Fire falls, winds blow
There's trouble and it won't go
I'd really like to help you but you know
Truth twists, lies dance
Money money greed chant
Let's take a little more before we go
Cause we won't be back again
No, we won't be back again
~Liars Dance, Robert Plant
I received an offer from the firm I interviewed with over the past few weeks. I'm still a little stunned by it all. I heard nothing, absolutely nothing, for 6 months, since my hours got cut and I took the detour down the 'would you like fries with that' road.
Now, of course, I had to fuck with the wife a bit. I wouldn't be me if I didn't. And before you get too critical, my wife knew exactly what she was getting when she took me down off that shelf in the great grocery store of dating and had me scanned, bagged and tossed in her trunk. I can only presume my wife feels that she has committed some great sin that I am unaware of and I am penance for that sin. Whatever, her problem, not mine.
Anyway. I had my last interview. It was really short. I walked out of there pretty unsure of whether or not I was going to get an offer. I immediately called my wife and gave her the rundown. I told her I didn't think I was getting an offer.
As we chatted back and forth all day, I told her I was taking a philosophical view of the whole thing. I got interviewing experience, put myself out there, and hey, it didn't pan out.
Until 4:15 that afternoon when I received the offer.
I went home, and the amount of relief I felt was overwhelming. My wife gets home from work just after I returned from the dog park with my insane puppy. That is not a sexual reference by the way.
"Ok, I have a nice speech all worked out, I don't want you to say anything, I want you to just listen because I know how you are."
Now, to be fair, I had already decided that I was going to fuck with her a bit. But this just sealed the deal.
"Ok." And I did play up the 'stern, pensive, stoic, 'I'm really hurting on the inside but trying hard not to show it' look.' Yeah, I'm a dick, I know. So we went out to dinner (because I was too upset to cook, again, see previous line). My wife did a great job with her speech in trying to lift my spirits. It's not her fault that they didn't need lifting.
To my credit, I kept a straight face. For about an hour. She then says 'Don't forget to get your thank you notes out.'
"Yeah, you're right, but first I should probably get out my counter-offer to the offer they made me today."
And the look on her face was worth it. She followed up with a few 'you're such a prick's and 'what an asshole's. But she was happy.
Now here's where it gets weird. And I'm still not 100% sure why it got this way.
Yesterday, I started feeling sentimental, nostalgic even. As I've previously written, I did get blindsided by my boss last July - right before my birthday and vacation to boot - but I couldn't shake the feeling.
I actually started to remotely entertain the idea that I might not leave. Maybe it was nothing more than the remnants of misplaced loyalty.
I also had a conversation with another lawyer I'm friendly with yesterday morning. And she said 'oh, you're going back to the grind of firm life?' And I thought about that.
On the one hand, this place has quite a few memories for me. I was standing out front when I listened to the voice mail from the doctor that my dad had died. I was sitting in this office when my wife and I first started talking. I learned how to be a lawyer in this very seat. And like it or not, I do identify myself, to an extent, as a lawyer. Yeah, part of me was born here.
But it went deeper than that. I figured out what it was.
Fear. I'm scared. My whole professional life has been spent in the same place. You get used to things, you know? Those things may not be great objectively, but you find a way to make it work in your day to day life. You get comfortable. Granted, you may be comfortable in a 'I'm on a couch in a double wide' comfortable, but it is a measure of comfort nonetheless.
And fear is a funny thing, once it starts to get a hold of you.
Am I good enough for this new job?
Do I deserve this opportunity?
Am I going to do well?
And that part of me whispers 'No, no you're not, and you know it.' And there it is. Your worst fears realized. At least in your mind.
You're not good enough.
It's going to be daunting. New work, new workplace, new people, new boss. Bosses, plural, actually.
But as I mentioned in a previous post, it's like Babe and Bill said, 'everyone is scared.' Are you scared? What are you afraid of? Go ahead, look inside. What do you see? What keeps you up at night? Makes you sweat, makes you shake? Makes you doubt?
Over seven years. I once had a loaded gun pointed at me. I would like to tell you that in that moment everything flashed before my eyes. It didn't.
Which is what makes this more difficult in some ways. Everything comes back to you.
The victories.
The defeats.
The hopes.
The dreams.
The disappointments.
All right there for my viewing pleasure. I'm actually amazed at all the things I've done.
But alas, I know I'm returning to the grind. Living my professional life six minutes at a time. The stress, the desire to excel. At my age, I thought I'd be done paying my dues. And yes, that's a bit of an entitlement complex on my part, one I've had to get over in the past six months.
And letting go can be one of the most difficult things. When I took the job I have currently, I wanted to succeed. I wanted to make it work. And for a while, it did. But ultimately, you reach dead ends in that maze called life. And this is certainly a dead end. Not because my boss is a jerk, which for the most part he isn't, but because the industry is dying.
My time is running out.
And I can only bang my head against a dead end so many times. The scrapes, bruises and blood a testament to my fear. My fear of leaving that which I've known. People fall into one of two categories: people who love change, and those who hate it. I think you can guess what category I'm in.
So time to turn around, and head back to the start of this path in my maze. Now that I stand at that crossroads, there's not really too many paths to choose from. But that elusive scent of cheese is on the air.
And I'm just another hungry rat looking for his next meal.
Who claims no man is an island
While I land up in jeopardy
More distant from you by degrees
I walk this shore in isolation
And at my feet, eternity
draws ever sweeter plans for me
I know why, I know why
Crazy, on a ship of fools, ah, crazy on a ship of fools
turn this boat around, back to my loving ground
Ship of fools
~Robert Plant, 'Ship of Fools*'
Plus, there's one major change I need to make before my next job. And it is a daunting one. One that will be the subject of my next blog.
*I can't tell you why, but whenever I knowingly face change, I pull out Robert Plant/Led Zeppelin albums. Maybe because it's the soundtrack of my misspent youth and there's great comfort in the familiarity of it. Plus it's just great music.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Monday, February 1, 2010
Opportunity Knocks, Part Two
Oh boy. Had my second and third interviews this morning. Managed to come across as only functionally retarded. The last interviewer said that she was going to walk into the partner's office and recommend hiring me. They would then speak with the partner I interviewed with last week. They 'wanted to move quickly on this.'
So, yeah, I guess it went pretty well. Now the hard part. The waiting.
Yikes.
Could this be the return of the Last Emperor? Perhaps. I've never been a fan of suspense. Today is merely reconfirming that position.
Think good thoughts. Or just refrain from thinking evil ones in my general direction. Perhaps just for a couple of days.
So, yeah, I guess it went pretty well. Now the hard part. The waiting.
Yikes.
Could this be the return of the Last Emperor? Perhaps. I've never been a fan of suspense. Today is merely reconfirming that position.
Think good thoughts. Or just refrain from thinking evil ones in my general direction. Perhaps just for a couple of days.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Opportunity Knocks...
So, after six months I had an interview for a law job. Like a full time one. I think it went pretty well, the partner that interviewed me said they would be setting up a second interview with a second partner in the office I am applying to work out of.
I was asked to interview the day after my previous post. Coincidence?
I think so.
Here's to hoping something breaks my way, I'll keep you up to date.
Now, you may be asking yourself, 'why does Night and Day' even need a job?
A fair question. No doubt the millions have been rolling in since I started this blog. Think of me like one of those idiots that wins the lottery but keeps working anyway. I need something to do. Yeah, that's it.
I was asked to interview the day after my previous post. Coincidence?
I think so.
Here's to hoping something breaks my way, I'll keep you up to date.
Now, you may be asking yourself, 'why does Night and Day' even need a job?
A fair question. No doubt the millions have been rolling in since I started this blog. Think of me like one of those idiots that wins the lottery but keeps working anyway. I need something to do. Yeah, that's it.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Night and Day, Too
Since I first conceived doing this particular blog, the idea was to outline the differences and similarities between the two current jobs I hold. I think they tend to be on opposite sides of the spectrum, so I figured there would be some interesting insights to be gained from one versus the other.
And maybe some universals. Who knows? I do notice that some of my posts are personal in nature and beyond the scope of my job, and in addition, I have quite a few stories of fiction that I work on from time to time. So, in order to keep this blog more in focus to its original version, I have started Night and Day, Too.
That blog will have the fiction and personal stuff, whereas I'll continue to post work related views here, such as 'Do Unto Others...'
Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy the new blog, and continue to enjoy this one.
Regards,
Night and Day
And maybe some universals. Who knows? I do notice that some of my posts are personal in nature and beyond the scope of my job, and in addition, I have quite a few stories of fiction that I work on from time to time. So, in order to keep this blog more in focus to its original version, I have started Night and Day, Too.
That blog will have the fiction and personal stuff, whereas I'll continue to post work related views here, such as 'Do Unto Others...'
Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy the new blog, and continue to enjoy this one.
Regards,
Night and Day
Do Unto Others...Before They Do Unto You.
The above title is an actual response I made to a question on a board I post on. The question was 'Sum up in one line what you learned in 2009.'
And I posted 'Do Unto Others...Before They Do Unto You.'
An hour or so later, I looked at it and though 'wow, that's really snarky, even coming from you.'
So where did it come from?
I've worked for the same firm pretty much since I finished up a clerkship. It's been 8 long years. During 7 of those 8 years, we were a very busy firm. There were a couple of cases that kept things moving along.
One of the things about practicing law that you find out pretty quickly is your time is never really your own. Sure, you can make plans, look forward to vacations, and anticipate holidays with friends and families. But there is always the potential for something to come along and ruin your best laid plans.
The flip side of this, at least, what you're told when you have to cancel yet another evening out, is that you're paying your dues. Since time immemorial, this is how the legal business worked. The new guys get shit on while the old guys enjoy the fruits of their labors. What many people don't realize is that for a lot of years, Law was nothing more than a Ponzi scheme. The idea being that the partners brought in the business and the lower level associates did all the grunt work, cranking out the billable hours til they would one day be elevated to partner.
Starting in the 80's, this whole paradigm that ran the heart of the legal community changed. It became more and more of a business. This is not to say it hasn't happened in other industries, I would suspect that it has, but it outlined what has become a glaringly flaw in the law. Or at least, so I thought. And that flaw?
No loyalty. Now many will say that 'Honor Among Thieves' is always skitchy at best, non-existent at worst.
Last year, at around this time, we were wrapping up our largest case. Waiting in line were a bunch of cases that I had kept alive pending the time to wrap those up. So for the next two months, I was pretty busy finishing up a lot of cases that I hadn't had the time to finish. Then May and June hit, and I started saying things to my wife like 'honey, I don't know what the hell I'm going to do this week.' Keep in mind, this was six months into the recession. Lawyers were losing their jobs, summer associates were actually being paid NOT to work, and firms were starting to go under.
It all came to a head in late July. My boss comes in my office and tells me 'I'm cutting your hours, I'm switching you to an hourly pay, no vacation, no sick time.'
Bam. For the first five years of my work here, I missed numerous holidays and didn't take a proper vacation. In fact, the first vacation I took as an employee was when I got married the year before. All that paying dues, down the drain. And the really insidious side of it is such a move wouldn't be necessary if we had the work. So by switching me to hourly, it was a double whammy. Not enough work to justify a salary means probably not enough work on an hourly basis to make up the difference. I figured it out the other day and I make 66% of what I made a year ago. A lot of people would think that's a good thing, because I'm a lawyer, but what people don't realize is how shitty the pay is for most lawyers. And ultimately, I'm lucky to have a job. I've sent countless resumes and not received one call. I've heard stories that for each job listing, hundreds of resumes are received within minutes. That's how bad things are.
Hence, I couldn't find anything to supplement my income and went back to the only other skill I have, cooking. Cranking it out at $8 an hour. Long weekends. I work more now than I did at the height of practicing law and make far less.
Loyalty. Where did it go? I don't know, but ultimately, I guess I learned the hard way what so many have learned by my age: you have to be careful whom you are loyal to. And I find this carries over into my other job too. So I am going to guess that this is a universal workplace thing. Loyalty. To whom and how much?
I almost gave notice at my cooking job last week.
Generally, there were three of us working on Friday and Saturday nights. The typical Friday, I was 'long relief' - I stay until the closer cuts me, usually between 10 and 11. I close Saturdays. Anyway, that was the way it was supposed to go. At least four weekends in a row, I would walk in for what I thought was a short shift, only to find out, whoops, you're here til the end.
The 'final straw' was New Years Eve. I offered to work the short part of the shift (as opposed to being off) because I didn't want to strand any of the guys I work with. I was supposed to come in, work about a 5-8, and be out of there. A third guy was supposed to be in.
Well, I show up and of course, no third guy, and it's just me and the closer. Meaning, I was stuck there til around 10:45, and the wife was too tired to come out at that point. The very next night I walk in to find I was closing. I also received a call that Wednesday to come in (at the last minute) and help out. And I did. I'm a loyal guy, I don't like to see any of my coworkers get screwed.
But New Year's came and I realized: why am I being loyal? I'm being told one thing, then ending up doing another, one requiring far more effort.
And so I'm forced to change my approach. I think that's the toughest thing we sometimes have to do, is change what we are in order to survive. Sure, I could go on being loyal, waiting for some imaginary time when it would all pay off. When I would be recognized for all the sacrifices.
When my father, despite my urgings to the contrary, didn't have health insurance, or a plan for my mom's care when he died, I said I would step up. I did, and it has been the ruin of my financially. But at least I was loyal.
When my law job needed me there, weekends, nights, holidays, and I had to beg off plans, I did. And it has been to my detriment. I even turned down several opportunities to go elsewhere because I wanted to finish what I started and I didn't want to leave my firm in a lurch during the biggest case we had at the time, but now those opportunities are no where to be found. But at least I was loyal.
When my cook job needed me there, weekends, nights, holidays, and I had to beg off plans, I did. And it was to my detriment. But at least I was loyal.
The funny thing about it is 'I.' I was loyal, yet none of the foregoing were very loyal to me in hindsight. So this year, I've decided if I'm fortunate enough to get an opportunity to move elsewhere, I'm taking it, and not looking back. I have no doubt if any of the foregoing needed me gone, they wouldn't hesitate.
So imagine my surprise when my wife mentioned to me last week how the office manager and partner met because they were worried if there was going to be enough work for the attorneys at her firm.
Loyalty indeed. It's a rare, yet dangerous, commodity.
If I have one resolution this year, it is to be loyal to those who deserve that loyalty, because misplaced loyalty can turn out horribly, and often does.
So this year, do unto others before they do unto me. A bit snarky, perhaps, but apparently the other way isn't working. And we grow during times of hardship. I just wish this was one way in which I didn't need to 'grow,' but I guess such comforts are beyond my reach right now.
And I posted 'Do Unto Others...Before They Do Unto You.'
An hour or so later, I looked at it and though 'wow, that's really snarky, even coming from you.'
So where did it come from?
I've worked for the same firm pretty much since I finished up a clerkship. It's been 8 long years. During 7 of those 8 years, we were a very busy firm. There were a couple of cases that kept things moving along.
One of the things about practicing law that you find out pretty quickly is your time is never really your own. Sure, you can make plans, look forward to vacations, and anticipate holidays with friends and families. But there is always the potential for something to come along and ruin your best laid plans.
The flip side of this, at least, what you're told when you have to cancel yet another evening out, is that you're paying your dues. Since time immemorial, this is how the legal business worked. The new guys get shit on while the old guys enjoy the fruits of their labors. What many people don't realize is that for a lot of years, Law was nothing more than a Ponzi scheme. The idea being that the partners brought in the business and the lower level associates did all the grunt work, cranking out the billable hours til they would one day be elevated to partner.
Starting in the 80's, this whole paradigm that ran the heart of the legal community changed. It became more and more of a business. This is not to say it hasn't happened in other industries, I would suspect that it has, but it outlined what has become a glaringly flaw in the law. Or at least, so I thought. And that flaw?
No loyalty. Now many will say that 'Honor Among Thieves' is always skitchy at best, non-existent at worst.
Last year, at around this time, we were wrapping up our largest case. Waiting in line were a bunch of cases that I had kept alive pending the time to wrap those up. So for the next two months, I was pretty busy finishing up a lot of cases that I hadn't had the time to finish. Then May and June hit, and I started saying things to my wife like 'honey, I don't know what the hell I'm going to do this week.' Keep in mind, this was six months into the recession. Lawyers were losing their jobs, summer associates were actually being paid NOT to work, and firms were starting to go under.
It all came to a head in late July. My boss comes in my office and tells me 'I'm cutting your hours, I'm switching you to an hourly pay, no vacation, no sick time.'
Bam. For the first five years of my work here, I missed numerous holidays and didn't take a proper vacation. In fact, the first vacation I took as an employee was when I got married the year before. All that paying dues, down the drain. And the really insidious side of it is such a move wouldn't be necessary if we had the work. So by switching me to hourly, it was a double whammy. Not enough work to justify a salary means probably not enough work on an hourly basis to make up the difference. I figured it out the other day and I make 66% of what I made a year ago. A lot of people would think that's a good thing, because I'm a lawyer, but what people don't realize is how shitty the pay is for most lawyers. And ultimately, I'm lucky to have a job. I've sent countless resumes and not received one call. I've heard stories that for each job listing, hundreds of resumes are received within minutes. That's how bad things are.
Hence, I couldn't find anything to supplement my income and went back to the only other skill I have, cooking. Cranking it out at $8 an hour. Long weekends. I work more now than I did at the height of practicing law and make far less.
Loyalty. Where did it go? I don't know, but ultimately, I guess I learned the hard way what so many have learned by my age: you have to be careful whom you are loyal to. And I find this carries over into my other job too. So I am going to guess that this is a universal workplace thing. Loyalty. To whom and how much?
I almost gave notice at my cooking job last week.
Generally, there were three of us working on Friday and Saturday nights. The typical Friday, I was 'long relief' - I stay until the closer cuts me, usually between 10 and 11. I close Saturdays. Anyway, that was the way it was supposed to go. At least four weekends in a row, I would walk in for what I thought was a short shift, only to find out, whoops, you're here til the end.
The 'final straw' was New Years Eve. I offered to work the short part of the shift (as opposed to being off) because I didn't want to strand any of the guys I work with. I was supposed to come in, work about a 5-8, and be out of there. A third guy was supposed to be in.
Well, I show up and of course, no third guy, and it's just me and the closer. Meaning, I was stuck there til around 10:45, and the wife was too tired to come out at that point. The very next night I walk in to find I was closing. I also received a call that Wednesday to come in (at the last minute) and help out. And I did. I'm a loyal guy, I don't like to see any of my coworkers get screwed.
But New Year's came and I realized: why am I being loyal? I'm being told one thing, then ending up doing another, one requiring far more effort.
And so I'm forced to change my approach. I think that's the toughest thing we sometimes have to do, is change what we are in order to survive. Sure, I could go on being loyal, waiting for some imaginary time when it would all pay off. When I would be recognized for all the sacrifices.
When my father, despite my urgings to the contrary, didn't have health insurance, or a plan for my mom's care when he died, I said I would step up. I did, and it has been the ruin of my financially. But at least I was loyal.
When my law job needed me there, weekends, nights, holidays, and I had to beg off plans, I did. And it has been to my detriment. I even turned down several opportunities to go elsewhere because I wanted to finish what I started and I didn't want to leave my firm in a lurch during the biggest case we had at the time, but now those opportunities are no where to be found. But at least I was loyal.
When my cook job needed me there, weekends, nights, holidays, and I had to beg off plans, I did. And it was to my detriment. But at least I was loyal.
The funny thing about it is 'I.' I was loyal, yet none of the foregoing were very loyal to me in hindsight. So this year, I've decided if I'm fortunate enough to get an opportunity to move elsewhere, I'm taking it, and not looking back. I have no doubt if any of the foregoing needed me gone, they wouldn't hesitate.
So imagine my surprise when my wife mentioned to me last week how the office manager and partner met because they were worried if there was going to be enough work for the attorneys at her firm.
Loyalty indeed. It's a rare, yet dangerous, commodity.
If I have one resolution this year, it is to be loyal to those who deserve that loyalty, because misplaced loyalty can turn out horribly, and often does.
So this year, do unto others before they do unto me. A bit snarky, perhaps, but apparently the other way isn't working. And we grow during times of hardship. I just wish this was one way in which I didn't need to 'grow,' but I guess such comforts are beyond my reach right now.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Whiskey and Horseflies, A Love Story
This is my second post about my trip to Punta Cana in the Dominican Republic.
As I mentioned previously, I hate to fly. It scares the shit out of me, but I will say this, as we came into the Punta Cana airport, we had to fly over the Dominican Republic.
And my God, was it gorgeous. Beautiful lush green meeting bleached sand meeting light blue ocean. When I looked up the GDP of the Dominican Republic it listed three things:
Sammy Sosa
Pedro Martinez
Yearly GDP: the equivalent of a local mini-mart in Alabama.
And I could see why. When you live somewhere this beautiful, well, it's real easy to say 'fuck it, let's hit the beach, we'll work tomorrow.' Now, you cobble 40 years of those days together and you get what you have in the Dominican Republic: a Third World Country where the people are very nice, but not very motivated to do much.
We finally get out of the airport and get on our bus that will take us to our resort. We pull into the main entrance and let me say I was wowed. Big time. We had people taking care of us from the moment we arrived.
We then went to our suite. It was the most awesome room I have ever stayed in, anywhere. View of the Atlantic, view of the pool (which was topless - which at first blush sounds awesome, but quickly turns to a bit of a nightmare), and the facilities were top notch. Stocked bar.
And whiskey.
I love whiskey.
Once, a very long time ago, when I was about 21, I was drinking at some hole in the wall bar somewhere in New Jersey. I asked the bartender for a good whiskey, as I didn't know of one, being unfamiliar with the concoction. He suggested Glenfiddich. I said ok. He then asked me if I wanted it on the rocks.
There was a guy sitting to my left, and he immediately piped up (with a British, or Scottish accent, not sure which, and didn't care enough to find out), and said 'do not put ice in that drink, it's sacrilege.' He said it with such conviction that I figured he knew what he was talking about. And ever since then, I have never ordered whiskey on the rocks.
Punta Cana is pretty hot. And you can't drink the water, so you're constantly drinking bottled water. Also, most of the population, even at the resorts, do not speak English with anything resembling proficiency. At our resort, there were bars everywhere. You walk up, you order and invariably, unless you order beer, they ask 'Ice?' Now, 'no,' the last time I checked was the same in Spanish or English. At least, I think they spoke Spanish.
Then I'd get the look. The 'are you a crazy American gringo' look when I said no ice. The look that said 'are you sure you don't want to reconsider, as you are making a really poor decision with regards to your choice of libations.' I stood resolute. No ice. Anywhere. Near. My whiskey.
But these people were relentless. It could be the same bartender from the night before, and I would have to repeat the whole godforsaken process just to get my whiskey without ice. At one point, I think I got frustrated and told the bartender that if there was any ice, anywhere remotely near my Johnny Walker, I would hunt him down, his kids, dig up his grandparents, and kick all of their asses. I tried saying it in Spanish. It probably came out 'I want to bone your dead grandmother' for all I know, but to his credit, he didn't seem upset. And I got my whiskey without ice.
Ah, but the battle was far from over. My wife and I went to the 'Italian' restaraunt at the resort. The waiter comes over, 'would you like something to drink?' My wife orders. I say 'Johnny Walker Black, no ice.' 'No ice?' 'NO ICE.' He wanders off.
My wife gets her drink. My drink is nowhere to be found. Our appetizers come out. Still no whiskey. I flag down the waiter. 'Could I get a whiskey, no ice?' 'No ice?' This was quickly turning into an Abbot and Costello routine.
He wanders off. Our dinners arrive. Still no whiskey.
Half way through the dinner, I see our waiter, grinning triumphantly, glass of brown liquid in his hand, and I can see there is no ice. I am ecstatic. Finally, all the explanations have paid off. Then I thought, 'fuck, I should have ordered a double, as I will have to go through all of this again.' He places the glass, with no small amount of flourish, on the table in front of me.
And then I see it. I can see his fingerprints on the glass.
Oh no. As I reach for the glass, I know. I fucking know what took so long.
My hand touches the glass. It's colder than Meryl Streep in 'The Devil Wears Prada.'
That's what took so long. They put the fucking glass in the freezer. For twenty five minutes.
I ordered beer or vodka for the rest of the trip. I couldn't keep up the fight.
My wife and I went on one of those excursions to see the country. We ended up in some truck that had an open back. Our guide was pretty cool, and there was a long day planned of various stops along the way. The first stop was a school. We get into the classroom, and the kids sing some song. For all I know, they were saying 'Die motherfucking Yankees, die.' But they were cute while they did it, so we gave them some money and went on to our next stop.
The trip seemed to go on for an eternity, and we eventually ended up at some old ass looking bridge with some concrete steps down to the water, which ended at a 'dock.' I am using the word 'dock' in the loosest possible sense here. There was also a 'boat' at the end of the dock. I am also using the word 'boat' in the loosest possible sense here. So we pile in, and the guide breaks out the beer. No whiskey though, and I sure as hell wasn't going to ask for it.
So we drifted along this river, flanked by rice fields and grazing horses and cattle. It was actually quite beautiful. The people we were with were very nice. I had a few beers and was starting to relax, envisioning this trip like the upriver trip in 'Apocalypse Now' - except, you know, without Robert Duvall trying to kill me to get his surfboard back.
Just as it's getting a bit boring, we round a bend, and see people in the middle of the river. Me and the other passengers thought it was a bit strange. As we got closer, we realized that they were in the river, they were in the ocean. We were coming up to where the river met the ocean. It was absolutely stunning. We then 'dock' at some concrete steps and walk up to the beach, and start going down a path. We then come to a clearing.
Then I see them.
Oh, fuck. Oh, no, anything but this.
Horses. Lots of horses. It's not that I don't like horses, I think they're beautiful creatures. I just want nothing to do with them. So I'm sitting there as the rest of the group walks up and the guys who are handling the horses are starting to bring them into the clearing. Oh God, Oh God, Oh God.
My wife is well aware of my stand on horses. Pity? Sympathy? Yeah, not so much. One of the handlers points to me and motions for me to come over to the horse he has. With much trepidation, I look around, surveying the beauty all around me, knowing that I'll never see it again because I'm surely going to die in the next five minutes.
I get on the back of the horse. I decide to name the horse. I decide to name the horse 'Fred.' Why 'Fred?' Because it's a non-threatening name. I figure if I name it something blase, then the horse will follow suit. Made perfect sense to me.
Fred begins to move. He must have been able to tell that I had absolutely no experience on the back of a horse because he just did whatever he wanted. I quickly wracked my brain for all of the information that I knew regarding horse riding. My knowledge on horse riding is extremely nascent and can be summed up as follows:
They like carrots.
Don't fall off.
'Whoa' is the 'failsafe' word.
I have developed the above from my extensive movie watching. I figured I was well armed with the information necessary to go ahead and not die.
I was wrong.
First of all, every fucking movie I have ever seen has characters saying 'Whoa horsey' and the fucker stops. I guess either the people making these movies had never ridden a horse, or Fred had never seen any of those movies. Maybe it's because "Whoa" doesn't translate into Spanish.
Whatever, but when I said 'Whoa' nothing happened. No pause, no nothing, just Fred blithely going after the horses in front of us. Fred apparently believed he was Secretariat, because all he wanted to do was be the frontrunner. Which was fucking annoying, especially when I specifically forbid him from such conduct. How did I forbid it?
By shouting 'Fred, fucking stop, you goddamn animal, Fred, FRED, FRED, WHOA HORSEY, GODDAMNIT FRED.'
I know I was starting to get through to him, because he decided to spite me. The fucking jerk. We're coming up to a bend, and the trial narrows. Which means Fred can't pass. Or so I thought.
HE GOES OFF THE GODDAMN TRAIL INTO THE TREES.
I don't know if you're aware of this, but I found out the hard way. Palm trees appear to be designed so that horses can pass under them without hitting anything while the rider gets pelted with palm fronds in his face.
Oh, and have I mentioned my nuts? Yeah, like I said, I've never been on a horse before. For those of you who don't know, your legs are spread across the horse like you're hooking for hobos. Which means your nuts (if you're a guy, like me) are squarely on the saddle. Which is hard. Factor in the bouncing gate of the fabulous fucking Fred, and my foray through the fucking jungle went something like this:
Relief of nuts as I went up in the saddle (Ahhhh), Smacked in the face with a palm branch (Thwack), yelling at Fred (Goddamnit Motherfucker, back on the trail), agony as my nuts reaquanted themselves with the saddle (GODDAMNIT), Palm frond to the face again (Thwack!).
Ahh, Thwack, Goddamnit Motherfucker, back on the trail, GODDAMNIT, Thwack. There was the occasional 'Whoa Horsey' thrown in there as well, but it became apparent that it only works in the movies.
Rinse and repeat.
We finally emerge from the jungle, Fred trotting along like the Mafia bet on him, and me, beaten, bruised, and frankly near death. Or wishing for death, I can't remember which. It was the toughest 5 minutes of my life.*
So what was my wife doing? Taking pictures. Of me. That's right. I nearly die a horrible death and all she can think to do is snap some pictures for the vacation album. So much for 'cherish.' It was at that moment that I resolved that if I had to die, there were two lives that were going to precede mine into the abyss.
So did I kill Fred?
No, I didn't. So what saved him (and by extension, my wife)?
Puppies.
We arrived at the stable (the place where the bastard demon spawn known as 'horses' congregate to discuss how they will attempt to kill their next unsuspecting victim) and dismounted. My nuts felt like the size of two cantaloupes trying to occupy the space of a thimble. I was dehydrated. I was broken, battered, a former shell of the once proud man I used to be. Then I saw them.
A bunch of dogs lazing around, and some puppies. Who then came up to me. They were so freakin' cute. And I'm such a goddamn sucker. So that, coupled with a generous helping of straight rum, made me abandon my plans of visiting furious and unpleasant mayhem upon my wife and Fred.
Consequently, the stable provided a bottle of rum with a picture of my wife and I (atop Fred and whatever docile sweet creature she got to ride on) along with a CD.
A CD of Spanish techno music. You think techno in English sucks? Yeah, it's fucking Bach compared to this shit.
Anyway, that's how I nearly died (one of several times) while on vacation.
And know this Fred: I ever get back to Punta Cana and see you again, I'm giving you two names:
Crazy. And Glue. Motherfucker.
I am never riding a horse again.
*'5 minutes' probably was only 30 seconds but it feels like eternity when your nuts are almost literally on fire, you're hunched over dodging foliage that the VC would exclaim 'that's WAY too fucking thick, I'm not going in there!), trying to yell commands to a horse that doesn't listen, meanwhile praying to God, Satan, and Umfufu (the God of water holes on a golf course, don't ask, I was desperate) that Fred goes off a cliff so that you have the satisfaction of knowing that when you hit the ground, at least Fred would die first. So excuse me if I was a bit too fucking busy to get a stopwatch out on the 'Devil's Run,' as I like to call it.
As I mentioned previously, I hate to fly. It scares the shit out of me, but I will say this, as we came into the Punta Cana airport, we had to fly over the Dominican Republic.
And my God, was it gorgeous. Beautiful lush green meeting bleached sand meeting light blue ocean. When I looked up the GDP of the Dominican Republic it listed three things:
Sammy Sosa
Pedro Martinez
Yearly GDP: the equivalent of a local mini-mart in Alabama.
And I could see why. When you live somewhere this beautiful, well, it's real easy to say 'fuck it, let's hit the beach, we'll work tomorrow.' Now, you cobble 40 years of those days together and you get what you have in the Dominican Republic: a Third World Country where the people are very nice, but not very motivated to do much.
We finally get out of the airport and get on our bus that will take us to our resort. We pull into the main entrance and let me say I was wowed. Big time. We had people taking care of us from the moment we arrived.
We then went to our suite. It was the most awesome room I have ever stayed in, anywhere. View of the Atlantic, view of the pool (which was topless - which at first blush sounds awesome, but quickly turns to a bit of a nightmare), and the facilities were top notch. Stocked bar.
And whiskey.
I love whiskey.
Once, a very long time ago, when I was about 21, I was drinking at some hole in the wall bar somewhere in New Jersey. I asked the bartender for a good whiskey, as I didn't know of one, being unfamiliar with the concoction. He suggested Glenfiddich. I said ok. He then asked me if I wanted it on the rocks.
There was a guy sitting to my left, and he immediately piped up (with a British, or Scottish accent, not sure which, and didn't care enough to find out), and said 'do not put ice in that drink, it's sacrilege.' He said it with such conviction that I figured he knew what he was talking about. And ever since then, I have never ordered whiskey on the rocks.
Punta Cana is pretty hot. And you can't drink the water, so you're constantly drinking bottled water. Also, most of the population, even at the resorts, do not speak English with anything resembling proficiency. At our resort, there were bars everywhere. You walk up, you order and invariably, unless you order beer, they ask 'Ice?' Now, 'no,' the last time I checked was the same in Spanish or English. At least, I think they spoke Spanish.
Then I'd get the look. The 'are you a crazy American gringo' look when I said no ice. The look that said 'are you sure you don't want to reconsider, as you are making a really poor decision with regards to your choice of libations.' I stood resolute. No ice. Anywhere. Near. My whiskey.
But these people were relentless. It could be the same bartender from the night before, and I would have to repeat the whole godforsaken process just to get my whiskey without ice. At one point, I think I got frustrated and told the bartender that if there was any ice, anywhere remotely near my Johnny Walker, I would hunt him down, his kids, dig up his grandparents, and kick all of their asses. I tried saying it in Spanish. It probably came out 'I want to bone your dead grandmother' for all I know, but to his credit, he didn't seem upset. And I got my whiskey without ice.
Ah, but the battle was far from over. My wife and I went to the 'Italian' restaraunt at the resort. The waiter comes over, 'would you like something to drink?' My wife orders. I say 'Johnny Walker Black, no ice.' 'No ice?' 'NO ICE.' He wanders off.
My wife gets her drink. My drink is nowhere to be found. Our appetizers come out. Still no whiskey. I flag down the waiter. 'Could I get a whiskey, no ice?' 'No ice?' This was quickly turning into an Abbot and Costello routine.
He wanders off. Our dinners arrive. Still no whiskey.
Half way through the dinner, I see our waiter, grinning triumphantly, glass of brown liquid in his hand, and I can see there is no ice. I am ecstatic. Finally, all the explanations have paid off. Then I thought, 'fuck, I should have ordered a double, as I will have to go through all of this again.' He places the glass, with no small amount of flourish, on the table in front of me.
And then I see it. I can see his fingerprints on the glass.
Oh no. As I reach for the glass, I know. I fucking know what took so long.
My hand touches the glass. It's colder than Meryl Streep in 'The Devil Wears Prada.'
That's what took so long. They put the fucking glass in the freezer. For twenty five minutes.
I ordered beer or vodka for the rest of the trip. I couldn't keep up the fight.
My wife and I went on one of those excursions to see the country. We ended up in some truck that had an open back. Our guide was pretty cool, and there was a long day planned of various stops along the way. The first stop was a school. We get into the classroom, and the kids sing some song. For all I know, they were saying 'Die motherfucking Yankees, die.' But they were cute while they did it, so we gave them some money and went on to our next stop.
The trip seemed to go on for an eternity, and we eventually ended up at some old ass looking bridge with some concrete steps down to the water, which ended at a 'dock.' I am using the word 'dock' in the loosest possible sense here. There was also a 'boat' at the end of the dock. I am also using the word 'boat' in the loosest possible sense here. So we pile in, and the guide breaks out the beer. No whiskey though, and I sure as hell wasn't going to ask for it.
So we drifted along this river, flanked by rice fields and grazing horses and cattle. It was actually quite beautiful. The people we were with were very nice. I had a few beers and was starting to relax, envisioning this trip like the upriver trip in 'Apocalypse Now' - except, you know, without Robert Duvall trying to kill me to get his surfboard back.
Just as it's getting a bit boring, we round a bend, and see people in the middle of the river. Me and the other passengers thought it was a bit strange. As we got closer, we realized that they were in the river, they were in the ocean. We were coming up to where the river met the ocean. It was absolutely stunning. We then 'dock' at some concrete steps and walk up to the beach, and start going down a path. We then come to a clearing.
Then I see them.
Oh, fuck. Oh, no, anything but this.
Horses. Lots of horses. It's not that I don't like horses, I think they're beautiful creatures. I just want nothing to do with them. So I'm sitting there as the rest of the group walks up and the guys who are handling the horses are starting to bring them into the clearing. Oh God, Oh God, Oh God.
My wife is well aware of my stand on horses. Pity? Sympathy? Yeah, not so much. One of the handlers points to me and motions for me to come over to the horse he has. With much trepidation, I look around, surveying the beauty all around me, knowing that I'll never see it again because I'm surely going to die in the next five minutes.
I get on the back of the horse. I decide to name the horse. I decide to name the horse 'Fred.' Why 'Fred?' Because it's a non-threatening name. I figure if I name it something blase, then the horse will follow suit. Made perfect sense to me.
Fred begins to move. He must have been able to tell that I had absolutely no experience on the back of a horse because he just did whatever he wanted. I quickly wracked my brain for all of the information that I knew regarding horse riding. My knowledge on horse riding is extremely nascent and can be summed up as follows:
They like carrots.
Don't fall off.
'Whoa' is the 'failsafe' word.
I have developed the above from my extensive movie watching. I figured I was well armed with the information necessary to go ahead and not die.
I was wrong.
First of all, every fucking movie I have ever seen has characters saying 'Whoa horsey' and the fucker stops. I guess either the people making these movies had never ridden a horse, or Fred had never seen any of those movies. Maybe it's because "Whoa" doesn't translate into Spanish.
Whatever, but when I said 'Whoa' nothing happened. No pause, no nothing, just Fred blithely going after the horses in front of us. Fred apparently believed he was Secretariat, because all he wanted to do was be the frontrunner. Which was fucking annoying, especially when I specifically forbid him from such conduct. How did I forbid it?
By shouting 'Fred, fucking stop, you goddamn animal, Fred, FRED, FRED, WHOA HORSEY, GODDAMNIT FRED.'
I know I was starting to get through to him, because he decided to spite me. The fucking jerk. We're coming up to a bend, and the trial narrows. Which means Fred can't pass. Or so I thought.
HE GOES OFF THE GODDAMN TRAIL INTO THE TREES.
I don't know if you're aware of this, but I found out the hard way. Palm trees appear to be designed so that horses can pass under them without hitting anything while the rider gets pelted with palm fronds in his face.
Oh, and have I mentioned my nuts? Yeah, like I said, I've never been on a horse before. For those of you who don't know, your legs are spread across the horse like you're hooking for hobos. Which means your nuts (if you're a guy, like me) are squarely on the saddle. Which is hard. Factor in the bouncing gate of the fabulous fucking Fred, and my foray through the fucking jungle went something like this:
Relief of nuts as I went up in the saddle (Ahhhh), Smacked in the face with a palm branch (Thwack), yelling at Fred (Goddamnit Motherfucker, back on the trail), agony as my nuts reaquanted themselves with the saddle (GODDAMNIT), Palm frond to the face again (Thwack!).
Ahh, Thwack, Goddamnit Motherfucker, back on the trail, GODDAMNIT, Thwack. There was the occasional 'Whoa Horsey' thrown in there as well, but it became apparent that it only works in the movies.
Rinse and repeat.
We finally emerge from the jungle, Fred trotting along like the Mafia bet on him, and me, beaten, bruised, and frankly near death. Or wishing for death, I can't remember which. It was the toughest 5 minutes of my life.*
So what was my wife doing? Taking pictures. Of me. That's right. I nearly die a horrible death and all she can think to do is snap some pictures for the vacation album. So much for 'cherish.' It was at that moment that I resolved that if I had to die, there were two lives that were going to precede mine into the abyss.
So did I kill Fred?
No, I didn't. So what saved him (and by extension, my wife)?
Puppies.
We arrived at the stable (the place where the bastard demon spawn known as 'horses' congregate to discuss how they will attempt to kill their next unsuspecting victim) and dismounted. My nuts felt like the size of two cantaloupes trying to occupy the space of a thimble. I was dehydrated. I was broken, battered, a former shell of the once proud man I used to be. Then I saw them.
A bunch of dogs lazing around, and some puppies. Who then came up to me. They were so freakin' cute. And I'm such a goddamn sucker. So that, coupled with a generous helping of straight rum, made me abandon my plans of visiting furious and unpleasant mayhem upon my wife and Fred.
Consequently, the stable provided a bottle of rum with a picture of my wife and I (atop Fred and whatever docile sweet creature she got to ride on) along with a CD.
A CD of Spanish techno music. You think techno in English sucks? Yeah, it's fucking Bach compared to this shit.
Anyway, that's how I nearly died (one of several times) while on vacation.
And know this Fred: I ever get back to Punta Cana and see you again, I'm giving you two names:
Crazy. And Glue. Motherfucker.
I am never riding a horse again.
*'5 minutes' probably was only 30 seconds but it feels like eternity when your nuts are almost literally on fire, you're hunched over dodging foliage that the VC would exclaim 'that's WAY too fucking thick, I'm not going in there!), trying to yell commands to a horse that doesn't listen, meanwhile praying to God, Satan, and Umfufu (the God of water holes on a golf course, don't ask, I was desperate) that Fred goes off a cliff so that you have the satisfaction of knowing that when you hit the ground, at least Fred would die first. So excuse me if I was a bit too fucking busy to get a stopwatch out on the 'Devil's Run,' as I like to call it.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Top Ten Things We Learned in 2009. And Wish We Hadn't.
I could start with a savvy '2009 is the year, unlike any other, where we first discovered X, Y, or Z' and how that somehow makes it a historic year. Progress of mankind and all that nonsense. You'll see a lot of those lists in the upcoming weeks. And most of them suck, mostly because they attempt to somehow distinguish the suckage that was 2009 from the suckage that was 2008, or any other year, for that matter.
But fear not, gentle readers, you'll not get that here. So I'm going to start my own tradition, which will be a top ten list of things you wish to God you never knew that became widespread knowledge in 2009. I was going to put them in descending order, but they all suck so mightily on some level that they are each justifiable #1 sucky things we learned which we wish we never had.
The Economy Blows, Isn't Going to Get Better, and the People that Fucked it the Most are the Ones Recovering First.
Yeah, it's a long title, but unlike Congress, I feel like it's necessary to put useful information in the title of things (more on this later). Anyway, it seems like a year ago that AIG and others got bailed out by our new President (more on him later) because they were 'too big to fail.' Well, apparently they weren't, because they did. Risky investments, rampant greed, ignorance of actual accounting principles and a year later we took it up the ass like a Thai Hooker from David Carridine. He almost made the list too, by the way. Who the fuck jerks off in a closet with a belt around their neck? Isn't that the fucking point of being an actor/famous in the first place? Never having to have sex alone? I'll tell you, some of these 'stars' are really shitty at being famous. If I were a star, you'd have caught me in that closet with Charlize Theron and a camel.
Don't ask what the camel is for, you don't want to know.
Anyway, what makes the economy even more fun, and I mean 'fun' as in 'getting anally raped by a mastadon' is that we're in a 'jobless recovery.' Like anyone knows what the fuck that is.
Congress says 'Health Reform' but actually means 'More Ways to Fine You.'
Remember those halcyon days of March, 2009, where the President made a stand and was going to get health care for all those unfortunate folks that couldn't afford it.
Remember those halcyon days well, because it turned into an opportunity to fine you if you don't procure health care, as well as potentially prevent people from actually being able to afford decent health care insurance. I love it when an opportunity to do some good becomes a giant fuck fest where we all lose out equally. You thought 'equality' meant we all succeeded together? Silly fuckers. It means we all get fucked together. Kind of the same. But not really. It's like winning the lottery only to find out that the 'winner' gets all expense paid trip to Guantanomo Bay. With accomodations. And cock meat sandwiches. YUM!
We Learned that our President Isn't a Savior.
Don't get me wrong, I never thought he was. But remember last year at this time? Yeah, all the 'Change is Coming' stuff. And you know what we learned this year (yet again). Roger Daltry, in "Won't Get Fooled Again" got it right.
"Meet the new boss, same as the old boss."
Now, I certainly don't think Obama and Dubya are the same, but ultimately, we learned that no matter how well intentioned a President is, the 'two party system' will unite like at no other time if the cause is lucrative enough.
I've said it before, and I'll say it again: Obama is probably a one termer. Not because he sucks, but because no-one could come into the Presidency during such a super-shittastic time and expect to be able to fix an economy, foreign policy, jobs, and health care. President Clinton took a beating just trying to 'fix' one. So did Bush. Obama has to fix all four? He's fucked. And it's not really his fault, but that's the bitch about being at the top, you get blamed for it.
Why isn't it his fault? Cause no one could possibly fix the above problems in one term. It took decades of mistakes to get here, it's going to take decades to undo it.
Michael Jackson was Creepier Than You Previously Imagined.
Now that's fucking saying something. Raise your hand if you believed the following at the beginning of 2009:
"Michael Jackson is probably weirder than I think he is."
Ok, hands?
You! Yeah, you, in the first row. Put your fucking hand down, assclown. There is not one person alive who really thought Michael Jackson was creepier than you previously thought. There is no way any human being can be that creepy, yet exceed your expectations for creepiness.
Jon and Kate Plus Eight = Ten People That Need to Be Aborted. Immediately.
The fact that I know who Jon and Kate are, and you do too, might well be the harbinger of the apocalypse. I have never watched the show. I have never watched an interview with them, nor read an article about them. In fact, I have gone out of my way to avoid them at all costs, yet inexplicably I know who these shitfucks are.
Think about that for a minute. If I spent this much effort avoiding math, I'd be using a calculator to figure out 1+1 = 3. See what I mean? Yet, despite my best efforts to the contrary, I know way more about these fucksticks than I care to. Which is anything at all.
Now that I've gotten that out of the way, the solution is obvious. They all have to die. Yes, the cute ones too. The only way for humanity to progress is to remove these attention whores from the gene pool.
Tiger Woods is a Fallible Human, Andre Agassi Super Pissed
Can you just imagine the following conversation:
Andre: Well, Steffi, the book is done. I talk about everything. How I hated my father. How I hated tennis. How I did Crystal Meth. How I should have never married that Blue Lagoon chick. How I wore weaves. As far as tell-all books go, this is the gold standard. It will be on every Christmas list around the world. Sports fans will rejoice in its honesty and integrity.
Steffi: Hold it there, baldy. Breaking story on CNN.
Andre: What? Global warming? War in Iraq? War in Afghanistan? Health Care Reform? What?!?!?!?!?
Steffi: Apparently Tiger Woods fucked his way through every Waffle House, IHOP, and brothel in the United States.
Andre: But there's no sex in my book!
Steffi: Ah, but you're about to get fucked nonetheless. Hmmm. Seems Tiger drove his Buick into a fire hydrant. It appears his wife came after him with a golf club.
Andre: Thank God I took up tennis.
Seriously, what the fuck do you have to do to get some fucking press in 2009? Andre Agassi, whom I do admire, lays it all out there, only to be upstaged by perhaps the most taciturn sports star of the 21st century. And a couple of thoughts:
Tiger, you're worth a Billion. More than any other sports star in history. Yet, somehow, you can't figure out how to password protect your phone? Or buy a second phone? And you call one of your mistresses and identify yourself by name and ask her to change her phone ID? Jesus titty-fucking Christ, Tiger, you need new handlers.
I know everyone is down on Tiger, but in my mind, this just elevates his achievements. The dude has won 14 majors. I always had a picture of this guy practicing his ass off, total focus, working out like a fiend, and now we find out he was probably too busy fucking everything that moved (including his wife) to have time to buy a second 'minutes only' phone. What does this guys schedule look like:
5:30 a.m. Tee off.
7:30 a.m. Bang cart girl behind 10th green.
9:34 a.m. Finish 18, finish off cart girl.
10:00 a.m. Bang wife, shower.
10:02 a.m. Call mistress, tell her to change ID.
10:05 a.m. Have argument with wife.
10:06 a.m. Get hit with golf club.
Lots of fuzzy stuff here.
2:30 a.m. drive car into fire hydrant.
And now we're learning all sorts of fun tidbits. Tiger doesn't use condoms. He takes Ambien. He likes waitresses (who doesn't?).
And not one bit of it really matters. Love him or hate him, he is probably going to go down in history as the greatest golfer ever. I just never knew he'd go down in history as one of the greatest 'cocksman' ever. Typing that last sentence made me throw up in my mouth just a little bit.
H1N1 Flu is a Gigantic Pussy as Far as Killer Epidemics Go
Once again, the fact that you know that 'H1N1' refers to the Swine Flu - given the fact that 98% of Americans can't name the current Vice President - is a pretty good indicator of how much coverage the Swine Flu received in 2009. Hell, I can't remember the chemical equation for water, but I fucking know this one.
And where are the mass deaths? I don't remember there being this much coverage of the Black Plague in Europe during the middle ages, and that killed like seventy gazillion people. There were also fleas and rats involved, but I'm not sure if the fleas ate the rats and the people ate the fleas and then died when something came out of their stomachs like that dude in "Alien," but I digress.
Anyway, since this is a hard nose journalistic site, I decided to run the numbers. These are from the US government's CDC site.
So, I'll use the median numbers.
Amount of cases: 47 million.
Amount of deaths: 9,820.
I will convert this to batting/killing average. The Swine Flu had 47 million chances to kill people, but only did so on 9,820 occasions, yielding a percentage of .02% of the time it actually successfully killed someone. If a major league player had this for a batting average, he would no longer be in the major leagues. But he might make the record books for worst batting average ever.
So H1N1: What a fucking pussy.
For future reference, please sound the panic alarm on diseases when they actually, you know, have a better chance of killing me than a rabid platypus during an ice storm in Nebraska during the Summer Olympics.
Octomom: Sadly, More Than Just A Villian in Spiderman 3,245
I'm not even going to use her real name, because she doesn't deserve it. How the holy hell this bitch got famous is beyond me. To recap, she already has 24.76 kids, goes to a fertility clinic, tells the 'doctor' to knock her up with a starting line-up plus three bench players, and then proceeds to actually shit out the Dick Van Patten. Yes, I'm calling it the 'Dick Van Patten.'
She's a corrections officer, but somehow having 3,410 children, while not living in Africa and starving, seemed like a good idea. You know someone is going to bust out Sally Struthers to do a telethon for this bitch. Who knows, maybe we'll get an 'Octo-Aid' concert where a bunch of pretentious musicians pontificate on the horror of starvation in California after visiting a fertility doctor and having more kids than you can handle and how we all need a heart to support them.
Two rules of thumb:
One, unless your door locks with laces, and has a foundation of 'rubberized sole' you have no business having 8 kids.
Two, you are allowed to have the amount of children in accordance with the following formula: Woman's IQ + Dad's IQ/100. If Dad isn't around, you don't get to count his IQ. So unless Octomom has an IQ of around 1,400, she's in violation.
Holy Fuck, how awesome would it be to stick her and all her kids in the same house with Jon and Kate and thier brood and have a death match? Now that's reality TV.
Twilight: Proving That Middle Aged Moms Crushing on Teenagers is Just As Creepy As When Men Do It.
Sometimes in the morning, my wife has on the 'Today Show.' Recently, I saw a bunch of moms with signs and whatnot going on and on about 'how cute' the main guy from 'Twilight' was and how they had crushes on him. The character is like 17 years old, but a vampire, so he's really 1,098 years old, and emo. Seriously? Emo vampires? What the fuck is the world coming to? Now even creatures of the night have emotional dilemmas? I like my undead focused on one thing: eating the brains of hot chicks AFTER the gratuitous boob shot.
But what's even skeevier is imagine if there were a bunch of middle aged dads at a Hannah Montana appearance with signs talking about how they love her and how cute she is.
The FBI pedophile division would be down there in 15 seconds cracking skulls (well, this would actually be pretty awesome) and they'd all have to call their probation officers prior to leaving the jurisdiction because they're registered sex offenders. Now, I may be coming off as morally superior but the fact of the matter is that I'm bitter.
This reminds me of that slew of teachers that were banging their 15 year old students. You ever see pictures of some of those teachers? They were fucking hot. And here I am. When I was 15-17, none of my teachers or friends' moms wanted to fuck me. No one did. Christ, I'm not sure anyone wants to now.
I'm going to go cry a bit and listen to Miley Cyrus.
Twitter: Confirming That Our Lives Are Even More Boring Than We First Imagined.
I had held out hope that the internet would be the new education media platform that would bring a new level of discourse and enlightenment to the population at large. We would have debates about the finer points of politics, find out more information about our representatives, become better consumers, expose the scams and otherwise enrich our intellectual lives.
Instead, we got youtube and twitter where every idiot on the planet posts shit in an effort to 'get discovered' and 'become famous.' Now, I know what you're thinking, I'm here blogging in an effort to 'get discovered' and 'become famous.' I assure you, I'm better than that. Why? I have no idea. I'm ok with the hypocrisy of it all, so don't shed any tears for me. Anyway, back to my elusive point.
From what I understand, Twitter is this thing where you can post random thoughts about what you're doing. You have only 140 characters per post (which means this article would be about 2 billion twits, or tweets, or twats, or whatever the fuck they're called today). You update the world on what you're doing at that moment. I've thought long and hard about what my twitter account would look like, and here's what I've come up with:
My nuts itch. I scratched them. The wife said 'ewww.'
I burped. The wife was annoyed.
The dog is laying on me.
The dog farted on me.
Now my taint itches.
Why is my taint itchy? IT'S DRIVING ME NUTS.
Went to the store. I'm back.
Playing video games.
Posting on my blog.
After reviewing the above, I would claim 'most boring existence on the face of the planet' but apparently everyone else is JUST AS FUCKING BORING AS ME!?!?!?
We missed the boat on this whole internet thing. It could have been good. Hell, it could've been great, instead it's been taken over by a bunch of fucking morons updating the world on whatever trivial bullshit they are in the midst of doing at that moment thinking it somehow makes it more important because other people can read it.
Just like this blog.
Ok, that's it for 2009. I'd like to tell you I'm an optimist masquerading as a realist pretending to be a pessimist, but the reality of the situation is I gave up all hope for a better world when "America's Got Talent" got picked up for a second season.
Happy New Year, and here's to hoping 2010 sucks less cock than 2009.
But fear not, gentle readers, you'll not get that here. So I'm going to start my own tradition, which will be a top ten list of things you wish to God you never knew that became widespread knowledge in 2009. I was going to put them in descending order, but they all suck so mightily on some level that they are each justifiable #1 sucky things we learned which we wish we never had.
The Economy Blows, Isn't Going to Get Better, and the People that Fucked it the Most are the Ones Recovering First.
Yeah, it's a long title, but unlike Congress, I feel like it's necessary to put useful information in the title of things (more on this later). Anyway, it seems like a year ago that AIG and others got bailed out by our new President (more on him later) because they were 'too big to fail.' Well, apparently they weren't, because they did. Risky investments, rampant greed, ignorance of actual accounting principles and a year later we took it up the ass like a Thai Hooker from David Carridine. He almost made the list too, by the way. Who the fuck jerks off in a closet with a belt around their neck? Isn't that the fucking point of being an actor/famous in the first place? Never having to have sex alone? I'll tell you, some of these 'stars' are really shitty at being famous. If I were a star, you'd have caught me in that closet with Charlize Theron and a camel.
Don't ask what the camel is for, you don't want to know.
Anyway, what makes the economy even more fun, and I mean 'fun' as in 'getting anally raped by a mastadon' is that we're in a 'jobless recovery.' Like anyone knows what the fuck that is.
Congress says 'Health Reform' but actually means 'More Ways to Fine You.'
Remember those halcyon days of March, 2009, where the President made a stand and was going to get health care for all those unfortunate folks that couldn't afford it.
Remember those halcyon days well, because it turned into an opportunity to fine you if you don't procure health care, as well as potentially prevent people from actually being able to afford decent health care insurance. I love it when an opportunity to do some good becomes a giant fuck fest where we all lose out equally. You thought 'equality' meant we all succeeded together? Silly fuckers. It means we all get fucked together. Kind of the same. But not really. It's like winning the lottery only to find out that the 'winner' gets all expense paid trip to Guantanomo Bay. With accomodations. And cock meat sandwiches. YUM!
We Learned that our President Isn't a Savior.
Don't get me wrong, I never thought he was. But remember last year at this time? Yeah, all the 'Change is Coming' stuff. And you know what we learned this year (yet again). Roger Daltry, in "Won't Get Fooled Again" got it right.
"Meet the new boss, same as the old boss."
Now, I certainly don't think Obama and Dubya are the same, but ultimately, we learned that no matter how well intentioned a President is, the 'two party system' will unite like at no other time if the cause is lucrative enough.
I've said it before, and I'll say it again: Obama is probably a one termer. Not because he sucks, but because no-one could come into the Presidency during such a super-shittastic time and expect to be able to fix an economy, foreign policy, jobs, and health care. President Clinton took a beating just trying to 'fix' one. So did Bush. Obama has to fix all four? He's fucked. And it's not really his fault, but that's the bitch about being at the top, you get blamed for it.
Why isn't it his fault? Cause no one could possibly fix the above problems in one term. It took decades of mistakes to get here, it's going to take decades to undo it.
Michael Jackson was Creepier Than You Previously Imagined.
Now that's fucking saying something. Raise your hand if you believed the following at the beginning of 2009:
"Michael Jackson is probably weirder than I think he is."
Ok, hands?
You! Yeah, you, in the first row. Put your fucking hand down, assclown. There is not one person alive who really thought Michael Jackson was creepier than you previously thought. There is no way any human being can be that creepy, yet exceed your expectations for creepiness.
Jon and Kate Plus Eight = Ten People That Need to Be Aborted. Immediately.
The fact that I know who Jon and Kate are, and you do too, might well be the harbinger of the apocalypse. I have never watched the show. I have never watched an interview with them, nor read an article about them. In fact, I have gone out of my way to avoid them at all costs, yet inexplicably I know who these shitfucks are.
Think about that for a minute. If I spent this much effort avoiding math, I'd be using a calculator to figure out 1+1 = 3. See what I mean? Yet, despite my best efforts to the contrary, I know way more about these fucksticks than I care to. Which is anything at all.
Now that I've gotten that out of the way, the solution is obvious. They all have to die. Yes, the cute ones too. The only way for humanity to progress is to remove these attention whores from the gene pool.
Tiger Woods is a Fallible Human, Andre Agassi Super Pissed
Can you just imagine the following conversation:
Andre: Well, Steffi, the book is done. I talk about everything. How I hated my father. How I hated tennis. How I did Crystal Meth. How I should have never married that Blue Lagoon chick. How I wore weaves. As far as tell-all books go, this is the gold standard. It will be on every Christmas list around the world. Sports fans will rejoice in its honesty and integrity.
Steffi: Hold it there, baldy. Breaking story on CNN.
Andre: What? Global warming? War in Iraq? War in Afghanistan? Health Care Reform? What?!?!?!?!?
Steffi: Apparently Tiger Woods fucked his way through every Waffle House, IHOP, and brothel in the United States.
Andre: But there's no sex in my book!
Steffi: Ah, but you're about to get fucked nonetheless. Hmmm. Seems Tiger drove his Buick into a fire hydrant. It appears his wife came after him with a golf club.
Andre: Thank God I took up tennis.
Seriously, what the fuck do you have to do to get some fucking press in 2009? Andre Agassi, whom I do admire, lays it all out there, only to be upstaged by perhaps the most taciturn sports star of the 21st century. And a couple of thoughts:
Tiger, you're worth a Billion. More than any other sports star in history. Yet, somehow, you can't figure out how to password protect your phone? Or buy a second phone? And you call one of your mistresses and identify yourself by name and ask her to change her phone ID? Jesus titty-fucking Christ, Tiger, you need new handlers.
I know everyone is down on Tiger, but in my mind, this just elevates his achievements. The dude has won 14 majors. I always had a picture of this guy practicing his ass off, total focus, working out like a fiend, and now we find out he was probably too busy fucking everything that moved (including his wife) to have time to buy a second 'minutes only' phone. What does this guys schedule look like:
5:30 a.m. Tee off.
7:30 a.m. Bang cart girl behind 10th green.
9:34 a.m. Finish 18, finish off cart girl.
10:00 a.m. Bang wife, shower.
10:02 a.m. Call mistress, tell her to change ID.
10:05 a.m. Have argument with wife.
10:06 a.m. Get hit with golf club.
Lots of fuzzy stuff here.
2:30 a.m. drive car into fire hydrant.
And now we're learning all sorts of fun tidbits. Tiger doesn't use condoms. He takes Ambien. He likes waitresses (who doesn't?).
And not one bit of it really matters. Love him or hate him, he is probably going to go down in history as the greatest golfer ever. I just never knew he'd go down in history as one of the greatest 'cocksman' ever. Typing that last sentence made me throw up in my mouth just a little bit.
H1N1 Flu is a Gigantic Pussy as Far as Killer Epidemics Go
Once again, the fact that you know that 'H1N1' refers to the Swine Flu - given the fact that 98% of Americans can't name the current Vice President - is a pretty good indicator of how much coverage the Swine Flu received in 2009. Hell, I can't remember the chemical equation for water, but I fucking know this one.
And where are the mass deaths? I don't remember there being this much coverage of the Black Plague in Europe during the middle ages, and that killed like seventy gazillion people. There were also fleas and rats involved, but I'm not sure if the fleas ate the rats and the people ate the fleas and then died when something came out of their stomachs like that dude in "Alien," but I digress.
Anyway, since this is a hard nose journalistic site, I decided to run the numbers. These are from the US government's CDC site.
So, I'll use the median numbers.
Amount of cases: 47 million.
Amount of deaths: 9,820.
I will convert this to batting/killing average. The Swine Flu had 47 million chances to kill people, but only did so on 9,820 occasions, yielding a percentage of .02% of the time it actually successfully killed someone. If a major league player had this for a batting average, he would no longer be in the major leagues. But he might make the record books for worst batting average ever.
So H1N1: What a fucking pussy.
For future reference, please sound the panic alarm on diseases when they actually, you know, have a better chance of killing me than a rabid platypus during an ice storm in Nebraska during the Summer Olympics.
Octomom: Sadly, More Than Just A Villian in Spiderman 3,245
I'm not even going to use her real name, because she doesn't deserve it. How the holy hell this bitch got famous is beyond me. To recap, she already has 24.76 kids, goes to a fertility clinic, tells the 'doctor' to knock her up with a starting line-up plus three bench players, and then proceeds to actually shit out the Dick Van Patten. Yes, I'm calling it the 'Dick Van Patten.'
She's a corrections officer, but somehow having 3,410 children, while not living in Africa and starving, seemed like a good idea. You know someone is going to bust out Sally Struthers to do a telethon for this bitch. Who knows, maybe we'll get an 'Octo-Aid' concert where a bunch of pretentious musicians pontificate on the horror of starvation in California after visiting a fertility doctor and having more kids than you can handle and how we all need a heart to support them.
Two rules of thumb:
One, unless your door locks with laces, and has a foundation of 'rubberized sole' you have no business having 8 kids.
Two, you are allowed to have the amount of children in accordance with the following formula: Woman's IQ + Dad's IQ/100. If Dad isn't around, you don't get to count his IQ. So unless Octomom has an IQ of around 1,400, she's in violation.
Holy Fuck, how awesome would it be to stick her and all her kids in the same house with Jon and Kate and thier brood and have a death match? Now that's reality TV.
Twilight: Proving That Middle Aged Moms Crushing on Teenagers is Just As Creepy As When Men Do It.
Sometimes in the morning, my wife has on the 'Today Show.' Recently, I saw a bunch of moms with signs and whatnot going on and on about 'how cute' the main guy from 'Twilight' was and how they had crushes on him. The character is like 17 years old, but a vampire, so he's really 1,098 years old, and emo. Seriously? Emo vampires? What the fuck is the world coming to? Now even creatures of the night have emotional dilemmas? I like my undead focused on one thing: eating the brains of hot chicks AFTER the gratuitous boob shot.
But what's even skeevier is imagine if there were a bunch of middle aged dads at a Hannah Montana appearance with signs talking about how they love her and how cute she is.
The FBI pedophile division would be down there in 15 seconds cracking skulls (well, this would actually be pretty awesome) and they'd all have to call their probation officers prior to leaving the jurisdiction because they're registered sex offenders. Now, I may be coming off as morally superior but the fact of the matter is that I'm bitter.
This reminds me of that slew of teachers that were banging their 15 year old students. You ever see pictures of some of those teachers? They were fucking hot. And here I am. When I was 15-17, none of my teachers or friends' moms wanted to fuck me. No one did. Christ, I'm not sure anyone wants to now.
I'm going to go cry a bit and listen to Miley Cyrus.
Twitter: Confirming That Our Lives Are Even More Boring Than We First Imagined.
I had held out hope that the internet would be the new education media platform that would bring a new level of discourse and enlightenment to the population at large. We would have debates about the finer points of politics, find out more information about our representatives, become better consumers, expose the scams and otherwise enrich our intellectual lives.
Instead, we got youtube and twitter where every idiot on the planet posts shit in an effort to 'get discovered' and 'become famous.' Now, I know what you're thinking, I'm here blogging in an effort to 'get discovered' and 'become famous.' I assure you, I'm better than that. Why? I have no idea. I'm ok with the hypocrisy of it all, so don't shed any tears for me. Anyway, back to my elusive point.
From what I understand, Twitter is this thing where you can post random thoughts about what you're doing. You have only 140 characters per post (which means this article would be about 2 billion twits, or tweets, or twats, or whatever the fuck they're called today). You update the world on what you're doing at that moment. I've thought long and hard about what my twitter account would look like, and here's what I've come up with:
My nuts itch. I scratched them. The wife said 'ewww.'
I burped. The wife was annoyed.
The dog is laying on me.
The dog farted on me.
Now my taint itches.
Why is my taint itchy? IT'S DRIVING ME NUTS.
Went to the store. I'm back.
Playing video games.
Posting on my blog.
After reviewing the above, I would claim 'most boring existence on the face of the planet' but apparently everyone else is JUST AS FUCKING BORING AS ME!?!?!?
We missed the boat on this whole internet thing. It could have been good. Hell, it could've been great, instead it's been taken over by a bunch of fucking morons updating the world on whatever trivial bullshit they are in the midst of doing at that moment thinking it somehow makes it more important because other people can read it.
Just like this blog.
Ok, that's it for 2009. I'd like to tell you I'm an optimist masquerading as a realist pretending to be a pessimist, but the reality of the situation is I gave up all hope for a better world when "America's Got Talent" got picked up for a second season.
Happy New Year, and here's to hoping 2010 sucks less cock than 2009.
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