25 December 2009

Merry Holiday Card

♪ ♫ "Take me down, little Suzy take me down" ♫ ♪

21 December 2009

Try Not To Touch Your Genitals Or Eyes

Today is/was the shortest day of the year. I hope you celebrated as I did; by shaking your fist at the sun and calling it a coward.

In observance of this day, here's a grab bag of random musings that never quite made it to the 'post' button.


I. Fucking. Knew. It. Seriously. This news comes as a shock only to morons.

Bobby Bare Jr. is just one of the many fine reasons I need to schedule a trip to Austin for SXSW within the next few years.

After owning a cell phone for almost an entire year, I remain nonplussed with the technology. Not that I don't think it's great that the technology works in ways we could have only dreamed about even a mere fifteen years ago, or that people around the world are finding it easier to communicate. But somehow this human achievement seems like building the Taj Mahal, only to fill it level-full with excrement. Millions and millions of people, all chattering away like magpies on crack, but never really doing much other than recycling information to each other. 56 channels and nothing on.

And I feel as if I'm just left with another damn thing I have to cram into my pocket every morning.

And don't even get me started about texting.


I'm still unimpressed with Facebook. So unimpressed that it seems the only time I'm ever there is to verify the occasional friend request. Apparently there are community groups and games and applications for the site. But since I can't get into the virtual fun of farm mafias, nor milk a sense of community from the glowing, rectangular chunk of plastic I call a monitor, those cherries don't hold much flavor. But I suppose it's just as useful of a social tool for not giving a shit about people as my current one. Although, I could argue that my current method of not giving a shit requires no electricity and has zero carbon footprint. That's right, my ambivalence has gone green.

And while I'm on the topic of flash-in-the-pan trends of the moment, I finally had a funny idea for Twitter account that wasn't already taken and then ruined. So now my penis has a twitter page. I know ultimately, it will prove to be too exciting for you to ignore.


I would make an impassioned plea for y'all to please stop using Twitter. That plea would include points like Twitter is not for mature, grown adults; it's for vacuous tween girls. I would argue that it's for people who would rather stare droolingly at their phones like lobotomized apes than actually notice (much less interact with) the world immediately in front of them.
I would even point out that mutha-humpin' RETAIL OUTLETS now post updates on the service, and yet no one in their right mind would ever ask Sears to CALL them every time they updated a sale in their lawn care center:
"Hi! This is Skip over at A.V. & S. phone services, and I just wanted to let you know that we're having a 35% off sale on everything in our store for the next twelve minutes!"
"How did you get this number, Skip?!? And why do you keep calling every half hour?"
"Mention this phone call and get an additional 5% off any purchase over $57.00"
"What? Stop calling me! I only wanted to know about that one sale on wireless headsets ONCE, like three years ago, but you still call incessantly! I hate you Skip!"
"A.V. & S. wants to make this a Christmas to remember."
"Aaaaaaaaaaahhhhh......." [self-inflicted gunshot sounds]

But I can't argue any of that, because twitter is now finally home to the musings of my penis, in all of it's vascular and single-minded glory.

Do yourself a favor. Take a look at the last five tweets that you received. Was it worth it? Did it make your life any more precious or memorable? Is your life fuller as a result?

The answer can only be "yes" if one (or more) of those five tweets came from my johnson.

In case you'd forgotten, Van Morrison still rules.

So, when a primate goes mam-grabbing, everything's cool. Smile-for-the-camera-style cool. But god forbid if I should try something that bold, suddenly I'm testing the effectiveness of pepper spray. Lousy chimp/human double standards.

I'm getting to be quite the artist with this stuff. Although I sometimes still "color" outside the lines...

I was cooking dinner for some friends a few evenings past, and as I cooked, I learned some new things.

It was an Asian curry dish that required coconut milk, an ingredient I had never used before. In addition to being incredibly unhealthy, it turns out that coconut milk is also overpriced and hard to locate in the grocery store (ie. not in the 'bachelor' heat-and-eat section). Yet in spite of all that, it still tastes totally amazing. I want to breathe coconut milk instead of oxygen.

Like most other "milks", coconut milk is rather bland. This is only problematic because I like my curry to have some kick. So in an effort to crank up the heat, I began slicing peppers that a friend had grown and given away. The peppers sliced and seeds removed, I stirred them into the dish, and then went back to prepping other ingredients while talking with my friends.

Five to ten minutes later, as I'm drying my hands after rinsing them off, I notice they still feel as if warm water is running over them. Twenty minutes later I'm wondering if I didn't accidentally scald myself. An hour later, I've realized why many people advise you to wear gloves when cutting and handling peppers: their oils can cause an intense burning sensation to any skin exposed to them.

Once I realized the cause of my problem, my cousin immediately began scouring the internet for any suggested remedies. I'm not a super-scientist, but I could tell as soon as she began listing off homemade cures that they were all half-baked:
"Soak it in milk." : "My hand is not a veal cutlet."
"Soak it in vinegar" : "Balsamic or red wine vinegar?"
"Soak it in gasoline" : "Absolutely not. No. Just no."

It was painfully obvious that the only tried and true remedy was time. Wait while the burning sensation abates. Wait and wait and grind your teeth and wait. And no other choice but to just wait.

So I called a friend for one last shot at a miracle cure.
"Hey man, I just sliced up some chili peppers, and my hand is burning pretty bad."
"Yeah. I remember you said something similar happened to you, so I thought you might have some pointers or ideas."
"Here's a pointer: Don't touch your penis or your eyes."
"Yeah, that's why I remembered your story. Any particular reason you mentioned penis before eyes? "
"Last time I checked, unlike the eye, the penis is not self-flushing. Also, and this is from experience mind you, pepper oils on the cock hurt more and lingered longer than in the eyes."
"So how long can I expect this hand-fire pleasure cruise to last?"
"When does it stop? Sometimes, in the cold lonely hours just before dawn, I think I can still feel it burning..."

My hand quit hurting after about three hours.

According to this article from BBC, for maximum matrimonial satisfaction, I should be shopping for a younger woman. Like I really needed the Fogbreather Broadcast Service to tell me that...

Maybe It's Maybelline...
...but it's probably not.
I wouldn't think a major cosmetics retailer like Maybelline would be foolish enough to get caught up in the Peruvian human fat trade. But come to think of it, that's similar to what I said about Circuit City getting mixed up with tampering with the guinea pig genome, and look what happend there.

In case you're too lazy busy to read the above article, I'll give you a quick executive summary: Gangs in Peru are killing humans, draining their body fat, and selling it as a cosmetic that reduces wrinkles. Anyhow, I was most troubled when I read that Hilario Cudena, the group's leader, had "been killing to extract fluid for more than three decades". THREE. DECADES. Now, I don't live in Peru, so I'm not totally clear about what constitutes a criminal act in that country. But I would think murder would be on that list somewhere. Somewhere near the top. Further I would suspect that authorities would want round up anyone suspected of murder rather quickly, instead of, say for example, waiting three decades. But maybe law enforcement in that region displays an uncanny resemblance to Larry, Moe, and Curly (or Racket, Graft, and Lazy).

Or maybe instead, motive for the crime plays a part in a criminal's pursuit and prosecution. Killing for vengeance? 15-years-to-life. Killing to produce homemade Oil Of Olay? Seventy-five dollar fine and time served.

According to Hilario Cudena, this easily becomes a lifetime supply of Noxzema.

Anyhow, it might be wise to avoid unique boutique "bath & body" products for a while...


Weird With A Beard
... http://www.worldbeardchampionships.com/index.html ...
The national beard championships came and went again without me garnering any recognition for my growing the world's second mangiest beard.
Maybe next year.

17 December 2009

Merry Christmas

04 December 2009

Three Things

1) Not dead.

2) Busy/sick lately.

3) If you want a horribly tasteless and/or inappropriate Christmas card, please email your address to me.

28 October 2009

Blow Town

Chances are looking favorable that I'll be leaving town for the weekend. And not just some two-dimensional flattened copy of me either. No, this will be a real jaunt, featuring the official human-meat version of Krëg. I'll probably do off-the-wall things like eat food and look at stuff. Possibly some walking around and drinking things. I'm a wild-man like that. An animal.

Unlike most of my attorney-encouraged "getaways" where I lurk in a cabin while searing off my fingerprints with a clothes iron, this short break is welcome and purely recreational. Anyhow, I'll try to remember to take a camera or something, and I may even have the wherewithal to use it. I promise I'll give y'all an undetailed, rambling, and sketchy account of my wanderings when I return.

In the meantime (assuming I don't post again before I leave), amuse yourselves by looking at Black And WTF or Halloween In The Time Of Cholera, and marvel at Halloween costumes of yesteryear.

Also, feel free to answer the question from my last post, if you haven't already.

"We're gonna need a bigger fly-swatter."

27 October 2009


If you can make it through the first 2:15 of this clip without experiencing some violent psychotropic reaction, you've got a leg up on me.

An appearance by KISS shortly thereafter saves the day. Well, as much as a KISS appearance can save anything.

Quiz time: What's your favorite Halloween memory?

I'll start...
My grandmother once fixed my plastic/vinyl Spider-man costume using blue and red electrical tape. I had somehow torn out the costume's crotch while putting it on. Anyhow, that's the day I learned that tape came in different colors, cheap costumes are problematic, and grandmas can fix anything. Even a crotchless Halloween costume.

20 October 2009

You May Already Be A Winner.

But chances are, if you're reading this, you're probably NOT a winner. I'm just sayin'.

According to highly unreliable chatter on the Interthing, I may have been either cloned or vivisected, and then mailed across the country. It's about damn time some part of me got a vacation.

As many of you may have noticed (much to your chagrin), I fixed my comments problem, and I can now get back to peppering your comments section with my off-color contributions. It turns out that maybe it was just some user error (though I admit no guilt) of having too many accounts and passwords and being logged into too many different sites at once. Maybe. But probably it was still somehow the fault of technology, and not the result of my actions in any way.

I know quite a few people who are in to fantasy football, and on occasion they have asked me if I'd like to join. My total lack of knowledge and interest in professional-level football notwithstanding, I have a few basic issues with the notion of fantasy football.

First, I often ask participants what they find so compelling about fantasy football. "It makes the games more interesting," is the bullsh!t reply I most often receive. I like to point out that betting on a game doesn't inherently make the game any more exciting. A checkers match isn't suddenly more riveting when there's $100 riding on the outcome. It's the same damn game, only some ignoramus decided to risk a chunk of cash on something arbitrary. And instead of/in addition to money, you're pissing away your time. [sarcasm]Whoohoo, what wild and interesting fun.[/sarcasm]

Second, if I'm going to indulge in something that refers to itself as "Fantasy Anything", that 'anything' will not involve any men other than myself. Sorry, no non-Krëg dudes allowed in any of my fantasies.
Not even this one.

Just piles of human females, Wesson Oil, and Milton Bradley's Twister. Maybe someone remembered to bring a riding crop or something. Point being, barring a traumatic brain injury, my fantasies will hopefully never include shoulder pads and jock straps.

Two of my coworkers play a little game which they call "The Morning After Jam Night". They find a Internet article with an interesting headline, and humorously speculate that the article reflects how the neighbors/police/media found me Tuesday or Saturday morning. Last week's front runner was pretty awesome.

This is one reason (or two) I love living where I do .

This is one reason I despise living where I do.

I couldn't help but notice that some television network has reanimated the rotting corpse of the old mini-series "V". Even though my health insurance has diagnosed me with the awful precondition of enjoying a piece of good science fiction (an ailment scientists have classified as "geeky" or "loser-ish"), I am still apprehensive about this new version. I was pretty damn young when the original aired, but I remember enough to realize that it was mind-numbingly terrible.

Riding the tide of Star Wars popularity, the original series featured nefarious rodent-eating lizard biped-humanoids covered in faux human flesh. So, I guess you could say it was exactly like Desperate Housewives, except set in the 80s. [rimshot] Also, apparently this post-disco Flock Of Aliens got a discount on Micheal Jackson's 'Thriller' apparel and Blublocker© sunglasses. You know, because they wanted to fit in.
A timeless look.

I'm sure much like any other 80s fad, it seemed trendy at the time.

In the new-redeux of V, apparently the people in wardrobe took advantage of a fire-sale on the glut of unemployed-executive-banker clothes at the local consignment store.
A timeless look for the colorblind stockbroker.

I'm sure, not unlike its predecessor, this new show will hold up nicely in the ensuing decades, and if humans DO ever meet aliens, scholars will marvel at how on-the-mark the producers at ABC were with their depiction of an alien species. (cough)

Having not seen the new show (but still overly-willing to bad mouth it), I can't really say how it compares to the original: if it will examine society's xenophobia, lampoon 1930s/40s era facist Nazi Germany's government, or even if it will sate the ravenous appetite of the world's reptile fetishists. Right? Because everyone knows how unlivable, overbearing and dickish Fedcral Reserve Employees sauro-freaks can get when they can't get a little "green scale-tail". Wait, you DON'T know? Just me? Hmm. Moving on then...

The most important question this new mini series raises is a question that society has been asking itself for quite some time now: What the fuck happened to Marc Singer?
"Yeah, what the fuck happened to me?"

Dude was pretty much on top of the world in the early 80s. Prior to his role on the original V, he played The Beastmaster, a streetwise pimp high on blow mystical Fabio precursor that could communicate with an array of animals because it was the 80s and people would swallow any premise, no matter how ridiculous. Video and photo records from that time suggest he managed mind control over creatures through a mysterious combination of angry squinting and chest oil, and he also rolled through town in a bad-ass Cadillac. Admittedly, I might have watched The Mack right after Beastmaster and confused a few plot points.

Here's a little something for the ladies: (sadly, that 'little something' is Marc Singer)
"I swear to Buddha, if this bird shits on my hand one more time..."
[Angry squint!]

Not long after these early eighties 'successes', he disappeared. Maybe, in what scientists term 'The C. Thomas Howell Effect', the world just quit noticing Marc. Or perhaps it was just one of society's reflexive defense mechanisms; ignoring a rising-star/hack much like they would repress a horrible childhood trauma or step over a bum on the street. Ignore it, and it will go away*.

But he's gone now, and God and the Internet only know to where. The current career possibilities for Mr. Singer are only as narrow as your own imaginations: Porn star, truck driver, kosher hot-dog vendor, chainsaw repairman, soft-spoken priest turned vigilante, forklift operator at a dildo plant, underprivileged inner-city youth, prom queen in a small Iowa farm town, Ralph Macchio's only dependable roommate, or Secretary of the Interior.

I personally like to imagine he's some combination of all of those. Plus, it's easier to imagine a new life path for him than looking up what he actually now does for a living. Wait, it isn't? Score another point for technology.

*Note: The above idiom is NOT to be used in the treatment of herpes or syphilis.

Seriously, a little something for the ladies. No refunds.

SUBJECT: Blogger awards

Seems like I'm always seeing people giving (or nominating) blogs awards, regardless of any actual merit.

So, I've cooked up a few of my own. Feel free to award these new and totally awesome awards to yourselves and each other. You could tell your friends some lies such as "I nominated you for a prestigious Krëg Blog Award, but I'm not sure you'll win. Competition is stiff for a KBA." Then later you can tell them they won and just email them whatever JPEG you deem most tasteless.

What are your award choices? Well, I'm glad you asked, internal rhetorical questioning narrative plot-device voice! Just take a gander at THESE:

In retrospect, I probably should have included more baby photos in that one...

Much like a handjob, this last award was really just for me to give to myself.

So, what awards did I forget? What custom award would you like me to make for YOU?

08 October 2009

Blogger Hates Me

Blogger has tweaked something within the past few days, in what I am certain is an effort to piss me off.

I don't know what they have changed, but I find myself no longer able to leave comments on anyone's page. I would suspect this "no comments" development to be the result of court-ordered sanctions against me for repeated online lewdness, except my lawyer helped me dodge that bullet by successfully arguing that I am human in no demonstrable way, and therefore not subject to the laws of people. I used the same argument to refuse his legal fees.

But seriously, Blogger has shit the bed on me, perhaps for the last time. Every few years, I get bored with a particular blog site, and move on to a new one (my ex-blog sites include MySpace and Xanga). I just get bored and need a change, so I move on and set up shop somewhere else. I have been about ready to ankle this Google-owned interface for over two months now, and the ONLY thing that's been keeping me coming back is the enjoyment of commenting on the posts of other bloggers. Such as you, dear reader.

Now I can't even do that. I don't know what is preventing my always witty (read: shitty) remarks from reaching your comments sections. Perhaps it is the crazy amount of restrictions I impose on the Internet using many Firefox add-ons (script-blockers, ad-blockers, cookie-killers, etc.). The problem might fade if I used Internet Explorer as my browser, but I'll eat a handful of soggy cocks before I use ANY version of IE.

Further, without being able to comment on other people's pages, there is little chance of increasing my readership. Not that I care about such things. But still, pretty much an impossibility.

So, until I either solve this problem, cancel my Blogger account, or put a bullet through my motherboard in frustration, please know that I really WANT to leave you some comments. But I can't.


Meantime, here's a couple of images to reflect upon.

Mmmmmm. Baconhenge.

Peace out, yo.


06 October 2009

I Hope That If I Found The Strength To Walk Out

You'd stay the hell outta my way.

This clip was sans our banjo player, acoustic guitar player, clarinet player, and violin player. So basically that's only half the band.


It is apparently time for my annual PPP (Phall Phlegm Phest).

Allergies > Sinus infections > Excessive phlegm production > Chest congestion & sore throat > Me being sick as hell (physically sick ... My psychological illness is pretty much year-round)

I think I coughed up about a half pint of "fluids" Saturday alone.

On the upshot, my doc says I don't have swine flu. Yet.

30 September 2009

Horrid Joke

Horrid jokes are the ONLY kind of jokes I enjoy. The sicker the better. Therefore, I was incredibly pleased when a band mate supplied an excellent specimen last Friday.
This isn't the joke, but it damn sure has the makings of a good one...

Apparently, there is a site called sikipedia.com, which is a rich depository of awful jokes, and Jeff couldn't wait to unleash the fury.

Neither can I, so without further ado.......

Q: What does spinich have in common with anal sex?

A: Chances are, if you had it forced upon you as a child, you won't like it as an adult.

Yeah, and that is STILL not the worst joke I've ever heard.

What's the worst one you've ever heard?

05 September 2009

Droogie Don't Crash Here

Here's a thing that happens on Mondays and Fridays.

It's outta sight.

21 August 2009

Word Week Concluded

...Because 'round here, a week has ten or eleven days in it.

Today, I'd like to talk about spelling.
No, I mean the spelling that DOESN'T involve a transgendered skank-mutant.

Some people are ardent supporters of correct spelling and grammar. They will go out of their (not there or they're) way to point out the spelling deficiencies of others, often in the most dickish ways possible. They seem to take pleasure in correcting even the slightest verbal misstep.

I am one of those assholes.
It's kinda hard to make me out in the background...

I came by my quirky (read: shitty) habit honestly. My mother was an English major in college (undergrad), and has a Master's in Journalism. I wasn't allowed many liberties with language growing up. Words like "ain't" and phrases like "all of a sudden" were verboten. I was always encouraged to find another word to use in place of profanity. And so I played by the rules.

Perhaps that's why later in life I've come to enjoy playing fast and loose with words.
"All of a sudden, rules ain't SHIT, mom."

No, my mother is a very sweet woman, and thanks to her tutelage when I was young, I today find myself able to talk to a wide variety of people from different backgrounds with ease. So it worked out pretty well.

But back to spelling, and the correctness of it, and how it is one of my obsession points. I know quite a few smart people, people who have mastered smart person subjects like physics and linear regressions and chemistry. Theez peepel cannt spel fur sh!t. And it isn't even as if people have a decent excuse for misspelling words these days. Almost every computer application known to man now has incorporated at least a rudimentary spell-checker to point out any suspected misspellings (usually in red).

Hell this entry alone has a few.

Apparently, there is NO chance I was trying to spell 'skunk'.

I think Swank
Shank Stank Spank is now officially the name of my fledgling rock band. Or maybe it's a children's book than I'm going to write.

But before I set off to change the world of kid's literary fiction, I thought I'd point out a few words that have caused me some problems in the past. The first is the word 'ofter'. It is an actual word, although I had no idea of that the first time I typed it by accident (I can't remember if I was angling to type 'often' or 'after'), and as such, spell check didn't catch it. But my coworkers did, and they made me feel the sting of being a grammar and spelling prick in the past, and I suppose I had earned that.
Still, here's the "logic" that my mind refuses to track: Some programming egghead put a never-used twelfth-century word like 'ofter' into spell-checker's library, but neglected to include 'skank'.

The other work that repeatedly caused me problems was 'inconvenience'. Not because of some corny joke like "It's really inconvenient to spell inconvenience", but rather because of what happens when you spell that word as 'inconvienence'. Back in the early part of this decade, I had my work email set up to automatically check for and fix any spelling errors. The phrase "I apologize for any inconvienence this may have caused" is what I wrote. Once the spell-checker did its job, the phrase
"I apologize for any incontinence this may have caused" is the sentiment I sent company-wide.

Not my finest moment.

As this photo (sent to me from my friend's wife) clearly illustrates, spelling is becoming less important in today's society. Even in the hallowed halls of education.
Shoe polish: one of the last holdouts for intergrated spell-check.

I blame texting/twittering for the dismal state of people's attention to spelling.
But then again, I blamed my last sinus infection on that too.

I thought of two more words that sound dirty but aren't:

Oh, also

19 August 2009

Word Week Continued

Thermal imaging of Uranus has revealed that it is surrounded by wrinkly, stinky, inflamed rings.

For the second part of Word Week
, I'd like to know what words you think sound dirty, even though they clearly aren't.

Some of my MANY favorites include but aren't limited to:


Which ones did I leave off my list?

[edit] I forgot concocted.

Also, I thought of another spoonerism, but this time it is someone's name:
Kurt Cobain

18 August 2009

My Point Is...

I was talking to a friend last night, and began a sentence thusly: "I was reading something recently... No wait... Maybe I saw it in a Burger King commercial. It doesn't matter. My point is..."

My friend wisely cut me off at this point, and suggested that perhaps it DID matter where I learned whatever dubious facts I was preparing to unleash, especially if I was going to use them to illustrate a point.

I countered by pointing out that whether I gained "knowledge" from a textbook or from the ghoulish plastic grin of the BK King, if I never ran the core idea all the way back to its headwaters to check for validity, I was just taking someone else's word for it anyway.

"But Burger King always has an agenda when they 'teach you facts.' They want to sell you burgers, and are motivated by profit. Science is only motivated by more science."

"Tell that to the scientists who shouted down Wegener. At least Burger King's motives are out in the open. But my point is... Dammit, I forgot. Now all I can think of is how much I want a cheeseburger."

I sometime find it hard to put myself in another's shoes. Still, I'm fairly certain that if I was behind the wheel of that car pictured below, I'd be doing donuts on bloody monkey pelts.
Earth's two most wretched mammals interact.

Rolling Stones - Loving Cup

"Krëg, you're such a negative person." (said pot)
"I am NOT!" (said kettle)

17 August 2009

Word Week

This week I'm going to try and throw out a few posts centered around the theme of wordplay.

Today's topic will be spoonerisms. What's a spoonerism? Well according to the highly reliable Wiki entry, it's when you flip some sounds between two words. Some times it is inadvertent display of drunken idiocy, like when my banjo player used the expression dougle nebative. Some times it is a deliberate verbal twisting employed for humorous purposes, like when someone says 'bass ackwards'.

Every so often, a spoonerism will still be a real word once (or before) it is flipped, and I find these manifestations particularly delicious.

Three of my favorites of this last type:
sick duck
pop corn
bunt cake

How about you? Got a favorite?

14 August 2009

Friday Photos

I think Blogger has been treating me worse than the asthmatic kid in gym class lately. I have a sneaking suspicion that it hasn't been reflecting my past few updates. Even the asthmatic kid eventually gets picked for kickball. But whatever.

I was cleaning off my camera, and found a few images I'd taken with the express purpose of sharing them here.


My dogs prepared a surprise for me Monday while I was at work. I was not as enthusiastic about the end result as they were.

The phrase "Hey, let's go back to my place and jam for a while! We'll get some beer on the way!" sounds like a good idea when the bartender announces last call. It seems decidedly less so in the harsh light of Sunday morning.

If you're going to be in the bathroom messing with something for a half-hour, it might as well be your heavy brass ballcock.

After hooking up your waterline to your new refrigerator, it's probably wise to examine the first few cycles from the ice maker instead of just blindly dropping them into your drink.

When describing your excitement over a newly acquired twenty-four channel mixer, it is not considered socially acceptable to utter the phrase "If that thing had a vagina, I'd be fucking it RIGHT NOW!" People tend to look at you funny when you say things like that. But it is 277 knobs of raw sexy.

Have a good weekend

12 August 2009

Weak End To The Weekend Left Me Weakened

Here at this travesty of a blog, I like to stay on top of things. That's why you'll get an update about my previous weekend by mid-week if you're lucky. I'm on the stick like that.

As my weekend was long, and filled with more alcohol than I'm accustomed to drinking, I figured I'd just hit the high points.


Friday's favorite quote:
"Nice suit." - me to the guy who wore a ribbed douche-shirt instead of a suit (or even a collared shirt and tie) to a FUNERAL. His wife looked pretty pissed at my remark, but he didn't seem to care.
Like this, except two sizes too small, so it looked like he stole it from an eight-year-old's closet.


Saturday's favorite quote:
"My cesarean scar makes my torso look like The Joker." - a very nice girl I was talking to in a bar Saturday night. I assumed she wasn't talking about the Steve Miller Band song, but after the remark, I didn't offer to confirm that suspicion.
♫ Some call me the skanskster of love... ♪


Sunday's favorite quote:
"We have Pepsi, Dr. Pepper, Mountain Dew, and Sierra Mist." - my waitress at the restaurante autentico after I asked her for a Coke. This would not have seemed strange if my friend had not JUST ordered a Coca Cola from her three seconds prior without incident. After my friend and I exchanged puzzled looks, I ordered an iced tea. We weren't there for the Mexican Coca-Cola anyway (made with real sugar instead of high fructose corn syrup), but instead came in trying to cure our hangovers with menudo.
Not this menudo, the one made from beef stomach instead of sweaty mullets.


Other weekend highlights include:

*A trip to the local Asian market, where I discovered I could finally purchase ingredients that had eluded me at other stores. Including but not limited to: duck heads, beef spleens, and hog uteri. You read that correctly. Uteri. Asian people eat some nasty things ... said the man who ate menudo for Sunday brunch.

*The National Rifle Association called to solicit funds, and backed their pleas with TOTAL LIES. I know this because I was sitting in front of my computer when they called, and I know how to use Google. When I asked Shawn why he called me just to lie, all he could do was stammer and ask for more money.

*I fixed a Hammond 103 that one of my bandmates scored for free (because it didn't work). Twenty minutes of tinkering under the hood, cleaning old vacuum tubes, and hand-massaging the tonewheel back to life, and he had the most rockin garage on the block.

*I became debilitatingly ill Sunday evening...the one night I didn't drink my ass off.


Here's some tracks:

John Lee Hooker - One Bourbon, One Scotch, One beer.

Todd Snider - Talking Seattle Grunge Rock Blues.

James Blunt - Fall At Your Feet (Crowded House cover).


And here's me in PROPPER funeral attire...

What's the bare minimum you'd wear to a funeral?

07 August 2009

Words Are Overrated

Make your own warning sign HERE.