Non-stop Stopping!

Well, if you haven't noticed, I haven't written for two days. I'm going to excuse myself, though, because I've been moving. And since I've forgiven myself, you should, too. But, to make up for it, this one will be kind of big. It's like that double issue of "Shiteaters Monthly" that they do at the end of the year.

I went to a birthday party for a friend last night. As with lots of parties, people have their cameras out in full force (like me and my baby-maker in an elementary school girl's bathroom). Inevitably, I get handed a couple of cameras and asked to take pictures. There's something that always annoys me when I get handed a camera:

"You just push that big button up there."

Really? So that's how you work one of these. I got one of these for Christmas a couple of years ago and haven't been able to use it because I've been completely stumped by it, so I just decorated it with my Bedazzler and forgot about it. I tried chewing on it, saying, "Camera, capture this occasion now!", and pouring milk inside of it (somebody told me that that's what cameras--robots from the future--use for batteries), yet nothing worked.

All I had to do was push the big button on the top of the camera in order for it to take a picture. Who knew?

Next time somebody's over at my house and asks to use the restroom, I'll make sure I let them know that they should aim their excrement into the watery hole in the harshly-lit room on the left and, when they're done, use the pre-supplied soft tissue paper to clean the area from whence the aforementioned human waste came, throw that paper into the porcelain pond, and, finally, push the handle down to evacuate their business.

Once I learned how to operate the camera, I just needed to learn exactly how to know what I was taking a picture of--perhaps there was something I could look through.

Baby steps.

I respond to reader's questions:
Anonymous writes:

Having read how annoyed you are by idiots on the radio, I had an epiphany (sp?). Radio could be a really good career for you. You are quick witted and always have a funny story to tell, and as they say... "you have a face for radio!" But seriously, have you ever considered it? I think you would be really good at it!

First, whoever you are, you spelled epiphany right and, for that, I'd thoroughly enjoy bumping uglies with you be you man or woman. I appreciate the compliment about me being "quick-witted," but, I'll have you know that these entries take me roughly four weeks to finish (well, from concept to first draft, second, third, and final). Unless, of course, you know me in real life and you're saying this from your experience with me there (because we all know the internet isn't "real life," this is where I get to come and pretend I'm a grown man who doesn't have a problem controlling his erections at inappropriate times). In that case, I'll have you know that everything I ever say and do has been thought out by a team of people I've assembled in a Voltron-like fashion to assist me in trying to divert the attention from my "face for radio." Jerk. Well...you have...a...face for...stupid...face. Sorry to be so harsh; let's just call a truce.

And, second, I would love to do radio. I haven't really tried to get into it that much because that takes some effort; I wouldn't know where to start. I did contact a guy at the talk radio station I mentioned before who does a show during the day and I sent him some stuff I wrote and told him I needed a job. He said he thought my stuff was funny and may get me a job, but that was over a year ago now; two more years and I'm going to start thinking he forgot.

Interesting thought of the day:
Bologna is the meat equivalent of that drink that bartenders make that's composed of all the runoff from the rest of the alcohol throughout the night.

Outlook Not So Good!

I listen to a lot of talk radio. There are many reasons for this, the foremost of which is I'm a huge nerd (Beauty & The Geek's Richard kind of nerd).

Anyway, there's this one show that's on late night on the local FM Talk station called, simply, the John & Jeff Show. Coincidentally, the two hosts are named John & Jeff (except the guy known on-air as Jeff is actually named John and vice versa--they took this show over).

Suffice to say, it's a horrible, horrible show. The guys who host it are just idiots. An example of their idiocy is during their pre-recorded opening they say such hack things as "ugly people should not have kids."

Sometimes, however, people even more retarded than they are call in. Their show doesn't really have a format; people just call in and talk about whatever they want. They have a "Magic 8 Ball" that people can call in and ask a question. So, one guy calls in and, while this is a written medium and I cannot recreate his voice, just imagine if Napoleon Dynamite was hit in the cerebellum with a miner's pick.

This is basically how it went down:

Yes, I'd like to ask the Magic 8 Ball a question please. I have recently joined a basketball team in my local area and I was wondering if you could tell me if we're going to win our first game.

The 8 Ball said "More than likely" or "Balls deep in grandma's snatch" or something; I just know that it implied yes. They hung up on him before I could hear the reaction, but I'm positive that there was a full-on robot chubby going on in his pants as he pumped his fist with glee.

This entire story bothers me on a lot of levels. I hate that the guys that host this show actually get paid for their awful senses of humor and bits from the 1980s. They're like frat guys, who I all wish would die in one huge toga-fueled fire, but they're grown up and they have a radio show. Their goddamn telephone number is 1-800-PARTY-15. Dude, PARTY! Party! Woooooooooo! Spring Break '98!

Now that I've written this, I realize that it doesn't do this story justice. I guess that the essence of the character really comes from his voice and cadence, so if you're really interested in exactly what he sounded like, then you should probably re-evaluate your priorities.

Interesting thought of the day:
A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush (and one case of avian flu that will kill 30% of China!).

Action Jackson!

Phil Jackson has decided that, after a year away from the Lakers, he wants to have sweet make-up sex with Kobe Bryant (so awesome that somebody just may get indicted again).

But the situation's a little strange. See, Phil Jackson left the Lakers on bad terms. His relationship with Kobe Bryant was so bad, that he wrote about it in his book (and about how he would never coach Kobe again).

Now things are awkward. It's kind of like when you break up with a girlfriend and tell everybody how much of a skank and whore she is (and how she has a birthmark on her vagina that makes it look like it's got a black eye); then, the next week, you're back together.

In this situation, Kobe has the Mike Tyson vagina and Phil Jackson is you.

Interesting thought of the day:
Pregnant women throw up during their first trimester because they're not used to the amount of semen they've been forced to ingest because their husband was freaked out by the thought of a baby grabbing his penis.

We Did It!

The AIDS odometer has finally flipped here in the U.S. 1 million AIDS victims! Hooray!

Granted, Africa is still miles ahead of us, but it's a step in the right direction if you ask me. I think if we really try, we can pass Africa by 2010. But I think that's only because by then Africa (renamed in 2008 to AIDSville) will have no more people.

In other news: Boners for everybody!

According to the article, Viagra helps decrease pulmonary hypertension in children. I have to disagree. Nothing makes a kid's heart beat faster than a raging erection that just won't go away. Trust me. It makes teachers very uncomfortable, too.

Interesting thought of the day:
I told you Michael Jackson wouldn't be found guilty. Finding him guilty of a crime is like giving a retard the death sentence. Too bad Neverland Ranch isn't in Texas.

Faux Pas! (Not How You Address A Redneck's Father's Day Gift!)

Last night there was a little shindig for my older brother's birthday at ESPN Zone in Downtown Disney. One of his friends who he only sees once every couple of months showed up with his girlfriend. This girlfriend has an obvious physical characteristic that one wouldn't want to accidentally bring up because it could make others uncomfortable.

Needless to say, one of his friends, while making a joke about how the menu had changed so much since my brother had worked there, accidentally did. It was glorious, and the line went a little something like this:

"It's way different, huh, James? You're looking at it all crosseyed."

ZING!

I tense up for a second and shoot a glance at Ms. Sammy Davis, Jr. sitting on the other end of the table and look away before both of her eyes have time to catch me.

And, of course, as soon as they leave, I make it a point to tell my brother's friend the absolutely wonderful mistake he had made.

It's not like you can't notice her eye. You can see that it's on a lunch break from across the room. And you know she had to notice him saying it. It's like if you had something about you that made you different--like bear claws instead of human hands--if somebody made a comment about a delicious pastry that they would enjoy for breakfast, you would notice it and wonder if they said it because of your grizzly mitts.

It reminded me of this one time a few years ago when I was in Vegas. I was standing back and watching a few friends play blackjack (because I'm cheap in Vegas and spend about eight bucks a day), and they were getting killed. This tiny Asian chick was pulling five-card 21s, blackjacks, whatever. Finally, she lost and, in my excitement, I yelled out, "Oooh, a chink in the armor!"

Right after that, she pulled out a sword, made me some tea, ate a dog, got into a car accident, and did my homework. I felt like such an idiot, and I don't even know if she caught it, but I think she did when she went out to her car and found the word "Chink" scrawled on it in Sweet & Sour sauce.

See, I accidentally made an insensitive racial remark, but I hate making accidents, so, instead, I wanted to convince her that I really meant it.

Interesting thought of the day:
Princess Di fought against land mines, but only to save face after she thought she was leading the charge against bland mimes and didn't want to feel embarrassed by dropping the cause when she found out what it really was.