sense. Those days are gone. Apparently it was a finite resource, and the old timers used it all up so that us young'uns could live blissfully ignorant of... well pretty much anything we might consider bad, or... inconvenient, or... maybe just stuff that doesn't instantly provide us with happiness and joy right this damned second because we want it. I mean, clearly I deserve this. I am after all here. Right? I exist, therefore give me shit.
I smoke. I work downtown. Downtown is full of people. The more people you see, the more your chances of seeing someone worthless.
Smoking is a fair indicator that somewhere on my person I have cigarettes.
Having cigarettes makes me very popular.
"Can I get a smoke?" "Hey, you wouldn't happen to have an extra smoke would you?" "Can I bum a smoke?"
Yes. As a matter of fact I have several 'smokes'. Whole pocket full of them.
No you stupid lazy fuck, you can not have one.
Here's how this works. Pay attention it's time for Things You Should Know:
If you want things, anything, any kind of thing, in this case a cigarette, you should know that things generally cost money. If you want a thing than you had better be prepared to give someone money.
I know. You don't have any money. You should know that money comes from things. You can sell things, or you can do things. Sometimes you can make things, and sell them yourself, or make them for someone else, and they will sell them. Or, you can do things. Usually things that aren't a lot of fun. Things that no one else wants to do. Sometimes people have money, and they have things that need done that they don't want to do, or can't do, or need help doing. These people will give you money for doing these things. You can then take that money and go buy whatever damned things you think you want or need, like cigarettes.
Those of us in the know call this a JOB. Terrible. I know. It's just awful that you might have to put something into your existence in order to maintain it.
So no. I do not have an extra cigarette. You may not have one.
Do you see tar stained wings hanging off of my back?
Do you see a smoking magic wand made out of braided tobacco plants in my hand?
Do you see me here standing in a brown tu-tu with holes burned in it from careless habits?
No. No, and no.
I am not the cigarette fairy, here to deliver lung cancer to all of the good boys and girls.
Go get a damned job. Go earn some fucking money. Go spend it on your own god forsaken bad habits.
I smoke. I work downtown. Downtown is full of people. The more people you see, the more your chances of seeing someone worthless.
Smoking is a fair indicator that somewhere on my person I have cigarettes.
Having cigarettes makes me very popular.
"Can I get a smoke?" "Hey, you wouldn't happen to have an extra smoke would you?" "Can I bum a smoke?"
Yes. As a matter of fact I have several 'smokes'. Whole pocket full of them.
No you stupid lazy fuck, you can not have one.
Here's how this works. Pay attention it's time for Things You Should Know:
If you want things, anything, any kind of thing, in this case a cigarette, you should know that things generally cost money. If you want a thing than you had better be prepared to give someone money.
I know. You don't have any money. You should know that money comes from things. You can sell things, or you can do things. Sometimes you can make things, and sell them yourself, or make them for someone else, and they will sell them. Or, you can do things. Usually things that aren't a lot of fun. Things that no one else wants to do. Sometimes people have money, and they have things that need done that they don't want to do, or can't do, or need help doing. These people will give you money for doing these things. You can then take that money and go buy whatever damned things you think you want or need, like cigarettes.
Those of us in the know call this a JOB. Terrible. I know. It's just awful that you might have to put something into your existence in order to maintain it.
So no. I do not have an extra cigarette. You may not have one.
Do you see tar stained wings hanging off of my back?
Do you see a smoking magic wand made out of braided tobacco plants in my hand?
Do you see me here standing in a brown tu-tu with holes burned in it from careless habits?
No. No, and no.
I am not the cigarette fairy, here to deliver lung cancer to all of the good boys and girls.
Go get a damned job. Go earn some fucking money. Go spend it on your own god forsaken bad habits.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Dissapointment with the advertised flamability of certain products.
Some days are more exciting than others. I'm not going to go into a lot of detail, but I know first hand that many solvents, particularly the industrial variety are extremely flammable. Acetone for example is the liquid form of acetylene gas, commonly used in welding and cutting operations. A standard plastic one gallon mop bucket full of acetone, that then catches fire, in a room filled with 5 gallon and 55 gallon drums of various flammable liquids for example, creates one hell of an exciting day. Especially when you're the guy holding the sole fire extinguisher that stands between a devastating fire (probably with big explosions) that will bankrupt a semi-famous American artist and cause the evacuation of a few city blocks due to the toxic fumes swilling forth. Good times.
So I have a garage. It's big. 3 car job. I think we may have parked a car in it once upon a time, but that hasn't happened in ages. No, preferring to keep myself busy, the garage is converted into a workshop. I shared it with my father before he passed. It was cool. It is cool. It is full of fun and excitement. I'd write about shooting sharpened wooden stakes across the garage with a router, but really, that's sort of mundane and unexciting for my garage. The dog didn't even bother to get up after the ricochet. She just looked at me like "What stupid shit are you doing now?" and went back to sleep.
But this isn't about excitement. Or about fire. I set myself on fire, or my clothes anyway, that I know exciting fire stuff when I see it. This is about disappointment.
In my garage I do lots of things. This weekend, one of those things I needed to do was paint something. A shelf. Not a big deal. I have lots of paint. I even have the paint that I want to use. So I brush a coat on to my shelf. It sucks. Bad brush strokes. Looks terrible. So I sand those down and decide that spraying it is the way to go. I have a spray gun. Not a fancy one, it's pretty cheap. It works though. Except when it is seriously clogged with paint, because I never cleaned it out after the last use, and that was 5 years ago.
Ok fine.
So I soak the spray gun in some paint stripper. Don't know the brand, don't know much about it. I know that the label claims it is the safest paint stripper on the market. It touts that it is much less likely to eat the flesh off of my bones than any other brand. That's kinda cool, because it does devour rubber gloves. The same rubber gloves I was wearing to protect myself from the 'safer' paint stripper.
The spray gun is really in reasonable shape. The paint inside wasn't even totally dry. Parts were moving freely. Valves were opening and closing just like they should. Things were looking good! But then I had to take it one step further just to be sure. I wanted to make sure that the feed tube was clean. It's an aluminum tube, about six inches long, about 1/4" inside diameter, and has a bend halfway up. I figure a wire with a small swab of old rag will be just the ticket. So I whip one up. It looks a lot like the rod that one would use to clean a firearm, only much more 2 minute manufacture with a good splash of redneck ingenuity thrown in.
I pull the swab through the tube. It cleans a good bit of old paint off of the inside. I pull it through again. It does the same. I make a new swab. I put the paint stripper away already but I have my mineral spirits out to thin the paint that I am going to put in the sprayer when I get that far. I douse my little swab in mineral spirits.
Mineral spirits. Keep away from flame. No smoking. Keep away from sparks. Very big fire white man. BIG BOOM! Keep away from your coffee mug because in addition to being pretty toxic, the ambient heat shed out of the little hole in your plastic mug might just be enough to bring about the end of the world because of the fire you're going to start like that with the mineral spirits.
It's very flammable stuff, see?
I pull my swab through the tube. It gets stuck. Crap. I try pulling. No, it's stuck good. I try pushing. No, it's still stuck. I pull and I push and I yank on it with pliers, and I clamp it in my vice and I drag the bench that the vice is mounted on around the garage and the yard and back again. The stupid swab will not come out.
Then my wire breaks. Ok fine. I try pushing with more wire. I bend the wire. I try some heavy stainless steel rod. I bent that too. Then the swab budged. I was hopeful, so I tried the heavy stainless rod again. It bent more and tried to bend my feed tube after trying to get stuck, and a few more laps with the bench and the vice.
I've spent about a half hour cleaning the spray gun now, and about an hour trying to get the swab cleared out of the feed tube.
It's a cotton rag that I made the swab out of. Cotton burns. It's soaked in flammable mineral spirits. Blamable mineral spirits also burn.
A plan emerges, and out comes the propane torch.
The little propane torches that fit on the little propane bottles are not enough for my needs. They're ok if you have a little can of pork and beans to heat up, or some sissy assed pipe to sweat. No. My propane torch is a man's torch. Screws into a 20lb. tank, and will spot heat (albeit slower than I prefer) 12 gage steel to a pretty good red glow.
I point the fire down my feed tube with the intent to incinerate the hell out of that stupid swab. Are you ready for what happens next?
ABSOLUTELY NOTHING!
It was a good plan. It should have worked. But it didn't. Probably something to do with a lack of oxygen in the tube.
I would have been ok with the whole deal if something stupid had happened. Like shooting a flaming paint soaked swab out of the feed tube and into my eye. I would have understood that, and chalked it up to Murphy's Law, and moved on to paint my shelf with one eye covered by bandages. But nothing happened. I spent another half hour trying desperately to set fire to something that by all claims on the label should have gone up like the Hindenburg.
I eventually went back to poking it with the rod and cleared it out. Then I painted my shelf.
So I have a garage. It's big. 3 car job. I think we may have parked a car in it once upon a time, but that hasn't happened in ages. No, preferring to keep myself busy, the garage is converted into a workshop. I shared it with my father before he passed. It was cool. It is cool. It is full of fun and excitement. I'd write about shooting sharpened wooden stakes across the garage with a router, but really, that's sort of mundane and unexciting for my garage. The dog didn't even bother to get up after the ricochet. She just looked at me like "What stupid shit are you doing now?" and went back to sleep.
But this isn't about excitement. Or about fire. I set myself on fire, or my clothes anyway, that I know exciting fire stuff when I see it. This is about disappointment.
In my garage I do lots of things. This weekend, one of those things I needed to do was paint something. A shelf. Not a big deal. I have lots of paint. I even have the paint that I want to use. So I brush a coat on to my shelf. It sucks. Bad brush strokes. Looks terrible. So I sand those down and decide that spraying it is the way to go. I have a spray gun. Not a fancy one, it's pretty cheap. It works though. Except when it is seriously clogged with paint, because I never cleaned it out after the last use, and that was 5 years ago.
Ok fine.
So I soak the spray gun in some paint stripper. Don't know the brand, don't know much about it. I know that the label claims it is the safest paint stripper on the market. It touts that it is much less likely to eat the flesh off of my bones than any other brand. That's kinda cool, because it does devour rubber gloves. The same rubber gloves I was wearing to protect myself from the 'safer' paint stripper.
The spray gun is really in reasonable shape. The paint inside wasn't even totally dry. Parts were moving freely. Valves were opening and closing just like they should. Things were looking good! But then I had to take it one step further just to be sure. I wanted to make sure that the feed tube was clean. It's an aluminum tube, about six inches long, about 1/4" inside diameter, and has a bend halfway up. I figure a wire with a small swab of old rag will be just the ticket. So I whip one up. It looks a lot like the rod that one would use to clean a firearm, only much more 2 minute manufacture with a good splash of redneck ingenuity thrown in.
I pull the swab through the tube. It cleans a good bit of old paint off of the inside. I pull it through again. It does the same. I make a new swab. I put the paint stripper away already but I have my mineral spirits out to thin the paint that I am going to put in the sprayer when I get that far. I douse my little swab in mineral spirits.
Mineral spirits. Keep away from flame. No smoking. Keep away from sparks. Very big fire white man. BIG BOOM! Keep away from your coffee mug because in addition to being pretty toxic, the ambient heat shed out of the little hole in your plastic mug might just be enough to bring about the end of the world because of the fire you're going to start like that with the mineral spirits.
It's very flammable stuff, see?
I pull my swab through the tube. It gets stuck. Crap. I try pulling. No, it's stuck good. I try pushing. No, it's still stuck. I pull and I push and I yank on it with pliers, and I clamp it in my vice and I drag the bench that the vice is mounted on around the garage and the yard and back again. The stupid swab will not come out.
Then my wire breaks. Ok fine. I try pushing with more wire. I bend the wire. I try some heavy stainless steel rod. I bent that too. Then the swab budged. I was hopeful, so I tried the heavy stainless rod again. It bent more and tried to bend my feed tube after trying to get stuck, and a few more laps with the bench and the vice.
I've spent about a half hour cleaning the spray gun now, and about an hour trying to get the swab cleared out of the feed tube.
It's a cotton rag that I made the swab out of. Cotton burns. It's soaked in flammable mineral spirits. Blamable mineral spirits also burn.
A plan emerges, and out comes the propane torch.
The little propane torches that fit on the little propane bottles are not enough for my needs. They're ok if you have a little can of pork and beans to heat up, or some sissy assed pipe to sweat. No. My propane torch is a man's torch. Screws into a 20lb. tank, and will spot heat (albeit slower than I prefer) 12 gage steel to a pretty good red glow.
I point the fire down my feed tube with the intent to incinerate the hell out of that stupid swab. Are you ready for what happens next?
ABSOLUTELY NOTHING!
It was a good plan. It should have worked. But it didn't. Probably something to do with a lack of oxygen in the tube.
I would have been ok with the whole deal if something stupid had happened. Like shooting a flaming paint soaked swab out of the feed tube and into my eye. I would have understood that, and chalked it up to Murphy's Law, and moved on to paint my shelf with one eye covered by bandages. But nothing happened. I spent another half hour trying desperately to set fire to something that by all claims on the label should have gone up like the Hindenburg.
I eventually went back to poking it with the rod and cleared it out. Then I painted my shelf.
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