Ol' W aint that bad....

Oh, G.W. aint that bad...he's just a good old boy enjoying the olympics...I'd be enjoying the scenery too. Besides, you know Laura Bush was over watching the men's matches.

38 special- a short story

My hands are almost raw, yet I still think that my shirt and hands still taste of crimson after scrubbing them for so long. I never knew that this stain was so hard to get out! Persistently egged on my that cursed ringing in my ears! Apparently if you own a Honda, that sickly horn comes along with it and exists to endlessly torment other's souls with that sound of a diseased squeak toy. It wouldn't let up! I tried to drown it out, but the radio just wasn't doing its job. That mutated squeal came through the closed windows and permeated through the radio at full volume. Then came the screams. The cursing of my dear mother. Last I checked I wasn't a son of a dirty whore, but apparently today I was.

It was one of my favorite shirts too. The white one with the pseudo tribal graphic that I got on vacation last year. It didn't make me look fat, as white shirts usually do, but instead it hung loosely in the right places and clung snugly to emphasise the better areas. Now I think its ruined. Should I burn it? Just tossing it may come back to haunt me. Yes, I should burn it. Besides, if I scrub any harder, I'll just start staining it in my own blood.

To think it started off as such a normal happy day. I slept in, got up, had a big bowl of Happy O's while I watched whatever tragic news occurred while I slept. The usual overnite calamities; a house fire on the east side, a shooting resulting in one death in a strip mall parking lot and one suicide in an affluent north side housing community. Apparently spending all of mommy and daddy's cash to live the rock and roll lifestyle couldn't cancel out poor Chip's lack of purpose in life so he checked out with 10 times the normal dose of depressants. The newscaster said there was a suicide note, probably along the lines of " Goodbye cruel world, I forgive you daddy for molesting me when I was 6...yadda yadda yadda".

My cell phone is ringing again. it's been going off for the past 3 hours straight. No doubt it's work for me not showing up today. Well I'm sure that cock of a manager at Freddy's can find another stockworker to shelve and price point cans of corn for him. Todd...that putz of a manager. I'm sorry, but anyone named Todd has got a deathwish. Every Todd I knew has been a giant bag of douche. I bet its on his birth certificate.

First Name: Todd.

Middle Name: Bag O'.

Surname: Douche.

To think I actually was motivated enough to come to work early. I had my reasons. I was even going to bring my friend to work today, and Mr Todd was going to hear exactly what my friend was going to tell him. Just my luck we never got to have our little "talk". It was all that idiot's fault in that Honda!

I know for a fact that my turn signal was on to go into his lane! I gave him plenty of room, but I guess I cut too close inside his little bubble. That damn horn! I ignored it for about a quarter of a mile before I was stuck in front of him at a light. He was so persistent! There wasn't any more short beep beeps. It was as if he took vengeance by laying on that horn for a minute straight.

"Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!"

"I am not a son of a whore!" I screamed.

I just stared ahead, trying as hard as I can to tune it out. It was relentless! Like a tiny weevil bored in my ear carrying a tiny chalkboard to run nails all over it in my head. Then it just stopped. It was peaceful again, yet tense. It reminded me of growing up during hurricane season in Galveston. One would blow in for a few days, but for a hour or so when you ride in the eye, the chaos just stops. Yet you know more crap is coming your way. You just know it.

The hurricane came back. I got startled back into reality by a hammering on my driver's window. A plethora of profanities erupted out of the man's sweaty, greasy inbred mouth that would make a pirate blush. My adrenalin was going into my veins at an explosive rate. I think one of the last lucid memories I have is of rolling down the window and seeing his doughboy hands reach through and grab my shirt.

I vaguely remember the sound of my shirt collar start to rip a bit. I guess my friend had enough and had to do something. I saw a flash of white light. I guess that's where I blacked out. Next thing I knew, I'm here hovered over the bathroom sink, scrubbing my shirt and hands raw.

I really need to burn it. Maybe in doing so it will get that sulfuric metallic saltpeter smell out of my nostrils. I have to get this done. Phone's ringing again.

There's a knock at the door now too. I stick my head out the bathroom door and look out the window down the hall to see the back end of a black sedan parked out front. As long as its not a Honda I don't think my friend will cause any more problems. I'll have to burn the shirt after I get the door.

Desperate Housewives vs. The Real World

I swear...as of late my neighborhood has been the focal point of a daytime soap opera reality show. As of late, the current situation, rumors included with reality are that there are 2 divorces occurring, not directly resulting from numerous interneighboorly affairs with opposite spouses. The victims of the infidelity aren't really doing anything about it because, well when they aren't busy embezzling dead relatives money...they are being unfaithful to thier spouses too with varying outside parties including one "interior decorator" hired by a neighboor and having affairs with two of my neighbours as she cheats on her husband. One other neighboor had gangrene of the gall bladder and nearly died before emergency surgery and another neighboor, I am convinced is running a puppy mill. One neighboors kid may be dating a Mexican national "aka illegal". Ironically, his father works for a government agency shuttling illegals back to their country of origin.

Yet another neighboor is a nationally known "girly" doctor who is really big here in AZ as well as Hollywood and the nation who has been dumping insane amounts of cash into his house that he never lives in because when he's not sleeping in his office, or his wife or his girlfriend, he's spending the weekend at his "church"...aka some weird scientology commune out of town.

So, in retrospect...there are 6 cheaters, one hired help multi-cheater, one hospital patient, a cooky religious cultist ob-gyn, a botox infused money stealing cheating gold digger, possible illegal immigrant, multiple divorces and all around dysfunctionality.

Then there's me. Man it feels good to be Switzerland. All I do bad is stay up late with a friend or two having a beer and grilling out in the yard.

Flakes, not the kind you eat.

Its a simple premise that all should stand by in order to make yourself a respectable and honorable person. If you commit to something, don't back out on it. It is by far the largest pet peeve of mine, the flake. It encompasses all elements around me, work, family and personal. You are supposed to show up on time, and in fact, just show up. The whole no call no show for your shift at work is really disrespectful, not only to your bosses, but to your co-workers who now have to either stay longer or work doubles to cover your butt. If you don't like working somewhere, that's your prerogative, but quit in a respectful manner and see your stuff through.

As for more personal connections. I'm glad to say that those around me who committed to things and then did not show up have had the decency to call or contact me saying that they can't make it. That's the right thing to do. At least I won't be fuming at the fact that nobody shows up. I may still have a surplus of food and drink or whatever else, but I'll still put it to good use, even if, as of lately, its with myself.

Now I'm going to go off on a tangent about my social life. It's more of an introspective rant than anything else. I find it disconcertingly curious that I'm always the one to contact people to make plans, whether it be to go do something, to party, or just to hang out. Being a "B" type personality, that seems odd to me. The mind reels. Do I smell? Am I not cool enough for others to think of hanging out with me? Am I just being used for my provisions that I wantonly give out without discretion? Am I too old to party with now?

My sincere self knows that I am an entertainer. I love taking pride in the fact that I can, and have taken care of people and give them a good time. It ties in with my passion of foods. In viewing myself in third person, I like to see people enjoy the food as it feeds their soul. But yet, sometimes I have felt that my efforts, while appreciated, are just used by people for its face value and are never reciprocated.

Case in point-when was the last time I actually had a birthday party? Sixteen? Fifteen? I'm going to be 32 in October, which is less than 2 months away. Being 31, this is supposed to be my "golden year", which is complete bullshit. In the past year I've lost a girlfriend, had sick parents, downgraded a couple of friends to "accquaintances", had some ex coworkers try and throw me under the bus at work (didn't work asshole!), quit my job in order to find a bit of self peace only to fail, went back to my old job and have been tryin to crawl back up the financials, had the west nile virus, totally fucked up my right knee, and its been 105+ for the past 2 months.

Well whatever, I'm rambling. The good friends I have are the ones that count.

Rant time

Well now, as today I am 90% recovered from Sunday's debauchery, my head is coherent enough to form proper thoughts and sentences. I put this rant off for 4 days because I've been busy, but it still irks me enough that I can't let it go.

The topic-dog tags.

Here's what I understood what the purpose of wearing dog tags were for. You are an enlisted person in the armed forces. You are in combat and die. When they find your corpse, if they cannot bring it back at the moment, they snap off one of the tags and leave the other one to identify your remains while still confirming your death during combat.

It kind of defeats the purpose of it if you are wearing a bedazzled cubic zirconia Prada dog tag on a sterling silver chain to go along with the rest of your fake millionaire ensemble. Well, that and the fact that you never served.

Case in point 4 days ago where there was a pair of idiots wearing their 30k milli gear playing pong at work. One of them was wearing a 2 sizes too small Affliction shirt to go along with his spikey frosted tips. Adorning his neck was a sparkly jeweled & silvered dog tag, which he was obviously proud of. I suppose he's in his rights to be proud of the fact that he was able to afford the $200 piece. However not as proud as those who devoted priceless years of their lives, families, time, tears, pain, blood and their own lives to proudly earn a set of their own.

Second case in point- about 2 weeks ago, one of the bar regulars was walking outside when she was hit on by another male customer wearing a set of tags outside of his shirt. She questioned him on if he served. He said no. She asked why he was wearing them if he didn't serve, and then proceeded to make him eat the fact that her deceased USMC husband died a year ago in Iraq. Unbelievably...and I quote....his response was....

"But they're GUCCI!"

I almost threw up. After she walked away I overheard his rants to his friends on what the hell was that "crazy bitch's" problem. Again, I stood astonished.

Again, from what I understood, a soldier does not wear them out to be noticed, and chances are, the only way that the soldier gives up his tags is when he dies. On that note, shame on you Scottsdale, shame on you.

That's my rant, and I'm sticking to it.

Difference between arrogance & finding self

This is my rant for the week. Of course, I'm pretty sure that I've touched on this subject before whether it be here or live in person, but it still irks me on a near daily basis. As most of you may know, as of February, I've put forth a lot more efforts to look introspectively unto myself to take stock of whats going on and in fact treat myself from time to time for the sake of doing it for me. That makes sense, not only for me, but for everyone. Its a necessity in order to keep people from breaking down and going insane. There are a few people out there that endlessly give themselves up for others without tending to one's self, and that is commendable, but I wonder how they do it.
Now to my point. Its the opposite side of the spectrum that completely boggles my brain. Its so asinine that it bears with the logic of going swimming wearing a concrete suit-as in how can a person be so self deluded into thinking that the world revolves around them.
You've seen the dudes out there-Affliction T-shirt wearing (did you know there is a Affliction band that is literally a gay band?), 30 k millionaire used leased BMW driving, still lives at home with Mom and Dad off his trust fund while he works as an assistant manager at Dillards or a Chase bank call center. His shit in fact smells like Drakkar Noir to him, but in reality it is a tinge worse than sweaty balls and ass. Yet, the world owes him a favor. No, a plethora of favors because he is just existing in your bar, restaurant or in the world in general. You guys really should have been swallowed at birth. How does one's ego become so engorged with self centering that it has begun to eat itself? Honestly, these boys don't really bother me too much. The concept of their existence does, but for their actual physical appearances in my life and work, I applaud it. It gives me a reason to laugh, point fingers at, for you to be the subject of my ridicule amongst friends. You make me feel so much better about myself that I should thank you for being the douche you are.
...
Then there are the Princesses.
Um, sweetheart...(I motion for you to lean in so I can whisper a secret to you)...honey, you aren't nor ever will be a FREGGIN PRINCESS! The world doesn't cater to you in your wannabe Tiffany's gift box glory, nor your Prada or Dolce & Gabbana cop-off bag collection.
Just because Daddy spoils you and calls you a princess doesn't mean you are one. You know what makes you a princess? Come on, take a guess...how about being a part of a royal family, which as you just may have noticed, you are not part of. So, when you go on out to the clubs to shake your tail feather or out to my bar dressed like a quite slutty princess and then bad mouth all the gentlemen who are staring at you and talking to you like you are a slut because of the pretentious attitude and questionable clothing you are adorning; listen for that breaking glass behind you, for in fact its your tiara being crushed. Fact of the matter is that you are in your mid twenties, a front end manager at the local mall's Hot Topic store and go home alone every night complaining about why you can never keep a guy around as you bury your self in a half gallon of ice cream while you watch re-runs of Grey's Anatomy. Maybe the dudes like to date real commoners instead of wannabe princesses who flaunt that sparkly cubic zirconia crown.
Granted, I like independent women who like to present themselves well and have class, but most of the one's I see are just pretending to be something that they are not. It really isn't all about you hon, in fact, the only time it is, is when we're all making fun of you.
That's my rant, and I'm sticking to it.
Now off to work to deal with all of the said above.

Sunday Mass

Sniff, sniff...can you smell that? In two more short weeks it will be time to head back to church on Sundays. What more of a fitting way to open my season off (ok its preseason) with my lovable colts starting games off on August 3rd.

I will say that I will not be able to fully enjoy Sundays until about November as it will still be between 110 and 88 degrees during the day before then.

A perfect Sunday morning consists of forcibly waking up all groggy from working the night before, putting on a pair of sweats and my jersey, hopefully with a chilly rainy winter drizzle outside, plugging in the crockpot to make homemade chili during the next 8 hours, making breakfast (a screwdriver and some waffles) and then having some friends over or going out to watch the days games in utter gluttonous sloth bliss. Now that's a good Sunday.

Others relish Monday night football, which is of course, damn good, but it lacks the all day manly enjoyment of watching multiple gridiron games. Besides, Monday is usually a recovery day for me as I will sleep in well past noon.

So bring it on O Sundays of lore, your congregation awaits ye!

my personal coma

I can't remember the last time I had felt that exhausted. Well, maybe it was Superbowl weekend and that lovely back to back to back doubles shifts at work. I had closed at work on Tuesday night and did a turnaround to open on Weds. It's becoming a regular shift for me. The downside is that 99% of the time after I get home from a night shift, I am still awake and I need to unwind a little before bed. So, I'm always unable to sleep when I get home Tuesdays before going back into work a few hours later and I end up getting a 2-4 hour nap after the sun has come up-yes, summertime out in the desert sucks when sun-up is at 4:30am.
So Weds day I was a zombie at work. I suffered through it and got home around 7pm. I made it to about 8pm before I passed out. I woke up at midnight to take care of some things around the house and have a bite to eat, but soon I passed out again a little before 2am. When I opened my eyes again, it was 1 in the afternoon. I had slept 4 hours only to wake up and go back to sleep for another 11. I was impressed. I do feel rested though. I'm going to need it for the 4th of July weekend. I won't have a day off until next week and this whole weekend is going to be super busy at work, starting with tonight. Damn drunks. Remember how I said a while back that the sucky part of this job is not having major holidays and weekends off? Well this is one of them. I think in my decade of working in the industry, I've had one or two 4th of July's off. This won't be one of them. I just hope that there won't be too many jackasses in the bar this weekend. If so, I'm gonna start firing bottle rockets up their butts.
Outside of that, my other updates are looking pretty positive. My bike package came in the mail the other day and I installed all the new stuff, so now both bikes are operational. It's going to be interesting to see how the runaround bike works with the panniers on the sides for groceries. that and to bee how my ATB bike handles with the new tires. One thing is for certain, I may not be testing them until next week. Why? Well its 114 degrees these next few days. One hundred and fourteen. Gets cool at night right? Nighttime lows- 96 degrees. With no thunderstorms lined up, this town is a dry dustbowl of a oven.
At least next week it should get back down to a reasonable 106. Meanwhile back home in Cali its a frigid 80 degrees.
I went to the store the other day and spent $80 in groceries for the first time in over 3 months. It felt so nice to stock up the fridge and freezer with essential milk, bread, eggs, juice, meat and veggies. I got only things that were on sale, which helped. I did buy one, and only one vice. They had Breyers ice cream on sale, so I got a tub of chocolate for $3. I haven't bought ice cream in almost 6 months. Add to the fact that I've had a chocolate craving the past 4 days that was left unfulfilled. It was a tasty treat.
Fry's and a lot of the other markets have a big 4th of July sale event this week until Sunday or Monday, so if I make enough this weekend, I want to try and get in on the monster deals to restock up the canned goods and freezer meats.
I can't keep up with Jenny's shedding. She's been leaving golf ball sized hunks of undercoat everywhere around the house and I need to vacuum on a daily basis. I just can't afford to spring the $60 to take her in to get her shaved up for the summer. Speaking f, I need a haircut too. Once again, if this weekend is really, really good, I can sport $80 and get both of us trimmed up.