Ronnie Wood's Christmas Memories

It was Christmas of '74 and I was touring with Faces when Rod asked me thoughts on his new lady. I told him, "Yea Rod. That bird's a right looker."

Later Bitches

Thank you all for your loyal readership over the last 5 months.

DR...out.

The Final Days

I don’t really have anything special planned or anything special to write about for the final days of the blog.  This week is a transition week for me as I’m trying to get back in the swing of things.  I have now set a daily alarm for 7 a.m.  The last time I awoke regularly around this time of the morning was November…so I expect it to be a little rough.  I’m also going to get an Illinois driver’s license once again.  Gone will be the days of clueless doormen trying to find the date of birth on my Nevada DL…it’s in the bottom left corner and is, in my opinion, as tiny as can be.  Other than that, it’ll be the usual grind.  Lots of TV time, a copy of Us Weekly, and a solo movie or two.

 

A Letter to Jim Gibbons

Dear Governor Gibbons,

Thank you for the weekly unemployment checks.  Not only did the $353.70 per week allow me to continue my normal drinking habits, it also gave me something to do.  When you have nothing else going on, the weekly drive to the bank can be a very fulfilling endeavor.

By the way, I never got that $25 a week raise.  Did the check get lost in the mail?  Are you using the money to gallivant around Carson City with various mistresses/prostitutes?  If the latter is true, don’t worry about it…keep it.

Keep on keeping on,

DR

 

Nissan Cube

Why isn’t the back end/window of this car symmetrical?  Am I the only one bothered by this?

 Air Fornicator

Saw this article a few days ago…entertaining.

Living at 800 Feet

The past month and a half at my parents’ house has been very interesting.  As some of you may know, my parents are both immigrants.  This means they have accents and use poor grammar.  Now, when I was growing up I never really noticed all this.  When you grow up with something, it just becomes a part of you…you learn to overlook it.  Over the last few years I haven’t spent too much time with my parents.  A nice combination of me living 2,000 miles away and, frankly, not being a very good son are just two of the reasons.  Now that I’m engulfed in it – their lives; their conversations – this shit is really pissing me off.

Now I’m not one to suck my own dick, but I’m a fairly intelligent speaker and writer.  How the fuck did that happen?  How did I rise above the improper conjugations and tenses?  Could it have been the fine public education I received?  Perhaps the long hours I spent reading as a child?  I may never know.

What I do know now is that for the first time in my life, I’m finding easier to not critique the spelling and grammar of others.  I haven’t had some profound un-pompous epiphany…I’ve just become too lazy.  It is so much easier to nod, smile, and avoid an unnecessary conversation.  They may not be too old to learn…but I just don’t care enough to teach them.
 

“Puke In My Mouth”

I’m not going to disclose the specifics of how I came across this video but I will share it.  Pretty funny stuff.

Also, from the makers of “Puke In My Mouth”, Ms. Taken.

 

My Drunkest Days

I wrote yesterday how Sunday could have been one of the top five drunkest days of my life.  What were the others?  Could it have been the three consecutive New Year’s celebrations that I missed because I was passed out and/or vomiting?  How about the night I drank 17 saki bombs at Three Samurai in Coralville, Iowa?  And we can’t forget infamous night during the Summer of Dan when I was so intoxicated that the next morning, while attempting to drive to class, I hit three parked cars and the fence while backing out of the parking lot of the Outhouse?  Nope.  Here are a few I’ve thought of.

Just to let you know…as you’d expect, I don’t remember much of these stories…so I’m sorry if they trail off.

 

Adventures in Tailgating

I’m well aware of the looks on the faces of those around me when I start to turn it on.  It usually starts with excitement followed by intrigue and then, of course, fear.  It was the fall of 1999 and I was an 18 year old freshman at the University of Iowa.  It was a warm Saturday morning and I was standing in a front yard wearing my “Official Kitty Swatter” t-shirt…a tailgating staple.  For further clarification, it was also the morning when McG decided it would be more time-efficient if he came to the tailgate directly from his overnight stay in the Johnson County Jail.

I was feeling it.  I had just had a rough week of classes (I probably attended 3) and was in dire need to let loose.  I bought my $5 cup, slammed the first one, and kept going.  After intentionally getting “Bull Moosed” – an archaic ritual where you can’t hold a beer cup in your right hand in a traditional manner or you have to slam it – a few times I started to feel it.  I was alive.

The hours rolled by and I was soon piss-pounded.  This is where things got very, very fuzzy.  I don’t remember much but I know at one point I was lying on the ground, packing handfuls of grass into the pockets of my shorts and encouraging all others around me to do the same.

I woke up the next day in my dorm room, covered in my own vomit, with pockets full of grass.  I think we can all see why my first semester roommate moved out.

 

Adventures in Tailgating, Part Deux

By my junior year of college I was a very proficient drunk.  A few weekends after I attempted to drink for 24 consecutive hours I was back at the tailgate field in a rip-roaring manner.  This Saturday morning seemed special for some reason but I didn’t know why until I got drunk.  “Running the keg” at a tailgate can be a very tedious endeavor to those who fail to think outside the box.  I am not one of those.  I spent about 2 hours running the keg with Dr. Mike, alternating pumping and pouring duties.  Who got a beer from us during those 2 hours?  Every guy we knew, every girl who remembered our names, astrological signs, majors, etcetera, and every guy we didn’t know who had cigarettes.  Good times.

After a few hours I found myself urinating in some bushes when I saw her for the first time.  She was a little older than me, a little beat-up, but still a strikingly beautiful banana seat bicycle…a girl’s banana seat bicycle.

I spent the next few hours riding my bicycle around the tailgating while keeping up my impressive drinking clip.  Once the football game started and the crowd started to clear out, someone decided it would be a good idea to roll empty kegs at me to try to knock me off my bike.  Next thing you know, I’m riding through a proverbial gauntlet of rolling steel…bombed.

This is where things start to get hazy.  Somehow, someway, I lost/ditched my bike and now I’m sitting in a lawn chair.  I lift my beer to the mouth and notice a type of rope around my arm.  After further inspection, I realize it is a leash and that there is a dog at the end of the leash.  Fuck.

All I can do is ask everyone around me if they know who this dog belongs to.  The name tag simply says “Beasley” and it doesn’t help.  I’m not sure what I was thinking at the time.  Perhaps this is a dog that I bartered my bike for.  Perhaps it is really my dog and I just never noticed before.  Clueless.

I sit with the dog for a few more minutes when a girl I know approaches me and says, “Thanks for watching my dog Dan.”  I play it cool and respond, “No problem.”

I’m not sure of the next events of the afternoon.  All I remember is walking down Melrose drinking a beer, chewing tobacco, eating a big ass turkey leg, and smoking a cigar when I saw my car drive by.  I hopped in and got a ride home.

Years later I told Kelly F. (nee J.) that I almost lost her dog.  She was less than thrilled to hear that revelation.

The Vegas Comp

Las Vegas is a magical place…until you go there for 7 nights.

It was night number 5 or 6 and I was at the Las Vegas Hilton enjoying a few cocktails at the bar.  You see, when you’re in Vegas for so long, you go everywhere…everywhere.  I had ponied-up at the bar with David (formerly of David’s Corner) and was enjoying my chardonnay.  My Maker’s and coke turned into several which turned into shots of Maker’s and then shots of tequila.  Look out!

There were two others in our party that night but for some reason they weren’t with us at the time.  Nevertheless, David and I continued to drink and talk to our 65 year old Cuban bartender.  Shot after shot continued to flow until I got up the head to the men’s room. 

As I stood up I noticed something…the room was spinning.  The floor, the walls, the people…everything.  I, somehow, maneuvered to the restroom and handled my business.  On the way back to the bar I made a wrong turn.  The combination of a confusing casino floor built in the 1970’s and my Keith Richards-esque state left me stumbling around near the craps tables.

This is where things become a little unclear.  For some reason I was standing at the craps table but I don’t think I was playing.  I just remember standing there for a few minutes before attempting to walk again.  What happened next was something I cannot embellish…I fell into the craps table.  Yup…waist at the rail and upper body on the felt.  Fuck.

Security was on the scene in record time and they quickly had me on my feet and were walking me towards the elevator.  They said something like, “Sir, I think you’ve had too much to drink...we’re going to take you to your room.”  I responded with a nearly-audible, “I’m not even staying here.”  The caravan then turned to the front door and one of the black-suited men got on his walkie-talkie and mumbled something.

We were then outside the casino when a black Lincoln Town Car with a Hilton “H” on the side pulled up.  The leader of the black-suit mafia gave me a handshake and slipped me a folded-up $5 bill.  I got in the back seat of the car and we were off.  The driver then asked, “Where to, Sir?”  I mumbled something about a bar back to him and we were off.  I tipped the driver the $5, got out of the car, and stumbled away.

So there it is…my first “comp” in Las Vegas.  $5 and a car ride to get the fuck out.  Side note…I vomited all over the place that night.

 

St. Patty’s Day 2K6

I love the Irish (except for the Gingers).  I also love St. Patty’s Day.  Honestly, it may be my favorite holiday.  St. Patty’s Day 2006 was a memorable one for me and everyone else around me.

It was the Saturday morning after I had just worked 70 hours.  I was tired, relieved, and excited about drinking all day AND having the entire next week off to go to Florida…where an old man would eventually drug me…but I digress.  I threw on my green t-shirt and hopped on the Brown Line.  The 10 minute train ride was unbearable as all I wanted to do was drink.  I hopped off at Sedgwick and proceeded to 1506 N. Hudson.

At 1506 N. Hudson I was greeted by the standard crew and a new addition, Jell-O shots.  They were green, strong, and just what I needed.  I must have popped about 15 of them in the hour before heading to McGee’s.  I entered McGee’s, headed to the back room, and started my mission.  Beers weren’t sipped...they were slammed.  As I drank beer after beer I noticed that this was not the standard effects of alcohol; something new was happening.  Why did I feel so strange?

The Jell-O shots!  Of course.  Something about the timing of their release was off and they all hit me at once, nearly rendering my legs useless.  I was doing something that doesn’t ever happen to me…falling down.  I couldn’t even stand.  People were trying to help me up but in reality they just wanted me to get out the door.

In this drunken state I decided to do everything in my power to destroy the life of the one man who was truly trying to help me…Lunchbox.  He was standing at the urinal…I was pissing on his foot from the stall.  He was in a porta-potty…I kicked in the door (it was a pull door).  He was on the sidewalk trying to plan his next move…I swatted his phone to the concrete.  He got me in a cab with him…I tried to fight the driver.

Somehow Lunchbox got me into my apartment and I made it into my bed.  I then proceeded to sleep for about 18 hours.

For about an hour on this day, I was the drunkest man in Chicago...no doubt.  For a brief moment, I could have gone toe-to-toe with anyone in the world.

I Slept for 12 Hours Last Night

I wrote most of this yesterday on my phone while riding the Metra.  Why the train?  No reason.  Just had the time and wanted to do something different.  Don't worry...I haven't gone green or anything.

 
While trying to recap the events of my last 24 hours, I realized that yesterday was the first time I've been drunk in four weeks.  After a few more moments of thought, I have come to the conclusion that this four-week hiatus was the longest break in my professional drinking career that started about 10 years ago.  Not sure if I'm proud of this, disappointed, or what.  Mixed feelings, mixed emotions, and a dry mouth.
 
According to a conversation with Byl this morning, last night was a top five Dan R. drunk event…ever.  Once again...mixed emotions.  All I know for sure is the following:
 
- Substitutuing a potent "jungle juice" for the orange juice in a mimosa is very, very, very foolish.
 
- I headbutted Ukraine pretty hard.  Still got it.
 
- I like text messages.
 
 
Back in the Saddle Again
 
As some of you may have heard by now, I got a job.  Yes sir!  I'm going to go somewhere five days a week, do stuff, say “Yes sir.  I’m right on top of that”, and get paid.
 
The exact details of my new employment are best left off this blog.  If you really wanted to know, you can contact me via alternate technologies.  All I'll say is that I am still a civil engineer and I will be working in way-the-fuck-out-there (yes...that should be hyphenated) Hoffman Estates, Illinois.
 
Five and a half months since I've last held a job, close to a year since I've done any actual work, and about two years since I've had to make a good first impression.  Fuck…I'm going to have to put on my "happy face", aren't I?  This is going to be tough.
 
All I want is to have my own cubicle (sorry Mexico) and have social interaction on a daily basis.
 
 
Epiphany
 
Realizing you have a half a bottle of water at the bottom of your backpack, in my condition, rivals discovering the cure for the plague of the 20th century.  Cue Sean Connery's line from Medicine Man.
 
 
P.I.C.
 
I have a temporary partner-in-crime...David (formerly of David's Corner).  He's back from his 2 year stint in NYC and living about 10 minutes away from my current home.  Unfortunately, the timing is off and we only have one week of mayhem before I have to get back to the "real world".

 
  
36 Times
 
Not exaclty sure, but I think the number is 36.  What is 36?  The number of consecutive times myself, Ukraine, and The Choz listened to Garth Brooks' "Callin' Baton Rouge" on the drive to Okoboji, Iowa in the summer of 2004.  In the same car ride we played the "Name 100 Asians" game (no offense Ron) and I almost hydroplaned us into a wall/fiery death.
 
 
Blog Archivist Needed
 
My blogging days are almost over but will not be forgotten.  I am in need of a blog archivist.  The blog archivist will be required to make a record of every blog post, photo, and comment in the history of Living at 6250 Feet.  Ideally, I would like a digital and a paper copy. If possible, it would be great if the paper copy was in some sort of book format.
 
I will cover all costs for materials and time (at an appropriate rate).
 
If you are interested, let me know.
 

 
Chicagoans
 
I saw a commercial for Fox Valley Volkswagen the other day that had a midget in it.  Unfortunately, I can’t find this commercial on the information superhighway...so keep your eyes open for it.
 
 
Does Anyone Actually Click on These?

“Thrasher” by N*E*R*D

“I Can’t Hold Back” by Survivor

“Sky’s The Limit” by Notorious B.I.G.

“Wasted Time” by The Eagles

“Water Runs Dry” by Boyz II Men

"My Best Friend's Girl" by The Cars

"Danger" by Mystikal

Resume...Forward Accordingly

This whole "job search" thing isn't going as smoothly as I hoped it would...so I've decided to ask you all for help.  Here is my resume.  Please forward it accordingly for me.  Thank you.

Also...see if you can fix the formatting issue before sending it on.

DAN R., N.R.S.O.

Lives with parents

6250feet.blogspot.com 

REGISTRATION

Non-Registered Sex Offender

State of Nevada

EXPERIENCE

2003 – 2008                    

DANHARD  

National Director of Keeping It Real (Self-Appointed)

·         Distributed semi-nude photos of celebrities to fellow associates via email

·         Made and received numerous personal phone calls and emails

·         Dicked around on various websites including Wikipedia, Yahoo! Fantasy Sports, The Dirty, Busted Coverage, Baseball Reference, CNN

·         Critiqued grammar/spelling/fashion/religion/opinions/children’s names of co-workers

·         Trained several associates on how to use various back/side doors to avoid confrontation with management

·         Set up bowling events (3) to encourage drinking and driving

·         Set up golf event to see female interns in revealing clothing

·         Repeatedly brought pork rinds to company picnic-like events despite no one ever eating them

·         Drank 3 gallons of water in 6 hours, 36 minutes and made spreadsheet of water consumption rate (gpm)

·         Gave nicknames to over 10 co-workers including Jaws, Cadillac, Skymall, Mexico, Ponytail/JR, and Newmanium

·         Wrote parody song to make fun of cocksucker intern

 

Summer 2002

NORTHERN CHICAGO SUBURB

Engineering Intern

·         Cruised the town for several hours in city vehicle to do “construction inspections”

·         Turned on hazard lights in middle of road one time due to critical moment of Chicago Cubs game

 

Summer 2001

SUNGLASSES STORE   

Worker

·         Sat on a bench in middle of Coral Ridge Mall because bitch manager took the top off my stool

·         Left the store open and unattended for over an hour to go home for lunch

·         Went to Bennigan’s for several mid-shift cocktails

·         Gave discounts/freebies to anyone who asked

·         Was reprimanded by store manager for selling $165 sunglasses (with flames on the sides) to a retarded kid

·         Called in sick with cancer one time…seriously

·         Skipped last day of work to go to breakfast – gate never went up at store that day

 

 EDUCATION

1999 – 2003

UNIVERSITY OF IOWA                                                         

Bachelor of Science (barely), Civil Engineering, December 2003

 

TECHNICAL EXPERTISE

·         Proficient in Oregon Trail, Wikipedia, Paint, Calculator

 

AFFILIATIONS

·         Drunks for Drinks Program – Founder

·         Drinks for Drunks Program – Associate Member

 

INTERESTS/HOBBIES

·         Marco Polo, Reading Erotic Stories, Backwards Name Game

Panda-style?

Stop the presses…we have a bet.

I’m not sure exactly how we came to this point, but earlier today myself and the Lunchbox made a bet.  The bet was that if he “runs a marathon” I give him the right to submit photographs of me to Bear Magazine.  Yes…the Lunchbox running.  Yes…the homosexual magazine.  A lot of the details need to be figured out but the basis of the bet is in place.

Some of you don’t know who the Lunchbox is.  I’ve written about him many times and even posted pictures.  But that doesn’t seem like it’s enough.  So here is a little video of him in his recent shape and finest moments. 

After seeing that video I’m sure you’re all thinking the same thing, “Safe bet for Dan.”  As the details of the bet come together I’ll be sure to inform you all.  Until then…watch the video again…I haven’t laughed that hard in a while.

 

Black People

Why the fuck can’t any of them properly pronounce the name “Dwight”?  It’s one syllable folks…not two.  Say it with me…Dwight.  Not Da-wight…Dwight.  This has been bothering me for a few weeks and really hindering my recent Sportscenter enjoyment.

 

Loves Horses; Seeks Career

I’m seriously considering adding this photo to my resume on various job search websites.  I figure it could only help.

 

Chinamen

Some Chinaman called me about a career opportunity at PFS / Citigroup.  I looked them up and found this shit.  Mother fuckers think they can scam DR…pssh…too smart for that.  Well…this time at least.

Even if this weren’t a scam…why would I want to work for a company that decides it’s best to let a man with no grasp of the English language call me?

The moral of the story is:  Don’t answer your phone if you don’t know the number calling.

 

A Hockey Tale

It is no secret that I don’t like hockey.  I just never really got it.  Maybe it all goes back to the fact that I could never rollerblade backwards and, due to that, never really appreciated playing roller hockey on the mean streets of Schaumpton.  Maybe it’s because I don’t care to follow a sport with so many foreign players.  Maybe it’s because Wayne Gretzky stabbed my uncle in a knife fight in the Rexall Place parking lot in 1984.  Who knows…either way, I’ve never shied away from expressing my thoughts publicly.  Here is a tale to prove that.

It was the summer of 2004 and I was drinking…a lot.  These were the days of crashing on the sofa of a party-flat on North Marshfield Avenue every weekend.  Drinking all day, drinking all night…glory days.  It was a Saturday night and a few of us were enjoying some post-dinner chardonnays at Glascott’s.

I was sitting at the bar and started a conversation with the gentlemen next to me.  There were five of them and they were all decked out in Cubs jerseys and t-shirts.  I mainly spoke to the two of them that were sitting nearest me.  The conversation started out simple with, “You guys go to the game today?”, and quickly moved on to an in-depth conversation about baseball.

Following the natural course of the conversation, we moved on to the other sports franchises of Chicago…Bears, White Sox (briefly), and Bulls.  The three of us were drinking heavily and had consumed a number of cocktails over the hour we were talking.  Following the flow of conversation, one of them asked me, “What do you think about the Blackhawks?”  Oh boy.  Here we go.

I exploded into a five minute rant that, to paraphrase, sounded like this, “Fuck the Blackhawks. They fucking suck.  They’ve sucked for ten years.  They’re not even going to play next season.  I hope the NHL never comes back and those fucking losers are out of work forever.  Fuck them. “ Somewhere in my rant I was interrupted by the guy next to me who simply said, “Dude…we’re Blackhawks.”  Fuck!

I instantly took out my credit card, turned to Byl standing at my left and said, “[Byl]…shots…now…10…seriously…now…problem…now…shots.”  He looked at me, looked to my right, and sensed something was up.  While waiting for Byl to order I started my apology, “Oh shit.  I’m SOOOO sorry.  Fuck.  Dude.”  I must have rambled for the next minute or two until the shots came.  I apologized again, raised a shot, and toasted, “The Blackhawks.”  Phew.  Close one.

The next Monday at work I recapped the story and decided to look these guys up.  One of the guys was Mark Bell.  I recognized the other guy but have since forgotten his name.

All in all…I don’t like hockey and I’m not afraid to let the whole world know.

 

An Afternoon with The Boss

“Rosalita”

“Murder Incorporated”

“It’s Hard to be a Saint in the City”

“You’re Missing”

“Out in the Street”

Jury Duty!!!

You know you’ve finally made it when you get summoned to jury duty.  Yes…I have finally made it.

I got the jury duty summons in the mail yesterday at my parents’ house.  The latter part of that sentence is the most interesting for me.  Why that address?  I don’t have a driver’s license at that address.  I haven’t voted using that registration in years.  I do have my car registered to that address.  Is that all it takes…a car registration?  Shit…I’m going to register a car in Hawaii…I could use a vacation.

I’ve heard over and over from many people that you don’t need to respond to a jury summons until they send you the red/orange warning in the mail.  Does this matter to me?  Nope.  I’m going.  Not only am I going, but I hope I get selected.  Hell, I hope the jury gets sequestered.  What the hell else do I have going on?  We all know the answer.

The main reason I want to go is because I feel that jury duty would be like the shortest possible reality show I could be on.  I can argue and argue with the other jurors and say whatever the hell I like and then be done with it all in a day or two…never seeing them again.

For years to come these people will be telling stories starting with, “So this son-of-a-bitch I’m on jury duty with…”

 

Sweaty Palms

I had a job interview yesterday and, yes, I was a little nervous.  What do I say?  How much do I explain things?  Are they going to ask me about my strengths?  Weaknesses?  I mean, first and second grade were easy, but multiplication, social studies…this is going to be tough.

Luckily, I was interviewed by a guy who likes to talk even more than I do.  I just sat there, nodded, dropped in a “sure” or an “I see” every few minutes and that was about it.  After about 45 minutes of talking, he stopped and asked, “Before we continue on…is this something you’d be interested in.”

Is this something I’d be interested in?  Is this something I’d be interested in?  Look buddy…I’m about 2 months of unemployment away from sucking dick to pay for car insurance…yeah, I think I’d be interested.

They’re going to get back to me.

 

Twang and Bang

One night at the Reno Rodeo - pause for laughs/comments - the announcer said "twang and bang".  Still not sure what he meant by that...but I liked it.

“You Never Even Call Me By My Name” by David Allen Coe

“Faraway Eyes” by the Rolling Stones

“A Lap Dance Is So Much Better When the Stripper Is Crying” by The Bloodhound Gang

MDR circa 1985

MDR circa 2008

Oh shit…forgot I had a blog.

Fruit Snack Mystery Game

It seems that no matter how much the fruit snack manufacturers of the world try to make their fruit snacks shaped and colored like actual fruit, I’m still fucking lost. I can usually decipher the lemons, but that’s about it. I mix up strawberries and raspberries; oranges and peaches.

How can we fix this people? Simple answer. We pass a resolution in the UN that all the fruit snack manufacturers need to put a flavor key/legend on each individual fruit snack bag.

I know what you’re all thinking, “Dan, did you just solve one of the biggest problems of society AND create new jobs at the same time?” Simply put…yes.

Family Time and Pale Skin

Even though I live with my parents I don’t spend much “family time”. I have a very limited interaction schedule with my parents. By the time I wake up in the morning, my mother is already off to work. I exchange about 15-25 words with my retired father in the morning while filling up my coffee cup. When my mother gets home from work she pops into my room for a quick hello. If I choose to eat dinner with my parents, I usually eat silently or, in reaction to the news program that is ALWAYS on, rant about how the media cares too much about silly illnesses (swine flu) and missing/murdered white women.

Sunday was a little different. To celebrate Mother’s Day, the family (including sister, brother-in-law, and nephew) went out to dinner. Mexican restaurant…insert stereotype joke here. The entire ordeal lasted 2 hours and 50 minutes, door to door. Think about that…nearly 3 fucking hours to eat a meal. Painful.

While at dinner, my sister commented about my recently-shaven face…beardless. She asked, “Why did you get rid of the beard?” I responded with my standard, “No reason to my actions…just did it”, but she pressed on. I then stated curtly, in an attempt to end conversation on the topic, “You want to know why? Fine. Because when you have a beard in the winter it’s acceptable. When you have a beard in the summer you look like a rapist.” Conversation terminated. Back to my GIANT margarita.

Body Wash

I don’t like wash cloths and luffas and those little puffy things. I don’t like fucking around with bottles in the shower. I don’t like body wash.

What is wrong with the old bar of soap? It’s disposable, inexpensive, and, above all else, self-cleaning.

With my pseudo-homeless lifestyle, I often find myself staying at the homes of others. It seems that more and more people have switched to the body wash. I’m then forced to use it and clean myself using a combination of suds and my hands. It feels like I’m raping myself. My hands…everywhere. Very bizarre. Very unnatural. Very unsettling.

The Future is Now

This article was sent to me last week. This is real. This is really happening. Read.

Fucking Fagots

I got some rope and tied up some fagots last Tuesday. Fucking fagots.

Kangaroos

Skoal Pouches fucking suck. What is this? Chewing tobacco for beginners? A waste of $5…that’s what this is.

Quite Unusual

Found this today while dicking around on Wikipedia.

What’s the deal with homeschooling?

Every time I hear about someone being homeschooled I get a chill up by spine. It is estimated that 2.5-4 million students in the U.S. are homeschooled. Of these, 33% of the parents state that the reason they keep the kids out of schools is religion. 85% state that they don’t like the safety and drugs and crime in schools.

Are these people serious? Don’t they realize they are creating sociopaths?

Oh, but their ACT and SAT test scores are higher. Big fucking deal. They are losers. Fuck homeschooled kids.

I Like Pianos

“Only the Good Die Young” by Billy Joel

“Backstreets” by Bruce Springsteen”

“Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters” by Elton John

“Lovers in Japan” by Coldplay

“Underground” by Ben Folds Five

Jobby Job

My first job interview since 2003 is tomorrow. Wish me luck, pray to your mythical gods for me…whatever.

May 5th

Pope John Paul II says, "Happy Cinco de Mayo!"

My name is Dan R. and I’m here to recruit you!

No, I’m not really here to recruit you.  Just referencing the famous line from Harvey Milk.  Yes, I just watched the movie Milk.  Pretty good.  Worth a watch.

I’m not here to talk about Milk.  I’m here to discuss another Sean Penn film, I Am Sam.  If you haven’t seen I Am Sam and fear you may not understand what I’m writing about, take a few seconds, click here, and read the synopsis.  If you’re worried that reading the synopsis will ruin the movie for you…don’t…it’s a terrible movie…if anything, I’m saving you the time.

Sean Penn plays a “mentally challenged” man.  I put “mentally challenged” in quotes because we all know what it means…retarded.  Yes, Sean Penn plays a retard.  Full retard to be exact.

Sean Penn’s character, Sam, is a father.  The father of a precocious 7-year old named Lucy, played by the detestable Dakota Fanning.  How is a retard the father of a child?  Well, the movie briefly touches on the fact that the mother is a homeless woman.  Yes, a retard and a homeless woman…fucking.  A million questions instantly arise.

Was the mother a prostitute?  Maybe, but how does a retard with the mind of second grader get a hooker?  Does he even know what a hooker is?  I don’t think I did when I was that age.

Was the mother a retard?  Oh boy.  Retard-on-retard sex…straight out of another great retard movie, The Other Sister.  Interesting theory, but just not very relevant.  If a retarded woman, who we all assume is Caucasian, is on the streets...someone is going to pick her up and put her in a home.  We live in a society that coddles white women…we all know it.

Was the mother a crackhead?  More believable, but just not quite there.  How could the daughter of a retarded man and crackhead woman be normal?  I’m not a doctor or a genetic specialist, but I don’t think it could happen.  We’re not talking about two midgets popping out a full-sizer…we’re talking about two people who are seriously fucked in the head.

Was the mother a sick and twisted skank bitch?  Bingo!  Now this finally makes sense.  We all know about seemingly normal women who dig nerds, fat guys, and dudes in wheelchairs...so why not retards?  I know it’s far-fetched, but it could be something.

So how do we get into the psyche of a woman who is attracted to retards?  Google.  Maybe.  I did a quick search of “women who are attracted to retards” and “women fucking retards” and “women banging retards”…nothing.  Nothing at all.  Not even a fucked up video clip.

Frankly folks, I don’t know what else to do or look for.  Do these women exist?  Are there whores out there who only bang retards?  Anyone, anyone?

I’ll leave this topic open to discussion via blog comments.

 

Seedless Watermelon

Seeless watermelon…not sure how they do it…but keep on doing it.  Also, if we have seedless, why are we still wasting time growing, selling, and eating the seeded variety.  Seems like a silly waste of resources to me.

 

Fun with Texts

I’ve had this sent to me by three different sources.  If you haven’t seen it yet, enjoy.

 

Prayer Cross

Do you have $40?  Do you love Jesus?  Do you fear that even though you love Jesus so much, you’re going to forget the words to the most important prayer in your religion?  Then you need the Prayer Cross.  This has to be one of the stupidest products being pushed on TV today. 

Prayers…stupid.  Prayer Crosses…fucking retarded.

 

Glory Days

Stumbled upon this article the other day.  Definitely worth a read.

 

Deep Thoughts

If you flush a toilet, directly on the equator, which way would the water circle on the way down?

 

Are you shitting me?

As I stated above, I’m no doctor.  Does this really exist/work?

 

Monday Music

“Monday, Monday” by The Mamas and the Papas

“Manic Monday” by The Bangles

“Come Monday” by Jimmy Buffett

“Blue Monday” by New Order

“Monday Morning” by Fleetwood Mac