Saturday, January 31, 2009

Welcome to Our Re-education

This financial/economic crisis we’re in isn’t eight years in the making. This is DECADES of neglect. And you and I, “Generation X”, we’re paying for the neglect. We’ve been sold a bad bag of goods, folks. The baby boomers, they let us down. We’ve been raised by TV and schooled to consume. Numbly consume. And we do it. Look around you. We do it well. And guess what? Not only are we consuming zombies, but, we’re teaching our children the same fucking thing.

In the end, I guess we really can’t blame the baby boomers. What do they know? What have they lived through? Only the most prosperous decades this country has ever seen. Sure, they’ll point to Vietnam and Watergate and the civil rights movement. Great. They lived through all those terrible times. Forty fucking years ago. I got news for you, folks. What we are facing right now, is going to make the late 60’s look like a fucking cake walk. And in the meantime, they’ve spent every fucking year since the end of the 60’s, consuming. Making money. To have more things. And for what????

These are the folks we’re letting handle this crisis. People who only care about money. They only know selfishness, greed and consumption. It doesn’t work any more. It won’t work ever again. Yet, we’re letting them make the decisions? I don’t want someone who’s studied the Great Depression to hand out billions of dollars. I want someone who’s been through it, to guide us through this nightmare. Someone who’s turned a trouble company around, maybe. Someone who’s qualified to handle a crisis. Where are these people? Where are today’s leaders???

They say the folks that lived thru WW I, survived the great depression and won WW II were the greatest generation. I say fuck that. WE can be the greatest generation. Us, the wrongly coined “Generation X”. WE have the tools, WE have the minds and the technology to change everything. WE can be the greatest generation. We only need to pull our heads out of our collective asses and get our priorities straight. Blu-ray discs, celebrity antics and reality television don’t matter any more. Rome is about to burn, Nero.

This is our opportunity. This crisis is our chance. We can let this country burn, or we can turn the tide. We can right this fucking ship. Either way, the road ahead of us is not a short one. I hate to say it, but it’s true...we have to unlearn what we’ve learned.

Welcome to our re-education, boys and girls. Make no mistake about it, we're in for a world full of hurt...
C'mon! You know you wanna read more...

Thursday, January 29, 2009

They're hawking what?????

The other night, I was watching some of the fine programming on VH1.  I believe it was the top million hard rock songs of all time.  I don’t know what it is with these countdown shows, but I love the shit out of them.  Seriously.  I watch them all. All the time.  Rap, metal, country, one hit wonders.  I love it all.  And the crazier the concept, the more I love it.  I think the top ten video vixens from the 80’s is my favorite.  Mmmmm…Bobby Brown.  No, you moron.  Not that Bobby Brown.  This one:

 


Wait, hang on. Let me dip into my archives. I’ve got a better one. Here...


 
Kinda gets me thinking about bring back “The Glory of…”
 
But, I digress…
 
At some point, like they always do, a commercial came on.  And as with all commercials, I ignored it as best I could.  That was until I heard Slaughter’s “Up all night” come on.  Now, I don’t know if you know this about me, but I grew up on hair bands.  I know.  I know.  I know it’s not cool to admit that you like hair bands.  Kinda like admitting you wore polyester leisure suits in the mid 70’s.  But, I say it loud.  And I say it proud.  The Beastie’s fought for my right to party.  Winger warned me about hot 17 year olds.  And Poison taught me that I don’t need nothin’ but a good time.  You gotta problem with that?
 

You can’t tell me this...



 
So, needless to say Marc Slaughter’s screaming vocals coming through my TV speakers, piqued my interest.  I turned by attention back to the TV.  That’s when I saw Bret Micheals from Poison standing around yakking at me surrounded by two good looking broads.  Now, I'm a fan of good looking broads, so I decided to listen to what Bret had to say. After a second or two, I could tell something wasn't right, though. It was probably the growing knot in my stomach. And that’s when I hear the voice over dude announce, in a tough voice:  “Time/Life presents The Hard Rock Collection.” 
 
I’m not sure, but I think I dropped the scolding hot coffee that I was holding onto my bare foot.
 
As I recall, It wasn’t too long ago, that I was laughing my ass off at those old Time/Life commercials. You remember them. They used to hawk records (yes RECORDS) that collected hits from the 60’s.  I remember hideous commercials about Drive-In’s, broads on roller skates and shit from Dion. Yea, go ahead. Ask me. Who the fuck is Dion?!?!? Exactly.


...is cooler than this!


But now? Now Time/Life is hawking metal?  My metal???  For the love of the Christ!  I think I’m gonna puke. Is there some snot nosed, cheese eating high school kid laughing at Bret Micheals? Well, it is kinda pathetic that he’s stooped this low. But, hey, everyone’s entitled to make a buck. The point is, (and yes there is a point) am I getting old?

Here, let me run by you an ancient Zen Koan. Maybe you can crack this little nugget. If in the 1980’s, Time/Life was selling music from the 1960’s, and my snot nosed, cheese eating high school self thought that people who remembered the 60’s (especially the early 60’s. I ain’t even talking Jimi Hendrix 60’s here) were old and pathetic, that doesn’t necessarily make me pathetic today now that Time/Life is offering up Hard n Heavy. Does it? No. No. No. No. Don’t try and answer it. It’s a Koan. They have no answers. See, I tricked you.

Alas, the sad part is, I know I’m getting old. I don’t need fucking Bret Micheals to remind me. Just for the fact that I know who Dion is, and that I know every fucking word to Runaround Sue...well, that pretty much confirms it, don’t it folks?

Stupid Time/Life...

And, seriously, what’s up with Bret Micheals hair? Dude, if your bald, it’s time to give it up. I’m just saying...
C'mon! You know you wanna read more...

Wednesday, January 28, 2009

Snow day special: The Glory of...

So, I'm working on Friday's article. In it, I reference a series I wrote as the Juice, called "The Glory of...". Probably my finest work. Well, maybe not, but the series always busted my gut writing them. The thing is, "The Glory of..." tended to be a bit sexist. Because mostly I'd be yakking on about how hot some celebrity was. To my defense, not all "The Glory of..."'s were about women. As is the case with the article here you're about to read. But, I'd say 95% of "The Glory of..." were about women.

The quandary I face, is that I was called out because I still have a crush on Belinda Carlisle. And, rightfully so. Ok, maybe I don't so much have a crush on 2009 Belinda Carlisle, but late 80's/early 90's? Whew...and that's when I got to thinking about reviving "The Glory of..."

My feeling is this, I'll let this article ride. See how much hate mail I get. If it ain't so, bad. You'll be reading about the wonders of Belinda Carlisle in the near future..."


by the Juice
originally published July 2005

We're gonna break from our short lived tradition, here. Today's edition of “The Glory of…” isn't so much about "who", than "what". I know the Juice usually uses this platform to speak of hot chicks. Today, though, is the exception. I’d like to speak on somethin' that is, in many cases, as fine as a sexy piece of ass in a bikini. And just as often as fleetin'. I am speakin' of…Funnel Cake!

Yes, fried dough! Three words: Pure Genius. I'd like to offer a hummer from the missus to the man who thought about applyin' the batter to hot oil. However, I don't believe I'm authorized to make such an offer. I usually don't do this this early in an article, but, I must digress.



I was watchin' television the other night. It was late, the missus was sleepin' on the sofa. A commercial for the International House of Pancakes (what the hell is that all about? who the hell thought that name up? International House of Pancakes? i guess it’s suppose to make the place sound more “classy”? i think I’d rather go to the International House of Ill Repute) came on. For a moment, I thought I was buggin'. Turns out, for once, I wasn't. This commercial featured a new “breakfast”. It was funnel cake with all sorts of weird and wonderful toppins! Not that I’m complain’ here or anything but the ol’ International House has got nerve passin' this little slice of heaven off as breakfast. They might as well bring you out a bowl full of chocolate chip cookies with milk and call that breakfast.



Anyway, I jumped on the couch to wake the missus up. “Look honey…IHOP has funnel cake!” After cursin' for a few seconds and pushin' me off the sofa, she realized the full implications of a funnel cake breakfast. The missus is a bigger funnel caker than I am. I would call her a funnel cake whore, but there’s a possibility she might read this. And I certainly don’t need another knock to the noggin with the meat tenderizer. Besides, I’m lookin’ to get laid sometime within 2005.



When we were at Disney World we spotted a place that sold funnel cake, to our surprise, in the Magic Kingdom. We were a little busy at the time(you know. the four kids reakin' their special kind of havoc on the place). I told the missus to remind me about the funnel cake later. I figured we’d go back and get some before we left the park . Well the missus did remind me. Two and a half fuck months later. Specifically right after the IHOP commercial came on. Dang! Again, if I wasn’t lookin' for some action I might’ve smacked her stupide (hey! i don’t advocate violence against women. that ain’t right! i’m just speakin’ metaphorically, here. i sometimes advocate violence against small dogs. small dogs named Snowflake. small dogs named Snowflake that have a penchant for whizzin’ all over your trailer. small dogs named Snowflake that not only whiz all over your trailer, but on your prized porno collection. i swear to the Christ, if i catch that dog whizzin’ again, i’m gonna BBQ him. don’t even think about it PETA. i’m just fuckin' around. i don’t even like hot dogs. i love funnel cake, though!)


now, i readily admit, that toppin' don't look quite right...


Although I could write for days how funnel cake is humanity’s only redeemin' quality, I’m gonna leave you with one final image. I’m not sure if it leaves me more hungry or more horny at the moment. See for yourself. And don’t be surprised if you find you're touchin' yourself…



Yes, I believe that’s orange creamsicle ice cream on that funnel cake. I'm definitely touchin' myself now...
C'mon! You know you wanna read more...

Monday, January 26, 2009

Adventures in Movie Theater Going. Pt I

Last week, I posted an article about bathrooms.  In it, I mentioned the horror it is taking four kids to the movies.  It got me thinking about an incident that happened last year when I took them to see the movie Iron Man.   Believe you me, that was a bad idea.  What’s worse, is that I should’ve known that it was a bad idea, because it took three attempts prior to that fateful visit, before we actually sat our arses down in the theater.
 
It started off innocently, as most tales do.  I gathered the kids round for our pre-movie pep talk.  I threatened them up good.  I let them know that the theater closed all it’s bathrooms.  That was for Jethro’s benefit.  We held our negotiations on how much food and drinks I was gonna buy.  Then I did a bit of ranting about bathroom visits, and how there will be none once we plant ass down.  Once again for Jethro’s benefit.  Probably all similar conversations you have with your children.  {eye roll}
 
So, we pile into the ol’ minivan and head for the theater.  We arrive timely, hit the bathroom, buy our tickets, hit the bathroom, buy our concessions and hit the bathroom.  I gotta admit, I’m real hopeful at this point.  Things are going well and everyone’s happy. 
 
A small scuffle broke out when we got into the theater.  Everyone wants to sit next to the ol’ man.  What can I say?  Maybe I’m not as much of a jerk as I come across?!?!?  Probably not.  Anyway…I’ve only got two sides, so it’s a fight amongst the four of them.  Admittedly, I let this one go on for a bit.  Sometimes, its kinda fun watching a little scrum.  And don’t tell me it’s not.  Why is hockey so frigging popular?


Yea...it sorta looked like that. I think I was even eating popcorn, too

 
I don’t let it go on too long, though.  Once those little fists start flying, it’s time to end it.  Besides, there were people around.  I’m not that interested in getting arrested for bad parenting.  Can’t say there’s much I’d be interested in getting arrested for.  Maybe for getting it on outside with a hot broad.  But, that’s a post for another day.
 
So, it ends up with Jethro to my left and Jericho to my right.  And here I am, stuck in the middle with you.
 
But, I digress…
 
The small scrum aside, things were continuing to go swimmingly.  Everyone has settled down, munching on snacks and having an all around good time.  Holy shit!  Are my kids actually getting old enough where we can actually do things together?  I know.  I know.  I shouldn’t have let the thought cross my cerebral cortex.  I was young and fool hardy.  What can I say?
 
Five minutes into the movie and all’s well.  No calls for the bathroom.  No fights over soda.  I’m optimistic.
 
Ten minutes…all’s well.
 
Fifteen minutes…fuck yea!!!  We’ve got our movie ON!!!  I grab some popcorn, take a deep breath and buckle in for the rest of the ride.
 
“Dad?”  Jethro whispered to me.
 
“Yea?”  I replied leaning over toward him.
 
“Dad.”  Jethro whispered again.  “Is Pi really divisible through infinity?”
 
“Right.”  Yea, I just blew him off.  I was watching the movie for the sake of the Christ!
 
“Daddy!!!”  Jericho’s turn.
 
I leaned over to him, my eye still on the screen.  “What’s the matter, Jericho ?”
 
“I spilled my Skittles.”
 
Sure, enough, he spread the rainbow all over him, the seat and the floor.  “Ok.  Don’t worry.  I’ll help you.”  I whispered to him, picking the Skittles off his lap.
 
“Dad?”  Jethro again.
 
My back was to him, so I completely ignored him.  I was still helping Jericho gather up his rebellious candies.
 
“Dad?”  Jethro said, tapping my shoulder.
 
“What??????”  I exclaimed in a loud whisper over my shoulder.
 
“Dad.  What’s holding up the peace process in the Middle East?  People really don’t expect the Sunni’s and the Shiites to come together?  Dad?”  At least that’s what it sounded like he was asking me.
 
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Jericho picking candy out between his legs on the edge of his seat.  “I don’t know, Jethro.”  I replied.  No sooner are the words past my lips when I see Jericho ’s seat flip up.  I watched in helpless horror as Jericho’s face planted in the seat in front of him, the bridge of his nose slamming against the hard plastic edge…


I’m not saying it look that bad...


Onto part II
C'mon! You know you wanna read more...

Saturday, January 24, 2009

Weekend special: God Bless the Foo Fighters

Over the last week or so, the Foo Fighters have been all over the music channels. The live show at the Garden and the live show at Wembly. All this Foo Fighter goodness reminded me of a post from the “archives”. So without further ado...

by Jesse
originally published 11/05

Let me just start off by saying thank god for the Foo Fighters. Honestly. Let’s face facts here. If it weren’t for the Foo Fighters, we’d be suffering through some serious garbage. Have you turned on the radio lately? Where’s the rock music? If I have to hear one more whiney singer/songwriter whining about the weather, I just might puke.

Let me clarify something, so you understand where I’m coming from. Just because radio stations continue to play the Who, by no means that rock is on the radio. If I never heard from the Who, the Stones, Hendrix and Van Halen again, I’d be a happy man for the rest of my days. Seriously. How many more times can we possibly hear the same old songs?


stupid hippies!!!


I gotta tell you, the only thing I can’t stand more than people prattling on more about their money, are folks that prattle on about the 60’s. “Oh, the 60’s were about change, man. The music, blah, blah, blah.” Fuck you. Sure, you hippie’s may have started a cultural revolution in the 60’s, but obviously you fuckers never heard of follow thru. How about finishing it? You same hippie bastards, are the one’s who let the country turn into the shape it’s in today. Gee…thanks. Crappy music, crappy TV, McDonald’s and Starbucks on every corner, deficit out the arse, yet another unwinnable war. Great!

And speaking of that war, why would you former hippies allow the country to get itself back into a mess like this? Aren’t you cats suppose to be these great leaders? Remember the protests in the fabulous sixties? Remember Vietnam? Hmmmm. Probably not. All that jingling from all those coins in your pockets must have done something to your memory. I guess that’s what happens when you sell your soul to the stock market.

And don’t get me started about all the "great" music from the 60's. Because everyone knows that all musical innovation began and ended in the 60’s. {eye roll} Know why music sucks today? Because all you hear on the friggin’ radio are the same friggin’ bands from thirty years ago. Why have the Stones put out another cd? Why? Why? No one cares! Oh...that's right! Mick Jagger must have another alimony payment due.

My ol’ man and I would get into arguments all the time. And by arguments I mean him screaming at me how stupid I was. He would go on about how worthless my generation was. How much our music sucked. How lazy we were. Know how I countered him? You former hippies sold us out. You made us this way. Instead of keeping up the revolution, you made money more important. Make money. Make money. Do I gotta remind you of the yuppie phenomena?

So, I respectfully say: Fuck the 60’s

But, I digress…

Which brings me back to the Foo Fighters. These cats are putting out quality music day in and day out. Yea, Nirvana may have birthed a musical genre (however sucky Grunge may have been, it’s still fucking popular. Which is totally beyond my grasp. I guess I must have left all my teenage angst at the door), but the Foo Fighters, well, just fucking rock.


you'd be smilin' to if you had an eighth of the cash in his pocket


In fact, I’ve even have gone out on a limb and named Everlong as my favorite song. Ever. For real. Whenever I get asked what my favorite song is, I say Everlong. Go ahead. Ask. I’ll tell you. It's Everlong.

But, as great as Everlong is, mostly every song by the Foo’s is quality. I know. I know. I know that sounds like a lot of ball licking, but it’s true. Here. I’ll pick out a song at random and you can see for yourself. How about “One”:

You’re not the one
But you’re the only one
Who makes me feel like this.
You’re not the one
But you’re the only one
Who makes me feel like shit.


I mean, c’mon! It’s pure genius!!!


aruba, jamaica. oooo i wanna take you


So, god bless the Foo Fighters. May they keep on rocking. Until they shouldn’t. And end up putting out songs like “Kokomo”.
C'mon! You know you wanna read more...

Wednesday, January 21, 2009

Why banks suck. Pt 2

If you didn’t read the first part, you should probably click here first.
 
So, the very helpful BNC representative transferred me to the Administering of Fees up Your Arse Without Consent Department.  I was greeted by a lovely fellow named Scott.
 
“BNC.  This is Scott speaking.  How may I help you?”

 
“Hi.  Scott.  I was wondering if you could help me with some overdraft fees that I was charged with.”
 
“Ok.”  He murmered.  I could hear him pecking away at his keyboard. “Can I get your account info?”
 
I gave him my numbers (like I’m gonna tell you that info.  I may be dumb, but I ain’t stupid).  After a moment or two, Scott was reviewing my account activity.  “It looks like check #978 caused the initial overdraft, Mr. Gormley.  Then you had several purchases that we’re applied afterward that caused the other overdrafts.”
 
“Yes.  I know that.  But, those purchases we’re made before that check was processed.  Why were they applied after the check?”  I asked.  Yea.  I was getting a bit testy with this fellow.
 
“We can’t control when a vendor processes a payment, Mr. Gormley.”  Now, look.  This guy was beginning to be a bit too condescending for my liking.


not scott

 
“I understand that.  I just find it unusual that 6 purchases were processed after the check was applied.  How does something like that happen?  How do you decide what payment gets applied first?”
 
“The largest amount gets applied first.” Scott replied.  “And that was check #978, which didn’t have the funds to cover it.”
 
“At the time, it didn’t.  Yes.  However, the funds WERE in the account to cover the purchases I made.”
 
“But, that’s not how we process transactions, sir.”
 
“The thing I don’t understand, is that check #978 was cleared the same day it was received.  Any other time, it takes a day or two for the check to clear.  If that would’ve happened, everything would’ve cleared.”
 
“All transactions are updated overnight, Mr. Gormley.  We don’t control what transactions are updated overnight.”
 
It seems to me there’s a lot of non-control going on at this place.  And if this motherfucker calls me “Mr. Gormley” one more time!  “Ok.  Well…is there anyway you can help me out with these fees?”
 
“I don’t know.”  Scott said.  “You’re gonna have to give me something to hang my hat on, here.”
 
Look.  I’ll be the first to admit, I’m prone to exaggeration.  But, believe you me, I ain’t lying here.  The motherfucker actually said that.  He actually had the nerve to say “you’re gonna have to give me something to hang my hat on here.” 
 
At this point, I was so pissed I didn’t know what to say.  And truthfully, what was I gonna say?  Threaten to withdraw my massive fortune?  Ha!  What a pain in the ass.  And they know it, too.  I gotta spend hours closing out the account.  Then go to another bank to open up a new account.  Change my direct deposit.  All so I can get arse fucked by another bank. 
 
Was I going to report him to his boss?  Like anything would happen that way.  I’ve worked retail long enough to know, they don’t give shit one about customers.  “Customer is always right?”  That was invented by lofty upper management types who are so fucking clueless, they don’t know right from rain.  Whatever the fuck that means!  Besides, 7 NSF fees?  Him and his boss were to busy high fivin’ each other over my fuck up.


that’s MY money that fucker’s holdin’

 
Nah…this guy had me.  He was an asshole.  Plain and simple.  He knew.  And he knew there was nothing I could do about it.

“You know, Scott.  I think you’ve done enough, asshole.”  And I hung up.  I suppose I get the last laugh, though.  Cause I haven’t had an overdraft since.  Of course, I had to sell my body a bit to make that happen, but at least I didn’t have to pay Scott and PN, er….BNC and more money.  So, to my buddy Scott…FUCK YOU!!!

 
I thought I was done here, but I got a part three.  Stay tuned…
C'mon! You know you wanna read more...

Monday, January 19, 2009

What are you DOING spending all your time in the BATHROOM...

My third kid, Jethro, has a serious and very disturbing issue.  He’s got some sort of bathroom fetish.  No matter where we go, no matter where we’re at, this kid has to visit the facilities.  I ask you…WTF?!?!?
 
Because you’re smarter than me, you’ve probably got less than 4 kids.  So, you couldn’t possibly understand the logistical nightmare it is having four kids, and one of them has to go to the bathroom.  Well, it’s not so much a problem at home, unless two or more have to go at the same time.  Then it gets a bit ugly.  No, I’m more talking about when we go out, like to a store.  And it’s usually at the point when we're the furthest away from the bathroom, that something like this goes down:
 
”Dad?”
 
“Yes, son?”  Wait for it. 
 
“I’ve got to go to the bathroom.”
 
I look down at the shopping cart, filled to the brim.  It slowly dawns on me we’re so far from the fucking bathroom, we might as well be on Tatooine.  I look up at the ceiling of the store, as if to see the big guy upstairs openly laughing at me, shake my head and reply:  “Of course you do, son.  Of course you do.”

 
I know.  I know.  I know what you’re thinking.  You’re thinking:  “Maybe you should make him go to the bathroom before you leave the house.”  What?  Am I stupid?  Am I new here?  Of course I make him go before we leave!  What kind of fucking suggestion is that?  The kid holds a little bit in, I swear it!  I know he does.  Just so he can check out the ol’ can.


does this look like a playground to you?

 
But, you know what’s worse than Jethro needing to use the bathroom at the store?  Nah…don’t bother.  You’ll never guess it.  The movie theater.  Yea…that’s worse.  To convince Jethro not “go” during a movie, I’ve done it all.  I’ve told him before we step foot one out of the house, there’s no bathroom at the movie theater.  Go now.  I’ve banned drinking beverages at the movie theater.  I’ve even banned drinking beverages a full day before going to the movie theater!  Okay, maybe I didn’t go that far.  But the thought has crossed my mind.  Either way, it doesn’t matter.  The kid still has to go. 
 
Of course, the other three get all wiggy, when I tell them I gotta take Jethro to the bathroom.  They get all teary eyed and frightened.  For the love of the Christ, give me a fucking break!  Like I’m gonna leave them in the theater.  What?  Am I a bad parent?  Sheesh!  Alright, I have considered it, but believe you me, if I’m leaving, none of them are coming with me!
 
C’mon!  I’m kidding!  Really.  I am!
 
The whole thing kinda reminds me of Marty Feldman in Young Frankenstein.  I swear to the Christ, I can just hear Jethro saying this years from now: “It's moments like these, I remember what my old dad used to say to me. - Oh yes? What did he say? - What are you DOING spending all your time in the BATHROOM for!! Why don't you give someone else a go!”.


what hump???


C'mon! You know you wanna read more...

Saturday, January 17, 2009

Weekend special: Greeting cards in Review

another piece from the archives. once again, me writing as "the Juice". look for more of this type of hilarity to be ensuing in our very near future
- j


by the Juice
originally published 6/2005

In honor of Father’s Day (or as my kids call it Fadder’s Day) and due to the impressive feedback I got back from my post, The Snockerin’ of you by Hallmark (and by impressive feedback I mean how much I laughed when I re-read it), I’m startin’ a new feature here at Dissertation Station. I’m gonna’ review greetin’ cards. How the hell does this tie into Fadder’s Day? Well, the first three cards we’re startin’ with are for Fadder’s Day. How’s that for synergy?

I picked a small assortment of cards from Wal-Mart. And let me tell you, this small assortment cost me almost $10 bucks! That’s just friggin’ ridiculous. I’m making this cost effective, though. One of these cards I’m gonna give to my ol’ man. Can you guess which one? The answer will be at the end.

Our first card up is a standard “serious” Father’s Day card. I can guaren-damn-tee that no son is buyin’ this card for his father.


It’s got some terrible sentiment on the front. Here’s what the front SHOULD have on it



And on the inside, it’s worse. It says some shit like…”Whether you were having me help with a certain chore or gently coaching me with schoolwork or sports…” I gotta stop right there. Now I don’t know about your ol’ man. But my pop’s way of me helpin’ him with a certain chore was him tellin’ me (and I ain’t paraphrasin’ here) “Ya wanna help? Stay the hell outta the way.”



I wonder if by the “gently coachin’ me with…” bit Hallmark meant screamin' in your face until you got the times tables right. Or swingin’ the ol’ Louisville slugger until it was nearly midnight with him screamin' at ya. “You swing like a friggin’ girl. Let me get your sister. I bet she could hit a ball better than you.” But, whatever…

The text goes on in the card “…I learned so many valuable ways of thinking that have shaped my life…” Yea that I’ll never be better than the Velcro tester that I’m destined to be. “You shared the benefits of your experience, allowed me to express my own ideas and, yes, even let me make my own mistakes.” That last part is a laugh fuck riot. Probably the best part of the whole card. Make a mistake? Oh, you better not make a mistake. Unless you wanna be shamed of your existence for the next week or so. You might as walk through school naked, then make a mistake in front of dear ol’ dad.

I’m really in love this next card. It practically called out to me from it’s spot next to the rest of the loser cards. This one is for all you out there with the (key dramatic music) STEP FATHER. Here’s the front of the card.



Here’s what the front should say…



Here’s what the inside of the card says:



Here’s what I think it should say:



And finally here’s the last card.



And the inside



Nothing more needs to be said. This card says it all.

So can you guess which card I’m givin’ my ol’ man? It’s the first one. Yes, I’m givin’ my dad a serious card. DON’T BE SO STUPID! (dang, I even sound like my pop). Of course I'm not givin' him the first one. Have you read any of this? Why would I give my dad a serious card? It ain't for real. Like I said. No one feels that way about anyone. "Cept mayber a hooker. C'mon! It’s the last one you moron. That’s the card I’m givin' my father. And a box of smokes. He likes Kool.
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Thursday, January 15, 2009

It's back! Pitch a Bitch!

There’s a million rip-offs in the world, right? Buyer beware and all. But, let me tell you something. There are two that seriously piss me off. One? Filing cabinets. Don’t believe me? Oh, you will. The day will come when you need a filling cabinet. And when you walk down the aisle of your local office supply superstore, make sure you’ve got the available credit. Cause those fuckers ain’t cheap.

But, since I’m not purchasing filing cabinets on a regular basis, it’s more of an “audacity” thing. Like, the gall of these people to charge so friggin’ much for a glorified metal box!

The biggest rip-off, though, the one that really burns my bacon? Razor blades cartridges. Razor blades are so highly thought of as a rip off, “they’ve” coined a whole theory of economics behind it: Razor Blade economics. Also known as the ol’ “bait and hook”, it goes a little something like this: The razor blade manufacture gives you the handle for very little cost to you. I won’t go as far as saying “free”, cause ain’t nothing free. But, the cost is minimal. The manufacture makes money on those sweet razor blade cartridges. Fuckers.

Sound familiar? If you have a printer, it should. I’m not sure who thought of it first, the printer making peeps or razor blade makers. Either way, they both can go to hell.

But, I digress…

And it’s not like you can even use the “store brand” razors, either. Why? Cause you can never find them. Anywhere! People ain’t stupid! Well, I’m not so sure about that one. Maybe when it comes to razor blades, they’re not so dumb. Any time I go into my local Walmart or Target, the pegs for the store brand razors are empty. Come to think of it, I don’t think that Target even sells store brand cartridges, anymore. Why should they when they can make more money on those 17 blade razors???

I know. I know. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking: “Why not just buy an electric razor?” Because electric razors suck! I don’t care what you say, they suck. Oh, then there’s the whole month long honeymoon with your electric razor. That’s the time “they” suggest you give your skin to adapt to your razor. WTF?!?!? Shaving is a pain in the ass, as it is, I’m gonna spend a month raking my skin with some sort of torture device? And we’re not talking the skin on your ass here folks, this is your god damn face! I need my face looking as good as possible. For the ladies and all…


imagine using this fucker on your face!


For once, I actually have a solution. Save a Blade. Yea, that’s right. Save a Blade. Go ahead. Laugh. Laugh yourselves stupid. We’ll see who laughs last. Especially when I’m struttin’ my stuff, pockets full of coin from all the money I’m saving from NOT buying those fucking cartridges. Yeah…me!


the savior of my dollars!!!


Now, if I can just figure out how this stupid Save a Blade works…
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Tuesday, January 13, 2009

what does it take to get some peace 'round here??

One of the things they never teach you in school is how kids love to pester you at the most inopportune times.  In fact, nothing they teach you after 6th grade really prepares you for life.  But, that’s a post for another day…
 
So…let’s see.  Where was I?  Oh, that’s right.  I was talking about me.  See, everything I do in my life is for my kids.  Day in day out.  Just about every action I take directly (or indirectly) is for my kids.  If it weren’t for them, I’d probably be tending bar at some beach resort in the Caribbean.  Ahhh…who am I fucking?  I’d be sitting in front of the computer, surfing porn and eating Cheetos.
 
But, I digress…
 
There’s a standing rule in my house:  If I’m in the bathroom, leave me alone!  It’s five god damn minutes!  I can’t be left alone for 5 minutes????  I tell my kids all the time, unless you’re on fire or missing a limb, when the bathroom door is shut, just leave me alone.
 
Do they listen?  Hell no!!!
 
Take this past weekend for example.  I made breakfast on Sunday morning, around 10:30.  The Sunday morning special, I call it.  This week I was serving up chocolate chip pancakes.  Now, beings that it’s 10:30 in the morning and my kids have the metabolism of hummingbirds, they’ve already scarfed down a bowl or three of cereal.  No matter how I explain it, the kids just don’t get the concept of “brunch”.  But, whatever.  So by 11 am, the little turds have eaten twice already.
 
Let’s all climb aboard our wayback machine and fast forward a few hours to 3:15 pm that afternoon.  The kids have been playing over their friends' house most of the afternoon.  I’ve just spent the last three hours taking down that fucking Xmas tree.  I’m tired, and looking for to a hot, peaceful shower.  Since the place is quiet, I bee-line it to the bathroom.  I turn the shower on blazin’ hot, get all nude (Yeaaaa….that’s right.  For all you ladies out there, I shower nekkid!  Wink.  Wink.) and get in.  Whew!  Slice of heaven, right there!  Next to grilled cheese, bacon and hummers (and I don’t mean the trucks, either) is there anything better in the world than a hot shower???

Photobucket
copyright wet dudes in underwear
i wasn't lying about taking showers nekkid, girls. that not me. i'm much larger

 
I wouldn’t know.  I’m in the shower less than a minute, when there’s a knock at the bathroom door.  Where the fuck did they come from?  Do they just materialize out of thin air or what?  I look up at the ceiling, sigh and shake my head.  I know what’s coming.  I can feel it in my bones.  “Dad???”  A voice calls from the other side of the bathroom door.  Bingo!!!!
 
I drop my head, rather dramatically I might add.  “Yes, son?”
 
“Dad?”  Cause my son, Jethro, feels the need to repeat my name at least twice in every sentence.  “Can we have lunch?”
 
“Jethro.  I’m in the shower.”  I called out.
 
“When you’re done?”
 
“Jethro.  We’re going to have dinner in an hour.  Can’t you wait?”
 
“But, I’m starvin’ Dad.”
 
“Jethro.  I’m in the shower.”  I calmly (barely) reminded him.  Fortunately, he took the hint and left me alone.  That is until I step out of the bathroom.  Cause, that’s where Barbara, Jethro and Jericho were gathered around waiting for me, looking like hungry orphans.  “You’re kiddin’ me, right?”  I asked, the water still dripping off me from the shower I didn't really enjoy.


Photobucket
 copyright orphans r us


“We’re hungry.”  Barbara pleaded like she hadn’t eaten in days.
 
“Dude.”  Yea.  I called her “dude”.  “We’re gonna eat in an hour.  Can’t you wait?”
 
“We’re starviiinnnnnnn.”  Jethro whined.
 
I shook my head in disbelief.  Although, I’m not sure what there was to disbelieve at this point.  This is nothing new.  “Lunch is at 12.  Maybe 1.  Not at 3:30.”
 
“Daddddddd”  They whined in unison.
 
“Forget it.”  I said turning away.  “We’re having dinner in an hour.  Go have a snack or something.” 

 
And let me tell you something.  Those three sassafrassed me for a good 15 minutes afterward.  I went downstairs after getting dressed.  Those three were still cursing me, with a huge buffet of snacks in front of them.  I helplessly shook my head, rolled my eyes and walked away.
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Saturday, January 10, 2009

Weekend special: Escape!

I used to write for a few different blogs along the way to Truth is Truth. Some my own, some for others. I've written so much stuff, I can't keep track of it all. So, I figured on the weekends, I'd "feature" a classic cut, to borrow a phrase from radio.

For a very long time, I wrote as "the Juice". A really sarcastic, bitter side of me. But, I'll let you be the judge of that...



Originally published 10/04

The Juice admits it, I don’t know much about music. In fact, unless Lawrence Welk (god rest his soul!) is involved, it might as well be that high pitched, annoyin’ Indian shit. But, the Juice can tell you that “Escape” by Rupert Murdock (or Holmes, whatever) is the worst fuckin’ song, EVER! I know, I know. I know what you thinkin'. You’re thinkin’: “I don’t think I’ve ever heard that song, the Juice.” Well, I’m here to tell you, you have. It’s that stupid Pina Colada song.


Not only does the song bite Hyena wang (real hyena wang, by the way. not that pseudo phallus the female spotted hyena has. which is really her clitoris. now, don’t you feel more complete knowin’ that??), it has got to be one of the most far-fetched songs ever. Don’t believe the Juice? See for yourself (and here’s hopin’ this tune will be pingin’ your brain for the next day and a half):

I was tired of my lady, we'd been together too long.Like a worn-out recording, of a favorite song.So while she lay there sleeping, I read the paper in bed.And in the personals column, there was this letter I read:

"If you like Pina Coladas, and getting caught in the rain.If you're not into yoga, if you have half-a-brain.If you like making love at midnight, in the dunes of the cape.I'm the lady you've looked for, write to me, and escape."

I didn't think about my lady, I know that sounds kind of mean.But me and my old lady, had fallen into the same old dull routine.So I wrote to the paper, took out a personal ad.And though I'm nobody's poet, I thought it wasn't half-bad.

"Yes, I like Pina Coladas, and getting caught in the rain.I'm not much into health food, I am into champagne.I've got to meet you by tomorrow noon, and cut through all this red tape.At a bar called O'Malley's, where we'll plan our escape."

So I waited with high hopes, then she walked in the place.I knew her smile in an instant, I knew the curve of her face.It was my own lovely lady, and she said, "Oh, it's you."And we laughed for a moment, and I said, "I never knew"..

"That you liked Pina Coladas, and getting caught in the rain.And the feel of the ocean, and the taste of champagne.If you like making love at midnight, in the dunes of the cape.You're the love that I've looked for, come with me, and escape."

"If you like Pina Coladas, and getting caught in the rain.And the feel of the ocean, and the taste of champagne.If you like making love at midnight, in the dunes of the cape.You're the love that I've looked for, come with me, and escape."

Now you tell the Juice, is there somethin' seriously wrong with this song, or what? The Juice don’t know where to begin, really. But, ya gotta start somewhere, so…


The dude and his ol’ lady can’t stand each other. And the dude’s singin’ a fuckin’ song about it? I mean, really. I don’t know who’s to blame more here, him or her. I’ll tell ya, if I’m at O’Malley's and my ol’ lady walks in, you best believe there’s gonna be some hell to pay.

Here's the part the Juice don't get. If she’s tired of him, why the fuck is she sneakin' around on him? Can’t she be upfront with him? And the Juice finds it hard to believe that this was the first personal ad this broad took out. C’mon! What are the odds of that? And, really, what are the odds of the dude findin', readin', and respondin' to his ol’ lady’s personal ad that she took out in secret? I mean we’re talkin' gettin' eaten by piranhas odds. The Juice is a bettin' man. There ain't a bet I've never taken. But, believe you me, even the Juice ain't taken the bet on any of it!

And what’s with Pina Coladas anyway? I know the song was written in the seventies. Back when they did all those fruity things like wife swappin', had pet rocks and, apparently, drank Pina Coladas. Have you ever had one? Probably not. Cause they suck. If I’m a dude (which, I am. Don’t make me pull out the ol’ rig to prove it to you) I ain’t ever gonna admit I like Pina Coladas, even if I did. Which I don’t. I’m just supposin' here. That’s the kinda thing you do when no one, NO FUCKIN’ ONE, is around. Or, at least, gonna be around for a couple of hours, maybe even days. Admittin’ you drink Pina Coladas is the kinda thing that you do hidden in your closet. You pull out your Peggy Lee records, drink Pina Coladas and read cheap romance novels. Not that the Juice’s ever done that. No sir! All man, here. All man! I’ll pull it out to prove it!


But I digress…

And I can guaren-damn-tee that this moment would NEVER happen:

It was my own lovely lady, and she said, "Oh, it's you."And we laughed for a moment,

Believe you me, If I’m at O’Malley’s and the ol’ lady walks in, I ain’t sayin’ “Oh, it’s you...” It’d probably go down somethin' more like this:


“What da fuck you doin’ here? I thought you were crochetin' with Martha down at the rec center.” I’d say putting down my 8th beer.


“Me? What are you doin' here?” she’ll ask accusingly.


I’ll look around blankly. “Ummmm…nothin'. Just havin’ a beer”


“Yea, right.” She'll say sarcastically picking at her teeth.


“What’s that suppose to mean?”


“It means ‘yea, right’. Are you stupid or somethin'?” she’ll lovingly respond.


“Are you callin’ me stupid?” I’ll say trying to grit my teeth. But, I’ve probably drank so much damn beer that I have to piss more than anythin' at this point.


“If the boot fits…”


“What? Was that?” I’ll say getting up from my chair. Of course, I’ll be stumble while getting up. Knocking the bowl of beef jerky off the table.


“I said, ‘if the boot fits’”


I’ll try to push the chair aside menacingly. But, it’ll just end up getting under my feet, practically knocking me onto my face. After I regain my composure I would say. “You’re havin' an affair, aren’t you?”


“I am not!” the ol’ lady will respond, acting all innocent.


“Is it Billy Joe?”


“Absolutely not”


“Bobby John?”


“No!”


“Billy bob?”


“No!”


“Bobby Joe?”


“No!”


“Johnnie Joe?”


“He’s five years old, for Pete’s sake Bruce!”


“Hmmmm….whatever. I know you wrote that personal ad.” I'll slur.


“What?” she’ll take a step back, caught her off guard. “What personal ad?”


“This one!” I'll say as I dig around in my pocket. I'll pull out an old Wal-Mar receipt. “No. this one!!” I'll say triumphantly again. This time it’ll be a K-Mart receipt for the live bait the Juice bought the day prior. “Shit.” I’ll rummage around in the my pockets for another minute or two. Then I’ll find it. “This one!”


The ol’ lady would take another step back in shock. “How…how do you know?”


I’ll point to the ad below. “Cause I wrote this one. Ya stupid bitch.” Uh-oh. I don’t know which is gonna get me in more trouble. Admittin' I responded or the bitch comment. My ol’ lady would hate it when you call her a bitch.


She'll stand there speechless for awhile. I’ll mutter some “nothin’s”. Cause I'm drunk and about to piss myself. Finally she’ll speak up. “Brewster Ian Brockman (that ain’t my middle name. so don’t even try to think about fckin' with me about it, ya here?) how dare you!” At this point she’ll probably pick up a glass and toss it at my head. And dependin' how drunk I really was, I would either duck or just stand there like an idiot. And blah, blah, blah. You get the point.


See? No “I never knew you like Pina Coladas…” bullshit. Although, I have to admit my version would be pretty dang hard to sing.

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Thursday, January 8, 2009

It's none of your business what we do with your money!!!

Where'd the bailout money go? Shhhh, it's a secret

Now, before I start here, let me just tell you this ain’t “Why I hate banks Pt II. No. This is something completely different. This is a less personal story. More of a...oh I don’t know. Just another reason not to like banks. =)

So...wow!  What I want to know is, who the fuck are these people? I know. I know. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking: “What people, Jesse? What people are you talking about?” And if that’s what you’re thinking, it’s a good question. Cause, this story is chock full of people brimming with unmitigated gall.

Let’s start with our friend, Thomas Kelly from JP Morgan. I believe he’s quoted as saying "We have not disclosed that to the public. We're declining to." when questioned about what exactly JP Morgan is doing with our $25 billion dollars. Cause, oh yes, it’s our money. Yours and mine.

See, the problem here is multi-leveled. The Treasury department, our Treasury department, just handed out cash to whatever bank needed it. No strings attached. No provisions. No liabilities. No accounting measures. Fuck it, right?!?!? We must stabilize the economy!!!! {eye roll}

Not only did they just hand the fucking money out, but, they handed it out to the same pompous, arrogant folks that put the economy in this position in the first place. Make sense, right? Why add a stipulation or two? Why say “Ok, well give you some money, but your CEO, Harry Asshole, has to go. While we’re at it, so does the Board. Oh, and we’ve got a few more things you have to do. The least of which is HAND THE FUCKING MONEY OUT!!!”

Cause I can tell you what the banks aren’t doing with the money. They ain’t lending it out. The fucking Congress, our Congress, has to “implore” bank executives to start handing out the money. The thing is, there’s no stipulation that they have to lend it. So, they’re just sitting on it. Nice!!!!! Gotta shore up balance sheets!!!

Here’s another fav of mine from the article. “We're choosing not to disclose that”. That jem was from Kevin Heine, a spokesman for Bank of New York Mellon. It’s kind of a magical quote, isn’t it? Imagine saying that to the cop that pulls you over for drunk driving. “Officer, I’m choosing not to disclose whether I was drinking” How fast would your ass be in jail?

But, a banking institution? Oh, no. Carte blanche. Here sirs, have a few more billion. No need to worry about accounting for it. There’s plenty more where that came from!!!!
 
So, it’s bad enough we handed out billions of dollars to these fucking banks, but the one industry that actually produces something for this country, we hem and haw?  WTFMFF?  Believe you me, I have no love for GM or Chrysler.  Ford?  Well, they did put out that sweet Mustang update.  Have you seen that Shelby Cobra.  C’mon!  I’ll give Ford a pass because of it.

But, I digress…
 
The auto industry PRODUCES something.  Something viable.  Something tangible.  What the fuck does the banking industry do?  Besides fuck 99% of us in the arse, without the steak dinner or the lube?
 
I’ll leave you with this parting thought:

“We're not sharing any other details. We're just not at this time,”
 
Ummm…fuck you. 
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Monday, January 5, 2009

Why banks suck. Pt 1.

I hate banks. I really do. Yea, I know. I know. They’re a necessary evil. Blah, blah, blah. Ok. If that’s the case, then let’s drop the charade, shall we? Let’s stop with the nice commercials about how banks care about us and our communities. And how banks do this and that for us….ughhhh. Like banks are benevolent institutions. My dog is full of less shit, than these banks!

I especially can’t stand when the overpaid CEO pretends he gives shit one about anything other than increasing his already large pocketbook. “Oh, look at us. We’re a bank. We’re not some evil conglomerate with the CEO making 40 times more than the cat slavin’ away as your local teller. We care. We donate .00001 of every dollar to the Stop Beatin’ Baby Seals foundation.“ Pul-lease! Every time I see one of those commercials, I feel the throw up creep up the back of my mouf.

True story: Not long ago, I was having some money “issues”. Doing a little bit of that robbing Peter to pay Mary Magdalena (or however that story goes). I timed my mortgage payment (and a few other things) just so it would “hit” when my work paycheck would be directed deposited into my checking account. Or at least I cleverly thought it would. Turns out I was wrong on that one. Waaaayyyy wrong. Long story short, I got hit with 7, yes SEVEN, NSFs. That’s Non-Sufficent Funds, to you and me. At $36 a pop, that was a hefty price to pay for “timing” the mortgage payment badly.

But, wait. There’s more. Seeing +$250 missing from your account does something to a person. So, I called the bank up. Now let’s get something straight here. The fees the bank administers are completely voluntary. Meaning, the bank charges it because they damn well feel like it. Oh, I’m sure there’s some sort of internal “transactional” cost the bank occurs. But, $36?!?!? I’ve got three words for you: Fuck you!

Anyway, I’m on the phone with a customer service rep from my bank. Which, for sake of my story, I’m gonna call, say… BNC bank.

“Look, I’m a total fuck up. I’m addicted to crack cocaine and I’ve got four kids. Could you help me out with these fees???” I asked the bank rep I was on the phone with.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Gormley. But you were overdrawn and the bank paid for your overdrafts.”

I rolled my eyes. Like the bank was doing me a favor. A favor that was costing me $252. “I understand. But 7 NSF fees seems kinda, I don’t know, over the top.”

The representative listed all the transactions I fcked up, maybe to rub it in I don’t know, and how they were processed. “That’s why you were charged with 7 fees.” She said, a bit too condescending for my liking.

“I understand why I have 7 fees. I was wondering if some of those fees could be removed.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Gormley. But, I do not have the authority to make that decision.”

At this point, I’m getting pissed. So, I really turn up the syrup. “Can I speak to someone who does have that authority?”

“I can put you through to the fee department…” She trailed off, like it was some sort of horrifying last resort.

“That’d be nice.”


And this is where the real fun begins. You’ll just have to wait til next time. Or you can click here
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