Archive for March, 2012

Simple Pleasures

March 29, 2012

To counterbalance the crazy boatloads of griping I’ve been shortening my life with lately, I thought I’d reflect this week on some of the tiny simple wonderful things that bring me so much joy.

1. Peeling shit off of other shit.
Peeling is the greatest. Labels, stickers, bananas, whatever, don’t matter; if something’s stuck to something else, I’m all about it. My favorite thing to peel by far is that strip of thin plastic that keeps the tissues safe in their box until you need them. I cannot get enough of peeling that shit off when the tissue box is empty. Because it’s always a clean peel. Always comes off in one piece. Like Borders’ price tags. When Borders went out of business last year, all I could think about was how that well of sexy, residue-free price tags had dried up, leaving me ten kinds of thirsty. Other peeling honorable mentions go to those UV protection stickers on sunglasses, 59fifty hat stickers (if you don’t peel these off, you are a fucking clown), and those little pieces of plastic that they put on phone screens.

2. Untying some kind of shitty knot.

Sometimes, the juice isn’t worth the squeeze on this one. For example when you buy a skein of yarn to make your friend a hat, and as so0n as you remove that little piece of paper wrapping the whole thing goes to shit. That knot is too shitty. But say your head phones get all tangled up? Or only a small section of that yarn? Eff yes. When I’m almost to the end of the knot, I get the exact opposite feeling of that horrible one where I’m about to lose at Tetris. There’s the same frantic feeling of being very near to something, but instead of the thing that I’m near being just the worst (losing at Tetris), it’s totally fucking all right (untying some shitty knot).

Note: every goddamn time I went to type ‘knot’ in that little paragraph, I accidentally typed ‘know’. Every time. Pain in the ass.

3. Removing that piece of plastic from new deodorant.

This is probably just a bastardization of peeling, but I love opening up a new stick, cranking that shit til the plastic’s fixing to fall off, and then lifting it gently away. I’m not totally sure what that thing even does, other than make my day, but I hope it’s here to stay.

4. Meeting little kids who love baseball, or have other non-shitty interests.

Obviously, the best kid is the one sitting by you in a baseball game with a scorecard that he or she is diligently filling out while wearing a hat that is too big. Another way to tell if a kid is cool is if they’re wearing a shirt like this:


Aggressively Awesome

Any child wearing a monochromatic tie-dyed shirt with an apex predator on it is the best kid. Although it should be noted that probably every kid who visited Cape May, New Jersey between 1991 and 1997 has a similar shirt and maybe is not necessarily the best kid. But I haven’t met every one of those kids, so who am I to say? Also those kids are young adults now, so it’s mooter than shit anyway. Other cool kid shirts have to do with outer space and the exploration thereof, insects, national parks, and volcanoes. Also, all these things make for cool adult shirts. This elderly Filipino man came into the gas station that I worked at in Wyoming wearing an incredible shirt that said ‘I survived Mt. Pinatubo 1991’ in a whole rainbow of day-glo puff paint letters above an erupting, day-glo volcano. If he hadn’t been 4 sizes smaller than me, I would’ve told him to name his price for that shirt.

5. Finding out my shitty optical drive is not, in fact, broken.

Just in time to add all 28 discs of the Game of Thrones audiobook onto the ipod for a hig speed burn ‘cross country. To give you some background which you may even have already guessed, my computer’s disc drive has been malfunctioning for like one year. Now, to my great joy, it isn’t anymore. Also, I’m going to be rocketing from Tahoe to West Virginia in some 5 weeks, and having a new audiobook will be an asset on that drive. I’ve been listening to The Chronicles of Narnia over and over again for like a decade.

6. Getting Mail

I love sending and receiving mail. Silly mail, serious mail, all kinds of mail. Stuff I ordered on the internet like this sweet Rangeley Lakes Region railroad patch that I scored for like $3:

Rangeley Patch

It's got my backpack looking good.

Around my birthday this year, an old friend mailed me, unheralded and unexplained, a red slide whistle. Excellent bit of mail! If you’re interested in having a pen pal, “get at me”, please, because I love that shit.

7. Switching empty jugs out of water coolers for full ones.

Pretty self-explanatory, I guess. This is just a really rewarding thing to do, and I lerv it.

Also, just to follow up from last week, my ruse TOTALLY worked. There were at least 8 or 9 people who arrived here at Summer Of One Thousand Bullshit after Googling ‘naked twi’lek’, and one person who arrived at an older post titled ‘Fuck You, Chairlift’ by Googling ‘fuck on a chairlift’. To that person I urge: please don’t do that. It sounds really dangerous and plus there’s lots of children around. Please have some discretion and don’t be a butthole on this one buddy.


Things Are Getting Out of Californtrol! Naked Twi’lek Jambaroo!

March 23, 2012

You might be wondering how I’m going to work naked twi’leks into this, and the truth is that I’m not. If you’re reading this because you Googled ‘naked twi’lek’ then you, sir or ma’am, fell for my ruse! If you’re wondering what a twi’lek is, you’re probably just as well off not knowing, but I’m going to tell you. Twi’leks are these things from Star Wars:

I thought that if I advertised that I was including some divested twi’lek action, my blog would start getting that coveted nerdvert traffic. When nerdy perverts start reading your blog, you win the internet (I assume). My only regret with this ruse is disappointing the poor saps that got here by Googling ‘jambaroo’, because Lord knows Google already condescendingly asked if they meant jamboree, and they were probably delighted to defy Google when they saw this one result for ‘jambaroo’, to see that they were not alone in thinking jambaroo was an acceptable spelling or that word. It isn’t, you poor bastards, I made it up because it is such a funny word. You’re living in a fantasy world, jambarooers.

Any who, now that I’ve got my stats up for the week, I can start talking about how things are spiraling out of Californtrol. Obviously, one could fill a warehouse full of books about how and why California is borderline too nutty for its own good (not a warehouse full of different books, mind you, that would be too many, I mean you could write one book and it would probably be popular enough that you would need to print a lot of copies. Say, a warehouse full.) and I don’t feel like writing that much in this sitting, so I’m just going to address the issue immediately in front of my super insightful face: vanity license plates.

First, let it be known that I love California. I spent the first 18 years of my life here, and then the 24th year, so obviously I’m inclined to think that it’s awesome (also, bias aside, this happens to be empirically true. Fact: the Winchester Mystery House exists, Fact: all the choicest members of my family live here. Fact: flag has a bear on it. Cut. And. Dry. Awesome.). Lately though, these aweless crummy license plates have been getting in my face.

I saw a car with the license plate LUVSWIZ. I hated it. The only possible okay breakdown of that is if it means Lu vs. Wiz, which I can only imagine to mean that a man named LUis is in some type of wacky cannonball run winner-takes-all auto race VS. a WIZard, and the WIZard’s license plate is WIZVSLU, so we can keep them straight. I guess I’m rooting for the wizard, but I don’t know. Luis is probably the underdog what with not being trained in the magical arts and sciences, but I don’t like that his plate could be interpreted to express a passion for urination. I’m sure most people follow a ‘better out than in’ creed when it comes to their liquid waste, Luis, but every motorist needn’t be privy to you love of whizzing. (Pun not only intended, but painstakingly crafted).

Later that week, I saw a shitty Hyundai blasting some sort of terrible bass heavy techno remix of ‘Rocket Man’ with the license plate LEGIT. Shut up. Oh em fucking gee, you butthole, shut up. You! Yes, you, sir, behind the almost certainly illegal window tint that you put on you shitty Hyundai– you are the fucking worst person. The second worst person is the DMV employee who enabled you to express the imaginary legitimacy of your lifestyle via two rectangles of embossed metal. Shame on you. You are an employee of our state, have some pride, DMV guy. The third worst person is probably Pol Pot or somebody like that.

Some years ago, my Dad and I saw a minivan with the license plate AMASCAB. It was being driven by an old lady, so we thought perhaps it stood for grAndMA’S CABriolet (although, as I mentioned, it was a minivan, and not, in fact, a two-wheeled horse-drawn carriage, but it was probably just another way to make fun of grAndMA for being so old. Or perhaps cabriolets were not even involved at all although I doubt it.). Grandma’s Cab is the friendliest interpretation of that plate, though. I’m inclined to think it actually is a shortened version of the sentence ‘I AM A SCAB’. This license plate is, at best, sort of sad and gross. We all feel low from time to time, lady, but you needn’t tell the world that you’re a hardened crust of blood. Tomorrow’s another day, keep your head up! At worst, though, this old lady is an arrogant strikebreaker, way-too-proudly defying both the rights of American union, and Woody Guthrie’s ghost. Also, if Last Exit to Brooklyn taught me anything  (other than the fact that being gang raped to death is probably the worst possible way to die), it’s that strikes nearly always have some shady mafia side who will set fire to your minivan for, like, hardly even any money. If you want to be a fartknocking, picket-line-crossing scab, lady, that’s your rodeo, but have some damn discretion for Christ’s sake.

Also here in Tahoe you see an almost endless stream of vanity license plates involving Tahoe. Things like TAHOGRL, LKTABRO (Lake TahBRO), MTNMAN1, TAHO4EV, that kind of thing. I guess I don’t have any particular animosity toward this practice in general, but after the 15th or 16th one that I see in a week, I get to grumbling, especially because a lot of these plates are on Chevy Tahoes. I get it, guys, you love Tahoe. Take it easy.

I had more to say, but it slipped my mind. I guess tune in next week, when, if my ruse was successful, my post will be entitled ‘More About California! Metal Bikini Slave Leia Licking Festival!’.

The Times They Are a-Unacceptable.

March 16, 2012

In person, I’m not really a griper. Based on the amount of gripe I spit on the internet, one may find this hard to believe, but it’s true. Me < most people, vis-à-vis propensity for griping. Why am I making this distinction? Because I’m about to gripe like the world is ending and Zeus just announced that only gripers are going to get into Valhalla (wouldn’t that be FUCKING NUTS?!).

Here are some things I’ve been meaning to get off my chest:

1. People take too many goddamn pictures all the time.

If you go through my family’s photo albums, in addition to being incredibly impressed by their impeccable organization and handsome pleather covers, you will find a photographic account of only the best shit my family’s done. Sure, there are some great candid pictures from unremarkable days, but there is so little documentation of unremarkable shit, it makes those days seem remarkable. What I’m griping about here is young mothers with iPhones taking one hundred pictures of their shitty babies eating mac and cheese at Chili’s. You don’t need all them pics, ladies! Why would your nasty kid even care to remember some dumb dinner he mostly spilled on the floor, much to the chagrin of his frumpy ginger blogger waitress? He wouldn’t, so put the phone down, finish your chicken crispers, and take your mobile amateur photography studio out of my section, please.

Here is an example of a worthwhile child photograph:


This photograph was snapped shortly after my sister and I were crowned victors of the PST championship in the doubles division. For those of you unfamiliar with the PST, it stands for Pure Sex Toddlers.

2. Everything is a goddamn system.

Specifically, beauty products. I’m not going to waste time griping about the complicated luxury beauty products which I barely understand, I’m here addressing the ones that should be simple. Like shampoo. Shampoo is a necessity for me because I have a lot of hair and also I live in a society. Because of my choice to live among other people, I like my hair not to smell like my dank pillow (dank in both ways– it’s both perpetually clammy and musty and also fucking awesome and covered in a Power Rangers pillowcase), or to look so crummy. As a result, I like to not buy the cheapest shampoo. The problem is that once you break the $3/bottle glass ceiling, shampoo becomes step one in the hair care system. I hate that the most. Because of my powerful aversion to brushing out my dready tangles, I am more than willing to spring for conditioner (usually step two of the system) but the buck stops there. Leave-in treatments and mousses and drying agents and whatever the fuck can go ahead and suck it. Total scam. And it’s not just hair care that’s needlessly systemic! Face wash is a damn nightmare. I just want a not that greasy face. Also, I don’t want to buy four items. I just want the one that basically functions in, like, a soapy capacity. Toner, what on earth do you do? Also getting too weird: Mascara. This is the only makeup I buy, and it got that way because I assumed it was the simplest thing. WRONG. There are these double ended Darth Maul mascara systems that blow my mind all over the mirror. They promise things like ‘hey we’ll bring out your blue eyes! we’re SO FUN’, but unfortunately I don’t see anything fun about having $8 stolen from me by the false promises of Manic Panic. No more systems!

3. Those dumb goddamn decals of stick people families are so dumb goddammit.

I don’t know quite why I find them so offensive, but I just think they are ten kinds of awful. I might take the same issue with them that I do with booster club lawn signs which is that they announce to potential maniacs the whereabouts and rough physical condition of your children (seems antithetical to today’s hyper-paranoid child rearing atmosphere), but maybe I just think they are a little boasty and shitty looking. That all being said, I had a blast designing this wacky version of my family where my dad is a murderer, my mom is a tight end, and my sister and I are grumpy coal mining twins:

Stupid Decal

4. There isn’t anything anywhere reminding me how goddamn awesome Iguanodons are!

I haven’t though about iguanodons in years, and I see this as being a sizable anti-boner as well as a relatively monstrous hitch in my giddy-up. I know that some of the blame lies with me, but come on! Is it so much to ask that major American cities erect modest statues of this excellent dinosaur as a reminder to the citizenry that iguanodons existed and were fucking cool? I don’t think I’m asking anything out of line.

5. Goddammit!

What this all boils down to is that I am getting pre-maturely irrelevant. I assumed people lost lost touch with shit in their late 50s, but I’m in my mid-20s and about 67% of the zeitgeist confuses, alienates, or enrages me. Allow me to list for you the contents of the back seat of my car: 1 compound bow, 5 arrows for said bow, a pullover Paul Kariya Anaheim Mighty Ducks windbreaker, and about three dozen cassette tapes. Where is there a place in this smart phone world for my analog music, weaponry, and Asian hockey player memorabilia? Maybe in some kind of a cabin? If you find it, please tell me, and maybe draw me a small, precise map of how to get there. Please make sure it is precise. Thanks!

At the Mountain of [March] Madness

March 2, 2012

March effing rules. Things are awesome, and looking to get awesomer in the days to come. Do you not believe me? Check out this dope calendar, then.

1. 3/11 – Selection Sunday.

I LOVE SPECULATING. As a result of this passion, making my bracket every year is among my absolute favorite pastimes. I develop unexpected loyalties to teams for no reason, and love it. Last year I had San Diego State in the Final Four (losing to Ohio State, whom I had winning the finals? Womp womp.). I don’t remember why I had such an unreasonable emotional bond with that team, but I was pretty upset when they went out, several rounds earlier than I predicted. If you’re new to bracket-making, here is some advice for you: a 12 seed always ends up playing a 13 seed, so make sure your bracket reflects that. Also keep in mind that the Big East is a shit conference full of overrated teams that will fuck you up in the prediction department (Pitt, Georgetown, I’m looking at you), so no matter how badly you want them to live up to your expectations, take their high-seeding with a grain of salt. Happy tournament, everyone!!

2. Spring Training is happening RIGHT FUCKING NOW!!

Baseball is, bar none, my favorite sport. And other than September (and October, if I’m lucky enough), there is no more exciting time than spring. Crazy shit happens in spring baseball. The Mets and the Orioles spend days at the tops of they’re respective divisions! The Kansas City Royals have a better record than the Yankees! Wonderful things! Spring training just reminds me that all of this excitement is just around the corner (opening day- 4/4). Something tells me this will be a good year for BAYseball. (BAYseball is a word I made up to describe the sport I love so dearly as it is played in places I love with equal fervor: the Bay Area, and the Bay State. Though I really only root for the Giants and the Red Sox, this term probably would make it seem that I’m also an A’s fan. Dammit. Well I guess I don’t wish them any specific harm, though at one of the first games I ever attended I rooted against them in favor of the Toronto Blue Jays, whom for some reason I thought had something to do with a dinosaur that at the time I thought was called Torontosaurus Rex based on a shirt my parents gave me as a toddler that had two such dinosaurs fucking around the Jays’ Skydome, presumably taking in a game or maybe slaughtering Canadians and destroying both their ballpark and notions of which animals are actually extinct. Probably the former, as this shirt was marketed as a garment for toddlers. When I learned of my taxonomic error, I was as humiliated as a 3 year old is capable of being and denounced the Blue Jays.)

3. St. Patrick’s Day!

I don’t think I need to explain to the internet why St. Patrick’s day is awesome, so I’ll just say this: This is the one day a year (since the release of the ‘Ginger Kids’ South Park episode, anyway) that being a ginger doesn’t make me a genetically inferior freak show. It’s a day where I can dress all in the color I am physiologically predisposed to look best in, and indulge in the pastime that I am ethnically predisposed to excel at- drinking Jameson and Guiness while eating corned beef and cabbage.

4. The Hunger Games Movie comes out!

Though I’ve been known to lampoon many a pop cultural phenomenon, I’m am all about this one. I did have to jump on the bandwagon late, however, due to a 90 person long waiting list at my local library (also my unwillingness to part with $14). Regardless, I’m on the bandwagon now and am grateful that my late arrival has shortened my waiting time for the movie release. Also the trailer was already out by the time I was interested in seeing it. Also I can’t wait to see how they render those fucked up bee stings in the movie. Hopefully, they will be adequately gnarly. Excited.

5. Probable Completion of my Tahoe goal!

By ‘probable’ I mean ‘definite’ but I don’t want to jinx it. My goal for my year in Tahoe was to read 70 books. I don’t know why I picked that number, but I did, and as of today I have only one book left to read with two months and change in which to read it.  Barring a Twilight Zone-esque irony fiasco where my glasses break and I can’t read any more, I’m pretty sure I’ll be okay. Even if that does happen, I really only need my glasses to see far away things, so I should still be fine to read that book. If you’re interested in seeing what I’ve read so far, you can look here. If you’re interested in criticizing me for including so many graphic novels on my list, you can regard my upraised middle finger and listen to my booming alto voice inquire as to how many books you’ve read since June, you buttmunch.

6. Jeort Weather!

Sure it’s snowed for the past 3 days, but who cares?! Jeort weather is right around the corner. For those of you who don’t know, jeorts are old jeans that have been made into shorts for the purpose of looking awesome. I only have 3 pairs of pants, all of them for work. Pretty much all the other bottoms I have are former pants that have since been jeorted. This DIY garment is a prime example of Frankenfashion, a cultural touchstone that I might have made up. Regardless, I have, like, 40 pairs of jeorts, each more precious to me than the last. I have formal jeorts (which are black), golf/business casual jeorts (which have minimal fray, no stains or holes, and are the most fashionable denim shade), driving jeorts (which sit absurdly high, keeping the button from irritating my navel–which is inconveniently located exactly on my waist line–on long drives), and drinking jeorts (which are a size too big, so that they don’t need to be unbuttoned or unzipped to be removed, making them ideal for situations where frequent urination is likely). Pretty soon it will be warm enough to wear them every day! Glory be to March!

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