The Black Hole

Wait, is it October?

I feel like I just came out of a coma. A coma I was perfectly conscious for. I am fully aware of how completely I ignored everything and one since April. Not that I don’t have a damned good excuse, but I do apologize. It’s called the Black Hole. It’s caused by work. I’m not saying I have cleared the event horizon, but I am working at full engine capacity to warp out of this funk.

It came to me this past weekend. The Wife and I went to Morgantown, West Virginia with friends and family for the WVU game against Texas Tech. We tailgated and cheered and booed and witnessed a fight (more on that below) and I realized how disconnected I have become since being promoted in April. I haven’t written, or socialized or anything; it’s been stressful. So I’d like to apologize for being stressed out and mean and elusive and for letting Dump the Blog decay. I can’t promise I won’t still be that way from time to time, but I will try hard not to.

Now that’s out of the way, let me tell you about Morgantown. Not Morgantown, West Virginia; Morgantown the person. Morgantown is the daughter of some random dude sitting in the row ahead of me at the WVU game this weekend. He named his daughter Morgantown! I guess she got off lucky; he could be an Oregon fan. This gentleman had copious amount of enthusiasm (alcohol) for the home team. Unfortunately, he believed everyone else that didn’t have as much passion (meth addiction) as he was actively rooting for the other team. This lead to verbal insults and finally, some very choice sign language directed at the rows behind us.

Now I have seen a lot of creative ways to flip people off. I mean a lot! But I have never seen someone tattoo the image of a hand giving the middle finger on their right calf muscle. It seems like a really awkward spot. Once he had exhausted his actual hands in the exercise of vulgarity, he turned, bent over and lifted his pant leg to reveal the tattoo (all while using his wife’s head to balance himself on the bleacher). This was the final insult, apparently, that sparked the target of these attacks and Morgantown’s father to start rolling down the bleachers of section 220. The fight didn’t last long; rolling quickly down five rows of metal bench seats is the number one cause of short fights. We laughed, took pictures and flipped one another calf birds the rest of the afternoon. It was lovely.

So Dump is back, kind of. I want to know what you want me to write about. Comments please. Also, I’d like to thank a certain cousin-in-law-in-law(?) for harassing me about the blog and making me feel super guilty about all this time off.

The Process

As I dive back into the world of Relay and begin the slow process of bringing these characters back to life, I have to stop and think about what makes me write in the first place. Writing is not easy. In fact for most people writing is hard work. It is certainly hard work for me. So why do I fill my free time with it?

I believe it starts with my desire to tell a story. Ever since I can remember I have enjoyed entertaining people. Somewhere along the line I became terribly introverted, so writing was only natural. I cannot stand in front of people and speak, sing, dance or tell jokes. If I had to do any of this, I’d probably melt under the intense scrutiny. Often I’ll make an off handed comment, play it back in my head and cringe at how utterly stupid it must have sounded, and that’s when speaking to two or three people. So writing works because it’s not in person and I have the chance to edit myself and tell myself how stupid I sound. I’ve been writing stories for as long as I’ve been able to write. I want to say something and be heard. I think we all do. The problem is figuring out what it is you want to say in the first place.

It’s easy to say “I am afraid of getting old and dying.” But that’s not compelling. Everyone is conscious on one level or another that life has an end. How we express ourselves about it is what I’m talking about; working through the anxiety to find some meaning to it all. That’s why I write these dumb little stories. I am searching. I’m talking to myself. My brain is slowly digesting the world, searching for a reason in all this madness. It just poops out as stories.


P.S. – Sorry for the lack of April posting, we’ve been sick/busy. Seeing 42 this weekend, will report on Monday.

Post Theatrical Release

While reviewing The Campaign on Monday, I found myself in a conundrum. I instructed people to "otherwise wait for the video release." In editing, The Wife changed the word "video" to "DVD" because she thinks the term video is too dated. Then I thought, isn't the term DVD dated?

But I don't want to call these Blu-ray either, that sounds like I am supporting Sony over all other formats. Nor do I want to list every platform the film could possibly be ported to. Think about all the ways you can buy or rent movies these days: DVD, Blu-ray, iTunes, Netflix, Redbox, Fancy Tom the bootlegging hobo out behind Wal-Mart, Hulu, Amazon; hell, I bet you can still get VHS copies somewhere. The list goes on. I'm sure someone is working on a new super High Definition format to replace Blu-ray that will beam the image directly into our eyes, melting our corneas.

I used the term video, because I knew that everyone would understand what I meant. I did not originally use DVD, because that is very specific to a DVD disc. It never occurred to me that people would instantly associate video with VHS, but the first person to read the term sure did. So what can I call them? Someone please help me! I hate brand association. I want a term for a movie that was in theaters and is now in a format that allows you to buy or rent a copy. The list below are a few of my own suggestions. What are yours?

PTR - Post Theatrical Release Copy (Bleck!!! That's boring. Also, thanks to Fifty Shades of Grey, The Wife giggles everytime I use the word "release")
VIWHUTYKUWT - Version I will have to update in two years to keep up with technology (a little wordy)
SSE - Small Screen Edition (sounds fancy!)
Rental (simple but only works for Netflix, Redbox and the others, not so much for if you buy it)

Spoiled

I am the generation of no surprises. I cannot remember ever NOT knowing that Darth Vader was Luke's father. I am the generation of spoilers. I already knew Bruce Willis was dead and that Tyler Durden wasn't real. I know they are making a new Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles movie, and before it comes out I'll know its plot. When I go the the theater, I've already seen all the previews. You could suggest I simply ignore the media. Stop reading the spoilers and watching the trailers. I may as well cancel my Internet connection too.

So you can imagine my dismay when the last few episodes of a certain Zombie centric television show I enjoy was spoiled for me. Anger. Even as I’m sitting there listening as the spoilers roll forth, I think “Why am I doing this?” I’m trying to come to terms with it. I am totally to blame. One: I read the spoilers. Two: by reading the spoilers I supply a viewing audience, which in turn fuels more spoilers. Three: I watch the show/movie anyways. Sure there is plenty of blame to go around. How bad is security in Hollywood these days? You can’t go anywhere interesting on the Internet without running into back lot camera pics or leaked screen plays. But I still have to click the link. That step is within my control. Why can’t I resist?

I sit on this blog and hypocritically whine and complain about the lack of new material in movies these days. Then what do I do? I go online and consume every little bit of information about movies I can. And when the rare film comes out I’ve never heard (John Carter) I research until it is old news. It’s an addiction. I'm not alone. There are plenty of people just like me. But why? Anyone?

Topics for Discussion

And the name for the new Nintendo system is… Wii U? Yeah. They haven’t announced any tuition prices yet, but there will be a baseball team and a fight club. I’m hoping to get in with a track scholarship when they release Mario and Sonic at the London Olympic Games 2012. EA will probably port NCAA Football 2012 over to it, so at least Terrell Pryor will be able to finish out college somewhere. Maybe he can trade something for admission to Wii U. I bet we can even rip off Miami of Florida’s stupid “the U!” chant. I didn’t think they’d find a stupider name than Wii; I was wrong. Maybe I’m being harsh; perhaps it is unfair to judge something by name alone. There are plenty of things with dumb names that were able to overcome the adversity of said idiotic name; isn’t that right Anthony Weiner?

The Wife and I are going to the zoo tomorrow to watch all the ferocious beasts wonder about aimlessly, drooling over their food. With any luck we will see some actual wild animals too. I hate crowds. Get enough people together in one place and they all lose their minds. They all act like they are wondering alone in the desert; the desert effect. I’m just not much for getting bumped by the sweaty, hairy fat guy wearing a tank top. Tank tops are not for everyone; same goes for tube tops, mini skirts, flip flops, leggings, jeggings and tight cloths in general. I do love the irony of the zoo. Thousands of idiots meandering around sucking down ice cream and lard (getting fatter and fatter) watching animals that only eat for survival. Animals that could and would and maybe should tear those fatties to pieces. Some people say our progress as a civilization has allowed us to act this way. But what ever happened to survival of the fittest? Oh that’s right, socialism.

The new Jim Carry movie Mr. Poppers Penguins makes me want to vomit. So does that Collin Ferrell movie where he is a vampire. I’m so tired of vampires. None of these trailers are more annoying than “Never forget where you came from!!!” That’s not the name of the movie, but it’s the only part that really sticks with me. Apparently Colombiana (how do you pronounce that?) is about Uhura wanting to avenge the death of her parents. Never forget where you came from!!! It looks like along the way she’s going to hook up with that guy from Alias who seems to be playing a CIA agent, again. At some point she gets all sad about how “I watched as my parents were murdered right in front of me!” well cry more noob, Mr. Spock’s entire civilization was murdered in front of him and he barely shed a tear. Never forget where you came from!!! I bet he never forgot where he came from either; he didn’t seem to need it constantly screamed in his ear as a reminder. The intensity of the film looks only to be surpassed by the cheesiness of its dialog. Never forget where you came from!!! If you don’t get it, go watch the trailer here.

Statesticles

So the internet is a weird place. Am I right? Everyone on the internet is an expert. Prove otherwise. I mean you can be one too. My wife is not a doctor, nor does she work in a health related field, but the internet has given her an MD in just about every medical study there is. Why go to the hospital anymore? If we could get a hold of some happy gas I’d let her remove my appendix tomorrow. Random appendix joke number 17: The appendix is kind of like an opinion, everyone has one, they are all completely useless and some people’s just need removed completely. I mean people on the net know everything there is to know. And if you don’t know it and want to find out there is no better way to do so then a web search. Somehow that gets me to the point, maybe.

Monday was a rather unusual day for this blog (yeah, yeah aren’t they all). I guess the combo of it being a holiday and I wrote about the most popular movie of the year (so far) on its opening weekend lead to an explosion of hits. From the time it posted at 6:00 AM Monday, to Tuesday morning, the blog got around one hundred hits. That is far and away the biggest one day this blog has ever seen. This makes me very happy, but I can’t help wondering what caused this. Lucky for me I have a whole stats page devoted to showing me where people are finding the blog. A majority comes from Facebook. Most of you know me personally and find the blog that way. There are also a few blog surfing sites that bring in some hits. The smallest number comes from Twitter, but I have reason to believe this number is bigger, but if you’re on a mobile device it does register a hit from Twitter itself. There is one other way to find the blog: Google search. If you Google the blog by name it will come up. The blog will also show up if you are searching for certain key words that Google happens to find in the blogs content. This phenomenon is what happened Monday. As you know I wrote about the Hangover 2. The very first sentences of that entry contained a penis joke. Here are a few Google searches that lead people to my blog on Monday:

hangover 2 penis
hangover 2 penises
the hangover 2 penis
"hangover 2" penises
hangover 2 penis scene
alot of penis in hangover2
hang over 2 a bad movie a penis movie
are there penis in hangover 2?
hangover 2 boobs
hangover 2 dick scene
hangover 2 penis shots
hangover 2 penis picture
hangover 2 reviews penis
how much penis is in hangover 2?
hangover 2 dick pic
dick pictures of hangover two
hangover 2 penis number
and my favorite: hangover 2 dump load

Are you as confused as I am? This is not the first time someone has stumbled onto this blog by way of strange Google search. A few months ago I went on a tirade and used some pretty obscure adjectives to describe my emotions. The entry was named Bescumber. I didn’t even use the word in the body of the blog, nor did I or will I, define it for you now. Go look yourself. Needless to say the day the post went up, I received a hit on the blog by an individual searching for “pictures of bescumber”. What does all this mean? Am I so crude a person that poo spray and penises is the best representation of my writing? Why did no one find the link to my blog because they searched for “Hangover 2 review”? Maybe it’s best I don’t know the answer.

Everyday Things

I just realized I have somewhere around three shirts. Go ahead and check the facebook; those of you unfortunate enough to be my friend. Yeah, done? And? that's what I thought; in all my pictures I'm wearing the same small number of shirts. I think this means the end is near. Maybe 2012 is really going to happen! Does anyone want to meet up and plan out what cliff to jump off of just before the end? I'll bring the kool aide! You know, if we jump at just the right moment the aliens or robots or Mothman or Han Solo or George S. Patton or who ever will swoop down to save us. Or it's all a bunch of bull shit and we just fall to our deaths. Either way we won't have to get up the next day and go to work. I could also just need some more shirts. Christmas ideas everybody!

I’m sure all of you know someone like me. Some freak like me. I’m not complicated. Your first mistake would be over thinking me. I’m a man of simple requests. For instance, often I like to enjoy a hamburger; plain. So what does plain mean? I’m pretty sure the Dictionary of Modern American Foods describes it as and I quote “meat and fucking bun!” Now I worked at a fast food establishment for nine months after college. I know the customer is not always right. But damn it to hell, how hard is it to make a plain hamburger? “Okay, I have this bun, now I need this piece of meat. Okay, now wrap it up. Done, oh that was simple!” Yeah you’d think so. I mean really, what could a customer ask for that is any easier than a plain sandwich? Oh, and while I’m on the topic, when I ask for that plain hamburger, the word plain implies NO CHEESE. So after I order you don’t have to ask me if I’d like cheese. I mean why did you even bother to take my order if you weren’t going to pay attention to the words coming out of my huge flapping lips? And no, I would not like to try an oatmeal, burrito, green milkshake or what ever else you burger joints are pushing these days. If I want those things, I’ll go to a restaurant that specializes in that item or make it at home. I just want a hamburger from you people. Plain and simple.

I guess it is the fate of us all to suffer and rot under such ridiculous and mundane circumstances.

On a more joyous note, the Wife will be running her very first half Marathon this Sunday, May 1 in Cincinnati, Ohio at the Flying Pig Half Marathon. That's 13.1 miles for you uneducated in the ways of running. There is a way to track her progress via text message using the chips in her shoes. If you're interested let me know and I'll get you that info. Be aware the race starts at 6:30 AM so if you sign up you'll get some very early texts! Also, we both have sore throats, please pray they don't turn into anything more. The Wife will provide you with a full write up of the run and the weekend as a whole next Thursday, so YAY for scheduled programing! Peace be with you all, accept for that dumb ass that messed up my burger, you have a terrible weekend ass hole.

Shorts

Existential Crisis

You’re going to die. Don’t worry, I will too. Everyone is going to die. Would it change how you live if you knew when, where and why? Sometimes I go through a philosophical crisis of being and ask questions like that; questions that have no real answer. Sure you could answer it, but how do you know that’s how you’d react? We don’t know ourselves nearly as much as we think or wish to. Sometimes I find myself wondering who the hell that guy in the mirror is, because I sure don’t recognize him from ten years ago. Ten years used to seem like a long ass time too, and now, it’s nothing. I guess time really is relative. He’s one nasty relative at that; the kind that you don’t see forever and then shows up at your Grandmother’s funeral and calls you fat. This philosophy is tiring, I know. You’re probably bored and wish I’d write some rant about babies first birthday or the latest thing that has pissed me off. But kids, life isn’t all rainbows and unicorn farts. Sometimes life sucks and no matter how much you poke fun at it, it still scares the hell out of you.

Have a Nice Day...

And the appropriate response to that would be? A blank stair as if confused by the sentence? A nasty frown? No response at all because you where too busy flapping your lips into the cell phone to hear me or give a rats ass that I just did all your work for you because your too stupid/lazy to fill out some simple forms all on your own? I understand only one of us is being paid to be nice. I’m pretty sure if I weren’t paid I probably wouldn’t be either, but come on people! What is going on in this world? Why can’t people be nice? What happened to thank you and you’re welcome? We have invented a million new insults that mostly make no sense but it’s too hard to force “Thanks” out of your fat, greasy, fast food smelling mouth!

Mail

I got a letter in the mail the other day from Dish Network. The letter stated it was from Dish’s CEO and was addressed to: Our Neighbor. My neighbor is the redneck hill jack who has ten barking dogs and three trucks that sound like Vesuvius when he fires them up; proving to all of us his wiener is indeed as big as the sound implies. He uses stray cats as target practice. His home décor can be described as a cross between outdoorsman and Apocalypse Now. On occasion Budweiser Corp comes by for some blood tests to see what an all beer diet will actually do to a person. You’re telling me that guy is the CEO of Dish Network and expect me to want to join up? A thousand channels all playing Bonanza and Dallas all day? No thanks, I’ll stick with my cable. Not like I need another item attached to my house to catch all the bird shit. I already have three cars for that.

Cell Phones

Cell phones, oh lord, cell phones! Cell phones at lunch, cell phones at dinner; cell phones at work, cell phones at play. Cell phones before, during and after sex. Cell phones at the movies! I’m so sick of cell phones. People just love their damned cell phones. Maybe someday they will be able to install them directly into our bodies. You know, the receiver will be up in the ear and they can place the key pad somewhere in your arm. I think if they let you pick where the key pad goes I’ll have them put it on my penis. That way whenever I have to call someone I’ll have to whip it out and people will be like:

“Hey, Daniel, um, you should probably put that thing away.” And I’ll be like.

“No, it’s cool. I’m just calling my wife.” I’ll probably keep the ringer on vibrate most of the time, although occasionally it’d be funny to turn it to loud so when people call my crotch starts singing Baby Got Back. Or maybe I’ll make my ring tone some Michael Jackson song so when I answer I can grab myself and yell. It sure would change the meaning of playing Angry Birds.

All Sorts of Crazy

It’s not enough that people are rude and inconsiderate and smelly and stupid and dull and mean and self centered, but now they are all going crazy. I don’t mean slightly neurotic; I mean dressing up like their dead mother to murder people psycho. In the past I have used the word crazy very lightly, as with other words. But recently I have decided to reserve the word for true acts of insanity. For example I would refer to someone who drives poorly as a crazy driver; even though all they are doing is going to fast or passing in risky spots. Now I consider a crazy driver someone who IS GOING THE WRONG WAY through a tight construction zone and gives you that “Get out of my way, I’m unstable!” look as they zoom by, barely missing your front bumper. The detour is clearly marked and there is plenty of traffic to follow. That’s crazy.

I previously thought everyone posting useless crap on YouTube was crazy. Now I realize they are mostly attention whores with low self esteem desperately yelling at the top of their lungs for someone to listen. (If you’re about to make a connection to those people on YouTube and this blog, please understand; I’m not yelling, you can’t yell in print.) Anyways, despite their absurd antics, most of the YouTube people are perfectly sane. The nutty people on YouTube didn’t put themselves there. Most of them were caught on film doing mentally questionable things like calling out rapists on the news or crying at a WWF convention or robbing a convenience store with a six foot long tree branch. They didn’t ask to be on the YouTube, they went berserker and someone captured it and uploaded it for all of us to see.

I have used the word crazy for just about anyone on a game or reality TV show. This was wrong of me. You see, these people go on those shows to try and get money. There is nothing crazy about trying to get money. Everyone is trying to get more money. People will do just about anything for money, that doesn’t make them crazy, just greedy. Actually most of the people on those shows are much more stupid than mad; see The Jersey Shore. Now, a show with crazy people is something like Toddlers and Tiaras. The mothers that dress up their children and put all that make-up on them and make them lose weight and yell at them are crazy. That is child abuse and they should be jailed or shot, which ever is cheaper. They are teaching their children that physical appearances are the only important thing when looking for a partner in life. That’s just nonsense because we all know money and status are equally important when selecting a mate.

I could probably devote a whole blog to how much we use words out of context or scale up and down their values. For instance I am a great offender of the word awesome. Granted most of the time I use it sarcastically, but on some occasions I’ll use it to describe a recent meal or other common event of my boring life. If the dinner I just ate at some restaurant was “awesome” what word could I possibly use if I’m walking down the street one day and Jesus appears and we have a good long talk about life and then he beats me down in a pickup basketball game? I can’t say it was awesome because I’d be comparing a simple meal to getting schooled on the court by Jesus Christ.

St. Patrick’s Day

I hope everyone has a very merry get drunk off your ass day. Not like us working folk needed another reason to try and drink away the sorrow caused by our meaningless small existences. I was going to do some research on the holiday to flex my history degree muscles, but I got really bored reading about the Catholic Church. The period of time after the Vatican stopped crusading against the Muslims in Jerusalem but before it started crusading against the Boy Scouts of America is a real snore fest. So I had a green beer or fifty and passed out. I dreamed I was in a small black community in Alabama and everyone was real excited because they saw a leprechaun in a tree. I thought it was a crack head. It must have been caused by the dye they used in the beer.

When I woke up I realized I hadn’t written a damned thing about this poor excuse for a holiday. At least we don’t have a holiday for every catholic saint; they seriously have one for everything. What would you do if there were a St. Thomas More day, the patron saint of Lawyers? I personally would like to have a St. Ambrose day, the patron saint on Beekeepers. We could all lather ourselves up with honey and run wild into a field of beehives. That would be fun right?

I hate it when people try to pinch me because I’m not wearing green. Try it again and I’ll pinch you… between my car and a tree. How did that get started anyways? Were they going around pinching people in Ireland to check for alcohol poisoning? If they responded they weren’t dead yet? I don’t know, but it sounds to me like some creeper made it up to get a free pass at touching people. And what’s with Leprechauns in the first place; scary little dudes that ride around on rainbows and hide gold for people to try and find. What happens when someone finds the gold, do they get jumped by the Leprechauns and beat up? What kind of weapon would a Leprechaun use; maybe a little tiny butterfly knife. I think a gang of them could probably mess you up pretty bad. A good shank to the kidneys from a knife wielding midget would teach you to stay away from their Lucky Charms.

If I learned anything from the years I refused to partake in the tradition, it’s that people drinking are always looking to get more people drinking. They want to pass it on, kind of like VD without most of the shame. So what better way to get more people to ruin their livers than to create a holiday centered on hooch. I guess it didn’t probably start that way, but now St. Patrick’s Day is as synonymous with booze as Charlie Sheen is synonymous with cocaine and television shows that aren’t nearly as funny as people make them out to be. But seriously, be safe and remember to poor one out for your fallen homies.

Here is my favorite St. Patties Day Video, an oldie but a goodie...

Zen and the Art of Rambling

I sat down to think about this weeks post, but nothing came to mind. However, my desire to consistently post; so not to leave the blog barren and sad face, as in the past, pushed me forward to this point. At this moment I have yet to gel on one particular idea. Sometimes my mind is jumping off so many cliffs I don’t know whether to hold my breath, protect my face or shit my pants. If someone paid people to daydream I’d be Bill Gates, without the glasses and unoriginal OS. Alas my dreams are prisoners to my mind, unless you all possess Inception capabilities. Now there was a good movie I hope to high hell they don’t make a sequel to. I’m tired of terrible, unnecessary sequels. Doesn’t anyone in Hollywood have anything original to say? How hard is it to just not copy everybody else? Here, just off the top of my head:

Two guys suddenly find themselves walking through the desert wearing women’s clothing. They don’t know each other and have no idea how they got there or even who they are. Soon they come upon an oasis and living in that oasis is an old woman who trades them some men’s cloths for the women’s cloths and predicts their futures. She says one of them will live and remember everything; the other will die. They both think this is utter bullshit until they find a coffin hidden at the bottom of the oasis lake and inside it, pictures of one of them with people he doesn’t remember. The man in the pictures looks very happy. They assume the man whose pictures are in the coffin will be the one to die. They search the oasis for more artifacts but find none. Soon they run out of food and return to the old woman only to see she has turned into a lion who wants to eat them. Insert five-minuet chase scene.

The old woman lion catches them both because they were too stupid to spit up and tells them, still as a lion, that she will eat one and spare the other. The man whose pictures were in the coffin steps forward to accept his fate. But the other man, who still has no memory of his past life, reflects on the pictures they found of the other man. He puts himself forward to be eaten, so the other man might find his happy family again. Just as the lion goes to take the first huge bite out of the man’s ass, a helicopter moves over a sand dune and a sharp shooter takes down the lion. The men are saved until they realize the crew of the helicopter is after them, not the lion. The men are taken to a strange compound and raped mercilessly. Just before one of them dies, he looks at the other and says "I remember..."

Well you get the idea; it’s not that hard to come up with original ideas. I’d watch that movie, as long as the writer was able to conjugate an ending that tied all that crazy shit into a nice little bow and spoon-fed it to me so my Neanderthal mind would understand. How hard could that be? Speaking of hard… salami sandwiches, I haven’t had one of those in a long time. Which obviously brings me to that sham of a theory called time. I mean seriously, what bull. But go ahead and keep living in your little dream world where the sun comes up because it's time too, not because your pathetic little spot on the earth rotated to face it. So, this seems like enough for now. Remember, if life gives you lemon-lime Gatorade, combine it with some antifreeze and you have the perfectly disguised poison for your enemies.

Dump, out.

P.S. Don't forget to follow me on the Twitter!

Feb-R-uary

Seriously February, you suck. Your short, and have letters you don't need. You have an extra day every now and then, what the hell's up with that? You're cold and can only muster two stupid holidays, that aren't really even holidays. No one likes you February, not even people born in you.

And furthermore, what’s up with the Super Bowl being in February the last few years? As if the season isn’t long enough. What next, they start playing the college National Championship on January 10th? I mean the NFL is already trying to add two more games to the schedule. Madness. Before long Football season is going to be just like NASCAR and Golf, does anyone know when their seasons actually end? I think they get a long weekend off so something.

I don’t generally side with the babyish over paid athletes who play a game and make more money than I’ll ever even see, but here I may agree. When I ran in high school and college, my best days were after long rest between races. I hated it when we had short rest or more meets than usual, and Cross Country and Track are non-contact sports. I mean has anyone seen Jerome Bettis try to walk lately? No? That’s because he can’t. Now imagine what two more games a year might have done to him. Maybe in fifteen to twenty years when all these guys start dieing in their fifties someone will ask if it’s a good idea to pummel into each other eighteen to twenty weekends out of the year.

We're All Fine

In the mind-numbing course of my average day, I am forced to make absurd small talk with my customers. It’s not that I don’t occasionally enjoy these short, mostly forgotten interactions; they just seem fake and unnecessary. We generally chat about the weather or some other completely dull topic which has no bearing on what we are doing there in the first place. I work inside all day; I don’t really care what the weather is like because I’m outside long enough to get to and from my car and back to the safety of my little cave of steel. Other times their speech is such jabberwocky I revert to the simple and effective smile and nod. If you’re unfamiliar with this strategy I’ll explain: when approached by the gibbering offender and some common understanding cannot be reached, you smile at them and nod as they speak, feigning comprehension. It’s best not to look completely befuddled as you do this.

Anyways, the rare occasion happened the other day where a customer engaging in small talk actually led me to coherent thought. I was probably picking my nose or some other useless activity to get me through the painful day so I can go home and dread the next painful day when the customer approached. I greeted her and she asked me how I was. I said fine and reflected the question back, to which she answered: “Fine, I have to be.”

Fine, I have to be. That got me thinking. When was the last time you asked someone that and they said, “Well just terrible! I lost my cell phone in the toilet because I caught myself in my nipper this morning after I got done with some of the most painful and profuse diarrhea I’ve ever had and now my car won’t start because a colony of mice has crawled into it and set up a casino and tracks.” Yeah, you’ve never heard that, everyone is always fine, good or okay, even when their not. Are we afraid to tell people how we really feel? Or are we afraid to tell people the truth and fine out they didn’t really care in the first place. I guess we are all just being polite because we don’t think anyone wants to hear about our problems; we are probably right. So I guess we are all fine, because we have to be.


P.S. In case you were wondering, I'm going to make Thursday my normal post day from now forward. So unless I have some sort of time specific post you'll know when to check back.

dump.

Bescumber

Hello, my name is Daniel. When you first meet me you'll probably think I'm an asshole, until you get to know me and find out I'm just a little socially backwards; until then, suck it. If you don't like me because you never took the time to get to know me, please do me a favor and keep it to yourself. Please don't call my damned boss and tell her you don't like me, what's that going to prove? I hate idiotic, self centered, turd munching, shrimp boating, fart sniffing, rat fink, low life, gerrymandering, retarded, soulless, dickless, classless, fat, carpet bagging, tit sagging, microphallic, underwear staining, ninnyhammer, pieces of vain filth who get pleasure out of causing trouble for others. Please, get in a car accident. I mean seriously who is so bored they call in to complain because the person who waited on them didn't smile big enough? Call me cold and unfriendly? I'll show you cold and unfuckingfriendly...

First thing tomorrow morning I'm going to call the doctor and make an appointment with a plastic surgeon. I need to put a permanent smile on my face so people don't walk by me and ask if I'm just an unhappy person anymore. Seriously, who stands around when they aren't doing anything and smiles. That's just weird, you NEVER trust a person who always smiles.

Deep breath... I'm sorry about that, but not really.

dump.

Dump

I tried for a long time come up with a good reason why I changed the name of this blog. I have nothing. Hopefully the name change comes with a new commitment to the blog. I have some good ideas, so that's a place to start. I'm always taking suggestions on good things to write on, so please contact me in one of the many ways now possible thanks to the wonders of the internetz.

Now for something completely different...

Today a customer came through and asked me where she could find the Little Dipper... So yeah, after a long pause I asked if she meant the constellation. Yes. WTFBBQ? Apparently we've opened up a drive through observatory. And yeah, we are under a winter weather advisory, so I don't think she's going to be seeing to many stars tonight. Before she drove away she stated that she would find it for sure! I'm not sure whether I want to know what's going through their heads or not...

To: North Pole

Dear Santa,

A co-worker made me eat a hot pepper at lunch today. And don't give me that bull shit about no one can MAKE me do anything I don't want to. You weren't there; for all you know they could have held me at gun point and force fed me the pepper. Maybe they ground it up into a juice and gave me a Mexican enema, you don't know, you weren't there. I know, I know, you see me when I'm sleeping, but you only KNOW when I'm awake; you don't KNOW what I'm doing while awake. It says so in the damned song, you creeper.

Anyways Santa, I'm writing today to ask for some new underwear and pants because that pepper has me firebombing Dresden. Maybe you could get me an ipad to help with the moisture, I'm told they do everything. Better send Rudolph, assuming that red nose is just a really bad sinus infection; in which case he won't smell a thing. Hey, while your at it, some milk would be nice, I know you have extra. If you really drank all the milk you calm you'd be shitting cheese by now. I just don't buy it.

So, pants, underwear, ipad, milk; got it Santa? Oh yeah, I'm going to need all that right now, it can't wait till Christmas. And none of this chimney crap, just come to the front door, seriously.

Sincerely Yours,
Hobo Dan

P.S. Baby Wipes may not be a bad idea...

Blogs?

Blogs... What are we really doing with these oddly named entities? Sure there are all kinds of themed blogs which have very particular purpose: you have movie blogs and music blogs; even gossip blogs. But are all the blogs themed? Do they all have such narrow focus? I struggle to find real focus with my own blog. So what am I, or anyone else for that matter, trying to accomplish with a public blog?

I've used the excuse; I am using this blog as a forum for my writing. It is a way to keep me writing and make me accountable for what I say, because it's public. Is that really what I'm doing? Well there is only one piece of fiction on this blog (which no one has bothered to comment on). The rest of the blog is fairly auto biographical. Not to say I never embellish the stories or add colorful adjectives to make then funnier. So the question then becomes, as long as I am writing, even nonfiction, it counts as writing, right?

Perhaps I want to give some incite into my fascinating life, for those not fortunate enough to be highly involved. Then again, I don't think I'm that interesting in the first place. I certainly don't want to read about myself all the time. It's funny because a famous person can write the same bullshit kind of stuff I write and get tons of people to read it. I should just get famous, like it's hard or something.

It's not that I'm just desperate for attention. We all on some level or another everyone enjoys attention, but I'm not actively seeking more and more of it. Or am I? Maybe that's what a blog is really all about. Attention. In writing this blog, am I seeking the attention and approval of others, if only subconsciously? That seems like the likely case. If I were really just writing for myself I'd put all this in my poor neglected journal I scribble in every now and then. But my ego must have gotten the better of me to start putting this nonsensical writing in to public domain. Like anyone wants to read about my car trouble...

Holeless Pillow

It's rare to find that one person in life who can make your day better in one sentence.

Oh, the suck I have endured. I bitch a lot about the wife's car, so I'll only say, it still sucks. Hard. We've spent money and time on it, we are frustrated. Things are out of hand. The house is a mess. Clothes, they aren't washed. We had to use the remainder of the Disney Princess paper plates from her birthday party to eat dinner. We have no food at the house; none. We DO have a giant tower of pizza boxes.

The truck I am using to drive while her car is being worked on? Its breaks went out on me today! THE BREAKS WENT OUT! You realize I was driving when this happened? WTF!!???!!? I could have seriously wrecked. I am not making this up.

My wife has been driving my car that she is too short for. She has to use a pillow under her and behind her to see and reach the pedals at the same time. One of the pillows is also a pillow we use in the house. We are short on pillows? Are we poor or some shit? She picked me up and drove me home, then we went out for dinner because of the no food thing. Downtrodden. I probably have to mow the grass soon, I hate that. Our mailbox is falling down. I stepped in dog shit while taking the dog out, to shit. Am I trying to find everything wrong with the world?

Tomorrow I have to catch a ride with a co-worker to work. First she has to pick me up, then drop her kids at school. I am riding the school bus to work? The next day, also bumming a ride. Hobo Dan anyone? I have no idea how I'm getting to work Saturday. All of this and more are on and in my mind. God why, oh why.

We get back from Subway. I open the door to the car and step out. The wife stops me and says:

"Get my pillow out, the one WITHOUT the hole in it."

I cannot stop laughing. If you don't get it, I guess you just had to be there.

A Loss for Words

I'm sitting here, on my shaky chair, attempting to assemble a thought. Just one. This damned chair wobbles so much; I want to smash it. That's why we can't have nice things. There is a precious moments candle on the table. You know, the kind with those creepy ass kids giving you the stink eye. A wedding gift I think, the wife says "It smells like ass"; so we have never burnt it. It just sits there, looking at me with its future serial killers of America on it. We had a precious moments cake topper for our wedding by the way, that wasn't so creepy; but this candle is making me paranoid.

I have off tomorrow what should I do? Well shit kids that's a rhetorical question. Tomorrow I have to take my wife's taint of a car to Huntington to the dealership to get worked on because the little POS still won't run. If the TV I bought last Christmas needed as much maintenance as the cars we own, I would not stand for it. Did you ever think of that? Break it down, most of the stuff we buy needs much less maintenance than our cars. Hell, I guarantee my wife and I use our TV more hours a day than our cars. I'm sorry I don't have to change the oil in my TV, or check the fucking tire pressure! Car companies are you listening? no...

Sorry about that, Hobo Dan came out for a second and typed some angry shit. He's an angry Hobo sometimes. I'll explain him to you someday; not now. Well, precious moments have just about finished eye raping me for now. Remember everyone, only you can prevent terrible wedding gifts like this damned candle.

The Bad Friday

There are no words. Even as I try to conjugate them, they will be nothing more than simple words. Words. WORDS!

This rather short antidote is best understood when preface by earlier events. If you are a regular follower of this fine blog, then certainly you read about The Mouse. You see, I wrote that harrowing tale all too soon. A great many events followed it. To my disdain, the car which that clever little rodent chose to inhabit broke down only days after his arrival. It just stopped. Well as you can imagine, upon hearing this news, my lovely, caring, compassionate and all knowing wife made her expert opinion be known. That little vermin must have been the reason for the car's sudden reluctance to start. I reassured her this was probably not the case. For a week the car was in the shop. The verdict? A blown fuse going into the starter, probably blown by some sort of short in the wiring. How ever did this short come about? The mechanic suggests that a mouse very well could have caused such damage.

Damn it! Damn it, damn it, damn it. Damn it, damn it, damn it, damn it, damn it, damn it, damn it. DAMN IT! No matter what I say or what I do, damn it, she is ALWAYS right!

Now that's out of my system. Friday was just an unimaginably awful day. The guy that coined the saying "Life sucks and then you die." must have had a whole bunch of these kind of days. Friday was suppose to be the first day of a few days of vacation for me. Oh, don't worry, I didn't get called into work. OH, no, I would have gladly went back to work to prevent the following events! So the day started off fine and well. I drove the wife to pick up her car before work, because it was finally done. Great news! Of course when she hears the probable cause of the break down, she never hesitates to let me know how right she was. Maybe she should of been a mechanic! If she, with zero knowledge of cars, was able to solve this break down; perhaps she could be creating the first super clean, super fast car of the future that will save the planet from global warming and in turn Al Gore! Alas we shall never know.

So she drives off to work. I go home to revel in the glory of a day off. Later, I receive a text from the wife letting me know that the car smells of dead mouse. This news brightens the day further. At least it's dead; now I just have to solve that problem. Soon I sit down for some relaxing video games; peace. It's right then, that she calls me. We have just pissing-down-a-hair-clogged-drain bad cell phone service at our house. I cannot believe I was able to hear what she said. "Car won't start. I'm at Krodel park." I'm not even mad. For a moment I just stand there, bent in some funny angle striving for the optimum cell service of one bar. "Sure." That's the best I can manage before leaving to pick her up.

Now would be a good time to progress back in time two hours to lunch. I took my wife to Burger King. We made a short stop at Auto Zone to get some smell killing items to help cleanse the rank of rotting mouse carcass. My wife make some incendiary remark about being from Gallia county Ohio as I exit the car. I didn't really hear it and paid it no mind. When I return to the car, she asks me why I have a huge hole in the arm pit of my shirt. I have no idea. Her off hand comment from before was about how I am properly dressed for Gallia county life, with the hole and all. She failed to stop me from entering the store looking like a complete idiot. Thanks, I love you too.

So back to the broken down mouse coffin. I dropped her off at work and proceed back to the repair shop to spread the tidings and good news. As I park, and set out of the car, the unthinkable happens. The hole in the arm pit of my shirt grabs hold of the door. Before I can stop myself, I am pushing the door shut. As the door rips through the air and my very soul, it rips a LARGE piece of my shirt. The gash reaches across my chest so that my sexy hair covered abs are gleaming in the sun light. Sure. So I walk into the repair shop and notify them of the trouble. They all look at my shirt, but no one asks me about it and I never mention it. It's for the best, I think.

I have no spare shirts. I also don't want to go home and get one. I have to pick the wife up from work. Lucky for me, the repair shop is right next to a dollar general. Now, with a clear mind, free of the stress of the day, I would never walk into this store to buy a $2 shirt dress like that. On this day I would. It was helpful that the credit card reader was working horrendously slow. I spent twenty minutes in line and paying with my gashed shirt on. It was great, especially when I saw a customer I see at work all the time. You know the customer who never sees me in anything but a shirt and tie. She pretended not to know me; I know she recognized me. Back in the car, the shirt is exchanged and that crisis is over. What should I do now.

A hair cut! Yes, I have time to kill before picking up the wife; I'll go to Wal Mart and get a hair cut. Nothing about this could go wrong. Wal Mart is an American institution. It is at the very heart of our being. Wal Mart is the best. End sarcasm. One more thing, the shirt I bought is a kind of athletic polo shirt. Kind of like a golf shirt, but much, much, much, MUCH cheaper in cost and design. As the Wal Mart is over run with the best society has to offer, I am forced to park in the very back of the lot. What next? People, I can't make this shit up. The clouds opened up as I trekked across the parking lot and the rain fell. The rain poured. The sky took a big old piss on me. And what of my new cheap shirt? It became a new, wet and very see through cheap shirt. Everyone knows what happens to nipples in water, so I won't waste your time on that. Drenched, I drag myself into Wal Mart and find the hair place. After a short wait, I am seated and getting a trim. As soon as I sit, I let out a loud sigh. The hair cut lady just gives me a once over look. Maybe it was the outwardly perturbed look on my face, you all know the face I'm talking about. Maybe it was my nipples, glaring her in the face through my shirt. One of those things prompted her to ask...

"Rough day?" I smiled to myself.

"Yeah." There are no words.