tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-80555710017039237642024-02-19T17:23:54.364-07:00Confessions of an Armchair NinjaA collection of things that are absolutely true...I swear!Grimacehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15951488175080004672noreply@blogger.comBlogger31125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8055571001703923764.post-26128601430640940512012-05-16T00:16:00.000-06:002012-05-16T00:16:04.495-06:00Hello everyone! (Both of you)<br />
I, for some reason have been asked to do a guest post on a friend's blog. This got me thinking. And after that, I realized that I haven't posted anything in like a decade. So I asked someone else to do a guest post for me. So I got...Tom.<br />
I've been working with Tom for some time now. He was very timid at first, and would only eat out of a bowl placed very far from my trailer down by the river. But, I've been patient, and he will now take treats of beef jerky and fish balls from my hand. Next week, I'm hoping to teach him to sit, and after that, Quantum Theory.<br />
In the meantime, he has written the following for your personal enjoyment and edification.<br />
Please give him a pat on the head for his hard work. Thank you.<br />
<br />
THE NEWLYWED WOMAN'S RULES<br />FOR DISPLAYING KNICK-KNACKS:<br /><br /><br />
1. All Knick-knacks must be made of porcelain* and have at least five
(5) porcelain accents attached. These can be: flowers, feathers etc. All
accents or decorations must conform to the following criteria:<br />(A) All accents/decorations must have a +5 F.E.S. rating (Fragile Egg Shell).<br />(B)
Be intricate and fragile enough in structure and painting and or
gilding as to render any subsequent reattachment with glue impossible to
hide and be immediately noticed.<br />(C) Be evenly spaced around the
knick-knack to ensure that in the event the knick-knack should fall
over, at least one accent will land first.<br />(D) Each accent must be integral to the knick-knack and have significant meaning.<br /><br /> 1. All Knick-knacks must have a high center of gravity and be as off centered as possible.<br /> 2. All Knick-knacks must have a base as narrow as possible to accent the high center of gravity.<br /> 3. Knick-knacks on display must be one of the following:<br />(A) A limited edition no longer available<br />(B) From a foreign country and/or received from a deceased relative/dear friend<br /> (C) A one of a kind. Usually handmade from a deceased relative/dear friend/small child*.<br />*
Knick-knacks from a small child may be made from something other than
porcelain. This is the only exemption to the porcelain only rule. If a
knick-knack is made by a child and is made of something other than
porcelain it must contain macaroni and be biodegradable and must be
highly susceptible to water damage while still being extremely fragile.<br /><br /> 1. All Knick-knacks must be displayed in a matter that will maximize visibility. For example:<br />(A)
Knick-knacks may be on a narrow shelf or desk that is approximately 1
inch below the light switch of the room. Ideally, the knick-knack
should be placed directly in front of the light switch so it is noticed
every time the light switch is turned on or off. The light switch can
also be framed by two knick-knacks placed closely together effectively
"framing" the switch (Advanced level). They may be also displayed on the
edge of end tables next to high traffic areas.<br /><br />(B)
Knick-knacks may also be placed on a wall mounted display. Simply secure
a large, heavy, multi-leveled frame to the wall by stapling dental
floss (mint), to the back top two corners and hang on the wall with an
ordinary thumb tack. Be sure to precisely balance the shelf with the
knick-knacks, (Ideally, the shelf must be perfectly balanced or the
entire shelf will fall). Tell no one of this fact. Remember: Do not use
a deep shelve. Your knick -knacks only need half of their base on the
shelf. You may also hang your frame so it pokes out into a door way up
to 2 inches so people will be reminded to "watch out" for the beauty of
your Knick-knack shelf.<br /><br />(C) You may also place your most prized
Knick-knacks on a wobbly card table directly in front of the main
entrance to your home ensuring that every time the door is opened it
will hit the card table.<br />(D)<br />Your Knick-knacks should always make a
statement and always draw attention. Be creative. Be sure to move them
when people become accustomed to where they are. By always being where
they are least expected, these "Knick-knack booby traps" are guaranteed
to be a conversation starter for you and your husband for years to
come......... Trust me.Grimacehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15951488175080004672noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8055571001703923764.post-21273871863436978582011-10-14T00:58:00.001-06:002011-10-14T00:58:44.410-06:00I have everything.<div xmlns='http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml'> I was reminded tonight that I have absolutely nothing in my life to complain about. I am a selfish jackass for even thinking of whining over things that don't go my way, my job, my schooling. My entire life and everything in it is a gift and I cannot fathom how I could be worthy of it. I sit here shaking as I type this. I am overwhelmed at what I have been given and disappointed in myself that I could look at all that I have and not see the miracle of it. <br/> I experienced horror tonight. For some reason I was thinking about friends that I had gone with to High School and decided to search around a little. I found the facebook page of one: a friend from my band geek days. Her page was filled with people expressing sympathy and heartfelt expressions. Someone asked her what the address was for her blog, as she wanted to follow what was going on. I looked up my old friend's blog and began to read about her husband's battle with cancer. She has posted pictures from day one and has kept the blog for over a year now. <br/> She, along with the rest of her family, is brave and faithful. She writes about her husband being unable to speak, losing his mind, alternately crying and praying to God to take him, and then being filled with rage that comes from nowhere and is taken out on his family. She writes about her husband whispering to God over and over to help him face the pain, while she holds him and tells him that God is already helping. <br/> Absolute horror.<br/> I thought myself to be somewhat enlightened, as to what really matters in life. My beautiful wife who puts up with me, and has agreed to be by my side for eternity, come what may. My treasure, my little boy who meets me at the door when I get home from work and tells me that he's so very glad that I'm home. My stepson who, at times, I don't know how to relate to him, but I try to be a good for him though I fail as often as not. <br/> But trying to put myself in my friend's shoes was too much for me. Darkness, dread, terror and horror. <br/> I have no right to be unhappy. I have no right to complain. My life is a dream.<br/><br/><div class='zemanta-pixie'><img src='http://img.zemanta.com/pixy.gif?x-id=5d6feb2f-9707-8086-a2ee-75ede8f446c3' alt='' class='zemanta-pixie-img'/></div></div>Grimacehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15951488175080004672noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8055571001703923764.post-26187734348288865312011-08-03T01:15:00.001-06:002011-08-03T01:15:10.742-06:00I'm too evolved for your "humor".<div xmlns='http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml'> WARNING! POOR TASTE FOLLOWS! <br/> I seriously believe that my sense of humor has evolved light years ahead of most everyone else. This is because sometimes I will say something so incredibly funny, so diabolically witty, that other people's fragile psyches just can't accept it. While I laugh hysterically, sometimes other people will just furrow their brow in an effort to keep their brains from literally exploding and oozing out of their nose. I think I was born with this enlightened sense of humor, and sometimes, it is a sorry burden that I bare. <br/> Let me turn your thoughts back to my youth, and I shall endeavor to relate the first time that this gift of mine became apparent.<br/> I was a band geek in High School. Except in my school, that made you one of the cool kids. Really, it's true. We even had groupies. I also had a mullet, so I was basically burying the needle on the awesome scale. <br/> I was also in Pep band. Pep band is for geeks who think that kids who take choir still drink breast milk. And if you were a madrigal, there's a good chance that a member of the Pep band slept with your mom. <br/> One of the songs we had to learn for Pep band was "Louie Louie". This was your basic pep band fare, and if you couldn't learn this song in one day, you had two choices: the percussionists could either practice on your face, or you could go listen to the madrigals. Most people chose the face drumming.<br/> The version of "Louie Louie" that we played was by the group, The Kingsmen. Remember that. It's vital to this stupid story.<br/> So one day I found myself in seminary, quite by accident I'm sure. We were reading about two ancient groups of people. One group wanted to elect judges as their form of government. They called themselves the Freemen. The other group wanted to raise a king, and they called themselves the Kingsmen. I know what you're thinking! You're thinking, "Oh Grim...you didn't." Well the answer, gentle reader, is that I sure as poopy did!<br/> As soon as the kid reading said the words "The Kingsmen", my overactive neurons fired off an alert that an impending joke was making it's way across the peaks and valleys of my brainmeats, and would soon be exiting somewhere around my vocal cords. As you can see, I had no control over this outcome whatsoever. In a loud clear voice, I said to the rest of the class, "Hey didn't they sing Louie Louie??"<br/><br/> Silence. <br/><br/> Nothing. Not even crickets, like you hear in movies.<br/> For the next few seconds, I could barely contain myself. My brain was on a comedic high. I marveled at my own sheer genius and struggled to maintain my mortality from the transcendent comedic value! I have never guffawed before, but had I had some encouragement, I might have experienced an actual guffaw! <br/>But no, these slope headed mutants in my class just looked at me as if I had just recited the Pledge of Allegiance in Swahili or something. <br/>I just sorta slunk down in my chair and tried to look as un-genius and inconspicuous as possible.<br/><br/>There were innumerable other episodes like this to follow, but what finally drove the point home was when my wife, as a reaction to my teasing her about something, hit me in the head with a loaf of garlic bread and I told her I was going to call the cops to report an assault with a "breadly" weapon. <br/>Breadly...weapon. <br/>Yes I said it, and I think I squirted Coke out of my nose shortly thereafter because I laughed about it for like three weeks after that. My wife, of course, gave me this deadpan look, turned, and walked out of the room.<br/>This is when I finally came to the conclusion that my sense of humor must be just too evolved for mere mortals. <br/>Sad really. But I take it one day at a time, you know. <br/><br/><div class='zemanta-pixie'><img src='http://img.zemanta.com/pixy.gif?x-id=6e67dc99-283e-8ac9-8677-889d858456a3' alt='' class='zemanta-pixie-img'/></div></div>Grimacehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15951488175080004672noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8055571001703923764.post-84823607391847479162011-01-21T01:25:00.000-07:002011-01-21T01:25:00.848-07:00The Small Things If you were to die today, how many people do you think would notice and or care? Can you count them on one hand?<br />
Are you sure about that?<br />
For the past several years, a man named Tom has walked past my desk at work and stopped to chat. He is usually smiling and does his best to come up with a funny story to tell me. These stories are some times of his past, some times of things that have happened recently. The humor is not in the subject matter so much, but in their telling, of which only a middle aged black man from the south would be capable.<br />
I learned of his cat, "Boris-Anne", so named because Tom thought that Boris was a great name for a male cat until the vet informed him that Boris was female.<br />
I was told of the time he decided that the tires of his truck were low. He pulled into a gas station and up to the air hose. After putting air in one tire, he used a tire gauge to check the psi. This is what confused him. He saw "psi" and wondered what that meant.<br />
"So ah thought to mahsef, hmmmm. Oh ah know! Put. Some. In!"<br />
Sometime later he was informed that psi stood for pounds per square inch, at this he looked at me with his eyes wide, put both hands flat on my desk, bent his knees and said, "Ah dint know!!"<br />
These stories were usually prefaced by his usual greeting of, "Ah think you should jus' go ahead and go home. Ain't nobody gonna know you left. Jus' put yo stuff on the des' with a note that says 'Use it if ya need it'."<br />
Sometimes after that he would look at the picture of the director, hanging on the wall (her name was Debbie and he wasn't fond of her) and say, "Ah still think we should play 'Hide Debbie'! Ah'd jus' hide her picture in someone's cubicle and they'd siddown and see her picture and go 'AHHHHHHHH!!!'" Again, with his eyes wide and knees bent. He also might, once again, invite me to go with him to Draper the following Saturday to visit his "friend" in prison. This friend was convicted of double homicide. I would always turn down Tom on this offer, and he would always try to argue reasons why it would be fun.<br />
Occasionally he would have to talk to customer support from some company or another, and after getting frustrated with the person to whom he was talking (he'd tell me) he'd "Tell that witch that if she dint hep me, I'd drive down there and pull out her hair weave!" This while making grasping motions with one hand.<br />
At one point, he made sure to teach me the "I Don't Care Song", which consisted of one verse, sung over and over while bobbing up and down and from side to side: "I don't care. I don't care. Zoom zoom zoom. Bing Bing Bing." This was the song to sing when dealing with people who usually needed their hair weaves pulled out.<br />
When he saw that he either needed to go home or get back to work, whichever the case, he would wave to me and say, "Well, ah guess ah'd betta go before they catch me. See yaaa!"<br />
I started dating my wife in August of 2003. I was just beginning to get to know Tom then and he would ask how things were going with us, on occasion. Sarah and I were later engaged and I gave Tom an invitation to the reception. I remember being at the reception and seeing his bald, bespectacled head come down the walk to the reception center. He was impeccably dressed, as he was a man with class. He came in, expressed his congratulations to my wife and I, and sat down at a table next to my 86-ish year old grandmother.<br />
My grandmother was raised in Wyoming, Utah and Idaho and still had the mentality of a depression -era survivor. She had not a single prejudiced bone in her body. However, when and where she was raised, people of different ethnicity did not mingle.<br />
And here was Tom sitting next to her, giving the place some needed color (and I don't mean just his skin) to all of us stiff white folk. I think Tom sensed that my Grandmother was a little uncomfortable, because (as I later found out from both of them) he very politely looked at her and said, "And how are you?" My Grandmother replied, "I'm very good, thank you."<br />
To which, Tom replied, "Would you like to dance?" while pointing at the dance floor. My Grandmother didn't know what to think until Tom gave just a slight smirk. My grandmother then burst out laughing and continued until she was in tears. Later on, at work, Tom told me "She was a lovely woman, and ah was jus' bein' polite."<br />
Tom gave my wife and I an 85 dollar rotisserie as a wedding gift. <br />
<br />
Tom died of heart complications two days after Christmas. He'd had a heart valve replacement and had come back to work for half days, after three months recovery, and appeared to be his normal self, along with some new stories about how he had given the nurses a difficult time.<br />
The following is what pains me: Tom had no family. Apparently, for reasons that are not important, his family had disowned him and he moved to Utah, never speaking to them again. This was roughly 30 years ago. He was alone every Christmas and Thanksgiving. When he died, no relative could be found to claim his body and the mortuary had to take responsibility. His next door neighbor had to be named executor for his estate, and his emergency contact information was his work address and phone. His friends, his coworkers, cleaned out his desk with tears streaming down their faces.<br />
It could, of course, be said that Tom's family was us. But the tragedy is that I don't know if he knew that. I think, because of his reluctance to get really personal with anybody, that for some, he is a case of 'don't know what you got till it's gone.' And I find that to be almost unbearable.<br />
Everybody matters, to somebody. Even if it's the person at whom you smile when you walk in to work. It is the small things, that make you memorable.<br />
<br />
I'll miss you, my friend. Thank you, and go ahead and go, before they catch you.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://obitsutah.com/show_obit.php?id=4278">http://obitsutah.com/show_obit.php?id=4278</a>Grimacehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15951488175080004672noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8055571001703923764.post-76842065898193587182010-10-15T23:29:00.004-06:002010-10-16T00:43:46.404-06:00"Ja Gitcher Deer??"<div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> Before I get into the meat of this offering (pun intended), I need to preface it by stating that I'm fine with other people hunting. I subscribe to Ted Nugent's opinions on the matter, but I do not, myself, hunt.<br />
When I was younger, I spied a little birdie perched atop a tall pine tree and figured I might be able to shoot it with the .22 pump I had in my hands.<br />
I was right. The bird landed in front of me, and only then did I notice how pretty it was, or had been. Meanwhile my friend, who was over by the beaver pond, had discovered the wonders of shooting little tweety birds with a 12 gauge shotgun. Later on, another person in our group was successful in his attempt to shoot, but unsuccessful in his attempt to kill, a chipmunk.<br />
And years of therapy later, I don't hunt...but I don't have a problem with those that do.<br />
This is Utah, after all. Kids are actually let out of school early and given days off to go hunt. It's under the guise of "Fall Break", but we all know what it's for. <br />
<br />
I don't understand why non hunting kids can't get their own semi holiday. It would have been nice to get days off of school for Playstation practice, girl oogling, or even mullet grooming. (Remember, I went to High School during the mid nineties. 'Nuff said.)<br />
So anyway, I was at work and had woke up long enough to go the men's room. As I opened the door, I heard this from the nearby break room: "My son got his deer! He's been gone for weeks! We're so excited!"<br />
If you don't live in Utah and you decide you want to visit, but are worried about being spotted as an outsider, and you are visiting during the fall, all you have to do is greet most of the residents with the traditional Utah salutation: "Ja gitcher deer?"<br />
"Oh fine, thank you! Nice to meet you too!" <br />
That's right! In Utah, you get your very own deer! It's reserved just for you! You have to hunt him down, shoot him and gut him, but he's <i>yours</i>! YAY!<br />
On very bad days, people will say, "Tom is so sad, he didn't get his deer this year." This is followed by a collective sigh and shaking of heads and the passing of the Jell-O salad.<br />
Now because I don't hunt, I don't quite know how this works. I think it's a sort of secret they don't tell you until you pass the required hunter's safety class, but I'm guessing that you probably get into a lot of trouble if you shoot a deer that isn't yours. Yes, I see where the difficulty lies. How do they know to whom the deer belongs? The fact that this has remained a secret has done nothing more than leave ample room for my brainmeats to run and play. (I've been told that this is not always a wise move on my part.) Is the person's name shaved into the animal's fur or something? Well, based on things I've discovered but mostly made up, I think it is, and in big block letters.<br />
The man doing the shaving lives in a small shack on top of Mount Ogden and goes by the name of Randy Barbasol, or "Uncle Shavey" to his friends. He used to teach Hunter's Safety, until he received the Calling. Once a year, a secret dispatch of names is sent to him, and after he receives them, he stealthily shaves the names into the fur of sleeping deer. He's like a ninja, like that, only he doesn't bathe very often. <br />
<br />
Now, this is why hunter's spend so much money on rifle scopes: they have to make sure that they get THEIR deer! If they shoot a deer that doesn't have their name shaved into it, then they have to go to court and appear before Ted Nugent, where his band plays "Cat Scratch Fever" as he pronounces sentence. If you are pronounced guilty, you are locked in a room with Justin Bieber, and the Jonas Brothers bring you rice cakes and Kentucky Fried Spam for lunch.<br />
This also explains why hunters are sometimes gone for long periods of time. They are most likely doing time for shooting other people's deer, and being forced to listen to Justin Bieber and the Jonas Brothers in a "jam" session.<br />
Except for the brave few souls that were kicked out of Hunter's Safety class, but broke into the teacher's secret vault of secrets and then came forward with this information, we would have no insight into this intricate and deadly world of the hunter. We applaud them. Both of us.<br />
Also, so as not to offend any serious hunters out there who may find themselves bored out of their skulls one night and might happen to stumble across this post, or any that were sent here on dare, I offer the following video, in hopes that it may restore the respect and solemnity they feel in living at one with nature, which they might feel has been somehow mocked in this most serious and thought provoking look into their world:<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="youtube-video"><object height="355" width="425"><param value='http://www.youtube.com/v/F9sbWWu5774&feature=youtube_gdata_player' name='movie'></param><param value='transparent' name='wmode'></param><embed height='355' width='425' wmode='transparent' type='application/x-shockwave-flash' src='http://www.youtube.com/v/F9sbWWu5774&feature=youtube_gdata_player'> </embed> </object></div><br />
<br />
Second Week Of Deer Camp - Da Yoopers<br />
<br />
<div class="zemanta-pixie"><img alt="" class="zemanta-pixie-img" src="http://img.zemanta.com/pixy.gif?x-id=e81a586d-11b4-8616-84ca-38fdb00e3561" /></div></div>Grimacehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15951488175080004672noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8055571001703923764.post-78483438091333462782010-06-04T21:19:00.000-06:002010-06-04T21:19:16.727-06:00For IanReprinted here is a note I wrote on Facebook, about my friend Ian Keuster. This is for all those who wish to read it and can't get onto my facebook page because I can't figure out the damn security settings..... <br />
<br />
Ian and I had an english class together in high school. To pass the boredom, we started drawing our own little comic strip. It was silly and was meant to just pass the time, but it became sort of a game with us, where one of us would draw one or two panes of the comic, taking the story wherever we would, and then handing it to the other for him to continue. The comic still makes me laugh and I may even still have it somewhere.<br />
That's how I met Ian: in a boring English class, and I probably wouldn't have survived that class without his friendship and humor.<br />
I didn't keep in touch with him after High School...I didn't really keep in touch with anybody, but I have never forgotten how friendly, unassuming, and how very funny he was. Just the simple act of him being my friend and fellow conspirator in a very poorly drawn, but rather twisted comic strip meant only to pass the time in a boring class, left me with a fond memory of that time in my life, when there didn't seem to be much to be fond of, let alone anything worth leaving a lasting impression.<br />
My condolences and prayers go out to all of his friends and to the Keuster family.<br />
I'll see you in awhile, buddy, and I hope you'll have a joke - or a poorly drawn comic - waiting for me.<br />
--PatrickGrimacehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15951488175080004672noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8055571001703923764.post-31178949977336445102009-12-16T23:58:00.004-07:002010-10-16T01:50:47.243-06:00The Mighty Peasant<div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><span style="font-size: large;"> Once upon a time in a very poor village, there lived a very poor man who worked as a stone cutter. Every day before the sun was up he left his small home to work at the quarry, and returned well after dark to spend a few precious hours with his family.<br />
One night, as he was tucking his young son into bed, the man noticed a very serious look on his little boy's face.<br />
"What's the matter, my son? What is troubling you?" he asked.<br />
" When I grow up, I will not be a poor peasant. I will be rich," The boy confidently stated.<br />
"Well that is good, "said his father with a slight smile, "and why have you decided that you will not be poor?"<br />
"Because poor people are not important. People with money tell peasants what to do, and they must obey."<br />
The boy's statement saddened the man, and his smile waned. He had thought that he had sufficiently taught the boy better values than this.<br />
"I see," he said to his son, and was quiet a moment. "I think we shall have a different kind of story tonight," he said.<br />
The boy brightened and sat up, intrigued. His father said, "Let's pretend you work at the quarry. You work all day chipping away the stone at the foot of the mountain and come home after dark. You are poor, but you and your family have enough to eat and a home to live in. You are happy. Do you still wish to be rich? Do you still wish to be someone else?"<br />
"Yes!" insisted the boy, "I would be the Emperor! His servants carry him on a platform and all the stone cutters must bow to him!"<br />
His father nodded and said, "Indeed, and if you were the Emperor, you would be very important. But, on a hot day, the Emperor must wipe his brow and be covered with an umbrella. Even he cannot command the mighty sun!"<br />
"Well then I would be the sun!" cried the boy, "and even the Emperor would have to hide from me!"<br />
"Oh wise decision, my son!" his father replied, feigning admiration, "and indeed you would be mighty! Oh, but what about clouds? A single cloud can block the hot sun's rays and give shade. Even the mighty sun cannot chase away a cloud."<br />
"Then I would be a cloud!" replied the boy, "and I would decide who would get sun and who would get shade!"<br />
His father continued, "And truly you would be important as a cloud! People would welcome you so that they could have shade! Oh but there is the mountain! As a cloud you could go where you wished until you came to the mountain."<br />
"I would fly over the mountain!" the boy exclaimed, thinking he had outsmarted his father.<br />
"Ah, but clouds can only fly so high and this mountain is too tall. As important as you are as a cloud, the mighty mountain still stands in your way."<br />
"Then I would be the mighty mountain! And the Emperor, and the sun, and the cloud could not command me! I would stand in everyone's way, and I would move for no one!" The boy was triumphant, thinking he had reached the ultimate answer.<br />
<br />
The father's face became passive, and he was quiet a moment. He then leaned towards his son and said almost in a whisper:<br />
<br />
</span><span style="font-size: large;">"But my son, you have forgotten about the mighty peasant, chipping away at your feet."<br />
<br />
</span>----------------<br />
Now playing: <a href="http://www.foxytunes.com/artist/loreena_mckennitt/track/beneath_a_phrygian_sky" title="'Loreena McKennitt - Beneath a Phrygian Sky' - open on FoxyTunes Planet">Loreena McKennitt - Beneath a Phrygian Sky</a><br />
<span style="color: #999999; font-size: 10px; font-style: italic;">via <a href="http://www.foxytunes.com/signatunes/" style="color: #666666;" title="FoxyTunes - Web of music at your fingertips">FoxyTunes</a></span> <br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<div class="zemanta-pixie"><span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="" class="zemanta-pixie-img" src="http://img.zemanta.com/pixy.gif?x-id=c4bfb81a-ee20-80f9-b8d0-7ee60c560eae" /></span></div></div>Grimacehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15951488175080004672noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8055571001703923764.post-64330187952962745662009-08-18T01:06:00.000-06:002009-08-18T01:06:15.684-06:00A present for GM.<span style="font-size: x-large;">I've decided that I will give GM a gift. I don't expect much in return. Maybe just a new car every year for the rest of my life. I think that would be a fair trade for saving them don't you think? I realize I may be too late, seeing as how GM now stands for Government Motors, and if it really is too late for them to use my suggestion, then maybe some other car company CEOs can rub their skulls together and decide to use my idea. It's a simple idea, and I'll tell you how I stumbled upon it:</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">I was driving (in my reliable non-american brand name car) and my wife was sitting in the seat next to me. I came to a 4 way stop, or maybe it was a stop light. Ok what matters is that I had to stop the car for some reason and wait on other drivers. Before I decided the coast was clear enough to move along, in my right ear I hear this: "Are you gonna go? I mean Christmas is just around the corner."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Several miles down the road, I had to change lanes, I believe. I'm not sure what I did wrong, but I was informed that, "It's ok....I'm only on the kill side!"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">It was at this point I decided that I was done driving and it didn't matter that the car was still traveling and around 60 miles an hour. I said, "Ok, I'm done." and promptly let go of the wheel and stared out the driver's side window in search of something else to hold my interest. The car traveled on, merrily careening down the road, first from one lane and then to another, then off of the road altogether, all the while my wife screaming something about look out for such and such and ohhhh no "we're gonna die!" and I'm sitting there staring out the window and covering my ears while chanting, "I'M NOT LISTENING I'M NOT LISTENING I'M NOT LISTENING BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH".....you get the picture.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Then we crashed and died.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">All of this could have been averted had our car manufacturer made a slight modification. You see, I'm sure I'm not the only one whose wife has informed him that, "I'm just not equipped to ride in a car and be quiet about your driving." I'm also sure that there are wives who have heard the same thing from their husbands, although I'm also sure I'd be hard pressed to find that wife. I'm just going to say that in the interest of fairness, and because I'm sure I'm already pushing my chances of having to sleep on the couch tonight.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">What is that modification, you ask? Well I'll tell you then:</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Dual steering wheels, and another brake and gas pedal on the passenger side.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Think of it: The next time you think to yourself, "That's it, I'm done driving!" You don't have to sit there while your car barrels down the road and plays chicken with an overpass wall....you can merely scoot your seat back and let your passenger take over, while you relax in comfort and stare out the window and look for something else to hold your interest.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">If GM had made cars with this little feature, they would be outselling Ferrari, I guarantee you!</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">(love you honey!)</span>Grimacehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15951488175080004672noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8055571001703923764.post-59241305504849890272009-05-25T01:00:00.002-06:002009-05-25T01:01:39.671-06:00Please do something to commemorate Memorial Day today.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-WEOPFBjiHl2ScuJ3XxOhVTSLuiwZpV4hm3ix3JiFEKAe10S2uMO31wN993JfWNeNdtPtZGcCYbulaGGy9OjrLDdI6tIyEvcCQvgpjLfr3Jz9969gxZ7TnAbEflBkyZPjl7Zq-FRTvhs/s1600-h/GregBelew.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br />
</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4OMerEa44s_-pycsGenG_I5DTxfe_XiSGjh5y6gC1IzTJhHfXaafxXCitibKfDSEU7X2Lhyphenhyphen1lxJsGigBSURlhML6ZR9NZsprhSvg47p17-QhkU7PpxzYZ1KYfiEahVRhMZQqVjks0hCE/s1600-h/Image007a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">My cousin, Greg</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-WEOPFBjiHl2ScuJ3XxOhVTSLuiwZpV4hm3ix3JiFEKAe10S2uMO31wN993JfWNeNdtPtZGcCYbulaGGy9OjrLDdI6tIyEvcCQvgpjLfr3Jz9969gxZ7TnAbEflBkyZPjl7Zq-FRTvhs/s1600-h/GregBelew.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="441" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-WEOPFBjiHl2ScuJ3XxOhVTSLuiwZpV4hm3ix3JiFEKAe10S2uMO31wN993JfWNeNdtPtZGcCYbulaGGy9OjrLDdI6tIyEvcCQvgpjLfr3Jz9969gxZ7TnAbEflBkyZPjl7Zq-FRTvhs/s320/GregBelew.jpg" width="609" /></a></div><br />
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</a></div>Grimacehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15951488175080004672noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8055571001703923764.post-84190005361618162482009-05-03T23:06:00.001-06:002009-05-03T23:08:18.611-06:00My yearly Cinco de Mayo rant.<div style="text-align: center;">WARNING: POLITICAL CONTENT <span style="font-size:x-large;"> </span><br /></div><span style="font-size:x-large;"><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">Yes, sports fans, I'm going to do it again this year. I'm going to annoy all of you (okay, both of you) by pointing out that Cinco de Mayo is NOT celebrated in Mexico, at least not to any significant lengths. In fact, the "state" in which the battle took place, Puebla, merely has a small parade in the morning on May 5th of every year. It is also NOT Mexico's Independence Day:</span></span><span style="font-size:180%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size:180%;">"The holiday commemorates the Mexican army's unlikely defeat of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/France" title="France">French</a> forces at the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Puebla" title="Battle of Puebla">Battle of Puebla</a> on <span class="mw-formatted-date" title="1862-05-05"><span class="mw-formatted-date" title="05-05"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/May_5" title="May 5">May 5</a></span>, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1862" title="1862">1862</a></span>, under the leadership of Mexican General <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ignacio_Zaragoza" title="Ignacio Zaragoza">Ignacio Zaragoza Seguín</a>." --- as per Wikipedia---<br /></span><span style="font-size:180%;"><br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:180%;">"However, a common misconception in the United States is that Cinco de Mayo is <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grito_de_Dolores" title="Grito de Dolores">Mexico's Independence Day</a>,<sup class="reference" id="cite_ref-9"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cinco_de_mayo#cite_note-9" title=""><span>[</span>10<span>]</span></a></sup> which actually is <span class="mw-formatted-date" title="09-16"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/September_16" title="September 16">September 16</a></span> (<i>dieciséis de septiembre</i> in Spanish),<sup class="reference" id="cite_ref-10"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cinco_de_mayo#cite_note-10" title=""><span>[</span>11<span>]</span></a></sup> the most important national patriotic holiday in Mexico. " <br /></span><span style="font-size:180%;"><br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:180%;">Yet, thanks in large part to immigrants from Mexico, both legal and otherwise, who believe that this great country should conform to THEM, this day which has nothing to do with America, and is considered somewhat minor in Mexico, is celebrated as an unofficial national holiday.<br /></span><span style="font-size:180%;">Thank you very much, but I once again will not be participating in any cinco de mayo festivities. Especially this year as how our government does not consider swine flu enough of a threat to close the border, while Mexico refuses to treat it's populace, sometimes going to such lengths as telling doctors to stay home.<br /></span><span style="font-size:180%;">Instead, sanctuary cities such as San Francisco are still welcoming illegal immigrants from Mexico with open arms and welfare, despite the entire state's financial welfare being flushed down the toilet several times over.<br /></span><span style="font-size:180%;"> Interesting that the areas most affected by swine flu are those areas heavily populated by illegal Mexican immigrants, no? And no, CNN isn't going to report on that little morsel any time soon.<br /></span><span style="font-size:180%;"><br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:180%;"> From an email I received: <br /></span><span style="font-size:180%;">(Hoax or not, the writer has it spot on)<br /></span><span style="font-size:180%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:180%;" >From: 'David LaBonte'<br />My wife, Rosemary, wrote a wonderful letter to the editor of the OC Register which, of course, was not printed. So, I decided to 'print' it myself by sending it out on the Internet. Pass it along if you feel so inclined. Written in response to a series of letters to the editor in the Orange County Register: </span><span style="font-size:180%;"><br /></span> <div> <div> <div> <div> <div style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:180%;" ><br /> <br />Dear Editor:<br />So many letter writers have based their arguments on how this land is made up of immigrants. Ernie Lujan for one, suggests we should tear down the Statue of Liberty because the people now in question aren't being treated the same as those who passed through Ellis Island and other ports of entry (like over border fences, through underground tunnels, in hidden compartments, and other illegal means of entry).<br /> <br />Maybe we should turn to our history books and point out to other people like Mr. Lujan why today's American is not willing to accept this new kind of immigrant any longer. Back in 1900 when there was a rush from all areas of Europe to come to the United States, people had to get off a ship and stand in a long line in New York and be documented. Some would even get down on their hands and knees and kiss the ground. They made a pledge to uphold the laws and support their new country in good and bad times. They made learning English a primary rule in their new American households and some even changed their names to blend in with their new home.<br />They had waved good bye to their birth place to give their children a new life and did everything in their power to help their children assimilate into one culture. Nothing was handed to them. No free lunches, no welfare, no labor laws to protect them. All they had were the skills and craftsmanship they had brought with them to trade for a future of prosperity.<br />Most of their children came of age when World War II broke out. My father fought alongside men whose parents had come straight over from Germany , Italy , France , and Japan . None of these first generation Americans ever gave any thought about what country their parents had come from. They were Americans fighting Hitler, Mussolini, and the Emperor of Japan. They were defending the United States of America as one people.<br />When we liberated France , no one in those villages was looking for the French-American or the German-American or the Irish-American. The people of France saw only Americans. And we carried one flag that represented one country. Not one of those immigrant sons would have thought about picking up another country's flag and waving it to represent who they were. It would have been a disgrace to their parents who had sacrificed so much to be here. These immigrants truly knew what it meant to be an American. They stirred the melting pot into one red, white and blue bowl.<br />And here we are in 2009 with a new kind of immigrant who wants the same rights and privileges while maintaining their Mexican identity--including, apparently, a lack of respect for the country they should now call home. They want to achieve citizenship by playing with a different set of rules, one that includes the entitlement card and a guarantee of being faithful to their mother country.<br />I'm sorry, that's not what being an American is all about. Americans are American-Americans. I believe that the immigrants who landed on Ellis Island in the early 1900's deserve better than that for all the toil, hard work and sacrifice in raising future generations to create a land that has become a beacon for those legally searching for a better life. I think they would be appalled that they are being used as an example by those waving foreign country flags.<br />And for that suggestion about taking down the Statue of Liberty, it happens to mean a lot to the citizens who are voting on the Immigration Bill; especially those Americans that became citizens through the proper procedures. And I certainly wouldn't start talking about dismantling the United States just yet!!<br />(signed) Rosemary LaBonte </span></div></div></div></div></div><br /><sup class="reference" id="cite_ref-11"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cinco_de_mayo#cite_note-11" title=""><span></span><span></span></a></sup>Grimacehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15951488175080004672noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8055571001703923764.post-25192157529345823162009-03-03T00:59:00.003-07:002009-03-03T01:13:06.082-07:00SPEAKING AS A MAN, I'M REALLY TIRED OF ALL THE MUCOUS.<div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><div align="center"><br /> <span style="font-size:x-large;">WARNING! BAD TASTE FOLLOWS.</span></div><span style="font-size:x-large;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-size:x-large;">I consider myself well versed in all things tough, manly and or macho. Or at least, I've seen pictures in magazines.</span><br /><span style="font-size:x-large;">I am aware of the need for most men to strut around, peacock-like, to not only attract the opposite sex, but to also attempt to tell other men that he has a bigger penis which is somehow supposedly linked to the size, and sheer obnoxiousness of his personal vehicle, and or dress and taste in music. </span><br /><span style="font-size:x-large;">This is fine. It confuses me, but this is fine.</span><br /><span style="font-size:x-large;">So, speaking as a fellow member of the club, I respectfully submit my request to all other guys out there, to stop with the damn spitting. I've noticed that that this mostly applies to smokers, which is understandable to a certain degree. You get tobacco in your mouth, you gotta spit it out. Fine. But don't stand there and create a small pond, ok? The rest of us don't want to walk through that shit on our way into work.</span><br /><span style="font-size:x-large;">By far the worst is the men's bathroom. Why does my fellow man feel the need to hock into the urinal before using it? Seriously, this is disgusting, and public bathrooms already are unpleasant enough. </span><br /><span style="font-size:x-large;">I thought for awhile that maybe this was a fad or maybe even some new way of throwing gang signs, and hoped that it would just sort of fade away, much like Paris Hilton. (Hoping!) However, several years later after first noticing this, guys are still spitting into urinals before using them. I'm sorry, I don't get it and it makes me rather ill. I have yet to see a target when I have looked down into a urinal, so I don't think it's about marksmanship, either. Besides...err...wouldn't you rather aim a flamethrower at a target rather than a single shot pellet gun? (Look, it's a weak simile, I admit that, but then again it's also 12:30 AM and the spamballs aren't settling well. Ok just picture something similar and we'll both be happy and be ready to move on, alright? Jeez.)</span><br /><span style="font-size:x-large;">And guys do this in front of their wives and girlfriends too, I've noticed. What is this guy thinking? </span><br /><span style="font-size:x-large;">"Hmmm...I haven't done anything to impress her yet for this hour. Better get on that..." </span><br /><span style="font-size:x-large;">SSNNNGGKKKKKK.......THOO! </span><br /><span style="font-size:x-large;">And then he looks around as if his guy friends are gonna look at him and say, "Doood! WOW! I bet you could bench press Canada!"</span><br /><span style="font-size:x-large;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-size:x-large;">This is when the guy thinks about turning to his girl and saying, "So you hot now or what?" </span><br /><span style="font-size:x-large;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-size:x-large;">Sadly, I have met women who I think are actually turned on by this behavior. Paris Hilton, maybe? (Haven't met her.)</span><br /><span style="font-size:x-large;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-size:x-large;">Is this too much to ask, really? Come on guys, most of us have now managed to mostly keep our crotch scratching under control while in the midst of the general public. We invented the "one cheek sneak", and the soundless burp (even if it's no fun) so can we please, PLEASE do away with this???</span><br /><span style="font-size:x-large;">I can't tell you how tired I am of sitting in the bathroom, minding my own well-mannered business, when suddenly I'm assaulted with:</span><br /><span style="font-size:x-large;">NGNNGGGGKKKKK!!!.....THOO! </span><br /><span style="font-size:x-large;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-size:x-large;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-size:x-large;">"DOOOOD!"</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />----------------<br />Listening to: <a href="http://www.foxytunes.com/artist/the+thrillseekers/track/nightmusic+volume+3" title="'The Thrillseekers - Nightmusic Volume 3' - open on FoxyTunes Planet">The Thrillseekers - Nightmusic Volume 3</a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153); font-style: italic; font-size: 10px;">via <a style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102);" href="http://www.foxytunes.com/signatunes/" title="FoxyTunes - Web of music at your fingertips">FoxyTunes</a></span> <br /><div class="zemanta-pixie"><img class="zemanta-pixie-img" src="http://img.zemanta.com/pixy.gif?x-id=05ecf6b4-60d4-4de6-a900-847e21d11c5b" /></div></div>Grimacehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15951488175080004672noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8055571001703923764.post-78671826469701441322009-02-03T00:32:00.005-07:002009-02-03T08:22:57.375-07:00Why I don't sleep<span style="font-size: 180%;">Another short one here.<br />
I have dreamed of zombies. I have dreamed of flying body parts. I have dreamed of ghosts, monsters, and flying zombies who have flying body parts.<br />
And I once dreamed that I was a woman named Frieda.<br />
But nothing, and I mean nothing prepared me for when I saw the following clip, and saw proof that the thing of nightmares is very real and lives deep in the ocean. I figure, I will share my pain because I'm a vindictive jerk like that:<br />
</span><br />
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxDC79bMwQPiBEaqvdcJvMbOS_jPu_QVHT1sg7oonQ4rCis-jJejzrLeNxunrZzIhI_LcZTmessEoslb0iGHg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">If these things decide that humans look like they'd taste pretty good, and figure out how to use firearms, we're screwed.</span><br />
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Listening to: <a href="http://www.foxytunes.com/artist/bluetech/track/alchemie+dub" title="'Bluetech - Alchemie Dub' - open on FoxyTunes Planet">Bluetech - Alchemie Dub</a><br />
<span style="color: #999999; font-size: 10px; font-style: italic;">via <a href="http://www.foxytunes.com/signatunes/" style="color: #666666;" title="FoxyTunes - Web of music at your fingertips">FoxyTunes</a></span>Grimacehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15951488175080004672noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8055571001703923764.post-10357094614619809912008-12-21T00:27:00.000-07:002008-12-21T01:42:31.223-07:00Ah Bumhug!<span style="font-size: x-large;">WARNING!! DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE IN THE THROES OF CHRISTMAS CHEER! <br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">Maybe it's the fact that I've been coughing my brains out for the past week, or the fact that when they were passing out REAL jobs, I was out playing paintball and therefore have been consigned to work on Christmas morning ( I didn't want to watch the kids open presents in the morning anyway, I mean what father would?) but I gotta tell ya I'm not really feeling it this year. Hopefully that changes this week, but we'll see. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"> I'd really like someone to tell me why people save up their ignorance and stupidity for the holiday season. Think about it...when do people behave the worst? Yup, Christmas through New Year's. You don't want to drive anywhere for fear of getting rammed by some jackass who is on a freakin' MISSION to find little Davey the very last Nintendo Wii in the northern hemisphere. You certainly don't want to go into any discount type stores, because the roving bands of screaming and parentless children just might devour you. And all the while, what is the only thing playing on the radio?? Commercials done to the already annoying tunes of children's christmas songs....the same ones I hated when I was little. (Someone please find the guy who writes the Garmin commercials and set him on fire, thank you)</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Would you like to know what my favorite Christmas memory is as a child? Well I'll tell you anyway: Lying on the frontroom couch in the dark, watching the lights change color on the Christmas tree while it was snowing outside. All the while I was surrounded by utter and complete silence. I wasn't that concerned about what was or wasn't going to be under the Christmas tree, I didn't have to be anywhere or do anything. I could merely lay there and think about the season itself, I guess. I'm not going to tell you that I lay there and contemplated the true meaning of Christmas, about the birth of Our Saviour and how I would honor it this year, etc...etc. I was a kid...and I guess I wish I still could be, in some ways anyway.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">I guess if I were to get a Christmas wish, I would wish that the everyday barrage of noise that beats us about the head 24 hours a day would be silenced just for the last 2 weeks of December. No car doors slamming, no screaming neighbors, no politics, no commercials. Maybe then we actually COULD contemplate the "true meaning of Christmas" and more importantly the birth of our Savior, as well as have a little time to breathe before we're thrust into a new year of it starting all over again.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">So Santa, I guess what I really want for Christmas, is merely a return to a simpler time.</span><br />
Either that, or Marissa Miller.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAZAmJt2Q-R0o8YEySxCZ8js4tzlfW7P1Ea3FKidTgWOhmhUQvX9nSbJtyG9yIy3wqbYHIB7cpbaTx0uEJxa6POe4QCi1NfCPzWHv4ulKJWFuci8xFNJdW2Gdj5aGLcpESDDqHfXJFO10/s1600-h/santa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAZAmJt2Q-R0o8YEySxCZ8js4tzlfW7P1Ea3FKidTgWOhmhUQvX9nSbJtyG9yIy3wqbYHIB7cpbaTx0uEJxa6POe4QCi1NfCPzWHv4ulKJWFuci8xFNJdW2Gdj5aGLcpESDDqHfXJFO10/s400/santa.jpg" /></a></div>Grimacehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15951488175080004672noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8055571001703923764.post-74666236298889162902008-12-10T00:34:00.001-07:002008-12-10T00:38:35.122-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYhzskyV_oLJFvNN8sO5OYxKllz6bI2VHF1UhqMBdkr7cr0xuxEYNGyrDeuDmgNr5mBRGqwrJmkMwuHrLQZplaNu1k__lOOvcW1ik1nLw0CE5cp7KG-4ieCyNkNQmszKoHEp328cSCRQs/s1600-h/bailout.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYhzskyV_oLJFvNN8sO5OYxKllz6bI2VHF1UhqMBdkr7cr0xuxEYNGyrDeuDmgNr5mBRGqwrJmkMwuHrLQZplaNu1k__lOOvcW1ik1nLw0CE5cp7KG-4ieCyNkNQmszKoHEp328cSCRQs/s400/bailout.jpg" /></a></div>Grimacehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15951488175080004672noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8055571001703923764.post-83811323792196123912008-12-04T21:42:00.005-07:002008-12-04T22:07:51.644-07:00"...they did point the finger of scorn at me and those that were partaking of the fruit also; but we heeded them not. "<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:180%;" ><div> <div><span style="font-size:10;">WE ALL ARE MORMONS....by Rabbi Shifren</span></div> </div> <div> <div> </div> </div> <div> <div><span style="font-size:10;">We are living in an era of insanity! Witness the latest attempt to remake the nature of our country, founded and established on certain principles that have been the envy of the entire world. The latest assault on our country and its values comes in the form of vicious and criminal violence against the Mormon church in Westwood, California</span></div> </div> <div> <div> </div> </div> <div> <div><span style="font-size:10;">Interesting how the selective self-righteous indignation on the part of the radical Gay activists is played out here: they bewail the blow to freedom and justice! But I thought we just had elections, where the majority of Californians expressed their views in a free and open manner. Are we not a nation of laws? Dare we relive the McCarthy era, where Americans were harassed and threatened with the loss of their jobs for believing in a certain way? If the Gay radicals should have their way, untold numbers of Americans would live under the threat of the Gay-Lesbian "thought police," where individuals that reject the Gay lifestyle would be sought out and have sanctions brought against them. </span></div> </div> <div> <div> </div> </div> <div> <div><span style="font-size:10;">It's bad enough for those working in the entertainment industry here in Los Angeles, where a fog of political correctness and a bending over backwards to accommodate, even promote Gay lifestyle is in full gear. Let none dare say that this type of activity is anathema t o our country, our morality, and the debauchery of our young people.</span></div> </div> <div> <div> </div> </div> <div> <div><span style="font-size:10;">Let it be stated unequivocally: The radical Gay attack on the Mormons is the shot over the bow against the United States of America. There was a time when what a man did in his bedroom was sanctified between himself and G-d. Now we are being served an "in-your-face" smorgasbord of smut and licentiousness as being between people who only "want their civil rights." </span></div> </div> <div> <div> </div> </div> <div> <div><span style="font-size:10;">Hogwash! We are dealing with the equivalent of a moral takeover of the country that has as its bedrock a belief in G-d and His promise for humanity. They don't want civil rights! What they desire is quasi Gay/Lesbian hegemony, where a huge "bookburning," reminiscent of the Nazis, will purge any remnants of the "Christian, White, mainstream America" that has given ALL AMERICANS the most profound scope of freedom, liberty, and justice that Mankind has yet to experience. </span></div> </div> <div> <div> </div> </div> <div> <div><span style="font-size:10;">People have perhaps wondered: why the Mormons? Answe r: they are a small, yet vocal Christian minority. They have been selected by the mobs as vulnerable, a group that might not have such massive support among America's Christians. </span></div> </div> <div> <div> </div> </div> <div> <div><span style="font-size:10;">We who are friends of the Mormons, their patriotism, their family values, will not falter in our continued support of these dear Americans. Let us recall the Christian minister Niemoller, whose admonition during those dark years of Nazi Germany moved us to our core:</span></div> </div> <div> <div> </div> </div> <div> <div><span style="font-size:10;">"When they came for the gypsies, I said nothing, because I wasn't a gypsy. When they came for the homosexuals, I said nothing, because I wasn't a homosexual. When they came for the Jews, I said nothing, because I wasn't a Jew. Then they came for the Catholics, and I said nothing, because I wasn't a Catholic......then they came for me, and there was no one left to defend me."</span></div> </div> <div> <div> </div> </div> <div> <div><span style="font-size:10;">My fellow Americans, in the coming battle for the heart and soul of America and everything we cherish, may this call to arms be the mantra of every concerned patriot:</span></div> </div> <div> <div> </div> </div> <div> <div><span style="font-size:10;">"WE ALL ARE MORMONS!"</span></div> </div> <div> <div><span style="font-size:10;">==============================<wbr>=======</span></div> </div> <div> <div><span style="font-size:10;">Rabbi Nachum Shifren</span></div> </div> <div> <div><span style="font-size:10;">Lecturer and Author, "Kill Your Teacher: An Expose of Corruption and Racism in LA Schools" & "Surfing Rabbi: A Kabbalistic Quest for the Soul"</span></div> </div> <div> <div><b><span style="font-size:10;"><a href="http://www.surfingrabbi.com/" target="_blank">http://www.surfingrabbi.com</a></span></b></div> </div> <div> <div><b><span style="font-size:10;"><a href="http://www.surfingrabbi.com/surf_blog.html" target="_blank">http://www.surfingrabbi.com/<wbr>surf_blog.html</a></span></b></div> </div> <div> <div><b><span style="font-size:10;"><a href="http://www.killyourteacher.com/" target="_blank">http://www.killyourteacher.com</a></span></b></div> </div></span>Grimacehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15951488175080004672noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8055571001703923764.post-78340570372138649162008-11-06T00:27:00.001-07:002008-11-06T01:17:47.982-07:00Please Check Body Odor Before Riding----------------<br /> <span style="font-size:x-large;">Sarah and I went to Lagoon (an amusement park near our domicile) a few weeks ago to experience their "Frightmares" theme. The whole park was done up in a Halloween theme and there were various people running around in costumes attempting to add to the festivities. There were even stage shows complete with homosexual men dressed in gothic vampire garb trying to look masculine and failing. Although Sarah did ask me if I'd ever wear one of the buckled vests to bed. I told her I would as long as it didn't make me look gay. </span><br /><span style="font-size:x-large;">So anyway we decided to go on one of their newer rides. It was called the "Cliffhanger". Basically you sit in a pilot's chair and a large almost padded bar folds down over you and crushes your snarglies. There are two rows of victims on this ride and on the outset the whole thing lifts in the air and turns you upside down and leaves you hanging there while your legs flop around helplessly in front of you. Then it quickly flips you around the other way while rotating on a big wheel. Then it turns you upside down again and suspends you directly above some water spigots that stare back at you and threaten to squirt the ever lovin crap out of your face. There are least 6 different opportunities you may take advantage of to vomit directly into the crowd below, who stare at you and think, "Hey! That looks fun!"</span><br /><span style="font-size:x-large;">Now that you've grasped the appeal of this ride, I can continue:</span><br /><span style="font-size:x-large;">So we climb into our seats and have our midsections crushed by the restraining bar, (which is for our safety remember, I may not be able to father children ever again, but at least I wasn't getting out of that friggin' seat!)</span><br /><span style="font-size:x-large;">This is when I am assaulted by a smell that for some reason reminds me of my bachelor days. I turn to my right and find a somewhat chunky girl wearing a tank top and a nervous look on her face. (The look was on her face, not the tank top) I am assaulted again and realize that either this girl has just completed a marathon before coming to the park, or hasn't showered in oh...maybe a year. Or maybe both...with some dog poo on her shoes on top of it all....and a dead fish in her pocket.</span><br /><span style="font-size:x-large;">This is when I realized that I was trapped in my seat by the safety device designed to end my genetic line. I almost panicked. I could not turn to my left and complain to my wife because my head was set back into the seat frame. Well, I guess I could have, but it would have required me to yell to her, and I consider myself a polite guy, even when being forced to endure nasal assaults. So the ride finally started and occasionally the ride would pick up enough speed that the wind would provide me with some relief, but not often enough. I heard the girl next to me start to make some noises like she was scared, so in a wild state of revenge I started screaming "WE'RE ALL GONNA DIIIEEEEE!! AHHHHH!!!!!"</span><br /><span style="font-size:x-large;">I figured if I had to suffer, so did she.</span><br /><span style="font-size:x-large;">We lived through the ride and more importantly I lived through the mind numbing odor. Thankfully, after the ride everybody thought my panting was due to adrenaline caused from the ride. If only they knew the terrible truth. </span><br /><span style="font-size:x-large;">So please, be courteous when going to an amusement park. Take a freakin' shower before you go for the sake of the poor sap that might be forced to sit next to you. And if that doesn't work, please warn the person next to you to get the hell out of the chair before he's trapped there for good and is forced to endure your odorous wrath.</span><br /><span style="font-size:x-large;">All in all, I did take a bit of wisdom home with me that day. I even made Sarah take a picture of it:</span><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDgDH4FsOgrAxcZtijChY5SDZzo_tj-CrPwpseTSKzf7_RpiAJIgOhepacaPKkybJmfOdxn1CAjDdOCspIBFVxPpIEThYfeoQOFPT4wdwWj2NrCr6N2_BG9sLguNHMZm86ItZvGX9LHO8/s1600-h/donotsitonfence.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDgDH4FsOgrAxcZtijChY5SDZzo_tj-CrPwpseTSKzf7_RpiAJIgOhepacaPKkybJmfOdxn1CAjDdOCspIBFVxPpIEThYfeoQOFPT4wdwWj2NrCr6N2_BG9sLguNHMZm86ItZvGX9LHO8/s400/donotsitonfence.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Listening to: <a href="http://www.foxytunes.com/artist/ella+fitzgerald/track/angel+eyes" title="'Ella Fitzgerald - Angel Eyes' - open on FoxyTunes Planet">Ella Fitzgerald - Angel Eyes</a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153); font-style: italic; font-size: 10px;">via <a style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102);" href="http://www.foxytunes.com/signatunes/" title="FoxyTunes - Web of music at your fingertips">FoxyTunes</a></span> <br /></div>Grimacehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15951488175080004672noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8055571001703923764.post-75014829212770843022008-10-15T02:35:00.002-06:002008-10-15T02:37:52.250-06:00A Man's Worth...<div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> <span style="font-size:180%;"> It has been said that a man's worth can be judged by the quality or character of his friends. Or some such thing. I have had friends come and go, and what continues to amaze me, are the friends that return.<br /> This introspective has come from an experience on facebook. Friends that I assumed were long gone have for some reason sought me out. Acquaintances from more than 10 years ago suddenly pop up to say hello. And while I sit and communicate with them through a bunch of ones and zeroes, the thought occurs to me...why?<br /> Are we never content to merely exist within our own sphere of the here and the now, or do we always reach into our past for those people that had an impact on our lives, no matter how small? I am quite certain that some of them are only interested in accruing as many e-friends as possible, a sort of digital cheering section that may or may not justify any feelings of inadequacy, or dare I say loneliness. It would, however, seem to make sense that a person who has or had many friends, also has many friends in the digital world, and also that a person who is reluctanct to make physical contact can use this medium as a surrogate for intellectual contact.<br /> We are all of us struggling for survival in way or another. Whether it be through the peaks and valleys of a personal addiction, the loss of someone close to us, or the uncertainty of what may or may not happen tomorrow. Some of us face our day to day challenges almost as an afterthought, as things seem to stay on a pleasant course for awhile. But unfortunately, as the odds even out and the math catches up to us, we will face a day where our protective shell is stripped rather forcefully away from us, to lay bare before us that which is most vulnerable, and personal. It is the few people that dwell there with us, in our innermost Holy of Holies that are the blessed few to grab our hand and pull us up out of the black mire that seems to have an endless appetite for our suffering. It is those blessed few who offer of themselves completely and without guile. It is those blessed few who seem to find us at just the right moment, those that we can truly call "friend".<br /> A man was walking along a dirt road one night and was having trouble finding his way. Before he knew it, he was slipping and falling and landed at the bottom of very deep and dark pit. He could not see and tried again and again to scramble his way up the side of the pit. But the rocks were jagged, and the dirt and mud too loose to support him. He called for help all night long, but none came.<br /> In the morning, he woke to the sound of footsteps drawing nearer to the edge of the pit. He yelled for help, and a man appeared on the lip of the pit. "Hey!," yelled the man, "can you help me out of here?! I've been here all night!" Upon closer inspection the man noticed that it was a priest looking back down at him. The priest said, "I will say a prayer for you," and walked away. The man in the pit yelled and yelled but the priest did not return. Nobody came by the rest of the day and the man spent another cold and lonely night in the dark pit. He tried to climb out again but had to stop when his fingers started to bleed.<br /> The next morning, the man again awoke to the sound of someone's footsteps drawing near the pit. With a slightly hoarse voice the man yelled for help. A doctor appeared at the lip of the pit and listened to the pleas of the trapped man. The doctor said, "I'll write you a prescription." and dropped the piece of paper down to the man, before walking off. Again the man yelled and screamed for help, but the doctor didn't return.<br /> The man in the pit began to lose hope. Nobody came by the pit the rest of the day and now he was very hungry, cold and lonely. He spent another night in the dark pit and wished bitterly for someone to help him. As a last ditch effort, he tried to climb out again, but his fingers began to bleed again and he could not find sure footing. The man cried himslef to sleep that night.<br /> The next morning the man awoke and heard nothing. He despaired and resigned himself to a miserable death, alone and afraid. As the man stared hopelessly at the clouds above him, tears streamed down his face and he thought of those that he would miss.<br /> Just then the man heard footsteps near the edge of the pit, and with his hoarse voice barely able to make a sound, he yelled pitifully for help. The man's best friend appeared at the lip of the pit and said, "There you are! I've been looking for you for two whole days!" The man in the pit was relieved and said as best he could, "Can you get me out of here?!"<br /> And with that, the man's best friend jumped down into the pit with him. "What are you doing?!" Said the man, "now we're both stuck down here!"<br /> The man's best friend looked back at him, and noticed how his friend had been suffering. He saw his friend's injured fingers and the traces of tears shed on his friend's dirty face. He reached out and, with concern and love evident on his face, put his hand on his friend's shoulder and said, "It's alright now, everything is going to be okay. You see, I've been here before...and I know the way out."<br /><br /><br /><br />This is for my friends, and most importantly, my wife, who is my best friend. Thanks for jumping into the pit with me.</span><br /><br /><br /><br />----------------<br />Listening to: <a href="http://www.foxytunes.com/artist/loreena+mckennitt/track/beneath+a+phrygian+sky" title="'Loreena McKennitt - Beneath a Phrygian Sky' - open on FoxyTunes Planet">Loreena McKennitt - Beneath a Phrygian Sky</a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153); font-style: italic; font-size: 10px;">via <a style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102);" href="http://www.foxytunes.com/signatunes/" title="FoxyTunes - Web of music at your fingertips">FoxyTunes</a></span> <br /></div>Grimacehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15951488175080004672noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8055571001703923764.post-41546165553934877912008-09-12T00:09:00.002-06:002008-09-12T00:18:19.194-06:00We will not waver; we will not tire; we will not falter; and we will not fail<div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><span style="font-size:130%;">I was at work in the Government facility I was working at, at the time. I was listening to the radio at my desk when they broke in and said that a plane had hit one of the towers. They said they thought it was a cesna that was messed up or something.<br />Right after that a lady came running to my desk with tears in her eyes and said I needed to get to the media room. It's a room with stadium seating where all the important people make their presentations, and there are two wall sized screens. They had CNN on both screens. I walked in and couldn't wrap my brain around it. The place was packed and the sound was turned up and here is this smoking tower on a screen that goes from floor to ceiling. Then we all watched as the second plane hit. The people were like zombies...just frozen in shock. Some were crying, most were just staring with their mouths slightly open. A call came over my radio and I left to answer. Our Lt. came over the radio and said that they were ordering an immediate lockdown of all facilities, nobody in or out, and each post was to acknowledge. I acknowledged and ran to secure the building. I then came back to the media room, and started feeling very inadequate. It dawned on me that if something were to happen here, and we survived, people would be turning to me for help and direction. I was numb. I felt like one of those people that you hear about that watch someone get attacked and don't do anything to help. I was small...<br /><br />I found out later that a good High School friend of mine lost her husband in the attack. He was on the plane that hit the Pentagon. During the running of the torch for the 2002 Olympics, she was the person that ran the torch up to the White House and handed it to the President. Her name is Elizabeth.<br /><br />I hate that they show the footage every year. I hate that Hollywood made a movie about it, even if Nick Cage was in it and it was done tastefully. It's still too close for me. I don't need reminders, because I'll never forget.<br /><br />May God Bless you guys (and girls) in our military. You serve so we don't live in fear of this everyday, and you never get the credit, respect, or treatment you deserve.</span><br /><br /><img src="http://www.toronto.ca/fire/images/fireman-angel1.jpg" style="max-width: 800px;" /><br /></div>Grimacehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15951488175080004672noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8055571001703923764.post-30123465461490878702008-09-09T01:22:00.005-06:002008-09-09T23:05:25.751-06:00The Fallacies of Adulthood<div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-size:130%;" >So here's a quicky because it's late and I'm tired and my brain has had it's share of overloaded...brain things.<br />Just a moment ago I had actual digital proof of the fallacies of the word "adult". When you hear the word "adult", what springs into your mind? Go on, think a minute..I can wait.<br />Some of us think of drinking alcohol, some of us think of having responsibilities like family and work and religious type stuffs. Some of us think of certain kinds of movies, while others think of drinking alcohol while watching certain types of movies despite responsibilities like family and work.<br />The point is that there is a line, or a point, or a pointed line that we cross at some point in our lives that defines when we grow out of childish acts and behaviors and take upon us the mantle of "adulthood." We have decided that it is high time we stop thinking of just ourselves and start to actually see the world around us. We decide that we need and want certain relationships. We decide to take on those things that we otherwise thought unimportant. For some of us, it is the time that we flee with all abandon from the collective ranks of "The Oblivious" (see prior posts for an explanation)<br />And while some of us retain certain childish qualities, such as a need to "play", or a need to rediscover something we thought lost within ourselves, there are still others who, though they may qualify physically and sometimes mentally as an "adult", still have not shed the protective shell that is our childhood. And with that, they retain some basic belief that they may still do, say, or act as they wish and because "I am an adult, I therefore cannot act childish."<br />I will admit that I still sometimes long to waste the day playing in a sandbox filled with small toy cars, tractors, and sand shovels used for flinging out the cat poop from that damn siamese that lives across the street. I, on occasion, wish to debate the benefits of having a chainsaw for an arm over a sword or a pair of nunchaku. And yes, innocently enough, I still yearn to roam the neighborhood at three in the morning trying to find a place to hide from the police who, strangely enough, are patrolling the streets looking for the person who set fire to Mrs. Finklestein's favorite lilac bush.<br />But of course, none of those compare to the occasional longing to be running naked, helter skelter, from my best friend's mother whose eyes I have just graced with a view of my own particulalry hairless buttocks...or ass, if you wish.<br />I suppose, with yearnings such as those, that nobody can blame me or wish me ill for reflecting upon the early years of my life that were the veritable building blocks of the "adult" that I am now.<br />But despite all of that, I still do not wish to "act" childish....usually anyway.<br />Think about those around you. Do they act like "adults"? Or are they merely kids, or teenagers, wearing adult clothes (or not!) and pretending to have outgrown the very personality traits and behaviors that they exhibit on a day to day basis?<br />This post is dedicated to a person who will never realize that this post could ever be about them.</span><br /><img src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/Clumsyninja76/SMYkQQlNnpI/AAAAAAAAAPM/NCrlbicbbQs/%5BUNSET%5D.gif" style="max-width: 800px;" /><br /></div>Grimacehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15951488175080004672noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8055571001703923764.post-41857431066849805392008-06-29T22:37:00.007-06:002008-06-30T22:50:09.190-06:00HAPPY FOURTH OF JULY EVERYBODY!!<div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><div style="text-align: center; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:130%;">Some Random Patriotism:</span></div><div style="text-align: center; clear: both;" class="separator"><div style="text-align: center; clear: both;" class="separator"><div style="text-align: center; clear: both;" class="separator"><div style="text-align: center; clear: both;" class="separator"><div style="text-align: center; clear: both;" class="separator"><div style="text-align: center; clear: both;" class="separator"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPmzEcOcqpINyoVIsS8aU9R566SjejBSNA4VlroosmrDXnIf5hC07QbknsB_II7sLMXV7FWQuUJsBKiHqBeUt5tsZzQNOGHwiQrg-IdqLA6yWscHv3iHUNyKUY4o_nyqov977xNEy-Zsc/s1600-h/signing+of+the+declaration+of+Independence+painting.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 388px; height: 270px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPmzEcOcqpINyoVIsS8aU9R566SjejBSNA4VlroosmrDXnIf5hC07QbknsB_II7sLMXV7FWQuUJsBKiHqBeUt5tsZzQNOGHwiQrg-IdqLA6yWscHv3iHUNyKUY4o_nyqov977xNEy-Zsc/s320/signing+of+the+declaration+of+Independence+painting.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5217889506333236338" border="0" /></a></div><div align="center">Signing of the Declaration of Independence (inaccurately portrayed)<blockquote style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">"War is an ugly thing. But not the ugliest of things. The decayed and degraded state of moral and patriotic feeling which thinks that nothing is worth war is much worse. The person who has nothing for which he is willing to fight, nothing which is more important than his own personal safety, is a miserable creature and has no chance of being free unless made and kept so by the exertions of better men than himself."</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">John Stuar</span></span><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">t Mill</span></span></blockquote><div style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);" align="center">And to celebrate the recent Supreme Court ruling on the second amendment.</div></div><div style="text-align: center; clear: both;" class="separator"><div style="text-align: center; clear: both;" class="separator"><div style="text-align: center; clear: both;" class="separator"><div style="text-align: center; clear: both;" class="separator"><div style="text-align: center; clear: both;" class="separator"><a style="border: 0pt none ; background-color: transparent; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" imageanchor="1" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_pZGKmMdLKSc/SGhlzUY7HEI/AAAAAAAAAOM/I-7z971qrNs/s1600-h/gunfreezone.jpg"><img style="border: 0pt none ;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_pZGKmMdLKSc/SGhlzUY7HEI/AAAAAAAAAOM/Q4m0x2IMgM8/s400-R/gunfreezone.jpg" width="269" height="307" /></a><a style="border: 0pt none ; background-color: transparent; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" imageanchor="1" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_pZGKmMdLKSc/SGhlXUY7HCI/AAAAAAAAAN8/rO0XcszDNNw/s1600-h/brnin+ur+flg.jpg"><img style="border: 0pt none ;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_pZGKmMdLKSc/SGhlXUY7HCI/AAAAAAAAAN8/eFQVFdGMBKY/s400-R/brnin+ur+flg.jpg" width="400" height="306" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: center; clear: both;" class="separator"><div style="text-align: center; clear: both;" class="separator"><div style="text-align: center; clear: both;" class="separator"><div align="center"><img src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/Clumsyninja76/SGhoAkY7HGI/AAAAAAAAAOY/XGapmhLrEx4/%5BUNSET%5D.jpg" style="max-width: 800px;" /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPh97MAg-7305zOjl8pCOUiNAmg-ZDq1bT0gnPBmeEiuSrsboJ_SwsOAw_DrsKcmjW6Vu26jj03swgnLbgj63cJH1l-QNGU4cQM1z7Qpa2AepzygHA_U6cij4lFRtvG-AsLVhW1SNiv0Y/s1600-h/guncontrolworks.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 411px; height: 233px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPh97MAg-7305zOjl8pCOUiNAmg-ZDq1bT0gnPBmeEiuSrsboJ_SwsOAw_DrsKcmjW6Vu26jj03swgnLbgj63cJH1l-QNGU4cQM1z7Qpa2AepzygHA_U6cij4lFRtvG-AsLVhW1SNiv0Y/s320/guncontrolworks.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5217901540831599746" border="0" /></a></div><div align="center"><div style="text-align: center;"></div>Best for last:</div><div style="text-align: center; clear: both;" class="separator"><a style="border: 0pt none ; background-color: transparent; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" imageanchor="1" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_pZGKmMdLKSc/SGhlPUY7HBI/AAAAAAAAAN0/K8Uylig40oY/s1600-h/allahu+ack.jpg"><img style="border: 0pt none ;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_pZGKmMdLKSc/SGhlPUY7HBI/AAAAAAAAAN0/Y1UJpCQNruY/s400-R/allahu+ack.jpg" /></a></div><img src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/Clumsyninja76/SGhnd0Y7HFI/AAAAAAAAAOU/AsfS9iZdd6U/%5BUNSET%5D.gif" style="max-width: 800px;" /><img src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/Clumsyninja76/SGhnd0Y7HFI/AAAAAAAAAOU/AsfS9iZdd6U/%5BUNSET%5D.gif" style="max-width: 800px;" /><img src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/Clumsyninja76/SGhnd0Y7HFI/AAAAAAAAAOU/AsfS9iZdd6U/%5BUNSET%5D.gif" style="max-width: 800px;" /><img src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/Clumsyninja76/SGhnd0Y7HFI/AAAAAAAAAOU/AsfS9iZdd6U/%5BUNSET%5D.gif" style="max-width: 800px;" /><img src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/Clumsyninja76/SGhnd0Y7HFI/AAAAAAAAAOU/AsfS9iZdd6U/%5BUNSET%5D.gif" style="max-width: 800px;" /><img src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/Clumsyninja76/SGhnd0Y7HFI/AAAAAAAAAOU/AsfS9iZdd6U/%5BUNSET%5D.gif" style="max-width: 800px;" /><img src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/Clumsyninja76/SGhnd0Y7HFI/AAAAAAAAAOU/AsfS9iZdd6U/%5BUNSET%5D.gif" style="max-width: 800px;" /><img src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/Clumsyninja76/SGhnd0Y7HFI/AAAAAAAAAOU/AsfS9iZdd6U/%5BUNSET%5D.gif" style="max-width: 800px;" /><img src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/Clumsyninja76/SGhnd0Y7HFI/AAAAAAAAAOU/AsfS9iZdd6U/%5BUNSET%5D.gif" style="max-width: 800px;" /><img src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/Clumsyninja76/SGhnd0Y7HFI/AAAAAAAAAOU/AsfS9iZdd6U/%5BUNSET%5D.gif" style="max-width: 800px;" /><img src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/Clumsyninja76/SGhnd0Y7HFI/AAAAAAAAAOU/AsfS9iZdd6U/%5BUNSET%5D.gif" style="max-width: 800px;" /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">"While I live, give me a country. A FREE country!" -- John Adams</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center; clear: both;" class="separator"></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Grimacehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15951488175080004672noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8055571001703923764.post-39340163814535850342008-06-27T00:28:00.013-06:002008-06-27T01:30:58.803-06:00"We few, we happy few, we band of brothers..."<div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><a href="http://www.vvmf.org/index.cfm?SectionID=3" style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">"The Wall That Heals"</a>, the Vietnam War memorial "traveling wall" came to my hometown two weekends ago.It was an experience I will never forget. It was then that I found out that I have a second cousin that fought and died in the Vietnam War. I had never heard his name before. I had no idea that he even existed, and I felt ashamed. Not because I should have known, or that I had specifically ignored my family history. I felt ashamed simply because I hadn't known.<br /><br />I live my life day to day and the realities of war, of fighting for your life, of fighting for the rights and freedoms for your country, (or someone else's) don't intrude on my thoughts as I complain about my job, wish traffic wasn't so slow, wonder when gas prices will go down or when I'll be able to afford a house....<br /><br />Do I feel ashamed for having these thoughts when men and women have died for my country? No I don't, because men (and women) like my second cousin have fought, and are fighting, so that the realities of my day to day life dont <i>have </i>to be concerned with the realities of war. They have made, and are making the sacrifice for <i>me</i>, and that is why I felt ashamed that I didn't know about my second cousin.<br /><br />My wife doesn't understand why I watch shows like "Band of Brothers". She watched the beginning of one of these and asked me how I could watch it, and didn't it bother me? I told her that yes, it did bother me, very much, to see depictions of American soldiers being killed, and the documentaries I own are also painful for me to watch. She then asked me why I watch them, and I told her that it's important for me to <i>know</i>. It's important that people understand what happened, and why...or at least come as close as they can. It's important, above all, that these men and women and their stories are not <i>forgotten</i>.<br /><br />So even though it is painful, I will watch, I will read, and I will understand, and I will <i>know</i>. Because otherwise, I feel, I am not worthy of their sacrifice.<br /><br />This is for SP4 Greg B. Belew, and all those that fought alongside him. May we all be worthy of your sacrifice.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://i40.photobucket.com/albums/e205/Grimace76/GregBelew.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" src="http://i40.photobucket.com/albums/e205/Grimace76/GregBelew.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; width: 645px; height: 476px;" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><img style="max-width: 800px; width: 281px; height: 374px;" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/Clumsyninja76/SGSHf0Y7G3I/AAAAAAAAAM0/e2Knn1WfhqQ/%5BUNSET%5D.jpg" /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><img style="max-width: 800px; width: 553px; height: 413px;" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/Clumsyninja76/SGSHyEY7G4I/AAAAAAAAAM4/peLUYMRQ7gA/%5BUNSET%5D.jpg" /><br /><br /><br /><br /><img style="max-width: 800px; width: 565px; height: 423px;" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/Clumsyninja76/SGSH6UY7G5I/AAAAAAAAAM8/AzHOX9tZ3d4/%5BUNSET%5D.jpg" /><br /><br /><br /><br /><img style="max-width: 800px; width: 558px; height: 418px;" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/Clumsyninja76/SGSIBEY7G6I/AAAAAAAAANE/ftLF9MXTXWY/%5BUNSET%5D.jpg" /><br /><br /><br /><br /><img style="max-width: 800px; width: 540px; height: 404px;" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/Clumsyninja76/SGSIHEY7G7I/AAAAAAAAANI/knhSsKl3XVY/%5BUNSET%5D.jpg" /><br /><br /><br /><br />TOUCH A NAME ON THE WALL<br /><br />(Joel Mabus)<br /><br /><br /><br />I guess you could call it our summer of freedom,<br /><br />The year that we both turned 18.<br /><br />We hitchhiked to Denver, fresh out of high school.<br /><br />Man, we were sights to be seen.<br /><br />That was the year that you dated my cousin,<br /><br />'Til they took us away in the fall.<br /><br />And Lord! how I wish you were standing here with me,<br /><br />As I touch your name on the wall.<br /><br /><br /><br />(Chorus:) Touch a name on the wall, (2x)<br /><br />Lord, help us all. Touch a name on the wall.<br /><br /><br /><br />Each time I come here, I wear my fatigues,<br /><br />To honor the men that I knew.<br /><br />And I touch every name that came from my outfit,<br /><br />And read 'em out loud when I do.<br /><br />Some people say that they all died for nothin',<br /><br />But I can't completely agree.<br /><br />'Cause this brother here, he didn't die for no country,<br /><br />He died for me. (Chorus)<br /><br /><br /><br />Usually, walls are just made for division.<br /><br />They separate me from you.<br /><br />But God bless the wall that brings us together,<br /><br />And reminds us of what we've been through.<br /><br />And God damn the liars and the tin-plated heroes,<br /><br />That trade on the blood of these men.<br /><br />And God give us the strength to stand up and tell 'em, "Never again!"<br /><br />(Chorus)<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhls3mCDl6ovmhwILTMKrIOkxZKIYBEyeGPif1k9jsg2kRydcAubOLtQK1XN64SuUq0b5y7VMcHTCRggB3pT43uXCatmHxuI0cO3aSRjt0oquoATC2Aee-XZelOB7XyUkSxTqpvtjPV1TM/s1600-h/reflections.jpeg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 681px; height: 439px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhls3mCDl6ovmhwILTMKrIOkxZKIYBEyeGPif1k9jsg2kRydcAubOLtQK1XN64SuUq0b5y7VMcHTCRggB3pT43uXCatmHxuI0cO3aSRjt0oquoATC2Aee-XZelOB7XyUkSxTqpvtjPV1TM/s320/reflections.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5216459716015365074" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>Grimacehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15951488175080004672noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8055571001703923764.post-37415502939148566162008-04-13T22:40:00.000-06:002008-04-13T22:41:15.127-06:00The Essence of Space, Time, Spirit, and Buckley's Cough Mixture<p>I've been given a request. This is a strange thing. Not only did I not realize that my blog was actually being read by people that don't exist solely within my brainmeats (::sigh:: female swedish oil wrestlers) but I was actually just recently asked if I could do a review of some cough medicine. I told you it was strange. I mean I don't really consider myself a cough medicine connoisseur by any stretch of the imagination, although Nyquil does have an almost piquant after dinner texture. ('Course, after enough Nyquil, you would probably enjoy the taste of just about anything, or at least not care about most things in general...this is an effective way of dealing with in laws..by the way)<br />Have I ever mentioned that I tend to ramble and get off-topic sometimes? If I haven't then...well..I guess I just did. I tell my wife that this is one of the myriad of things that makes me just irresistible, and that it also appeals to her feminine libido. I sleep on the couch a lot.<br />Ahem...cough medicine. So my good friend Karie has had a cough for like 7 years now, and suspects that maybe she had it pre-utero, but I tell her that if she'd stop swallowing sand it just might do the trick. Apparently she is addicted, because she would just like the coughing to stop and be free to indulge in her deepest, wildest sand consuming fantasies. I figure she's an adult and she says she can stop anytime, so I won't go any further on that subject. Plus I can't think of anything witty to add to that.<br />I've also had a cough. Actually I just got over a really bad viral thing that made my doctor look at me funny when he looked down my throat and told me to say "ahhhhh". But that might be because I told him it felt like I'd recently stuck a toilet snake down my esophagus. So I was given some prescription meds that did nothing but probably helped put a down payment on someone else's vacation home. I was also told that I wasn't supposed to take any kind of cough medicine. Remember when I said that the meds didn't do anything? I figured pfffft, what the hell do doctors know anyway??? So after the third night of staring bleary eyed at the tv all night long because my throat hurt too bad to sleep (for awhile I thought I was ON "Girls Gone Wild") I decided to try the Nyquil...<br />Nothing. Nada. Not even a nice dextromethorphan buzz. Needless to say I was desperate. Before I got sick I'd been told about this stuff called Buckley's cough Mixture, that apparently tastes awful but works. I remembered this and decided to give it a try.<br />So, at three in the morning I hopped in the car and drove to the nearest Wal-Mart to look for it. I didn't find it, and Juan (who was buffing the floor) wasn't much help either. I'm pretty sure he wasn't any help because he spoke less english than a dead person, but then again I hadn't slept for several nights and maybe my brain wouldn't allow me to understand him. It's actually entirely possible I didn't even meet someone named Juan who was buffing the floor at 3 AM. Hell, it's entirely possible that I actually spent that entire night pulling lint out of my belly button and trying to sew a sweater with it using a pair of tweezers.<br />I eventually got my hands on some Buckley's Cough Mixture. I was excited. Only one store in the city carries it and I felt like I had joined some super secret club that dealt in underground substances that weren't illegal. Sort of like being a member of a speak easy during prohibition, only it wasn't alcohol and I didn't have to hide. Plus it's not the 20's.<br />I got home and decided to try some right away. Now as you may recall, (unless all this cough syrup talk has given you a major Nyquil jones that you have given into, in which case you're probably not even aware of your surroundings, or the fact that you are no longer wearing any clothes) I was previously warned that this stuff tastes awful. This, as you no doubt expect, will come in to play later.<br />So the directions say that only one teaspoon is needed. I wasn't sure what to think of this. Does that mean it's super strong and therefore only a small amount is needed to work, or is that the most that the average human being can endure? I decided to play it safe and stand with my feet shoulder width apart, leaning up against the kitchen sink with one hand on the counter to steady me. This way if I were to get wobbly from the shock I would have some support, and if I were to get the heaves, I could hork into the sink.<br />Thinking all my bases were covered, I warned my wife that I was about to ingest something that I wasn't sure was quite safe, and to have the automatic defibrillator handy just in case. I then poured a teaspoonful and looked at it for a second to make sure it wasn't going to move on it's own, let alone emit a high pitched squeal and leap for my eyes. I watch a lot of science fiction movies.<br />The time had come, if I was going to do it, then now was the time. I took a deep breath and upended the spoon into my mouth and shotgunned that sucker down as fast as I could. For a split second there was nothing and I thought, "Pffft...big deal...I thought there was supposed to.."<br />It was at about this point that there was a slight stabbing behind my left eye, and I also noticed a slight burny type taste. That's about the best I can describe it.<br /> Then it hit me.<br />Have you ever sucked on some of those awful menthol chloroseptic cough drops? Have you ever blended 40 boxes together with mint toothpaste in a blender and passed it around at parties?<br />I became momentarily blind and suddenly someone loaded a shotgun with menthol and put the barrel down my throat and pulled the trigger. I gasped for air and wobbled a bit. Luckily I was still tethered to the kitchen counter. I started seeing weird shapes behind my eyelids and I swear to the Great Ninja that I heard Oompa Loompas singing and dancing all around me. I reached to make sure that I still had ahold of the kitchen counter and found that I was wearing pink fuzzy mittens that had eyes on the top that were staring at me. I then exhaled quite forcefully as I had been holding my breath, and I exited my apartment via the north wall. I thought it somewhat strange but even stranger than that, I really wasn't too concerned. My mittens were crying "WEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"<br />I floated up and up and noticed the earth getting smaller and smaller. Suddenly I was standing on a vast desert and I was looking at my head which was floating in front of me. It had wings on either side so it could fly. I asked, "What are you?" That is I tried to ask that, but instead I clucked like a chicken. My head looked at me and said, "I'm your subconscious....I've taken over for awhile."<br />I then tried to ask why he seemed to be so distant lately and he replied, "Well...I DO get distracted easily. And sometimes in the morning when you're getting ready for work I like to....OOOO! LOOK! SOMETHING SHINY!!" And he flew away off into the distance, leaving me there.<br />I heard a noise behind me and turned around to look. I beheld an incredibly huge snake. He quickly wrapped all the way around me and faced me with giant fangs. His head got closer and closer and when we were nose to nose he quit hissing and said in a voice that sounded like Bea Arthur , "You don't....date much do ya?"<br />I tried to say "I'm married, I don't need to date!" but then everything sort of melted away and I came to with my wife looking down on me and holding defibrillator pads. She asked if I was ok and I told her I was married.<br /> BUT....I wasn't coughing!! It had worked! At least I don't think I was. I was sort of spacey for the next little while.<br /> I tried cooking my dinner in the dryer, but a little febreeze was all that was needed there, so no harm done.<br />All in all I would say that after my experience with Buckley's cough mixture, I felt as though I had traveled a vast distance, and peered into places most people shouldn't be allowed to peer into. I felt older, wiser, and maybe even a little more spiritual, having come out the other end of some kind of space\time\subconscious warp where just about anything is possible, and the impossible is more likely to be the norm.<br /> Sort of like some really kickass cheesecake.</p> <p> Oh and you're supposed to repeat the dosage every 4 hours. I believe at the end of this week, I should be able to bend a spoon with my thoughts.</p>Grimacehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15951488175080004672noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8055571001703923764.post-66948653465142583132008-04-13T22:39:00.001-06:002008-04-13T22:39:55.097-06:00Creatures of habit, or plain stupidity?<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;" mce_style="text-align:center;" align="center"><u><br /></u></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>My day job<br />isn’t all that exciting, which leaves me with quite a bit of time to observe<br />the people around me. For various reasons I can’t really come right out and<br />tell you what I do, or where I work, but suffice to say that I work in a<br />government facility and I’m in the minority when it comes to my job<br />description.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>Over the<br />years I have experienced some truly spectacular examples of people’s ignorance,<br />or just plain stupidity. Were this a scientific study, I’m sure the fact that<br />the subjects described herein are government employees would be of particular<br />interest, though I’m sure, not very surprising.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>The first<br />experience that comes to mind happened maybe a year or two ago. I was sitting<br />at my desk, doing what I do, when a rather large lady waddles up to me. I<br />wasn’t surprised that she was largish as pretty much all the women here are of<br />such rotund stature. I don’t normally associate lack of cranial capacity with<br />excess amounts of blubber, but most of these cases have made me rethink things<br />a time or two. Anyway Shamu says to me, “How do I get to the second floor of<br />that building?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">(My desk is situated inside of an enclosure that connects<br />two separate buildings.) I had never seen this person before, so I assumed that<br />she was a visitor and was asking where the elevators were. If only it was that<br />innocent…</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I swiveled in my chair and pointed down the hall and said,<br />“Go straight down the hall and there are elevators on your left.” Simple,<br />clear, concise instructions wouldn’t you say? Remember my growing theory on<br />cranial capacity? Yup, here it comes:</p> <p class="MsoNormal">This lady looks at me and says, referring to the elevators,<br />“And they go up?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">No, I didn’t make that up.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>So after my<br />brain takes a second or two to decide if it really heard what my ears are<br />telling it, I slowly say, “Uhh yeah. They sure do…”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">She says, “Thanks!” and rolls on down the hallway.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>Ever<br />experienced a time like this when you literally have to force yourself to be<br />nice, and not utter the first response that comes to mind? It was all I could<br />do to keep from blurting out, “Why no, dollface. Those elevators only go up for<br />important people. I’m pretty sure for you they’re only going to go sideways.<br />Tell me…who ties your shoes for you in the morning?” </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;" mce_style="text-indent:0.5in;">Look I realize that this is going<br />to come off as a “Heeere’s yer sign” rip off, but it wouldn’t be very original<br />of me if I were to throw these morsels in with that<span> </span>particular batch of redneck wit. Do the words<br />“redneck” and “wit” even belong in the same sentence? I don’t think so either. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;" mce_style="text-indent:0.5in;">Now for the “creatures of habit”<br />part of this entry. Again, same setting, same subjects.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;" mce_style="text-indent:0.5in;">The buildings in which I work have<br />these cleverly designed blocks of concrete or other material, arranged in<br />planes of 90 degree vertical angles which are met at regular intervals by<br />adjacent 0 degree horizontal angles, respectively, which together rise upwards<br />at a collective angle roughly 45 degrees, for the use of manual locomotion by<br />one or more persons at a time. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">We call these modern marvels “stairs”. This explanation was<br />provided for those of you that may work for the government. (I kid! I kid!<span> </span>Unless you work in the same buildings I<br />do.)</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>Moving<br />along. In one of the buildings there are some of these “stairs” that terminate<br />into a narrow hallway. Well, for normal healthy people it’s not that narrow,<br />but for overweight people who will stop in the middle of it to hold long and<br />pointless conversations, i.e. the people I work with, it’s quite narrow.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>So the door<br />that opens from the stairwell into the hallway swings pretty far into the<br />hallway, at least for fat people. So inevitably people are going to be struck<br />by the door on the rare occasion someone decides to walk on the wild side and take<br />the stairs. “Why don’t the people coming from the stairwell watch out for<br />people in the hallway?” You may ask, and you would be commended for your<br />courtesy. The answer, of course, is that the door is solid and has no little<br />window. Or I should say, had no window.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>After many<br />complaints, and yes workplace injury claims (one lady actually filed a report<br />stating that it was not safe for her to walk down the hallway), a contractor<br />was called in to remove the doors on all stairwells, cut holes in them, place<br />glass in the holes, and replace said doors. This, I’m sure you can imagine, was<br />done with great expense to the American tax payer. Meaning YOUR money.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>But that<br />didn’t fix the problem, oh nooo. Because people in general are creatures of<br />habit and don’t like to change anything especially if it’s in consideration for<br />anybody else, (see my entry entitled “The Oblivious Collective”) people just<br />thought that the little windows in the door were for a semi pleasing aesthetic<br />effect and not to be actually used.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>So, after<br />more complaints and more injury filings, a contractor was brought in to…are you<br />ready for this? Install a red light on the ceiling above the door in the<br />hallway. This light is connected to a motion sensor in the stairwell, thereby<br />turning on the red light when anyone approaches and warning all to stay away<br />from the dangers of the door actually being opened. On top of that, at one<br />point they were considering installing a loud buzzer that would go off whenever<br />the door was opened. But I guess they decided that would be overkill. I have<br />yet to hear anyone say “Thank you so much for protecting us from ourselves!”,<br />by the way.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>While I’m<br />writing about being protected from one’s own stupidity (which should be<br />illegal) I need to put this one in: There was, once again, a walking donut,<br />that decided to step onto a declining curb out in front of the building. The<br />curb slopes down to level with the ground, and is painted red, as it terminates<br />next to the dock driveway. Oopsie! The lady took a fall and hurt her ample<br />bottom. Now there is a metal railing there that is about three feet long, in<br />case some other dumbass wants to come along and step onto the red painted curb<br />and can’t handle the sudden change in their own center of gravity.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>This brings<br />me to what happened yesterday, which is what prompted this admittedly mean<br />scrutiny of the people that occupy space around me at work. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>The<br />buildings I work at, being a government installation, have computer controlled<br />doors with magnetic locks on them. Not even Rosie O’Donnell’s immense stupidity<br />is enough to force these things to disengage. Although were she to fling<br />herself bodily against one of these doors, it might cause it to shudder in<br />disgust and therefore release, but I think the most that would happen would be<br />that I’d get a big kick out of seeing Rosie O’Donnell flung into something.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>Anyway, as<br />is guaranteed by the Constitution or something, the computer systems that<br />control these buildings rarely work flawlessly. And as such, most of the<br />building went offline. So the Marx brothers, along with the Three Stooges, were<br />sent out to try and repair it, which consisted of reloading the entire system.<br />This process takes roughly six hours. Doors that have magnetic locks on them<br />had to be propped open during this process, and signs were printed and attached<br />to the doors clearly telling employees to use the propped open door for entry,<br />rather than the normal means of entering the building. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>I tried to<br />keep count of how many people, upon walking through the door, asked, “Are the<br />doors not working??” I really did try, but I lost count. Apparently it was just<br />too much for them to handle. “The doors are working fine, now get back out<br />there and try again! Who do you think you are just walking through an open<br />door, huh?!</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>Another<br />large sign was placed on the door normally used for exiting the building. This<br />sign said: DOOR INOPERABLE. PLEASE USE HANDICAP DOOR. SHOW I.D. WHEN ENTERING<br />THE BUILDING.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Pretty straightforward, wouldn’t you say? Yes you would, but<br />then again, chances are you don’t work where I do.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>I again<br />lost track of how many people tried to show me their I.D. on their way OUT the<br />door. Apparently they couldn’t figure out that we don’t care who wants to <i>leave</i> the building. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>But it was<br />all summed up by a particular person who wanted to leave the building. Remember<br />the giant signs I was talking about? They were placed OVER the key card readers<br />on the inoperable doors so that they would be clearly visible. (A person would<br />normally hold their key card up to the reader, which would disable the lock on<br />the door) But here’s what I get for assuming that people are more intelligent<br />than they really are:</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>This lady<br />walks up to the door and holds her keycard up to where the reader SHOULD be,<br />but where now is a large sign basically saying: DON’T USE THIS DOOR. What<br />happens? She stands there, waiting for the lock to disengage…looks at the<br />sign…tries to scan her card again…stands there waiting for the lock to<br />disengage.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>At this<br />point I just wanted to let her stand there all freakin’ day. Lucky for her that<br />particular door came online right then and let her go through, otherwise she<br />really might have stood there all day until she demanded someone come and<br />install a red light so that people could be warned of the door, and also a<br />railing in case the bags of pork rinds she consumed for lunch shifted and she<br />needed something to keep her from toppling over.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>I think it<br />goes without saying that, if you’re feeling badly about yourself, all you have<br />to do is take a minute and observe the people around you, and pretty soon<br />you’ll be feeling much much better about yourself.</p>Grimacehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15951488175080004672noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8055571001703923764.post-34671523963237993092008-04-13T22:37:00.001-06:002008-05-05T00:39:16.139-06:00Charlie Brown: How to keep adolescent humiliation alive well into adulthood.Charlie Brown. We've all seen his sunday comics, and even worse, his cartoons on tv. You remember don't you? Happy Halloween Charlie Brown! Or the famous "It's a Charlie Brown Christmas". Or the not so well known "You suck at everything and should go hang yourself Charlie Brown!" Ok so that last one was a little stretch, but not by much.<br />Now let's take a look at Charlie Brown himself:<img style="width: 107px; height: 197px;" src="http://i40.photobucket.com/albums/e205/Grimace76/charliebrown1.gif" mce_src="http://i40.photobucket.com/albums/e205/Grimace76/charliebrown1.gif" />The perfectly round, bald head. The nose that sits <i>directly</i> between the eyes. The dorky smile. Just <b><i>screams </i></b>preteen self worth!! Does it not? Of course it doesn't, and that's why you shouldn't let your kids watch these awful shows. Look, I've got nothing against Charles Schultz, but let's be fair here. Charlie Brown is a loser and can never do anything right. How depressing. And then we have Peppermint Patty and her "sidekick" Marcie. What sort of demented lesbian dominatrix couple is this??? Ever notice how Marcie always refers to Patty as "Sir"? Need I say more?? And then we have Linus. I pretty intelligent kid who can't seem to let go of his baby blanket. Regressive therapy anyone? And then we have "Pigpen". What the hell? This kid obviously never bathes. He's probably scared of water and lives in a ramshackle hut with a family of possums who sit around and play the banjo all day. But you will notice that the other kids still treat him better than Charlie. And I'm not even gonna start with the schoolteacher. Last time I tried to talk to somebody ( as an experiment) using only the words "waa wa waaaa...wa-waa...waa" not only was i not understood, but I was asked for my driver's license, registration, and proof of insurance...followed by a set of rather humiliating set of tests that I will not go into here.<br />So be good to your kids. Give them love and support and encouragement. Do NOT give them Charlie Brown!<br />But I'll tell ya one thing: If I were Charlie Brown...I'd walk up to Lucy and make that bitch EAT that football!!Grimacehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15951488175080004672noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8055571001703923764.post-74892975088828045292008-04-13T22:36:00.000-06:002008-04-13T22:37:08.385-06:00The realities of ribs, Rosie, and poo-flingingI’ve decided that there is something rather feral about eating ribs. <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;" mce_style="text-indent:0.5in;">My father-in-law gave us some pork ribs and my wife cooked them the other night. They were very good because my wife is a Kitchen Ninja (we tend to stick to our own kind, you see.)</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>So a day later I was looking for something to take to work for lunch and I see that there is some ribs left. I rejoice at my discovery and quickly pack it up. I didn’t take any utensils because hey, you just don’t eat ribs with a fork and spoon. Did I mention that these ribs were swimming in barbecue sauce, topped off with more barbecue sauce? Can you see where this is going?</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>Fast forward to lunch time at work. I heat the ribs up in the microwave, take the paper towel off the top of the container and look at them. This is when I realize that I hadn’t thought far enough ahead.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>Now, some of you are thinking, “What’s the big deal, Ninja? Just pick ‘em up and eat ‘em.” And still more of you are thinking about Jessica Simpson’s ta-ta’s. Well if I can’t touch them neither can you so let’s just follow along with the rest of the class, ok?</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;" mce_style="text-indent:0.5in;">You need to understand that because of where I work I don’t really get a lunch break. I pretty much have to race off if someone decides they need to bother me for any reason, so me running around trying to take care of business with barbecue sauced hands, while amusing, would also probably be a bad career move. Much like showing up to work naked and telling people that I had just started taking a liking to clear clothing.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;" mce_style="text-indent:0.5in;">Before I go any farther, let’s talk about the origins of man, or rather the basic animal instincts that exist within us all. Come on it’ll be fun…and I promise it’ll almost be relevant.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;" mce_style="text-indent:0.5in;">When man suddenly decided that he didn’t want to be a monkey anymore and stood up straight and began figuring out how to make beer, there were certain animal-like urges and needs that didn’t go away like the poo-flinging did. (This is why Ninja Monkeys have been terrorizing whole cities for decades. Imagine combining the power of the Ninja with a poo-flinging primate. It’s just too terrifying to discuss any further. Or at least for now.)</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;" mce_style="text-indent:0.5in;">So anyway, Man evolved beyond poo-flinging (some of us anyway…I’m looking at <i>YOU</i> Rosie O’Donnell) and went to beer. Now despite the beer, Man still wanted and needed to have an occasional roll in the hay, something Important to do (no more poo-flinging remember) and the very thing I’m trying to get to now: Food. Man must satisfy the hunger because beer only makes you forget about it. And when Man is hungry, there is a certain feeling or emotion that turns off the non-poo-flinging, evolved part of our brain (except for Rosie, of course, notice how fat she is?) and animal instinct takes over, usually in the form of some sort of pre-historic grunt occasioned by intermittent flatulence. (Hmm…more allusions to Rosie. I might be on to something here.)</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;" mce_style="text-indent:0.5in;">Such was the case when I stood there deciding how to proceed. Some sort of prehistoric switch was flipped and I no longer cared <i>how</i> I was going to eat the ribs. And I think the fact that I was going to be eating meat somehow compounded the evolutionary backslide that took place in my brain. I would eat those friggin’ ribs and neatness and tact be damned!</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;" mce_style="text-indent:0.5in;">Before my brain could start trying to figure out how to make beer (which is odd because I don’t drink) I sat down and just grabbed the ribs with my hands and began to satisfy my inner monkey. (Now <i>there’s</i> a loaded phrase.)</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;" mce_style="text-indent:0.5in;">I soon found myself making small grunting noises as I tried to get every little bit of meat off of the bone. My hands were covered in sauce and I think I had some smeared on my face as well, but I didn’t care. I looked forward to each bone that still had meat on it and derived some sort of perverse pleasure in thoroughly cleaning it off.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;" mce_style="text-indent:0.5in;">In the midst of my rib revelry, people were passing by the break room. Some slowed down to witness the carnage and I think at one point I even growled at someone. Had I been there much longer I’m sure I probably would have jumped up onto the table and jumped up and down on all fours while making high pitched screeching noises and flung discarded bones at the onlookers. I’m not sure what it would have taken to reach the poo-flinging stage, and I’m not sure I want to know. Although I guess if I wanted to find out I could ask Rosie O’Donnell. (Zing!)</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;" mce_style="text-indent:0.5in;">At some point, thank goodness, I regained control and was able to reverse whatever switch had been thrown. I cleaned myself up and put the chairs right side up and even threw away the bones, though I felt somewhat guilty, like I was cleaning up a crime scene before the cops arrived.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;" mce_style="text-indent:0.5in;">As I walked out of the break room I reflected upon my experience. I had been transported, nay, <i>transformed</i> into the dark center that exists within us all. And, much like country music, no matter how hard we try to ignore it, or deny its existence, it is there, waiting, lurking, and sometimes just itching to claw its way through our social barriers and present itself, open and disgustingly naked, to those unfortunate enough to witness it.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;" mce_style="text-indent:0.5in;">And what this all comes down to is this:</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;" mce_style="text-indent:0.5in;">Ladies! When you take your man out to eat, be cautious and wary should he choose ribs. For therein lies the key to the door that is triple locked in men’s subconscious: The door that just barely holds back the inner beast....</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;" mce_style="text-indent:0.5in;"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;" mce_style="text-indent:0.5in;">...and Rosie O’Donnell.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;" mce_style="text-indent:0.5in;"><span> <img src="http://i40.photobucket.com/albums/e205/Grimace76/TerroristCapturedATT00034.jpg" mce_src="http://i40.photobucket.com/albums/e205/Grimace76/TerroristCapturedATT00034.jpg" alt="Furry Rosie" height="518" width="640" /></span></p>Grimacehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15951488175080004672noreply@blogger.com0