Your love is like real imitation pasteurized processed American cheese-food-like substance product
Today I identify as John Fetterman's stroke. Stop the hate!
My brother is going to see Chicago in a few weeks (the band, not the city). I've been to Chicago and they're not kidding when they call it the windy city. It took be 5 blocks to catch up with my head, which got blown off under the elevated tracks.
I wonder if Chicago has a single original member in the band. Perhaps they have the original drum roadie or the deaf guy who turns the knobs halfway through the venue. The original accountant? The original guy who keeps falling off the lighting truss. Their original dope supplier. The original bus driver, who's now 80 and looks like he never came down from his first hit of meth. Sigh. They were such a great band. Actually it is one of the original horn players. Because you'd definitely know the difference.
Don't forget: there is no one alive who played on the first Badfinger album. If you see them, it will be Joey Molland's Badfinger. Joey was hired to go on the road after the first album hit and the original guitarist couldn't get permission from his wife to tour. Or something like that. What a terrible shame. Slade has an original guitar player and the original guy in charge of the duct tape. If you see the Jimi Hendrix Experience, RUN. All three of them are dead. I'd also avoid any Beatles shows: only 50% of the band is alive and all they do is stand onstage and bitch at each other.
Ok, so the World Series is going to occur. Whose first thought is about the number of black players on the teams? Not mine. Not yours. Perhaps somebody with an agenda? Point taken?
Following SJW logic, there are no American Samoan players either. No WOMEN. No Asians. No Hasidic Jews (you can't play on Friday nights or Saturdays til sundown). Zero cocker spaniels. No emotional support elephants. No poor people. I think we might as well just cancel the games until we can make everything more diverse and equitable for everyone.
The SJW virus is even worse than the Flying AIDS, only there's no cure.
John Fetterman finally debated Dr. Oz. I hear it was painful. Fetterman has problems left over from his stroke earlier this year. Naturally the SJWs state anything said negatively about his health is ableist. He has trouble understanding and speaking. He sounds like a perfect politician.
If I took lessons from the SJWs, anything negative about my left handedness is dexter-ist. Anything about my hair loss is follicle-ist. Anything negative about my pony tail is hairist. Anything negative about my over-the-top sex drive is satyrist. Anything about my huge penis is size-ist. Anything about my beer gut is fat-shaming. I should be the king of the world by now.
If one of the candidates got the top of his head shot off, like JFK, the SJWs would shout ABLEIST at anyone who said he couldn't do the job as well as any other candidate with 100% of his cranium and bits of brain not leaking out. The SJWs deserve to be governed by one of these people.
Good news: the Libertarian Party has candidates in almost every race this year. Vote your conscience and play the long game.
Credit where it's due: we need to keep our infrastructure tight and locked down. We need to keep people and countries out of our electrical generation, water, transportation, etc. They are all connected to the net, which is almost an open door.
I know you're awash with excitement and curiosity over the final disposition of our car, so let me get right to it. I took half a day off to rescue our fair car, held for ransom way down at the bottom of Philly, due to paperwork and human error. We set off, with directions dictated by Wife's phone, which spoke to us repeatedly. It was always patient, and immediately reconfigured its directions whenever I missed a turn, which was only every few feet. Truth be told, it was a little more difficult than I thought, because I had the phone tell me where to go, then the wife tell me where to go. I served 2 masters. Or mistresses, as it were. One was always right, the other thought it was always right. We finally found the bank municipal building, at exactly the point I was told we had to TURN AROUND and visit a convenience store first. Oh. I should have known that.
We finally made it to the right office, where it was noted that THE CANDY IS FOR EMPLOYEES ONLY. We felt better with that knowledge. These people are city workers; there's no telling what they get up to if they feel their candy supply is being threatened. We were warned in advance that they ONLY accept cash or checks - NO CARDS. We left them a mortgage payment and were ready to bid them farewell, when I asked a stupid question: by the way, where's our car? All activity stopped - you could hear a pin drop. They all stared at each other. I kept looking to make sure there wasn't a chainsaw-wielding lunatic behind us. All of the sudden the silence was broken by one of the ladies, who suggested we call the police and ask. Oh. It was then I realized the reason for my discomfort was that *I* am usually the chainsaw-wielding lunatic. I had Wife get me a hockey mask for when I prune the bushes. It cuts down social interaction.
We called the police, who tried to help, but it took a while. It's obvious they hand out a buttload of tickets, so we wondered why the confusion. They asked for date, location, what she was wearing, and which convenience store we used to get money from. Eventually the light started to function and they told us to call the tow people. Or some other garage. It was starting to get painful. We were also about an hour away from home so we didn't exactly know the area. We tried the tow place, which admitted to having the car, and got an address. He seemed put out that we didn't want the total. After all, they only accept CASH - NO CARDS, NO CHECKS. I played along... how much?
YOU WANT EIGHT HUNDRED DOLLARS FOR PARKING MY CAR IN YOUR LOT FOR A FEW DAYS? Dude, that's not funny. I thought you said eight hundred dollars. WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU DID? This is completely legal, city-sanctioned robbery. The total went up every 37 minutes, so we were advised to get there asap, capiche? Every. Step. Is. Pain.
Back to the convenience store for more money. Oops - Wife hit her daily limit, it was my turn. And as dictated by the Cash Machine Gods, the machine wouldn't recognize my card. Every. Step. Is. Pain.
Off we went to The Concrete tow yard. The phone again guided us. We made a turn into a nice residential area, when the phone let us know we were there. I am not the smartest person in the country, but this nice house was not a large, lucrative tow yard. But we were 'there'. Every. Step. Is. Pain. We called Luigi, who brought up his GPS. It started to argue with our GPS. There were threats made. Finally an agreement was hammered out: go back the way we came, completely ignoring the claims of our GPS. Apparently our GPS was not accurate below a certain section of Philadelphia. Or something. Turns out his GPS got signal from a better satellite, or something, and we found the place. It looked exactly like you would expect, complete with the "near the airport, with rocks for a road" look. We were tired. Hungry. The check engine light on the rental was on. Wife returned with a $10 bill, which was about all we had left. Every. Step. Is. Pain.
Back in our 'hood, I took the rental for gas before we turned it in. I strongly believe all gas inlets should be on the driver's side of the car. My belief was reinforced by it being on the passenger side. After re-pulling up to the pump, I set about looking for the release (and not finding it). Meanwhile I was called over to help an elderly fellow who also didn't know how to pop the lid. The lever was incredibly well-hidden, in the trunk, under the spare tire. Then I got back to mine, putting my card in the pump. TRANSACTION DECLINED. Every. Step. Is. Pain.
After returning the rental and getting into our car, the sun came out. The seats were like heaven. The stereo sounded better. The tires were blacker and rounder. We were home.
"Honey, get the plunger. The toilet is stopped up again."
Every. Step. Is. Pain.
If you believe in reincarnation, I think you'll want to come back as a dog. Specifically one of ours. I fed her and heard a weird noise. She was checking between each piece of food to make sure there wasn't any tuna hidden there. She was not eating the food. The poor thing.
My office has a pile of magazines.
My office has a pile of a lot of things.
The magazines, perhaps in an attempt to clean and organize, have started trying to escape. Magazines are not very clever, so they just kinda slip out of the pile a little. Sometimes it's one, sometimes 17. I don't always notice it until it starts to obstruct the door. It confuses the hell out of me, so I put them back into a not-so-neat pile. And by the next day, they've already started escaping again. This creates a Me vs Magazines power struggle, which the doctors told me isn't healthy, especially because the magazines are smarter. One thing the magazines never counted on was my utter pigheadedness (bloody-minded in UK, hard-headed, eh, in Canada). Not only am I stubborn, I go head-first into a fight. Some call this brave. Some call it stupid. Even though I do it, I'm inclined to agree with the second group.
Before, I would have straightened the pile every day. Now that I'm a little bit better, I straighten the pile only when I have to take a mad dive over it to enter the office. Progress? You decide. I decided to do a little troubleshooting. Magazines don't slide out by themselves (do they?), so there's another force acting upon them (don't I sound like a 1st grade science teacher?). A-HA! There's my fan. I removed the fan, but the attempted escape continued. I had a feeling 5lbs of fan wasn't causing the problem. I'd replace it with 5lbs of heater, but it may invalidate my house insurance, or so the fire chief tells me. UC Berkeley has weighed in and decided not to strike, provided none of the magazines are Jewish.
Well, I'm about out of Science now. Are magazine covers so slick they naturally slip against each other? This is the force called friction. Or stiction. Or slippiness. Do NOT put 2 phones on top of each other -one will go rocketing away, possibly to a place outside the space-time coordinates of the room. Did I put the little magazines at the bottom and the big ones up top? Has Wife or dog taken to playing with them while I'm asleep, like a pile of leaves? The first guess is always supposed to be aliens, but even the aliens have better things to do. Except for Bob. Bob's a special alien, who needs to be watched all the time, lest he get loose and do odd stuff, like making magazines attempt to escape their piles or using the anal probe in orifuces it's not supposed to be used. In quantum physics, things don't happen if observed. Maybe I should put a video camera on the magazines, so they won't move. Or maybe I'd catch Bob.
The other problem is what will happen once I get this situation under control (very few things in my life are under control - they prefer OUT of control). Then Wife and others brave enough to enter will tell me what a nice job I've done, like they'd tell a little child. Then I won't want to do it anymore. The doctors tell me this is Oppositional Defiant Disorder. I tell them NO IT ISN'T! We all laugh and get a cold Yoo Hoo juice box or four.
Tomorrow I'm going to stare at the pile with a reproachful look on my face. The following day I'm going to look up reproachful. If this fails, I could stack them up a few per pile, but I'd probably have to buy a new house just for magazines. Winter fuel has doubled in price, so I could burn them for heat. But unlike reality shows, I like magazines. There are more of them, hiding around the house. Some are holding up the house. I find when you put them in large boxes, they stop trying to escape, but we're back to the space issue. I could give them all away, but I would miss them terribly. And you know the moment I do, I will need one I had. I will know exactly where it was when I had it. I could find the article within 10 pages.
To be honest, and I'm nothing but honest (and sarcastic), other parts of the office could use a good cleaning. And by other parts, I mean something to the extent of 100%. I have square monitors. Do you remember when square monitors were in use? Now you can't even plug one in, lest it confuse your computer and blow up the graphics card in a spectacular flash of color. While the kids would enjoy the spectacle, the fire company wouldn't. Nor would you. I have old motherboards I kept for fun. I'm not entirely sure why I thought a 286 motherboard was fun, but I'm sure there was a really good reason and to question it would make my head hurt. I haven't been in the closet for years, but there are probably some things better left IN the closet. I came out of the closet in 1995, but forgot what for. By this point, the closet has probably evolved a wormhole into a different dimension, where Kurt Cobain could play the guitar and Albert Einstein had good hair.
Dear lefty
My mom is getting married for the first time and I don't know what to get her.
How about some birth control, you bastard?
So we're at the doorstep of a wedding we must attend. I've spent 6 months trying to come up with a way to get out of it. I'm not sure even death is an acceptable excuse. The main problem here is that I don't like weddings. Or getting dressed. Or driving for hours. Or people trying to talk to me. Or institutional food. Or worrying about my dear dog, waiting on us to return. Aside from that, I'm perfectly ok with them.
The current, and main issue would be clothing. The last time I saw a suit was about ten years ago, when I interviewed for my current job. This was the suit I bought 13 years earlier to interview for the previous job. Since we can't seem to locate it (thank you, furnace), I will have to locate a new one. I suppose I will have to promise not to hurl it into the furnace til after the wedding, which is kinda sad, if you think about it. Shopping for a suit is roughly equivalent to shopping for a dress for me; I have the same love for both. Speaking of dress, we haven't even gotten to Mrs. lefty's attire. Since our house is largely composed of guitars, shoes, and clothing, I suspect there's something on premises she can wear. She has this fantastic black (perfect for a wedding) dress with a gold zipper down the front. It mesmerizes me whenever she wears it and I play with the zipper all night until threatened with bodily harm. I was already told that was off the table. I'm not worried - she will look wonderful. She cares what she looks like, so there's nothing to think about. I would feel more comfortable wrapping myself like a mummy, in black fabric than a suit, but apparently I'm out of luck. I have one pair of interview shoes, but I was expressly forbidden to wear brown shoes. I suggested black Adidas, which met a similar fate, even though they probably cost three times what black shoes cost. Black shoes are not made to be comfortable, I am told, nor are they made for wide, incredibly flat feet. They're like low army boots. I'm off to a good start, though... I have a pair of black socks. If I can locate them. It also hurts to spend hundreds and hundreds for something I don't like and won't ever wear again, even to my own funeral. Supply chain issues will push the price up into the thousands. After paying to extract my car from the clutches of the police, I don't have that kind of money. I can look at thrift stores. That's definitely in my price range. Then when we arrive, I will discover the back of my pants are open and there's something 'interesting' written on the jacket in day-glo colors. I even promised to ask my dad to loan me a suit, but everyone already knew he was dead. Dammit.
Then there's a hat. The only direction I received so far is not to wear the one that says FU on it. Or Divorce Lawyer. No one has a sense of humor anymore.
Incidentally, UC Berkeley has sent a check, but threatened to stop the check if the bride or groom is Jewish. Or Zionist. Or married.
As for the groom, I was there the day he was born. He had a pet rabbit that used to follow him all over the house. We had a pet rabbit too. The dog would follow the rabbit all over the house, cleaning up after him. Some thought it was gross. Most were hysterical. So now the poor guy's getting married (the one with the pet rabbit, not my dog). Based upon many years of marital bliss, I can offer him this wisdom: RUN. Now.
After all, weddings are just funerals where you can smell your own flowers.
