19 June 2009
17 June 2009
Manly Grooming Tips
Dear Krëg,
Being a man, I'm not sure how effeminate it is to show concern for grooming my nails. Can you advise me on the proper way to make sure my hands and feet always look their best?
Thanks,
Fic Tishuss
Dear Fic,
No. I honestly have no earthly idea what you're talking about. Like the ten-penny galvanized nails I keep in my toolbelt? They're galvanized, so they're permanently "groomed".
The best way to make sure your hands and feet look their best is to make sure you look as manly as possible by always holding one of the following in at least one of your hands: Beer, pistol, your own cock, cheeseburger, still-beating heart, Zeus's lightning, tit (or 'tits' if you have a huge hand ... or small tits), someone's fate, steak, circular saw, claw hammer, or guitar.
It occurred to me that you might be seeking grooming tips for fingernails or toenails. But that seemed like a sissified question, since the fickle public's fascination with the "metrosexual" fad has long ago evaporated from society's collective consciousness, like so much piss from the top of a hot desert rock. Real guys have reverted back to the time-honored tradition of not giving a shit about things like "products" and "grooming", if they ever pretended to care at all.
Even so Fic, here are a few quick manly grooming tips for your finger/toenails...
1) Bite your damn fingernails off and spit them out, like the rest of us men. Preferably spit them someplace awesome like a NASCAR track or your buddy's bowl of chili or some snooty prime minister's face. Or, if you're truly uninspired, just spit them onto the filthy floor of your poorly-lit dwelling like you always do.
2) Toenails do not need to be trimmed. At least not in the traditional sense. A really macho man will find the most studly way possible to control the length of his toenails. My personal preference is to use furniture to this end. See, first you put a piece of heavy furniture in an unexpected place. If you can't do it yourself, have one of your dogs do it when you aren't looking. Put their bed near said heavy home furnishing, and let them kick it around in their sleep. Then, early one morning, you can reduce your field of vision by carrying a basket of laundry back to your bedroom. This will help you to not notice your relocated furniture, so you won't alter your stride or direction in any way. Now deftly smash at least two of your toes into the leg of said furniture. If you get the angle just right, at least ONE of your toenails should shatter, greatly reducing its length while simultaneously exposing tender nail bed.
See? You don't need expensive pedicures or nail care equipment. Just a chair leg.
That image above is what flew off from the piggy that "stayed home" with just one simple treatment of blunt force chair leg trauma. Glorious. You really can't get results that close with traditional methods.
It takes a fair degree of mastery before you'll be getting the results you want, such as also knocking "roast beef" into "had none", and flaying "had none" with "roast beef's" disgustingly long nail.
Click that photo to remove the band aids and show the wounded toes covered in Neosporin, dog hair, and band aid goo. Mmm. Foot close-up!
But just stick with it, and you'll be proficient in no time flat. Soon, you'll be able to trim the nails off of all ten toes in a matter of minutes, using nothing more than ordinary household objects.
3) Men who are married, engaged, or have been "dating" the same woman for more than three months should disregard these instructions and instead refer to the handbook that their significant other gave them in trade for their own free will.
Good luck Fic!
Regards,
Krëg
Man Man - Top Drawer
Shivaree - Don't Stop Till Ya Get Enough
Being a man, I'm not sure how effeminate it is to show concern for grooming my nails. Can you advise me on the proper way to make sure my hands and feet always look their best?
Thanks,
Fic Tishuss
Dear Fic,
No. I honestly have no earthly idea what you're talking about. Like the ten-penny galvanized nails I keep in my toolbelt? They're galvanized, so they're permanently "groomed".
The best way to make sure your hands and feet look their best is to make sure you look as manly as possible by always holding one of the following in at least one of your hands: Beer, pistol, your own cock, cheeseburger, still-beating heart, Zeus's lightning, tit (or 'tits' if you have a huge hand ... or small tits), someone's fate, steak, circular saw, claw hammer, or guitar.
It occurred to me that you might be seeking grooming tips for fingernails or toenails. But that seemed like a sissified question, since the fickle public's fascination with the "metrosexual" fad has long ago evaporated from society's collective consciousness, like so much piss from the top of a hot desert rock. Real guys have reverted back to the time-honored tradition of not giving a shit about things like "products" and "grooming", if they ever pretended to care at all.
Even so Fic, here are a few quick manly grooming tips for your finger/toenails...
1) Bite your damn fingernails off and spit them out, like the rest of us men. Preferably spit them someplace awesome like a NASCAR track or your buddy's bowl of chili or some snooty prime minister's face. Or, if you're truly uninspired, just spit them onto the filthy floor of your poorly-lit dwelling like you always do.
2) Toenails do not need to be trimmed. At least not in the traditional sense. A really macho man will find the most studly way possible to control the length of his toenails. My personal preference is to use furniture to this end. See, first you put a piece of heavy furniture in an unexpected place. If you can't do it yourself, have one of your dogs do it when you aren't looking. Put their bed near said heavy home furnishing, and let them kick it around in their sleep. Then, early one morning, you can reduce your field of vision by carrying a basket of laundry back to your bedroom. This will help you to not notice your relocated furniture, so you won't alter your stride or direction in any way. Now deftly smash at least two of your toes into the leg of said furniture. If you get the angle just right, at least ONE of your toenails should shatter, greatly reducing its length while simultaneously exposing tender nail bed.
See? You don't need expensive pedicures or nail care equipment. Just a chair leg.That image above is what flew off from the piggy that "stayed home" with just one simple treatment of blunt force chair leg trauma. Glorious. You really can't get results that close with traditional methods.
It takes a fair degree of mastery before you'll be getting the results you want, such as also knocking "roast beef" into "had none", and flaying "had none" with "roast beef's" disgustingly long nail.
Click that photo to remove the band aids and show the wounded toes covered in Neosporin, dog hair, and band aid goo. Mmm. Foot close-up!But just stick with it, and you'll be proficient in no time flat. Soon, you'll be able to trim the nails off of all ten toes in a matter of minutes, using nothing more than ordinary household objects.
3) Men who are married, engaged, or have been "dating" the same woman for more than three months should disregard these instructions and instead refer to the handbook that their significant other gave them in trade for their own free will.
Good luck Fic!
Regards,
Krëg
Man Man - Top Drawer
Shivaree - Don't Stop Till Ya Get Enough
16 June 2009
Ice Station Zebra
If at first you don't succeed, get drunk and blow it off for a day or two. Then sober up and try again.
My weekend company was incredibly forgiving about my inconsistent climate control. Friday evening saw eight or nine different people wandering through my house (not counting myself), and nary a complaint among them. At least, none that I could hear over the roar of my attic fan and ceiling fans. And guitar. And piano. And drums. And Hammond. And drinking. The roar of the drinking is always the loudest. It was almost pushing 80 degrees a few times.
Despite my late night liver abuse, I still managed to roll out of bed at a respectable 9 am on Saturday morning. After spending a half hour jawing with a neighbor I hadn't seen in three or four months, I set myself to the task of A/C repairman once again.
After brief breaks listen to my guest's piano playing and inhale some caffeine, we set off to get the CORRECT parts from the parts supplier. After a quick stop at the donut shop, my guest and I hit the parts store, and I asked the first person who offered to help me why they sold me the wrong motor earlier in the week. An employee took my old new motor away, and brought out the exact same model motor again.
"Um, I'm pretty sure I already tried this motor. It failed to hold up under even my most lackluster scrutiny."
"Sir, this is the replacement motor our computer recommends."
"This is a one-quarter horsepower motor."
"Yes sir."
"Just like the last one you sold me?"
"Yes sir."
"The one that failed."
"Uh huh."
"Even though my old General Electric motor was a one-fifth power motor?"
"Sir, that's what my computer tells me you need. Its actually a MORE powerful motor."
"Yes, I can 'do' math."
"Anything else I can help you with sir?"
"Hmm. Apparently not."
I didn't see the point of arguing that MORE power isn't necessarily always an improvement. The cooking directions call for 300° for sixty minutes. I'm going to try 3000° for six minutes. I'll bet my results will be just as good. Or even better, this Ferrari engine will make this go-kart haul some ass. But whatever. I'm no heat and air expert.
I went to another store to get a replacement capacitor, as my faith in the first place had spiralled out of existence. I asked what kind of replacement motor they recommended, and was shown the exact same overpowered motor I'd already seen twice. Fine. Maybe that is the replacement I need. Hmm. That meant the capacitor was probably bad, not the motor. Except I'm certain that the old motor was ruined. The bearings were shot. Which means that BOTH parts had failed originally, and I'd only changed out one. Which still meant that the motor I'd returned was probably fine. Which ultimately meant that I have no clue and therefore no business tinkering around inside my HVAC unit. Yay!
But now I had new replacements for both parts.
By one o'clock, I had replaced the fan and capacitor
By four that afternoon it was below 70 in my house.
By the following morning it was below 60.
My guest finally complained about the cold.
"Krëg, I'm afraid to stick my tongue to metal in your house!"
I just looked over and arched a brow.
"Well, now I'm even MORE afraid to stick my tongue to any metal in your house!"
"Why don't we go ahead and extend that fear to all of my property? Is there still some part of my house of which you remain unafraid to apply your tongue? I hope its not the bathroom or garage."
"I'm just saying its cold, man."
"Yeah, I sure did fix the ever-loving-fuck out of that air conditioner," I replied through chattering teeth.
Quoted cost of repairs = $400
Cost of parts = $115
Saving almost three hundred bucks made me feel even more manly. At least I think it did. Its difficult to tell through the hypothermia.
My weekend company was incredibly forgiving about my inconsistent climate control. Friday evening saw eight or nine different people wandering through my house (not counting myself), and nary a complaint among them. At least, none that I could hear over the roar of my attic fan and ceiling fans. And guitar. And piano. And drums. And Hammond. And drinking. The roar of the drinking is always the loudest. It was almost pushing 80 degrees a few times.
Despite my late night liver abuse, I still managed to roll out of bed at a respectable 9 am on Saturday morning. After spending a half hour jawing with a neighbor I hadn't seen in three or four months, I set myself to the task of A/C repairman once again.
After brief breaks listen to my guest's piano playing and inhale some caffeine, we set off to get the CORRECT parts from the parts supplier. After a quick stop at the donut shop, my guest and I hit the parts store, and I asked the first person who offered to help me why they sold me the wrong motor earlier in the week. An employee took my old new motor away, and brought out the exact same model motor again.
"Um, I'm pretty sure I already tried this motor. It failed to hold up under even my most lackluster scrutiny."
"Sir, this is the replacement motor our computer recommends."
"This is a one-quarter horsepower motor."
"Yes sir."
"Just like the last one you sold me?"
"Yes sir."
"The one that failed."
"Uh huh."
"Even though my old General Electric motor was a one-fifth power motor?"
"Sir, that's what my computer tells me you need. Its actually a MORE powerful motor."
"Yes, I can 'do' math."
"Anything else I can help you with sir?"
"Hmm. Apparently not."
I didn't see the point of arguing that MORE power isn't necessarily always an improvement. The cooking directions call for 300° for sixty minutes. I'm going to try 3000° for six minutes. I'll bet my results will be just as good. Or even better, this Ferrari engine will make this go-kart haul some ass. But whatever. I'm no heat and air expert.
I went to another store to get a replacement capacitor, as my faith in the first place had spiralled out of existence. I asked what kind of replacement motor they recommended, and was shown the exact same overpowered motor I'd already seen twice. Fine. Maybe that is the replacement I need. Hmm. That meant the capacitor was probably bad, not the motor. Except I'm certain that the old motor was ruined. The bearings were shot. Which means that BOTH parts had failed originally, and I'd only changed out one. Which still meant that the motor I'd returned was probably fine. Which ultimately meant that I have no clue and therefore no business tinkering around inside my HVAC unit. Yay!
But now I had new replacements for both parts.
By one o'clock, I had replaced the fan and capacitor
By four that afternoon it was below 70 in my house.
By the following morning it was below 60.
My guest finally complained about the cold.
"Krëg, I'm afraid to stick my tongue to metal in your house!"
I just looked over and arched a brow.
"Well, now I'm even MORE afraid to stick my tongue to any metal in your house!"
"Why don't we go ahead and extend that fear to all of my property? Is there still some part of my house of which you remain unafraid to apply your tongue? I hope its not the bathroom or garage."
"I'm just saying its cold, man."
"Yeah, I sure did fix the ever-loving-fuck out of that air conditioner," I replied through chattering teeth.
Quoted cost of repairs = $400
Cost of parts = $115
Saving almost three hundred bucks made me feel even more manly. At least I think it did. Its difficult to tell through the hypothermia.
13 June 2009
11 June 2009
Man Up
Before I dive in to the "story" part of this post, I had to share these two photos I found after using the search term "muy macho".
If you don't maximize this photo and read the text, you don't deserve eyeballs.
Muy macho, indeed!
And now that that's out of the way...
In order to simultaneously fulfill my monthly quota of manly actions and indulge my passion for thrift, Wednesday evening I attempted something I'd never done before...
"You thought about monster trucks while masturbating onto a pile of junk mail, for inexpensive, fuss-free cleanup?" asked my mocking mental peanut gallery.
"Shut up," I mentally replied. "You know I only do that on weekends."
No, instead I did some manly home repair.
My air conditioner is probably twenty five years old. I say 'probably' because there is no marking on the unit that would indicate an install date. I've tried estimating the age by cutting a cross-section and counting the rings, but it turns out that only works with trees and Liberace.
Whatever the case, Ronald Reagan was president when it was installed, and Bill Cosby was probably considered cool. People owned "disk" cameras. I may not have had pubes then. Breakdancing was still popular. In fact, I'm fairly certain that the guy or gal that installed the behemoth was breakdancing while they worked. Possibly in spandex, and with back-up dancers.
Hopefully, you've clued in to what I'm driving at. Namely, my air conditioner is old and the damn thing needs to be replaced. It has a slow freon leak that necessitates a service call every spring, and has chewed through capacitors/solenoids and other parts like a smoker hell bent on quitting goes through Juicy Fruit. But over the five or six years that I've had the "privilege" of owning it, I've learned a few things. One of the first lessons I learned is that my DOGS can (and do) turn off the gas to the furnace due to the terrible location of the unit (its a package unit, so furnace, blower, a-coil, fan, and radiator are all in ONE location). After watching a parade of repairmen tinker with the unit over the seasons, I've also figured out what I can repair myself, and what is best left to the experts. (Very little, and damn near everything else)
But I had three different people tell me that my fan motor was cooked, and one of the was an EXPERT. So in a pouring rainstorm, I went out and unhooked the old motor, took it to a parts store, bought a new one, made all the adjustments, and installed it myself. Again, this was all in the pouring rain.
Net savings = $300
Everything worked perfectly when I finished Wednesday evening, and I had cold air flowing like manna from heaven. I felt like the king stud of home repair.
Yesterday my new fan motor quit running.
It is hot, and I'm expecting company in about an hour. Company that plans to stay until Sunday.
I hope your weekend is better than this king stud.
I'm off to "sort through" the junk mail.
If you don't maximize this photo and read the text, you don't deserve eyeballs.
Muy macho, indeed!In order to simultaneously fulfill my monthly quota of manly actions and indulge my passion for thrift, Wednesday evening I attempted something I'd never done before...
"You thought about monster trucks while masturbating onto a pile of junk mail, for inexpensive, fuss-free cleanup?" asked my mocking mental peanut gallery.
"Shut up," I mentally replied. "You know I only do that on weekends."
No, instead I did some manly home repair.
My air conditioner is probably twenty five years old. I say 'probably' because there is no marking on the unit that would indicate an install date. I've tried estimating the age by cutting a cross-section and counting the rings, but it turns out that only works with trees and Liberace.
Whatever the case, Ronald Reagan was president when it was installed, and Bill Cosby was probably considered cool. People owned "disk" cameras. I may not have had pubes then. Breakdancing was still popular. In fact, I'm fairly certain that the guy or gal that installed the behemoth was breakdancing while they worked. Possibly in spandex, and with back-up dancers.
Hopefully, you've clued in to what I'm driving at. Namely, my air conditioner is old and the damn thing needs to be replaced. It has a slow freon leak that necessitates a service call every spring, and has chewed through capacitors/solenoids and other parts like a smoker hell bent on quitting goes through Juicy Fruit. But over the five or six years that I've had the "privilege" of owning it, I've learned a few things. One of the first lessons I learned is that my DOGS can (and do) turn off the gas to the furnace due to the terrible location of the unit (its a package unit, so furnace, blower, a-coil, fan, and radiator are all in ONE location). After watching a parade of repairmen tinker with the unit over the seasons, I've also figured out what I can repair myself, and what is best left to the experts. (Very little, and damn near everything else)
But I had three different people tell me that my fan motor was cooked, and one of the was an EXPERT. So in a pouring rainstorm, I went out and unhooked the old motor, took it to a parts store, bought a new one, made all the adjustments, and installed it myself. Again, this was all in the pouring rain.
Net savings = $300
Everything worked perfectly when I finished Wednesday evening, and I had cold air flowing like manna from heaven. I felt like the king stud of home repair.Yesterday my new fan motor quit running.
It is hot, and I'm expecting company in about an hour. Company that plans to stay until Sunday.
I hope your weekend is better than this king stud.
I'm off to "sort through" the junk mail.
09 June 2009
Congratulations
My parents celebrated their 40th wedding anniversary a few weeks ago. My mother even wore her old wedding dress for the occasion. We did NOT serenade them with songs about that fateful summer.May the next 40 be as good as the first 40.
All this talk of 40s is making me thirsty.
05 June 2009
Friday Fun
Here are a few things for your amusement:
First up, a classic video of boy meets girl, they both fall in love, and as their passion and feelings grow they grow to understand each other better. Enjoy.
___________________________________
Ever wonder why you are fat? Answers are HERE. The Clogger and Breakfast Sushi look pretty kick ass.
_______________________________
Sometimes mothers have to do some regrettable things to feed their cubs:
_______________________________
Finally, for your interactive portion of this post, please caption this photo:
The winner will receive an all-natural mixture of nitrogen, oxygen, argon, and carbon dioxide.
Have a great weekend.
03 June 2009
Hooray! I'm Old!
Dammit, I KNEW I should have asked for something other than socks and guitar strings.
02 June 2009
Act Now!
You have precious little time left to get me a kick-ass birthday present. Better move quickly. Things on my "desired but not acquired" list include: world peace, total enlightenment, end to world starvation, Liv Tyler, reduced pollution, and increased compassion for all the planet's creatures.
Big props to your fellow reader over at SHST. He sent me these über-cool origami dollars.
Pictured: Demonstrable skillPop that photo up to big size, and check out the TINY folds he made on some of the feet and noses/trunks. I don't think I could make folds that small without lathroscopic surgery gear.
Seriously, if y'all wanna do something cool in celebration of my birthday (and I know you do), find a local charity you believe in, and give them something nice. Or just give a small wad of cash to the nearest homeless person. They'll know what to do with it.
____________________
Tom Waits - Gun Street Girl
Seriously, if y'all wanna do something cool in celebration of my birthday (and I know you do), find a local charity you believe in, and give them something nice. Or just give a small wad of cash to the nearest homeless person. They'll know what to do with it.
____________________
Tom Waits - Gun Street Girl
01 June 2009
Roll Me Over In The Clover
So, after reading the blog of one of your fellow readers, I was reminded of some "fun" I had last week.
Like many of you homeowners with lawns have discovered, lawns are
As I was pulling the mower out of the shed, I noticed that my Saint Bernard had followed me out, and was sniffing around in the overgrown clover nearby. After about three seconds of nose-investigation, he then flopped over onto his side and began rubbing his body into the clover. He continued, rolling over onto his back, with all four legs in the air, but still grinding his body into the clover. He concluded the puppy-like display of happiness by flipping to his other side and wriggling around some more.
That's cute, I thought, he still has a puppy's heart and despite his old age, he really just want's to frolic in the clover until h ... wait. What's going on?
He had completed his little happy "dance" and was now standing up and sniffing the ground again. In the EXACT same spot as before. Odd. My subconcious floated the theory that perhaps there was something on the ground there.
Oh, you little son of a ... If you're rolling around in your own fecal matter I'm going to g...
My thoughts evaporated as I shooed the dog away and began looking for the offending turd that he had been trying to body-slam.
Oh THERE it is ... No, wait. That's not dog poo. What the fu¢k IS that?!?!
After I fetched a good poking stick, and shooed the dog away again, I began my CSI-like investigation of the clover.
"Oh you nasty, NASTY fu¢ker! You're getting a bath first thing tomorrow. And sleeping outside tonight!"
I'm not sure (I really couldn't tell) what creature originally housed them, but my Saint Bernard had been rolling around in a tiny pile of half-eaten critter guts. I could see small intestine and what I believe to be a singular kidney or a liver. I assume all the rest of the evidence was eaten.
The next morning, I discovered that no amount of dog shampoo can wash away some mental images.
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