I quit Brewsky's. I couldn't handle Deb. Back then, that was enough for me to check out.
I always had this stupid crush on Nockels. The only reason was that he didn't like me. At all. Which just fueled this strange obsessive need to get him to love me.
And Travis was there in the background. Just there. I always pushed his little personal borders he had set up all around him. Nobody was allowed behind the bar when he was back there, but I would march right up to him and look him square in the eye. And I would say "you're so cute!" or "I need a hug," or something and he would giggle. And I drank his coffee, and flirted, and never once thought he was anything but just Travis. It was all about Nockels.
One night, after a spectacularly drunken messy fail while drinking at his bar, I left and drunk dialed Travis. I left him a message, and don't really remember what I said. He called me back the next day and we chatted. That was it.
Then came super drunk night at Brewskys. Travis actually cut me off, I was so drunk. I went home, and drunkenly got myself kicked out of Katie's house. I moved back to my Moms. I had quit by then, and had no job. Jamie was sick of me being there, and eventually managed to throw me out. That day, I went and got a job at Nebraska Book with the plan to work there long enough to make some money and then take off.
My Dad and Peg didn't want me at their house, either. I begged and pleaded, and told them my plan to move, and they said they would think about letting me live there until Janurary 1st (this being early November.) They told me to come back the next day for their decision.
So I was homeless. Again. #6.
I had no where to go, so I went to the Silver Spoke where Terry was working and hung there and drank. I was trying to steel myself for the thought of sleeping outside in November. Then Travis and the return phone call popped in my head. He called me right back after I had randomly called him, so he can't hate me as much as everybody else does. So I called him. And he said I could come over and hang out if I wanted.
And I nervously drove to his house, and was amazed to find how easy it was just to hang out. And laugh, and smile, and talk. I don't know how it ever happened, but we kissed eachother, and it is the one kiss I'll probably never forget. We kissed, and then giggled, and laughed, and then kissed again, and giggled. We slept together, and it was so unlike any other first times I've slept with somebody. It wasn't anxious, or awkward, and I didn't feel like I had to be some sexual goddess or a pornstar, or any other things I always felt I had to be. It was simple, and it was great.
I woke up really early, in his bed. He was still fast asleep, and the sunlight hit, and I had to get out of there. I couldn't face him waking up and seeing this mess in bed next to him. So I quietly got my stuff and left.
I went to my Dad's house, and made the deal: I would be moved out by Janurary 1st. I saw my chance: I could move away. I could get out of this stupid blackhole I had for my life. That morning changed my entire life.
I called Travis and left him a message, saying I'm sorry I panicked. And was in his bed again the next night. And then again, and again, and again. And I did stupid things, like try to hit on Nockels in front of him. And all I could ever talk about was finally moving out of there. And yet, time and time again, I woke up completely ensnared in his arms.
When he decided he was going to move to Denver, I was upset. It was okay that I was moving, but the fact that he was whigged me more than anything. He took my choice away. Like what if I wanted to stay there after all? If he's not there, then I certainly can't stay. And what if I wanted to stay with him? None of those thoughts could ever make it to the surface, so what else could I do, but pretend it didn't hurt when I realized I would never see him again?
New Years Eve 2007 was spent at his house, I walked in and wanted to burst into tears at the sight of all his stuff packed and moved. But we sat there, and drank a bottle of wine, and I watched the most harrowing year of my life tick away. And midnight, we kissed the year goodbye, then Steve Bourke crashed his car into the neighbor's lawn. It was funny :)
Travis and I went to bed, and after he fell asleep, I sat up and watched him, and felt the deepest sadness. So deep, it rocked me to the point where I was crying, and panicked to get the hell away from this terrible feeling. I ran out into the street carrying my clothes sobbing, and Steve, who was outside with Shirin, took one look at me and said "Oh my God, are you crying?!" I said "No!" very loudly and got in my car and raced all the way home to my bed and cried myself to sleep.
A week later, he was gone, never to be seen again. On the 10th, I drove myself to St. Louis, and cried the minute I saw the City Limit sign. Something significant had happened back there, and I was miles away in a new world.
I thought about him every day. Then every other day, then every other other day, and he very slowly went away. And I made my little niche here, and it was lifeless, dull, and anti-climactic in every way. Every once in a while, I'd call him, but he never sounded like he wanted to talk. He never called me. And a year passed.
Just when he was finally gone from me, I get a message saying he's going to be driving through St. Louis on his way to Georgia, and he wanted to stop and say hi. It was so strange, I was never going to see him again, and now he's back. But this time, there was no question. I could never have him, all I can have are these quick little trips.
There were 2, one on his way to Georgia, and then on the way back. Both times were fun, but there was no spark like there was back in Lincoln. Don't get me wrong, it was good to see him, but there was no crying, or emotional outpouring. I didn't want to let him go, but it wasn't awful like it was the year before. Both times he left, I responded by downing a bottle of wine and kind of "mourned" him. A little memorial to what's never going to be.
But this last time...
Worse than the first. A million times better than the first.
This is what happened. I can't write beyond this.
Thursday, January 07, 2010
Just to get this all out of my head
So he hates cars. Yet he drove from Omaha to here just to "see me" one more time before he shipped off. Someone who hates driving cars so much drove 1000 miles because of me.
Would a guy really drive 1000 miles for sex?
He won't e-mail. It's driving me nuts. How could I really let myself think he would?
We are so different, and I knew it way back when, and once I actually told him that we wouldn't work.
So why am I always so upset when the inevitable end comes?
Moving was me. I started it. I was moving first. He may have wanted to before, but until I'm all of a sudden around, and talking about leaving and new lives did he finally do it.
I've always wondered if had I never even had the thought, if I had never left and spent more time in Lincoln with him, what would have happened?
My biggest fear was nothing. So I left before that could happen.
How does he feel about me?
He really does have the emotional range of a teaspoon, his being is based in logic and the world of thought. Once again with the different, for I am the complete opposite.
So why did we happen in the first place?
It felt so strange because it was him, but also very simple and pleasurable.
The first time we kissed we just giggled and giggled, because it was so ridiculous.
We both really like giggling.
How could it ever work? I'm impulsive, and emotional, and fearful. He's brave, and organized, and doesn't ever let an emotion loose.
He wanders, and I nest.
2 years. He doesn't even have to be here, to be here.
Would a guy really drive 1000 miles for sex?
He won't e-mail. It's driving me nuts. How could I really let myself think he would?
We are so different, and I knew it way back when, and once I actually told him that we wouldn't work.
So why am I always so upset when the inevitable end comes?
Moving was me. I started it. I was moving first. He may have wanted to before, but until I'm all of a sudden around, and talking about leaving and new lives did he finally do it.
I've always wondered if had I never even had the thought, if I had never left and spent more time in Lincoln with him, what would have happened?
My biggest fear was nothing. So I left before that could happen.
How does he feel about me?
He really does have the emotional range of a teaspoon, his being is based in logic and the world of thought. Once again with the different, for I am the complete opposite.
So why did we happen in the first place?
It felt so strange because it was him, but also very simple and pleasurable.
The first time we kissed we just giggled and giggled, because it was so ridiculous.
We both really like giggling.
How could it ever work? I'm impulsive, and emotional, and fearful. He's brave, and organized, and doesn't ever let an emotion loose.
He wanders, and I nest.
2 years. He doesn't even have to be here, to be here.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
I can't believe I'm doing this.
So with the writing, I kinda stopped. I didn't think I needed to put down anything on the off chance that this was the reason I was crazy. I always wrote when I felt insane, because it felt like something that needed to be done. I don't know if this is a needed action, I don't feel too crazy right now. I suck at typing now, I've noticed that.
Up until a week ago, life was pretty sweet, now it feels a little out of my control. I spose I could wrestle it back into my control, keep on running and doing my normal routine, act all right, is probably exactly what I need to do. I don't want to voice my anxieties, on the off chance they become true. That's actually more of a reluctance to give them a voice, let them become something "real" instead of random thoughts I brush away.
I'm being hit with a sweet wave of nostalgia. Back when I first started this blog, in my Dad's basement while I worked at the gas station, then took that job at Lincare. Back when I was sleeping with David Purvis, and pouring all sorts of stuff I never knew I had into here. It's amazing how things can be so significant years after they had seemed so mundane.
That flight gave me a lot more than a ride home. It cleared the way for living, which is what I've been avoiding for so long. Things have sort of lost their scariness, I almost feel like I can accept life, good and bad, for what it is and where my place is in it.
But parts of me still softly whisper fear in my heart.
Those are the thoughts to brush away. Those are the anxieties that don't need to be given a voice. Stuff them in my anxiety closet like I do all the rest of my junk. Stick them beneath the broken and chipped furniture, the crushed boxes, the cushions and pillow on top of empty paint cans and forget about them, surrounded by all the junk I no longer have a need for.
Up until a week ago, life was pretty sweet, now it feels a little out of my control. I spose I could wrestle it back into my control, keep on running and doing my normal routine, act all right, is probably exactly what I need to do. I don't want to voice my anxieties, on the off chance they become true. That's actually more of a reluctance to give them a voice, let them become something "real" instead of random thoughts I brush away.
I'm being hit with a sweet wave of nostalgia. Back when I first started this blog, in my Dad's basement while I worked at the gas station, then took that job at Lincare. Back when I was sleeping with David Purvis, and pouring all sorts of stuff I never knew I had into here. It's amazing how things can be so significant years after they had seemed so mundane.
That flight gave me a lot more than a ride home. It cleared the way for living, which is what I've been avoiding for so long. Things have sort of lost their scariness, I almost feel like I can accept life, good and bad, for what it is and where my place is in it.
But parts of me still softly whisper fear in my heart.
Those are the thoughts to brush away. Those are the anxieties that don't need to be given a voice. Stuff them in my anxiety closet like I do all the rest of my junk. Stick them beneath the broken and chipped furniture, the crushed boxes, the cushions and pillow on top of empty paint cans and forget about them, surrounded by all the junk I no longer have a need for.
Tuesday, July 07, 2009
Monday, February 25, 2008
I'm the Best TV Watcher Ever
And as such, I believe I can help the struggling networks with some ideas for TV shows. As a writer, there's no bigger achievement than having your thoughts projected into the eyes of million of adoring fans, so if I'm gonna make it big, I have to pull out all the stops.
1.Law and Pizza Order: Drunken Frat Boys Unit.
Crime fighters by day, toga partying Greek gods by night. Special appearance by Jackie Chan, who plays the pizza delivery guy.
2.Party Swap: Meet your new politician.
Pilot episode: George W. has to live with Michael Moore, Al Franken has to wash Rush Limbaugh's underwear, Dick Cheney gets kicked in the face by a donkey.
3.Afghan Idol.
Trying to dance in burquas is tough, but watch as these young hopefuls vie for a chance to win a deluxe package: electricity, running water, and their very own milking goat!
4.Two and a Half Suicides.
Charlie Sheen blows his face off after discovering he's a drug addict, that other guy cries for an entire episode.
5.MacGuyver: The Reality Series.
The guy who played MacGuyver is given a bomb, a toothbrush, a ketchup bottle, some gum, and a bottle of Paris Hilton's perfume. If he doesn't dismatle the bomb, well, I'm gonna get cancelled.
6.Survivor: Oprah Edition.
Fill a room full of guys, then make them watch "Oprah" for 7 weeks. The last one to cry wins a car. And he wins a car, and he wins a car, and he wins a car...
1.Law and Pizza Order: Drunken Frat Boys Unit.
Crime fighters by day, toga partying Greek gods by night. Special appearance by Jackie Chan, who plays the pizza delivery guy.
2.Party Swap: Meet your new politician.
Pilot episode: George W. has to live with Michael Moore, Al Franken has to wash Rush Limbaugh's underwear, Dick Cheney gets kicked in the face by a donkey.
3.Afghan Idol.
Trying to dance in burquas is tough, but watch as these young hopefuls vie for a chance to win a deluxe package: electricity, running water, and their very own milking goat!
4.Two and a Half Suicides.
Charlie Sheen blows his face off after discovering he's a drug addict, that other guy cries for an entire episode.
5.MacGuyver: The Reality Series.
The guy who played MacGuyver is given a bomb, a toothbrush, a ketchup bottle, some gum, and a bottle of Paris Hilton's perfume. If he doesn't dismatle the bomb, well, I'm gonna get cancelled.
6.Survivor: Oprah Edition.
Fill a room full of guys, then make them watch "Oprah" for 7 weeks. The last one to cry wins a car. And he wins a car, and he wins a car, and he wins a car...
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
Irv and Jen have a quickie
Jen: Irv, what the hell are you doing?
Irv: I'm making a sculpture out of Elmer's glue. Look, it's "The Thinker."
Jen: He's scratching his balls!
Irv: He's thinking. I do all my best thinking while in the pursuit of total testicular comfort. And the artwork is supposed to represent the artist.
Jen: Is that why your sculpture looks a cross between Lyle Lovett and Yoda?
Irv: You are cold, woman.
Irv: I'm making a sculpture out of Elmer's glue. Look, it's "The Thinker."
Jen: He's scratching his balls!
Irv: He's thinking. I do all my best thinking while in the pursuit of total testicular comfort. And the artwork is supposed to represent the artist.
Jen: Is that why your sculpture looks a cross between Lyle Lovett and Yoda?
Irv: You are cold, woman.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
2007 Christmas Letter
Merry Christmas from the Schoens!!! It is the time of year where families come together and share in the delights of the season, and friendships are rekindled and cherished. This has been a very blessed year for our family, so once again we bring you news and good tidings from our little corner of Nebraska!
The beginning of 2007 was a wonderful start to a very happy year. Jessica was dumped by her seemingly wonderful boyfriend, and was re-committed to "The Loony Bin," AKA Mom's basement. There, she spent many a wonderful evening being screamed at by her loving sister Jamie, and slept in a guest couch covered in cat urine. Jamie made many new friends whose main focus in life was body shots. She took a tour of the detox facility, finding it to be a very suitable accommodation. She also started a new career at the unemployment office, although she feels she may be on the wrong side of the counter. John continued to not talk to anybody. Ron and Ann continued to stew in a mutual hatred that had lasted 12 years, although they made headway when their conversations started ending with the words "He/She is fucking crazy," instead of the usual "Fuck Him/Her."
As the cold, dark winter days gave way to the light of spring, The Schoen Family began to delight more and more of each other. Jessica and Jamie became the best of friends, spending much time together chatting. Although the word "chatting" could easily be substituted with the word "screaming," Jessica and Jamie have found a deep love for each other deep within their hearts. Although again, the word "love" could easily be substituted with the word "hatred." John continued to not talk to anybody, and Ron and Ann ceremoniously ended their conversations with the phrase "What a fucking nutcase."
After working many jobs that eventually ended in a case of "I hate everything, fuck that job," Jessica found a comfortable fit serving at Brewskys, and took up residence at her best friend's home. Jamie found out she was expecting and we are so excited to have an addition to the Schoen family! Jamie is as happy as can be, and it must be pointed out that any news you may have heard about "Jamie freaking out and screaming obscenities at Jessica and Ann repeatedly" is simply not true. Jamie is a sweet, loving person who only has love and best wishes for her mom and sister. She decided to tour the detox facility again, and has taken a vow not to drive her car for a year, out of respect for the environment. How selfless she is and we are all so proud of her! Jessica decided she missed her sister so much, she moved back into the basement. Her best friends were so sad to see her go, but helped her move out by putting all of her things in the front lawn for her. Jamie certainly couldn't have been happier to have her big sister back in the house. They certainly started "chatting" more, and even brought Ann into their loving conversations. Jessica very sadly had to let her employment at Brewskys terminate, but was very happy to live in her mom's basement while she found a new job and was very grateful she had Jamie and Ann to remind her of her accomplishments everyday. John continued to not talk to anybody, and Ron and Ann's conversations ended with "You handle it, they're your children."
Eventually, Jamie and Jessica had to part ways. Jamie once again helped Jessica move by putting all of her things in the yard. Jessica took a camping trip for a night, although she used her car as a tent. What an adventure! Jessica was so happy to have the opportunity to sleep under the stars one more time before it grew cold again. She decided to live at Ron's house while she saves up money for a move to Minneapolis. She'll be sad to go, and she wants everybody to know how much she will miss them! Especially her sister and her best friends. She'll hold them in her heart as the most caring and loving people she knows. She works at Nebraska Book Company, and feels this is the best job she's ever had! Jamie is due in May, and we all know she'll make an awesome mother. She's recently taken a vow not to leave the house, and started wearing a beautiful ankle bracelet as a mark of her solidarity to the her vow. John continues to not talk to anybody, and Ron and Ann end their conversations with "Go to Hell."
The Schoens hope this Christmas letter finds you well and in good health, and we pray that your family is as blessed as ours! Merry Christmas everybody!
Ron, Ann, Jessica, Jamie, and John.
The beginning of 2007 was a wonderful start to a very happy year. Jessica was dumped by her seemingly wonderful boyfriend, and was re-committed to "The Loony Bin," AKA Mom's basement. There, she spent many a wonderful evening being screamed at by her loving sister Jamie, and slept in a guest couch covered in cat urine. Jamie made many new friends whose main focus in life was body shots. She took a tour of the detox facility, finding it to be a very suitable accommodation. She also started a new career at the unemployment office, although she feels she may be on the wrong side of the counter. John continued to not talk to anybody. Ron and Ann continued to stew in a mutual hatred that had lasted 12 years, although they made headway when their conversations started ending with the words "He/She is fucking crazy," instead of the usual "Fuck Him/Her."
As the cold, dark winter days gave way to the light of spring, The Schoen Family began to delight more and more of each other. Jessica and Jamie became the best of friends, spending much time together chatting. Although the word "chatting" could easily be substituted with the word "screaming," Jessica and Jamie have found a deep love for each other deep within their hearts. Although again, the word "love" could easily be substituted with the word "hatred." John continued to not talk to anybody, and Ron and Ann ceremoniously ended their conversations with the phrase "What a fucking nutcase."
After working many jobs that eventually ended in a case of "I hate everything, fuck that job," Jessica found a comfortable fit serving at Brewskys, and took up residence at her best friend's home. Jamie found out she was expecting and we are so excited to have an addition to the Schoen family! Jamie is as happy as can be, and it must be pointed out that any news you may have heard about "Jamie freaking out and screaming obscenities at Jessica and Ann repeatedly" is simply not true. Jamie is a sweet, loving person who only has love and best wishes for her mom and sister. She decided to tour the detox facility again, and has taken a vow not to drive her car for a year, out of respect for the environment. How selfless she is and we are all so proud of her! Jessica decided she missed her sister so much, she moved back into the basement. Her best friends were so sad to see her go, but helped her move out by putting all of her things in the front lawn for her. Jamie certainly couldn't have been happier to have her big sister back in the house. They certainly started "chatting" more, and even brought Ann into their loving conversations. Jessica very sadly had to let her employment at Brewskys terminate, but was very happy to live in her mom's basement while she found a new job and was very grateful she had Jamie and Ann to remind her of her accomplishments everyday. John continued to not talk to anybody, and Ron and Ann's conversations ended with "You handle it, they're your children."
Eventually, Jamie and Jessica had to part ways. Jamie once again helped Jessica move by putting all of her things in the yard. Jessica took a camping trip for a night, although she used her car as a tent. What an adventure! Jessica was so happy to have the opportunity to sleep under the stars one more time before it grew cold again. She decided to live at Ron's house while she saves up money for a move to Minneapolis. She'll be sad to go, and she wants everybody to know how much she will miss them! Especially her sister and her best friends. She'll hold them in her heart as the most caring and loving people she knows. She works at Nebraska Book Company, and feels this is the best job she's ever had! Jamie is due in May, and we all know she'll make an awesome mother. She's recently taken a vow not to leave the house, and started wearing a beautiful ankle bracelet as a mark of her solidarity to the her vow. John continues to not talk to anybody, and Ron and Ann end their conversations with "Go to Hell."
The Schoens hope this Christmas letter finds you well and in good health, and we pray that your family is as blessed as ours! Merry Christmas everybody!
Ron, Ann, Jessica, Jamie, and John.
Monday, December 03, 2007
The Mirror
So okay, I wrote this 4 years ago and have never shared it with anybody. Probably because I sound like I'm a nut job crazy insane person. But, seeing as how I am suffering from a 3 month long writer's block, and I've always though this to be a fabulous allegory on finding one's self, I figured "what the fucking hell." So here you go, my crazy nut job piece.
Who is this person staring back at me in the mirror? I really think I know her, but lately, I just can’t get a grasp on who she is. I stare at her, wishing to touch her. But every time I try, my fingers touch glass. Cold and hard to the touch, is this who she is?
I stare into her eyes. They’re big, haunted eyes, eyes the color of jade. What’s behind them? What are her thoughts? Her eyes give no indication, they just stare back at me with a piercing look that makes me shiver. It’s so strong I have to look away.
I feel empty. Like a jigsaw puzzle that lost all the inside pieces. When the wind blows under this vast starry sky, it blows right through me. I feel lost. Every star in the sky looks the same, there’s no one star to single out and follow. How did I get here, so lost and so empty?
The girl in the mirror. She’s led me here, and now I’m lost. Why did she do that? What good could it possibly do her to leave me stranded like this? I look at her once again, but she just returns that cool, hard stare.
I feel mesmerized by her. She’s weaving a web around me that I’m powerless to stop. But her eyes…
I just want to look into her eyes…
The mirror has shattered. It’s tiny slivers and pieces are spread in the grass all around me.
I don’t know what to do.
I’m wandering around, leaving bloody footprints on the grass. The slivers of glass under my bare feet slice me as I walk.
The wind still blows through me.
I’m looking for pieces. I pick one up, study it. There’s her eye, still haunting me, piercing me in jade. I find another one. This time, it’s harder to tear myself from the eye’s steely gaze. Her eyes are in every piece I find, making me look harder, faster for the pieces of the girl in the mirror. A million eyes look back at me as I rush to put the pieces together.
My hands are cut, oozing blood on the shattered pieces of my mirror, yet I still work feverishly to put the jigsaw of eyes together.
Whole around the edges, empty in the middle…
A drop of my blood falls on the mirror’s piece, making the eye red. I stop and stare at it- the cold, clear jade is now a deep, disturbing red. Making the eye evil.
I shriek, and toss the red eye away.
Now my tears are mixing with my blood, making it harder to fit the pieces together.
Her eyes… are everywhere. With a look as hard and cold as the glass that holds them, each eye possesses me, makes me mad.
I’ve got to finish…
My head feels droopy, it’s hard to keep my eyes open, but I still work, cutting myself on each piece before I fit it into the puzzle. The grass is red, stained with the blood that’s pouring out of my hands and feet.
The last piece is gone.
The eyes look at me accusingly. I threw it away, the last piece of the puzzle that would make the girl in the mirror whole. I threw it, and it’s gone.
I collapse to the ground, exhausted and weeping at the eyes. But they pay no attention. Each eye begs me to look, and finally, I lift my head, bloody and tearstained to look.
The eyes are red.
Her eyes…
The wind has stopped blowing.
The mirror is almost finished, but there is one piece missing, right where the girl’s heart should be. The girl is back, whole and piercing me with those cold, jade eyes again.
Where can I find the last piece?
I sit, cross-legged on the grass, staring back at the girl, wondering what to fill the hole in the mirror with.
My hands and feet are dark red, stained with my own blood, but they feel so warm. Almost a tingly sensation- my hands and feet have bees swarming inside them.
The Earth is also red, a deep peaceful red.
What can I do to finish my mirror?
The girl in the mirror is mocking me. Her eyes are dancing, she knows I cannot finish.
I drop my head into my hands and weep.
My tears are warm, adding even more warmth to my hands- they now feel on fire. What a sensation- so much different from the coldness of the mirror.
I touch the empty spot in the mirror with my tear soaked hand, and the girl blinked.
She blinked, and for one moment, I was out of her penetrating stare. I touch it again. Another blink.
Her eyes are silent now, with every touch of my hand, they grow mute.
I think I know now…
I stand up, and pick up a clod of deep red Earth. I mix it with my tears until it is clay.
And I shape it, mold it, into a heart.
A warm, red heart.
The girl’s gaze is curious now, for the first time, I can look at her eyes and not feel trapped. I smile at her, then place the Earthen heart where the last piece should be.
It fits. Her cold jade eyes start to grow warmer, until they are the color of shiny emeralds-
And the girl smiled back.
Who is this girl staring back at me in the mirror?She’s me. And the wind has never felt so good on my face….
Who is this person staring back at me in the mirror? I really think I know her, but lately, I just can’t get a grasp on who she is. I stare at her, wishing to touch her. But every time I try, my fingers touch glass. Cold and hard to the touch, is this who she is?
I stare into her eyes. They’re big, haunted eyes, eyes the color of jade. What’s behind them? What are her thoughts? Her eyes give no indication, they just stare back at me with a piercing look that makes me shiver. It’s so strong I have to look away.
I feel empty. Like a jigsaw puzzle that lost all the inside pieces. When the wind blows under this vast starry sky, it blows right through me. I feel lost. Every star in the sky looks the same, there’s no one star to single out and follow. How did I get here, so lost and so empty?
The girl in the mirror. She’s led me here, and now I’m lost. Why did she do that? What good could it possibly do her to leave me stranded like this? I look at her once again, but she just returns that cool, hard stare.
I feel mesmerized by her. She’s weaving a web around me that I’m powerless to stop. But her eyes…
I just want to look into her eyes…
The mirror has shattered. It’s tiny slivers and pieces are spread in the grass all around me.
I don’t know what to do.
I’m wandering around, leaving bloody footprints on the grass. The slivers of glass under my bare feet slice me as I walk.
The wind still blows through me.
I’m looking for pieces. I pick one up, study it. There’s her eye, still haunting me, piercing me in jade. I find another one. This time, it’s harder to tear myself from the eye’s steely gaze. Her eyes are in every piece I find, making me look harder, faster for the pieces of the girl in the mirror. A million eyes look back at me as I rush to put the pieces together.
My hands are cut, oozing blood on the shattered pieces of my mirror, yet I still work feverishly to put the jigsaw of eyes together.
Whole around the edges, empty in the middle…
A drop of my blood falls on the mirror’s piece, making the eye red. I stop and stare at it- the cold, clear jade is now a deep, disturbing red. Making the eye evil.
I shriek, and toss the red eye away.
Now my tears are mixing with my blood, making it harder to fit the pieces together.
Her eyes… are everywhere. With a look as hard and cold as the glass that holds them, each eye possesses me, makes me mad.
I’ve got to finish…
My head feels droopy, it’s hard to keep my eyes open, but I still work, cutting myself on each piece before I fit it into the puzzle. The grass is red, stained with the blood that’s pouring out of my hands and feet.
The last piece is gone.
The eyes look at me accusingly. I threw it away, the last piece of the puzzle that would make the girl in the mirror whole. I threw it, and it’s gone.
I collapse to the ground, exhausted and weeping at the eyes. But they pay no attention. Each eye begs me to look, and finally, I lift my head, bloody and tearstained to look.
The eyes are red.
Her eyes…
The wind has stopped blowing.
The mirror is almost finished, but there is one piece missing, right where the girl’s heart should be. The girl is back, whole and piercing me with those cold, jade eyes again.
Where can I find the last piece?
I sit, cross-legged on the grass, staring back at the girl, wondering what to fill the hole in the mirror with.
My hands and feet are dark red, stained with my own blood, but they feel so warm. Almost a tingly sensation- my hands and feet have bees swarming inside them.
The Earth is also red, a deep peaceful red.
What can I do to finish my mirror?
The girl in the mirror is mocking me. Her eyes are dancing, she knows I cannot finish.
I drop my head into my hands and weep.
My tears are warm, adding even more warmth to my hands- they now feel on fire. What a sensation- so much different from the coldness of the mirror.
I touch the empty spot in the mirror with my tear soaked hand, and the girl blinked.
She blinked, and for one moment, I was out of her penetrating stare. I touch it again. Another blink.
Her eyes are silent now, with every touch of my hand, they grow mute.
I think I know now…
I stand up, and pick up a clod of deep red Earth. I mix it with my tears until it is clay.
And I shape it, mold it, into a heart.
A warm, red heart.
The girl’s gaze is curious now, for the first time, I can look at her eyes and not feel trapped. I smile at her, then place the Earthen heart where the last piece should be.
It fits. Her cold jade eyes start to grow warmer, until they are the color of shiny emeralds-
And the girl smiled back.
Who is this girl staring back at me in the mirror?She’s me. And the wind has never felt so good on my face….
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Suicide By Hot Dogs and Other Random Crap
There are trace amounts of poisons in hot dogs. If you ate enough, you'd eventually die. So you know what I'm going to do? I'm going to commit suicide by hot dog. My master plan is this- By simultaneously committing suicide and eating mass amounts of hot dogs, I can break the record for most hot dogs eaten, and then die afterward, thus securing my place in a record much more prestigous- people who died while setting a record, which will remain in the record books indefinitely, because nobody is going to try to break the record somebody else died doing.
Jen: I cut myself shaving.
Irv: That's a bummer. Where at?
Jen: My vagina.
Irv: Your vagina? You shaved your vagina?
Jen: Yeah, and I cut it! I'm going to have a scar right there on my vagina! (drops head in hands)
Irv: So you're going to have a scar on your vagina. What's the big deal?
Jen: What's the big deal? How am I supposed to explain that?
Irv: Say you lost a battle with a razor blade.
Jen: Yeah, that's great. My vagina has battle wounds. "Hello, guy. This is my vagina, the warrior."
Irv: Might work.
Jen: Would you want to have sex with a warrior vagina?
Irv: (Looks a little spooked) Sounds scary.
I like to think of Jesus getting stoned. 3 or 4 guys, sitting around a table with Jesus, getting ripped. Imagine Jesus, Saul, and Samuel ducking behind a tree to smoke a bowl before the sermon on the mount.
"Jesus, that's a big mount. Do we have to go?"
"Samuel, of course. You guys are my Apostoles. We roll together. Don't bogart the weed."
"Hey dude, Jesus, My eyes don't work."
"You're baked, Saul. Of course they don't work. Here, use my Godly tears to heal them."
Which is how we got Visine.
Jen: I cut myself shaving.
Irv: That's a bummer. Where at?
Jen: My vagina.
Irv: Your vagina? You shaved your vagina?
Jen: Yeah, and I cut it! I'm going to have a scar right there on my vagina! (drops head in hands)
Irv: So you're going to have a scar on your vagina. What's the big deal?
Jen: What's the big deal? How am I supposed to explain that?
Irv: Say you lost a battle with a razor blade.
Jen: Yeah, that's great. My vagina has battle wounds. "Hello, guy. This is my vagina, the warrior."
Irv: Might work.
Jen: Would you want to have sex with a warrior vagina?
Irv: (Looks a little spooked) Sounds scary.
I like to think of Jesus getting stoned. 3 or 4 guys, sitting around a table with Jesus, getting ripped. Imagine Jesus, Saul, and Samuel ducking behind a tree to smoke a bowl before the sermon on the mount.
"Jesus, that's a big mount. Do we have to go?"
"Samuel, of course. You guys are my Apostoles. We roll together. Don't bogart the weed."
"Hey dude, Jesus, My eyes don't work."
"You're baked, Saul. Of course they don't work. Here, use my Godly tears to heal them."
Which is how we got Visine.
John Travolta and I Are Ridding the Earth Of Aliens
I am so joining Scientolgy!! I took their personality test online (a $500 value, for free!) and the results were sent to the nearest Scientology Representative in Witchita, KS. All I have to do is drive down there, let them hook me up to a lie detector test, ask me 200 questions, then I pay them money so they can rid my soul of ancient alien remains that make me do awful things like drink alcohol and have sex. If I keep paying them, I can move up the Scientology levels and become an "Operating Thetan," which is sort of like Enilightenment in Buddhism, except for instead of reaching for a peaceful state of mind, my main focus will be fighting the aliens, which are knows as "Body Thetans."
Apparently, 75 million years ago, the ruler of the "Galactic Conferderacy" was an alien named Zenu, and he was in charge of 70 or so planets, including Earth. The problem was that the other planets were hugely over-populated with their alien residents, and those planets were starting to die. So Zenu solved this problem by informing millions of aliens that they were being audited for tax purposes. When they all showed up at the tax auditing center, they were knocked unconsious, pumped full of alcohol and glycol, and cryogenically frozen. Zenu then loaded them all into a Douglas DC 8 airliner and flew them to Earth, where he unloaded their frozen bodies around the volcanoes in Hawaii. He then blew them to bits using Hydrogen Bombs, thus taking care of that pesky population problem.
After he blew them to bits, Zenu set up traps along the Earth to capture the alien's souls. Souls cannot be destroyed, you see, they will live foe all eternity. To finish his evil plan, Zenu put all the alien souls into a giant movie theatre and made them watch 3D movies to implant false reality into them. They were fooled into thinking that things like God, Jesus, and Mohammed were real. Zenu also made sure that these "new realities" were easily exploited in these souls as a form of social control. Finally, he let them out to cluster and join the souls of regular Earth inhabitants (i.e. Us), thus sending us into a world were everything is false reality, because of these aliens clining to us, thus controlling the entire Earth using his demon Body Thetan aliens.
Luckily, Zenu was overthrown by the "Marcab Confederation," and now resides in a prison locked up on a faraway planet. But his army of Body Thetans still reside here on Earth, enslaving us into a false reality, and making us do bad and sinful things.
Thank un-real God for Scientology! They are here to help everyday people like you and me rid ourselves of these alien Body Thetans and acheive spiritual reality. Although once you acheive spiritual reality, you aren't aloud to tell anybody about it, I'm sure it's wonderful. And while I think it's strange that Zenu's spaceship was a DC 8 Airliner, like the ones used today, I'm sure that's only because our technology took 75 million years to catch up to theirs. But I am so ready to get rid of these Body Thetan, they kind of itch!! I'm also quite excited to give birth to my children without any knid of pain medication, and also without me making a sound. See, when children are born, it's very traumatic for them, and this kind of trauma leaves an inprint on the child's soul. Which the Body Thetans feed on, which makes the child do bad things later in life. By not making a noise and keeping off the meds, the mother can ease the trauma involved in birth and prevent her child from fire-bombing an elementary school when it's 25.
The total cost to reach the Operating Thetan level is $360,000, which is a freakin BARGAIN!! If that's all I have to pay for spiritual reality, then count me in! Then again, maybe that's why it's all celebrities like Tom Cruise and John Travolta who join Scientology, they can actually afford to blow money trying to kill space alien souls. And since Scientology believes that psychiatry has wrecked everything from schools to wars, they can't get professional help when it turns out that Zenu was just a made up story by a self-proclaimed science fiction writer.
Bummer.
Apparently, 75 million years ago, the ruler of the "Galactic Conferderacy" was an alien named Zenu, and he was in charge of 70 or so planets, including Earth. The problem was that the other planets were hugely over-populated with their alien residents, and those planets were starting to die. So Zenu solved this problem by informing millions of aliens that they were being audited for tax purposes. When they all showed up at the tax auditing center, they were knocked unconsious, pumped full of alcohol and glycol, and cryogenically frozen. Zenu then loaded them all into a Douglas DC 8 airliner and flew them to Earth, where he unloaded their frozen bodies around the volcanoes in Hawaii. He then blew them to bits using Hydrogen Bombs, thus taking care of that pesky population problem.
After he blew them to bits, Zenu set up traps along the Earth to capture the alien's souls. Souls cannot be destroyed, you see, they will live foe all eternity. To finish his evil plan, Zenu put all the alien souls into a giant movie theatre and made them watch 3D movies to implant false reality into them. They were fooled into thinking that things like God, Jesus, and Mohammed were real. Zenu also made sure that these "new realities" were easily exploited in these souls as a form of social control. Finally, he let them out to cluster and join the souls of regular Earth inhabitants (i.e. Us), thus sending us into a world were everything is false reality, because of these aliens clining to us, thus controlling the entire Earth using his demon Body Thetan aliens.
Luckily, Zenu was overthrown by the "Marcab Confederation," and now resides in a prison locked up on a faraway planet. But his army of Body Thetans still reside here on Earth, enslaving us into a false reality, and making us do bad and sinful things.
Thank un-real God for Scientology! They are here to help everyday people like you and me rid ourselves of these alien Body Thetans and acheive spiritual reality. Although once you acheive spiritual reality, you aren't aloud to tell anybody about it, I'm sure it's wonderful. And while I think it's strange that Zenu's spaceship was a DC 8 Airliner, like the ones used today, I'm sure that's only because our technology took 75 million years to catch up to theirs. But I am so ready to get rid of these Body Thetan, they kind of itch!! I'm also quite excited to give birth to my children without any knid of pain medication, and also without me making a sound. See, when children are born, it's very traumatic for them, and this kind of trauma leaves an inprint on the child's soul. Which the Body Thetans feed on, which makes the child do bad things later in life. By not making a noise and keeping off the meds, the mother can ease the trauma involved in birth and prevent her child from fire-bombing an elementary school when it's 25.
The total cost to reach the Operating Thetan level is $360,000, which is a freakin BARGAIN!! If that's all I have to pay for spiritual reality, then count me in! Then again, maybe that's why it's all celebrities like Tom Cruise and John Travolta who join Scientology, they can actually afford to blow money trying to kill space alien souls. And since Scientology believes that psychiatry has wrecked everything from schools to wars, they can't get professional help when it turns out that Zenu was just a made up story by a self-proclaimed science fiction writer.
Bummer.
All While I Chainsmoke and Listen to Foreigner
Not that it matters, but I think that underwear is stupid. I was a big fan of the underwear, or pantie, as it has taken to being called, until the thong jumped in the scene like a giant shoe lace and completely ruined my sense of comfort. Why would a person want to walk around with a string made of cotton wedged between their ass cheeks?
Jen: What are you watching?
Irv: Brooke Shields brushing her teeth. Why would anybody want to watch Brook Shields brush her teeth? Look, she'd really going at it, too!"
Jen: Irv, if you don't like it, why are you watching it?
Irv. It's like a train wreck. I can't look away. It's actually reminding me of "the bowflex guy."
Jen: Who's the "bowflex guy?"
Irv: "Bowflex guy?" He's in a band.
Jen: What the hell are you talking about?
Irv: He's in a band. He's a 50 year old guy who got ripped on his bowflex and plays guitar with no shirt on.
Jen: Oookay. So what does a half naked pumped up guitar player have to do with Booke Shields?
Irv: I'd rather watch "bowflex guy" brush his teeth, and Brooke Shields work out.
Jen: How much time do you actually spend thinking about this?
Irv. Whenever a commercial comes on.
Jen: Okay, so what are you actually watching?
Irv. America's Next Top Model. Those girls are pretty, but they're deep man, they're fucking deep.
Jen: What are you watching?
Irv: Brooke Shields brushing her teeth. Why would anybody want to watch Brook Shields brush her teeth? Look, she'd really going at it, too!"
Jen: Irv, if you don't like it, why are you watching it?
Irv. It's like a train wreck. I can't look away. It's actually reminding me of "the bowflex guy."
Jen: Who's the "bowflex guy?"
Irv: "Bowflex guy?" He's in a band.
Jen: What the hell are you talking about?
Irv: He's in a band. He's a 50 year old guy who got ripped on his bowflex and plays guitar with no shirt on.
Jen: Oookay. So what does a half naked pumped up guitar player have to do with Booke Shields?
Irv: I'd rather watch "bowflex guy" brush his teeth, and Brooke Shields work out.
Jen: How much time do you actually spend thinking about this?
Irv. Whenever a commercial comes on.
Jen: Okay, so what are you actually watching?
Irv. America's Next Top Model. Those girls are pretty, but they're deep man, they're fucking deep.
Since When Does Lincoln Have A Ghetto?
Working at the 16th and South Street Brewskys is definitely some sort of an experience. Not only do we serve just about any type of person that could possibly exist, we are also across the street from a halfway house, an AA house, rehab, and the mental hospital. Down the street is South Street Liquor, and a fabulous little adult movie/sex shop. And in the mix, there we are, our humble little Brewskys, the first one in existence, the start of an empire. I'll be the first to admit that we are not in the most glamorous neighborhood Lincoln has to offer, but what it lacks in beauty it more than makes up for in character.
So here's the story. A lady comes in and wants to place a to go order. These take generally 15-20 minutes, depending on what the person has ordered. We offer her a place at the bar, at which she can wait, but she decides to wait in her car instead. 10 minutes later, she sends her husband in to pick up the food, but it not being within the alloted 15-20 minute time frame, he has to wait. Which must be some sort of an ordeal for these well-to-do types; they were both sharply dressed, and clearly not from this area of town; and he was not happy about the wait. In the end, after they had left with their booty, the lady calls back. There was some problem with the chicken wings, and she was hollering up a storm. But not only about the food. The wait was really what was bothering her, and she summed it up as such: "I had to wait for 20 minutes IN THE GHETTO!!!!!"
Which brings me to the point of this delightful little blurb of mine- Shut your Gucci wearing, WASPy yuppie SUV driving stuck-up ass up!! We are not ghetto, we are old school, the remants of a Lincoln that existed before your sleazy insurance rep of a husband made you move here. Your problem is that we are located in an area that represents all the people you don't want to deal with- the recovering drug addicts, people who have been to prison or are in rehab, people who work in the dirt and the heat, using their hands to build the things you take for granted. There is nothing wrong with where we are, but in your eyes, it must be a bad place because there's no brand new houses that look exactly the same, or giant shopping complexes that only serve those who like to buy stupid shit nobody really needs.
My guess is that she lives in a brand new house in a brand new development with no trees, and shiny new cars in every driveway, where everybody dresses the same, and acts the same, where they all work at the same place, and do the same kinds of things. There's no diversity there, and it's all safe and cozy, because she knows that only certain people can afford to live there, all the "uncomfortable" people are safely weeded out. Well let me tell you something, sister. That stupid development was a corn field 10 years ago, and those of us who have lived here longer than that are not impressed by your big stupid house and your big stupid car in your big stupid cookie-cutter treeless neighborhood. We're the reason you have all that shit in the first place. We have been working here for years, growing Lincoln's economy so you could afford to bulldoze the field to build your houses. Our sweat and labor have helped produce all that you have, and you have to audacity to come to a place that has remained untouched by your spoiled, arrogant hand and call us ghetto? Those people you wouldn't condescend to be in the same bar with built that road you drive to the mall on, and built the house you fill with useless expensive knicknacks. So take your uppity attitude and blow it out your skinny, malnourished ass.
We know of a Lincoln you've never seen. The beautiful old mansions down on D street, the legend of Hazel Abel's house, the parks and pools we haunted as kids because none of us had deluxe memberships to country clubs. We remember the blizzard that knocked out our power for a week, and we remember how the entire city banded together to keep eachother from freezing to death. We went to Lincoln High and Northeast. We drove up and down Sheridan marveling at the beautiful houses. We remember Air Park before it was just where the jail is. We shopped at the Atrium downtown, and watched our fireworks at Holmes Lake. There is such a history here that you'll never see if you don't make it past SouthPointe. As far as I'm concerned, you're just an implant, and until you decide to see Lincoln for what it truly is- a mishmash of different people living in one of the most beautiful cities in America, you can just kiss my ghetto ass.
So next time you're in the ghetto, I'm sending over some of my parolee friends. If they scare you enough to keep you safely tucked out of sight in your dumbass neighborhood, then that's good enough for me.
So here's the story. A lady comes in and wants to place a to go order. These take generally 15-20 minutes, depending on what the person has ordered. We offer her a place at the bar, at which she can wait, but she decides to wait in her car instead. 10 minutes later, she sends her husband in to pick up the food, but it not being within the alloted 15-20 minute time frame, he has to wait. Which must be some sort of an ordeal for these well-to-do types; they were both sharply dressed, and clearly not from this area of town; and he was not happy about the wait. In the end, after they had left with their booty, the lady calls back. There was some problem with the chicken wings, and she was hollering up a storm. But not only about the food. The wait was really what was bothering her, and she summed it up as such: "I had to wait for 20 minutes IN THE GHETTO!!!!!"
Which brings me to the point of this delightful little blurb of mine- Shut your Gucci wearing, WASPy yuppie SUV driving stuck-up ass up!! We are not ghetto, we are old school, the remants of a Lincoln that existed before your sleazy insurance rep of a husband made you move here. Your problem is that we are located in an area that represents all the people you don't want to deal with- the recovering drug addicts, people who have been to prison or are in rehab, people who work in the dirt and the heat, using their hands to build the things you take for granted. There is nothing wrong with where we are, but in your eyes, it must be a bad place because there's no brand new houses that look exactly the same, or giant shopping complexes that only serve those who like to buy stupid shit nobody really needs.
My guess is that she lives in a brand new house in a brand new development with no trees, and shiny new cars in every driveway, where everybody dresses the same, and acts the same, where they all work at the same place, and do the same kinds of things. There's no diversity there, and it's all safe and cozy, because she knows that only certain people can afford to live there, all the "uncomfortable" people are safely weeded out. Well let me tell you something, sister. That stupid development was a corn field 10 years ago, and those of us who have lived here longer than that are not impressed by your big stupid house and your big stupid car in your big stupid cookie-cutter treeless neighborhood. We're the reason you have all that shit in the first place. We have been working here for years, growing Lincoln's economy so you could afford to bulldoze the field to build your houses. Our sweat and labor have helped produce all that you have, and you have to audacity to come to a place that has remained untouched by your spoiled, arrogant hand and call us ghetto? Those people you wouldn't condescend to be in the same bar with built that road you drive to the mall on, and built the house you fill with useless expensive knicknacks. So take your uppity attitude and blow it out your skinny, malnourished ass.
We know of a Lincoln you've never seen. The beautiful old mansions down on D street, the legend of Hazel Abel's house, the parks and pools we haunted as kids because none of us had deluxe memberships to country clubs. We remember the blizzard that knocked out our power for a week, and we remember how the entire city banded together to keep eachother from freezing to death. We went to Lincoln High and Northeast. We drove up and down Sheridan marveling at the beautiful houses. We remember Air Park before it was just where the jail is. We shopped at the Atrium downtown, and watched our fireworks at Holmes Lake. There is such a history here that you'll never see if you don't make it past SouthPointe. As far as I'm concerned, you're just an implant, and until you decide to see Lincoln for what it truly is- a mishmash of different people living in one of the most beautiful cities in America, you can just kiss my ghetto ass.
So next time you're in the ghetto, I'm sending over some of my parolee friends. If they scare you enough to keep you safely tucked out of sight in your dumbass neighborhood, then that's good enough for me.
Somebody Get This Toilet Off My Head
I think I have a love hangover. Waking from a night's hard partying, with my head on the toilet seat, swearing off the sauce for good because of my current condition, that is the same yucky feeling I have about love. It sucks, it's fun while it lasted, but you always stumble into the day where the fun's all gone and your queasy arms are clutching the toilet, wondering how drunk you were to let it progress to this. When the urge to vomit passes, you're still stuck with the baggage, be it headache or heartbreak. You have to spend the whole day laying there doing nothing, and feeling like shit for the duration, pissed off at the culprits of your illness, nothing can be done. Time is the only thing that cures a hangover. And when you're feeling yourself again, you can't drink anymore. There isn't any drink out there that will look appealing when you think about your hair lightly brushing the inside rim of the toilet as you gagged up every ounce of bile and alcohol your stomach is capable of holding. Your social life is crap, because while everyone you know is out drinking and having a grand old time you're cursed to stay at home and be bored, listless, and generally unhappy because you remember the last time you had a hangover and don't want to repeat it again. Hoping that soon, you'll be able to forget about the hangover, want to go and have fun again. Knowing that right now, it feels like you're doomed to a lonely, boring life because you never figured out how to handle things like love. Or your alcohol.
The Watchword
The watchword of me is passion
The art of living is a painting
Of no discernable shape
Lines of color splashed upon the canvas
Crisscrossing without pattern or purpose
Confined by the edges of the canvas walls.
What if they could break free?
Fly from the canvas, so white and confining
And paint the whole world?
Color the lines that are already drawn
Splashing great shades upon dreary objects
Touching everything?
I want to paint the world
A child's paintbrush, free and innocent
Great strokes and gentle sweeps,
No rhyme or reason, just passion.
If I could break free of my canvas,
Paint the world, touch everything!
The watchword of the world would be passion
The art of living is a painting
Of no discernable shape
Lines of color splashed upon the canvas
Crisscrossing without pattern or purpose
Confined by the edges of the canvas walls.
What if they could break free?
Fly from the canvas, so white and confining
And paint the whole world?
Color the lines that are already drawn
Splashing great shades upon dreary objects
Touching everything?
I want to paint the world
A child's paintbrush, free and innocent
Great strokes and gentle sweeps,
No rhyme or reason, just passion.
If I could break free of my canvas,
Paint the world, touch everything!
The watchword of the world would be passion
Monday, July 03, 2006
Is My Mirror Just a Caricature?
What happens when you look in a mirror? Is what you see reality? Are your eyes really looking at what your neighbor sees? Or your boyfriend? Mirrors are amazing things, they are the only things that allow us to see ourselves with our own eyes. And that gives them power over us.
Imagine never looking in a mirror. Not once, not ever. Every idea of yourself would be a mixture of what other people say, and your own imagination. Your sense of self would not be connected with the way you looked, because you would have no earthly idea how you looked. What would that mean to the world; society? What if who we were had absolutely nothing to do with pout lips or muscled shoulders? Would personality and character take precedence?
So what if we took away all the mirrors? What if we couldn't see ourselves with our own eyes? This is part of a theory called "The Looking Glass Self," which is a working sociological theory. It boils down to a single idea, which is "We see ourselves through the eyes of other people, even to the extent of incorporating their views of us into our own self-concept."1 And it's easy to see this theory at work when you look at people in their teenage years. They are all strongly influenced by their peers and will often try to conform or even change their appearance to "fit in." When it comes to appearances, without the mirror, we are mercy to the ideas of others.
Fortunately, we all own a mirror. What's more, is that we all seem to own 3 or 4 mirrors. Mirrors to look in when dressing, smaller mirrors for our face, mirrors are even decoration. No matter where we go, we are able to see ourselves with our own eyes. With the mirror, other people's opinions are not so heavily weighed into our self conception. We know our eyes are green, our lips are full, our muscles are developed because we can see them, and we are able to judge them on our own. Our perceptions of ourself become more and more keen. For example, anybody can tell me my eyes are bright green, but only I can see for myself the way they glitter in the light, or change colors around the rim of my pupil.
I guess the real question to ask is- is it reality? How much of what I see in the mirror is real, and how much of it is perception? For example, most women look in the mirror, and see cellulite on their thighs, flat hair, imperfect skin, while most men look at those women and see none of those things. What they see is not what the men see, so which one is real? If nobody notices that tiny imperfection on your face, does that make it an imperfection?
The mirror has become more and more important to our sense of self. In fact, it's become so important that many people are solely concerned with only the view from the mirror. People actually base their entire self concept on what the mirror says to them. They can rationalize anything to the mirror. They become addicted to the mirror, and what is says to them.
The mirror has so much power over us, it can actually destroy us. How many people have looked in that mirror, and hated what they saw so much it actually makes them cry? What about the anorexic girl who looks in the mirror at 90 pounds and thinks "fat?"
There really is no escaping the looking glass self, or the mirror. How does one disguinish between reality and imagination? How do you see yourself in real terms, and not only as a projection of what it's "supposed" to be, or what it isn't? The only answer I can come up with is that there is no reality. What I see in the mirror isn't real, because how do you define real when it means so many different things? What I see is not what you see, but you are helping me to see it anyway. It's the combination of your perceptions of me coupled with my own ideas about me that I see that makes the mirror reflect what it does. On a desert island, alone with a mirror is the only way to truly see only yourself, and conversely, living among people without ever looking in a mirror is the only way to truly imagine yourself. I guess the real power in the mirror lies in finding a way to balance the two. To be the person you would be if the balance was perfect.
Otherwise, all you're looking at is a caricature.
Imagine never looking in a mirror. Not once, not ever. Every idea of yourself would be a mixture of what other people say, and your own imagination. Your sense of self would not be connected with the way you looked, because you would have no earthly idea how you looked. What would that mean to the world; society? What if who we were had absolutely nothing to do with pout lips or muscled shoulders? Would personality and character take precedence?
So what if we took away all the mirrors? What if we couldn't see ourselves with our own eyes? This is part of a theory called "The Looking Glass Self," which is a working sociological theory. It boils down to a single idea, which is "We see ourselves through the eyes of other people, even to the extent of incorporating their views of us into our own self-concept."1 And it's easy to see this theory at work when you look at people in their teenage years. They are all strongly influenced by their peers and will often try to conform or even change their appearance to "fit in." When it comes to appearances, without the mirror, we are mercy to the ideas of others.
Fortunately, we all own a mirror. What's more, is that we all seem to own 3 or 4 mirrors. Mirrors to look in when dressing, smaller mirrors for our face, mirrors are even decoration. No matter where we go, we are able to see ourselves with our own eyes. With the mirror, other people's opinions are not so heavily weighed into our self conception. We know our eyes are green, our lips are full, our muscles are developed because we can see them, and we are able to judge them on our own. Our perceptions of ourself become more and more keen. For example, anybody can tell me my eyes are bright green, but only I can see for myself the way they glitter in the light, or change colors around the rim of my pupil.
I guess the real question to ask is- is it reality? How much of what I see in the mirror is real, and how much of it is perception? For example, most women look in the mirror, and see cellulite on their thighs, flat hair, imperfect skin, while most men look at those women and see none of those things. What they see is not what the men see, so which one is real? If nobody notices that tiny imperfection on your face, does that make it an imperfection?
The mirror has become more and more important to our sense of self. In fact, it's become so important that many people are solely concerned with only the view from the mirror. People actually base their entire self concept on what the mirror says to them. They can rationalize anything to the mirror. They become addicted to the mirror, and what is says to them.
The mirror has so much power over us, it can actually destroy us. How many people have looked in that mirror, and hated what they saw so much it actually makes them cry? What about the anorexic girl who looks in the mirror at 90 pounds and thinks "fat?"
There really is no escaping the looking glass self, or the mirror. How does one disguinish between reality and imagination? How do you see yourself in real terms, and not only as a projection of what it's "supposed" to be, or what it isn't? The only answer I can come up with is that there is no reality. What I see in the mirror isn't real, because how do you define real when it means so many different things? What I see is not what you see, but you are helping me to see it anyway. It's the combination of your perceptions of me coupled with my own ideas about me that I see that makes the mirror reflect what it does. On a desert island, alone with a mirror is the only way to truly see only yourself, and conversely, living among people without ever looking in a mirror is the only way to truly imagine yourself. I guess the real power in the mirror lies in finding a way to balance the two. To be the person you would be if the balance was perfect.
Otherwise, all you're looking at is a caricature.
Thursday, April 13, 2006
Lincare Can Kiss My Black Ass
Yah u heard me. Lincare is a piece of shit company, and I have proof. Cuz I WAS FIRED!!!!
Yes, that is correct, I was fired. Which to anyone who knows me comes as a complete shock. What? Jessica fired? No way! But I do have a legitimate firing reason. I was fired because Lincare is a piece of shit company. Don't believe me? Check 'er out-
Cpap machines are for people with sleep apnea. Sleep apnea is a condition in which the patient stops breathing at night. Cpap stands for continuous positive airway pressure. What is does to treat sleep apnea is blow a stream of continuous air pressure into the patient's lungs.
Lincare sells cpap machines, and all the parts that go with it. These parts consist of a mask, a headgear, tubing, and filters. All together, before insurance, a cpap system costs roughly 2500 dollars. Most insurance companies, including Medicare pay at about 80 percent. So the patient would pay 500 dollars for the complete machine.
Now a little Lincare background- Lincare is huge, with 800 centers in the US. It has huge profits, sometimes earning record profits while the competition is in bankruptcy. The reason Lincare is so profitable is because almost all their money comes from Medicare. Lincare bills Medicare for oxygen and nebulizer therapy, cpap machines, and nebulizer medication. They're the welfare mothers of the medical world.
Only problem is, after Medicare part D was introduced, the government slashed the reimbursement amount on nebulizer medication by almost 40% to help pay for the new prescription plan. Lincare took a huge hit, and started losing money on these "designer medications."
Forced to keep revenue up to keep the stock value up, Lincare decided to milk money out of cpap supplies and parts, which as I pointed out are pretty pricey. From a CEO's point of view, it's not a bad plan:
Each mask is about 200 dollars. A headgear runs about 70. Tubing is 30, and filters range from 5-30 dollars. If you multiply all those parts by the number of cpap patients Lincare services (easily a million and more) you come up with a pretty hefty number. And since Medicare allows a new mask and other parts every 3 months, you could easily bill for all those items a million times 4 times per year.
That's a shitload of money.
And here's where I come in. It gets a bit dicey from here on, so hang tight. I was introduced to this scheme in December. Lincare implemented a new computer program that listed all the center's cpap patients in a queue that rotated every 3 months. My job was simple- call the patient, tell them it was time for more cpap supplies, order them through the queue, and Lincare would bill the insurance company. And it went pretty okay for the first couple of weeks. I was given a list of Medicare cpap patients, and I spent an hour or two getting my goal of 2 orders a day.
After the Medicare patients, I moved on to private insurance patients. I noticed there were a lot more private insurance patients than Medicare patients, probably because sleep apnea seems to affect the men and the overweight more that older people. And since my instructions were to say that they were eligible for new supplies every three months, and because they were rotated in the queue every three months like the Medicare patients, I had no problem telling them they could get these things at the 80% insurance rate, just like Medicare.
Then I started to get phone calls from people asking what these Lincare bills were. I told them I had no idea, and referred them to the billing office in Casper, Wyoming. I started to get e-mails telling me that I was not to ask patients if they would like new supplies, but to tell them that they WERE going to get new supplies. One gave us permission to send masks that weren't currently prescribed just to make the sale. Another said that if a patient came in to the center to get a part in person, to tell them that we didn't have anything in stock and then ship one to them. And everyday, I had to call more and more people.
Eventually, people were calling and literally screaming at me about these bills. Turns out, the three month rule ONLY applies to Medicare. Blue Cross and Mutual of Omaha and United Healthcare don't follow Medicare guidelines. Some plans had a cap, some allowed parts once a year, and others only paid for one part at set-up, and the patient was responsible for the rest. While most of the plans had a cap, I had no idea whether the patients insurance was capped or not, and for the most part, neither did the patient. So even though everybody in the company knew that most private insurance companies DO NOT follow Medicare guidelines, I was still required to call them every three months and tell them they were eligible for parts.
Not being one to rip people off, I stuck to Medicare patients only. I had enough to scrape my goal every month. And I could be sure that none of them was going to receive a bill for 250 bucks by account of me. And this got me through most of Februrary and March.
Then came a fateful day in the middle of March, when I came back to work after a long weekend, and found a fun little e-mail. From now on, I was to bill 40% of my cpap patients a month. This was about 120 cpap sales a month. I wouldn't be able to stick to Medicare anymore, and worse, more and more people were going to pay out of pocket for stuff that I told them would be covered. The more I though about this, the more it started to bother me. I mean, what if that 40 bucks the Medicare patient has to pay for their 20 percent of the mask is their food or drug money? When I say "eligible" are they always going to be lucid enough to understand that it won't be completely covered? What if they have ahlzimers and don't remember ordering a new mask? What if they're sick and think it's gonna be paid for? They are old, remember, and I was to be as ambiguous as possible.
But what really bothered me was the private insurance people. Even if the first mask I sold them was covered, chances were the second or third one wasn't going to be. And I knew that, which made me nothing short of a liar. And again, what if that 200 or so bucks was rent money, or food money? They would think "great, I could probably afford 30-40 bucks every 3 months to have this new mask", but imagine when they get a bill for 250.
The kicker was that these masks DON'T need to be replaced every 3 months, they can easily last 6 months or more if you take care of them. But for some reason, Medicare allows for them every 3 months, which is now the "standard" at Lincare. I honestly felt that the "customer service" part of my customer service title was slowly being replaced by "lying telemarketer."
Once they suggested that I work late and on weekends to get all my sales in, I had had enough. My responsibility was to the patients, taking care of their needs, not selling them stuff they didn't need because some guy in Florida I've never met said I had to. So I wrote my boss an e-mail. I was very blunt in it, which I figured was no big deal because she was my friend and nobody would read it but her. In it I said this is horrible, we are ripping off patients and Medicare, I wasn't hired as a telemarketer, and I had ethical objections to lying to people to make a sale. Which I guess pissed her off, probably because if I wasn't going to do it, then she would have to. She had already written me an e-mail saying "please do this so I don't have to," and honestly, I don't know what I was trying to accomplish by sending her the e-mail, only to vent a little I guess. Well, the e-mail pissed her off, so she sent it to the manager above her, who decided to fire me, because I was easily replaceable and money is king at Lincare. They don't want "ethical objections," they want lying ass-kissers who won't stand up and say they think something is wrong.
So goes in the corporate world.
I'm sitting here hoping and praying this thing blows up in their face. It's only a matter of time before Medicare changes their guidelines on this, I mean imagine the money Lincare is sucking out of Medicare's pockets. Our pockets, actually, because taxpayers pay for Medicare. Everytime you look at your Medicare deduction on your paycheck, realize that money is going to pay for shit that doesn't really do patients any good. I'm also hoping that enough people complain to their insurance companies about this that maybe they'll investigate fraud against Lincare. Wouldn't be the first time- the Attorney General's office conducted an investigation against Lincare for Medicare. Lincare ended up paying a 3 million dollar settlement, which isn't even a dent in their wallet, believe me.
And I don't want to work for a piece of shit company like that anyway. So one more time: Lincare- Kiss My Black Ass!
Yes, that is correct, I was fired. Which to anyone who knows me comes as a complete shock. What? Jessica fired? No way! But I do have a legitimate firing reason. I was fired because Lincare is a piece of shit company. Don't believe me? Check 'er out-
Cpap machines are for people with sleep apnea. Sleep apnea is a condition in which the patient stops breathing at night. Cpap stands for continuous positive airway pressure. What is does to treat sleep apnea is blow a stream of continuous air pressure into the patient's lungs.
Lincare sells cpap machines, and all the parts that go with it. These parts consist of a mask, a headgear, tubing, and filters. All together, before insurance, a cpap system costs roughly 2500 dollars. Most insurance companies, including Medicare pay at about 80 percent. So the patient would pay 500 dollars for the complete machine.
Now a little Lincare background- Lincare is huge, with 800 centers in the US. It has huge profits, sometimes earning record profits while the competition is in bankruptcy. The reason Lincare is so profitable is because almost all their money comes from Medicare. Lincare bills Medicare for oxygen and nebulizer therapy, cpap machines, and nebulizer medication. They're the welfare mothers of the medical world.
Only problem is, after Medicare part D was introduced, the government slashed the reimbursement amount on nebulizer medication by almost 40% to help pay for the new prescription plan. Lincare took a huge hit, and started losing money on these "designer medications."
Forced to keep revenue up to keep the stock value up, Lincare decided to milk money out of cpap supplies and parts, which as I pointed out are pretty pricey. From a CEO's point of view, it's not a bad plan:
Each mask is about 200 dollars. A headgear runs about 70. Tubing is 30, and filters range from 5-30 dollars. If you multiply all those parts by the number of cpap patients Lincare services (easily a million and more) you come up with a pretty hefty number. And since Medicare allows a new mask and other parts every 3 months, you could easily bill for all those items a million times 4 times per year.
That's a shitload of money.
And here's where I come in. It gets a bit dicey from here on, so hang tight. I was introduced to this scheme in December. Lincare implemented a new computer program that listed all the center's cpap patients in a queue that rotated every 3 months. My job was simple- call the patient, tell them it was time for more cpap supplies, order them through the queue, and Lincare would bill the insurance company. And it went pretty okay for the first couple of weeks. I was given a list of Medicare cpap patients, and I spent an hour or two getting my goal of 2 orders a day.
After the Medicare patients, I moved on to private insurance patients. I noticed there were a lot more private insurance patients than Medicare patients, probably because sleep apnea seems to affect the men and the overweight more that older people. And since my instructions were to say that they were eligible for new supplies every three months, and because they were rotated in the queue every three months like the Medicare patients, I had no problem telling them they could get these things at the 80% insurance rate, just like Medicare.
Then I started to get phone calls from people asking what these Lincare bills were. I told them I had no idea, and referred them to the billing office in Casper, Wyoming. I started to get e-mails telling me that I was not to ask patients if they would like new supplies, but to tell them that they WERE going to get new supplies. One gave us permission to send masks that weren't currently prescribed just to make the sale. Another said that if a patient came in to the center to get a part in person, to tell them that we didn't have anything in stock and then ship one to them. And everyday, I had to call more and more people.
Eventually, people were calling and literally screaming at me about these bills. Turns out, the three month rule ONLY applies to Medicare. Blue Cross and Mutual of Omaha and United Healthcare don't follow Medicare guidelines. Some plans had a cap, some allowed parts once a year, and others only paid for one part at set-up, and the patient was responsible for the rest. While most of the plans had a cap, I had no idea whether the patients insurance was capped or not, and for the most part, neither did the patient. So even though everybody in the company knew that most private insurance companies DO NOT follow Medicare guidelines, I was still required to call them every three months and tell them they were eligible for parts.
Not being one to rip people off, I stuck to Medicare patients only. I had enough to scrape my goal every month. And I could be sure that none of them was going to receive a bill for 250 bucks by account of me. And this got me through most of Februrary and March.
Then came a fateful day in the middle of March, when I came back to work after a long weekend, and found a fun little e-mail. From now on, I was to bill 40% of my cpap patients a month. This was about 120 cpap sales a month. I wouldn't be able to stick to Medicare anymore, and worse, more and more people were going to pay out of pocket for stuff that I told them would be covered. The more I though about this, the more it started to bother me. I mean, what if that 40 bucks the Medicare patient has to pay for their 20 percent of the mask is their food or drug money? When I say "eligible" are they always going to be lucid enough to understand that it won't be completely covered? What if they have ahlzimers and don't remember ordering a new mask? What if they're sick and think it's gonna be paid for? They are old, remember, and I was to be as ambiguous as possible.
But what really bothered me was the private insurance people. Even if the first mask I sold them was covered, chances were the second or third one wasn't going to be. And I knew that, which made me nothing short of a liar. And again, what if that 200 or so bucks was rent money, or food money? They would think "great, I could probably afford 30-40 bucks every 3 months to have this new mask", but imagine when they get a bill for 250.
The kicker was that these masks DON'T need to be replaced every 3 months, they can easily last 6 months or more if you take care of them. But for some reason, Medicare allows for them every 3 months, which is now the "standard" at Lincare. I honestly felt that the "customer service" part of my customer service title was slowly being replaced by "lying telemarketer."
Once they suggested that I work late and on weekends to get all my sales in, I had had enough. My responsibility was to the patients, taking care of their needs, not selling them stuff they didn't need because some guy in Florida I've never met said I had to. So I wrote my boss an e-mail. I was very blunt in it, which I figured was no big deal because she was my friend and nobody would read it but her. In it I said this is horrible, we are ripping off patients and Medicare, I wasn't hired as a telemarketer, and I had ethical objections to lying to people to make a sale. Which I guess pissed her off, probably because if I wasn't going to do it, then she would have to. She had already written me an e-mail saying "please do this so I don't have to," and honestly, I don't know what I was trying to accomplish by sending her the e-mail, only to vent a little I guess. Well, the e-mail pissed her off, so she sent it to the manager above her, who decided to fire me, because I was easily replaceable and money is king at Lincare. They don't want "ethical objections," they want lying ass-kissers who won't stand up and say they think something is wrong.
So goes in the corporate world.
I'm sitting here hoping and praying this thing blows up in their face. It's only a matter of time before Medicare changes their guidelines on this, I mean imagine the money Lincare is sucking out of Medicare's pockets. Our pockets, actually, because taxpayers pay for Medicare. Everytime you look at your Medicare deduction on your paycheck, realize that money is going to pay for shit that doesn't really do patients any good. I'm also hoping that enough people complain to their insurance companies about this that maybe they'll investigate fraud against Lincare. Wouldn't be the first time- the Attorney General's office conducted an investigation against Lincare for Medicare. Lincare ended up paying a 3 million dollar settlement, which isn't even a dent in their wallet, believe me.
And I don't want to work for a piece of shit company like that anyway. So one more time: Lincare- Kiss My Black Ass!
Monday, January 16, 2006
Golden Globs
So the Golden Globes are on. And I, for one, can not imagine a bigger waste of my time being broadcast on TV since the presidential debates. I just switched it on a while ago, during the "Best Foreign Language Film" Award. Some dude from Palenstine won, and in broken English, grabbed the mike and proclaimed Palestine's right for a free state, oblivious to the fact that he was standing in front of 500 Jews. Oops.
I hate this crap because it's just a bunch of celebrities kissing eachother's asses in 500 thousand dollar gowns. I'm a VH1 junkie, sure, but at least on VH1 I can laugh at them. Here, we're expected to take them seriously. How do you take someone who spends hours applauding a gay cowboy movie seriously?
And they expect all these awards for doing something that gets normal people into trouble- pretending to be something they aren't. Last time I pretended I was a superhero, I wound up on Xanax. And as far as I'm concerned, if you can get me to sit through a 2 and a half hour movie without wishing I could blow my face off, then you got your award.
Here's the breakdown on the biggest movies of the year:
Giant monkey takes over town
Gay cowboys actually exist
We still have an asian porn obsession
Math is only interesting if Gwyneth Paltrow's around
Harry Potter needs to get laid
Virgins are (erm,) interesting
Crazy people love chocolate
I wonder if the 60 bucks I spent on movies tickets, popcorn, and soda help pay for the acceptance speechwriters that do such an awesomely interesting job.
If I wanted to watch such a display of shameless self promotion and bravado, I'd watch C-Span. Or rap videos. I think I'll stick to watching shows where celebrities fall down and get caught in compromising affairs. At least I can relate to that.
I hate this crap because it's just a bunch of celebrities kissing eachother's asses in 500 thousand dollar gowns. I'm a VH1 junkie, sure, but at least on VH1 I can laugh at them. Here, we're expected to take them seriously. How do you take someone who spends hours applauding a gay cowboy movie seriously?
And they expect all these awards for doing something that gets normal people into trouble- pretending to be something they aren't. Last time I pretended I was a superhero, I wound up on Xanax. And as far as I'm concerned, if you can get me to sit through a 2 and a half hour movie without wishing I could blow my face off, then you got your award.
Here's the breakdown on the biggest movies of the year:
Giant monkey takes over town
Gay cowboys actually exist
We still have an asian porn obsession
Math is only interesting if Gwyneth Paltrow's around
Harry Potter needs to get laid
Virgins are (erm,) interesting
Crazy people love chocolate
I wonder if the 60 bucks I spent on movies tickets, popcorn, and soda help pay for the acceptance speechwriters that do such an awesomely interesting job.
If I wanted to watch such a display of shameless self promotion and bravado, I'd watch C-Span. Or rap videos. I think I'll stick to watching shows where celebrities fall down and get caught in compromising affairs. At least I can relate to that.
Saturday, January 14, 2006
Herpes Is Too Much Info
One of the funnier aspects of my job is the random phone calls I receive. I work at Lincare, a home oxygen and respiratory company. There's also a place in Lincoln called "LincCare," which is an urgent care clinic. People call me all the time looking for LincCare, and I tell them that they have the wrong place. But on more than one occasion, people feel they have to tell me what their problem is.
For example, I get a phone call: "I think I have gonorrhea, do you test for that?" And I've gotten a call about syphilis, which worries me because I'm waiting for the day that someone I've slept with calls looking for a AIDS test.
Some girl called and asked, "It burns when I pee, do you think I'm pregnant?" To which I told her she was an idiot with a urinary tract infection, and that anal sex, which will give you a UTI, will not get you pregnant.
Another one of my favorites is the fat people who call looking for giant toilet seats. Back in the day, we were a medical supply company who actually carried jumbo toilet seats, and thank God we don't anymore. But I still get calls for things like toilet seats, bedpans, catheters, and colonstomy bags. Eiw. Nothing makes a day go good like the vision of a fat guy on a jumbo toilet seat using a catheter.
I also get faxes from hospitals letting me know when one of our patients is admitted. One of them was for a patient named Beverly Orstrander, and her admitting DX was Bowel Obstruction. Written right there on the fax- bowel obstruction. Why would someone who provides her with breathing medication care that she can't take a dump? Makes me scared for the day I show up with carpal tunnel from masturbating too much. Who else is going to know that I can't keep my hands off myself?
The medical field is not something I'm going to delve into much further. The day I have to "loosen a stool" is the day I'm going to loosen my lunch. As for all the kids who call with an itchy case of crabs, maybe you should keep that info to yourself. After all, you wouldn't want some asshole to tell everyone, would you?
For example, I get a phone call: "I think I have gonorrhea, do you test for that?" And I've gotten a call about syphilis, which worries me because I'm waiting for the day that someone I've slept with calls looking for a AIDS test.
Some girl called and asked, "It burns when I pee, do you think I'm pregnant?" To which I told her she was an idiot with a urinary tract infection, and that anal sex, which will give you a UTI, will not get you pregnant.
Another one of my favorites is the fat people who call looking for giant toilet seats. Back in the day, we were a medical supply company who actually carried jumbo toilet seats, and thank God we don't anymore. But I still get calls for things like toilet seats, bedpans, catheters, and colonstomy bags. Eiw. Nothing makes a day go good like the vision of a fat guy on a jumbo toilet seat using a catheter.
I also get faxes from hospitals letting me know when one of our patients is admitted. One of them was for a patient named Beverly Orstrander, and her admitting DX was Bowel Obstruction. Written right there on the fax- bowel obstruction. Why would someone who provides her with breathing medication care that she can't take a dump? Makes me scared for the day I show up with carpal tunnel from masturbating too much. Who else is going to know that I can't keep my hands off myself?
The medical field is not something I'm going to delve into much further. The day I have to "loosen a stool" is the day I'm going to loosen my lunch. As for all the kids who call with an itchy case of crabs, maybe you should keep that info to yourself. After all, you wouldn't want some asshole to tell everyone, would you?
Sunday, January 01, 2006
Family Finds Raw Meat Instead Of iPod Inside Sealed Box
A 14-year-old girl who received a new Apple iPod opened the sealed box and found raw mystery meat inside, according to a Local 6 News report.
Rachel Cambra purchased a new high-tech iPod for her daughter as a gift this week.
When she opened the sealed box, the device was missing and in its place was a piece of raw meat, the report said.
Cambra said the box was sealed and that it didn't appear to have been tampered with when she brought it home from the Honolulu Wal-Mart where she works.
An investigation found that a former employee apparently tampered with a shipment of iPods and put the meat into several packages.
The former employee now faces tampering charges, Local 6 News reported.
The Wal-Mart where the device was purchased from promised to give the family a new iPod from the next shipment the store receives.
Copyright 2005 by Internet Broadcasting Systems and Local6.com.
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Sucker!!
A 14-year-old girl who received a new Apple iPod opened the sealed box and found raw mystery meat inside, according to a Local 6 News report.
Rachel Cambra purchased a new high-tech iPod for her daughter as a gift this week.
When she opened the sealed box, the device was missing and in its place was a piece of raw meat, the report said.
Cambra said the box was sealed and that it didn't appear to have been tampered with when she brought it home from the Honolulu Wal-Mart where she works.
An investigation found that a former employee apparently tampered with a shipment of iPods and put the meat into several packages.
The former employee now faces tampering charges, Local 6 News reported.
The Wal-Mart where the device was purchased from promised to give the family a new iPod from the next shipment the store receives.
Copyright 2005 by Internet Broadcasting Systems and Local6.com.
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Sucker!!
Saturday, December 31, 2005
I'm Rootin for the Horned Frogs
Actually, I'm not rooting for them. I watched the TCU Horned Frogs vs. The Iowa State Cyclones in the Houston Bowl, and while I'm no big fan of Iowa, it is right next door, so hey, go neighbor. But in my fan frenzy, I had an epiphany- if a frog came across a cyclone in real life, who do you think would win? And so began my trek across the utter ridiculousness that is the college sport nickname.
A while ago, my hockey obsessed friend was watching a NHL game between the Devils and the Penguins. And I looked at him incredulously- "Who do you think is going to win? How in the hell could a penguin defeat the devil? I haven't even seen that in comic books." To which he rolled his eyes, but I think I have a valid point- the names of teams should be at least halfway menacing, or else who would take you seriously? (Devils won.)
So I began looking into the names of college teams, because unless you live in the Midwest, nobody takes them seriously. And I'm beginning to understand why there are so many college dropouts in this country.
Take for instance, the University of California at Santa Cruz Banana Slugs. Now, I have no idea exactly what a Banana Slug looks like, or what it does, but it certainly doesn't sound scary. I'm pretty sure I could take on a banana slug. Another of my favorites: the Endicott College Power Gulls. What the shit is a Power Gull? A seagull with a machine gun?
Some just don't make sense at all to me- like the Vassar College Anchormen. Are Miles O'Brien and Wolf Blitzer in the Alumni Association? I'll bet there's a jazz flute section in the band. And a personal favorite- the Rhode Island School of Design Nads. Not Power Nads, or Big Nads, just Nads. Maybe the writers of Beavis and Butthead graduated from there.
Georgia seems to have a distinct array of stupid names. For example: the Georgia Technical Institute Ramblin Wrecks, and the Life University of Georgia Running Eagles. For the record, Eagles fly, and I'm not very afraid of my old car coming after me.
Here's the matchup of the century- Arkansas Tech. Wonder Boys vs. the Heidelberg College Student Princes. It's on after Queer Eye For the Straight Guy.
Part of the problem is that these names aren't scary enough. It's hard to summon pride and spirit for teams named after animals so low on the food chain even we don't eat them. Like the University of California at Irvine Anteaters. Go anteaters? Dude, they're gross. They eat bugs. And the University of Alaska at Monticello Boll Weevils? Dude, those are bugs!
Some are just strange. New Jersey State College Goth Knights. Makes me want to hide my black hair dye and nail polish. These kids were scary in high school, sure, but it's just a phase, right?
Or there's the Trinity Christian College Trolls. Christian Trolls are scary only because if it's the next Shrek movie, I might have to see it.
But there is a ray of hope- Say hello to the California State Long Beach Dirtbags! Now that's a team I can get behind. Met more than a few in my lifetime.
I guess I'm just gonna have to get over it. There's so many college teams that maybe they simply ran out of names. And I guess I can't really say too much, because I am a Cornhusker. But before you say anything, asshole, husking corn is hard. It's hot and your hands bleed. And the people who do it are crazy. Psychopathic crazy. So don't fuck with us. We're scary, damnit.
And the next time the Jamestown Jimmies fight the St. John's Johnnies, I'll be watching golf.
Go Camels!
A while ago, my hockey obsessed friend was watching a NHL game between the Devils and the Penguins. And I looked at him incredulously- "Who do you think is going to win? How in the hell could a penguin defeat the devil? I haven't even seen that in comic books." To which he rolled his eyes, but I think I have a valid point- the names of teams should be at least halfway menacing, or else who would take you seriously? (Devils won.)
So I began looking into the names of college teams, because unless you live in the Midwest, nobody takes them seriously. And I'm beginning to understand why there are so many college dropouts in this country.
Take for instance, the University of California at Santa Cruz Banana Slugs. Now, I have no idea exactly what a Banana Slug looks like, or what it does, but it certainly doesn't sound scary. I'm pretty sure I could take on a banana slug. Another of my favorites: the Endicott College Power Gulls. What the shit is a Power Gull? A seagull with a machine gun?
Some just don't make sense at all to me- like the Vassar College Anchormen. Are Miles O'Brien and Wolf Blitzer in the Alumni Association? I'll bet there's a jazz flute section in the band. And a personal favorite- the Rhode Island School of Design Nads. Not Power Nads, or Big Nads, just Nads. Maybe the writers of Beavis and Butthead graduated from there.
Georgia seems to have a distinct array of stupid names. For example: the Georgia Technical Institute Ramblin Wrecks, and the Life University of Georgia Running Eagles. For the record, Eagles fly, and I'm not very afraid of my old car coming after me.
Here's the matchup of the century- Arkansas Tech. Wonder Boys vs. the Heidelberg College Student Princes. It's on after Queer Eye For the Straight Guy.
Part of the problem is that these names aren't scary enough. It's hard to summon pride and spirit for teams named after animals so low on the food chain even we don't eat them. Like the University of California at Irvine Anteaters. Go anteaters? Dude, they're gross. They eat bugs. And the University of Alaska at Monticello Boll Weevils? Dude, those are bugs!
Some are just strange. New Jersey State College Goth Knights. Makes me want to hide my black hair dye and nail polish. These kids were scary in high school, sure, but it's just a phase, right?
Or there's the Trinity Christian College Trolls. Christian Trolls are scary only because if it's the next Shrek movie, I might have to see it.
But there is a ray of hope- Say hello to the California State Long Beach Dirtbags! Now that's a team I can get behind. Met more than a few in my lifetime.
I guess I'm just gonna have to get over it. There's so many college teams that maybe they simply ran out of names. And I guess I can't really say too much, because I am a Cornhusker. But before you say anything, asshole, husking corn is hard. It's hot and your hands bleed. And the people who do it are crazy. Psychopathic crazy. So don't fuck with us. We're scary, damnit.
And the next time the Jamestown Jimmies fight the St. John's Johnnies, I'll be watching golf.
Go Camels!
Sunday, December 18, 2005
Ma, It's Not Wasted Space
In my years, I still haven't found anything as gut-wrenchingly embarrassing as a sex conversation with my mother. Now, it's not your run of the mill, what does this do, where does this go conversation of your teen years, this goes way beyond- the things she wants to talk about are things that even I have trouble talking about without blushing, and that's saying something. So imagine my chagrin, when at Applebee's, in front of my cute bartender, she pops out with "I heard guys like having their prostate rubbed, Jess. Where is it?"
EIWWWWWWWWWW.
Okay, trying to get beyond the fact that she figured I would know, (which I do) I couldn't believe she had the balls to ask her daughter whether she should stick her finger up her boyfriend's butt, which after I told her exactly where it was, she started contemplating out loud.
Now, I don't know much about normal conservation topics involving one's mother, but I'm pretty sure this one doesn't count. Especially when the next thing she says is- "I used to lay in bed with your dad, and he always said the area between his balls and his ass was wasted space. Is that true?"
DOUBLE EIWWWWWWWWWWWW!
Oh God I think I'm gonna barf. Now she brings up the only taboo from childhood that still counts- your parents having sex, and combines it with like the worst mental image I have ever seen. I felt faint when I told her in a teeny, tiny voice- "No."
And she starts ranting about how retarded my dad is, and how glad she is that sex with her boyfriend is better, and how excited she is to try all these cool new sex tips I'm giving her. And I ran for the bathroom.
What I don't understand is how exactly she knew to ask me these things. My sexual escapades are not unknown, but for God's sake, even my mother knows I like to get a little freaky? And now, apparently, the cute bartender at Applebee's has a faint inkling, too. So I'm on a self-imposed exile from Applebee's. That's not a very cool way to pick up guys- "Hey, my mother says I'm good in bed! Wanna see if she's right?"
As for my mother, let's just say the next time I'm having a conversation with her will be inside a church. I'm hoping the presence of God will shut her up. But that's a job even the Almighty might have a problem with. As for the rest of you- It's Not Wasted Space.
EIWWWWWWWWWW.
Okay, trying to get beyond the fact that she figured I would know, (which I do) I couldn't believe she had the balls to ask her daughter whether she should stick her finger up her boyfriend's butt, which after I told her exactly where it was, she started contemplating out loud.
Now, I don't know much about normal conservation topics involving one's mother, but I'm pretty sure this one doesn't count. Especially when the next thing she says is- "I used to lay in bed with your dad, and he always said the area between his balls and his ass was wasted space. Is that true?"
DOUBLE EIWWWWWWWWWWWW!
Oh God I think I'm gonna barf. Now she brings up the only taboo from childhood that still counts- your parents having sex, and combines it with like the worst mental image I have ever seen. I felt faint when I told her in a teeny, tiny voice- "No."
And she starts ranting about how retarded my dad is, and how glad she is that sex with her boyfriend is better, and how excited she is to try all these cool new sex tips I'm giving her. And I ran for the bathroom.
What I don't understand is how exactly she knew to ask me these things. My sexual escapades are not unknown, but for God's sake, even my mother knows I like to get a little freaky? And now, apparently, the cute bartender at Applebee's has a faint inkling, too. So I'm on a self-imposed exile from Applebee's. That's not a very cool way to pick up guys- "Hey, my mother says I'm good in bed! Wanna see if she's right?"
As for my mother, let's just say the next time I'm having a conversation with her will be inside a church. I'm hoping the presence of God will shut her up. But that's a job even the Almighty might have a problem with. As for the rest of you- It's Not Wasted Space.
Thursday, December 08, 2005
Keep That Shit Away From My Ass!
Ha Ha This is so funny I had to post it. I know it's not mine, but since I'm incredibly nice, I figured I should share it. Enjoy!
I love my job...
This is even funnier when you realize it's real! The next time you have a bad day at work... think of this guy. Rob is a commercial saturation diver for Global Divers in Louisiana. He performs underwater repairs on offshore drilling rigs. Below is an E-mail he sent to his sister. She then sent it to radio station 103.2 on FM dial in Ft. Wayne, Indiana, who was sponsoring a worst job experience contest.... Needless to say, she won.
"Hi Sue:Just another note from your bottom-dwelling brother. Last week I had a bad day at the office. I know you've been feeling down lately at work, so I thought I would share my dilemma with you to make you realize it's not so bad after all. Before I can tell you what happened to me, I first must bore you with a few technicalities of my job. As you know, my office lies at the bottom of the sea. I wear a suit to the office. It's a wet suit. This time of year the water is quite cool. So what we do to keep warm is this: We have a diesel powered industrial water heater. This $20,000 piece of equipment sucks the water out of the sea. It heats it to a delightful temperature. It then pumps it down to the diver through a garden hose, which is taped to the air hose. Now this sounds like a darn good plan, and I've used it several times with no complaints. What I do, when I get to the bottom and start working, is take the hose and stuff it down the back of my wet suit. This floods my whole suit with warm water. It's like working in a Jacuzzi. Everything was going well until all of a sudden, my butt started to itch. So, of course, I scratched it. This only made things worse. Within a few seconds my butt started to burn. I pulled the hose out from my back, but the damage was done. In agony I realized what had happened. The hot water machine had sucked up a jellyfish and pumped it into my suit. Now, since I don't have any hair on my back, the jellyfish couldn't stick to it. However, the crack of my butt was not as fortunate. When I scratched what I thought was an itch, I was actually grinding the jellyfish into the crack of my butt. I informed the dive supervisor of my dilemma over the communicator. His instructions were unclear due to the fact that he, along with five other divers, were all laughing hysterically. Needless to say I aborted the dive. I was instructed to make three agonizing in-water decompression stops totaling thirty-five minutes before I could reach the surface to begin my chamber dry decompression. When I arrived at the surface, I was wearing nothing but my brass helmet. As I climbed out of the water, the medic, with tears of laughter running down his face, handed me a tube of cream and told me to rub it on my butt as soon as I got in the chamber. The cream put the fire out, but I couldn't poop for two days because my butt was swollen shut. So, next time you're having a bad day at work, think about how much worse it would be if you had a jellyfish shoved up your butt.
Now repeat to yourself, "I love my job, I love my job, I love my job"
I love my job...
This is even funnier when you realize it's real! The next time you have a bad day at work... think of this guy. Rob is a commercial saturation diver for Global Divers in Louisiana. He performs underwater repairs on offshore drilling rigs. Below is an E-mail he sent to his sister. She then sent it to radio station 103.2 on FM dial in Ft. Wayne, Indiana, who was sponsoring a worst job experience contest.... Needless to say, she won.
"Hi Sue:Just another note from your bottom-dwelling brother. Last week I had a bad day at the office. I know you've been feeling down lately at work, so I thought I would share my dilemma with you to make you realize it's not so bad after all. Before I can tell you what happened to me, I first must bore you with a few technicalities of my job. As you know, my office lies at the bottom of the sea. I wear a suit to the office. It's a wet suit. This time of year the water is quite cool. So what we do to keep warm is this: We have a diesel powered industrial water heater. This $20,000 piece of equipment sucks the water out of the sea. It heats it to a delightful temperature. It then pumps it down to the diver through a garden hose, which is taped to the air hose. Now this sounds like a darn good plan, and I've used it several times with no complaints. What I do, when I get to the bottom and start working, is take the hose and stuff it down the back of my wet suit. This floods my whole suit with warm water. It's like working in a Jacuzzi. Everything was going well until all of a sudden, my butt started to itch. So, of course, I scratched it. This only made things worse. Within a few seconds my butt started to burn. I pulled the hose out from my back, but the damage was done. In agony I realized what had happened. The hot water machine had sucked up a jellyfish and pumped it into my suit. Now, since I don't have any hair on my back, the jellyfish couldn't stick to it. However, the crack of my butt was not as fortunate. When I scratched what I thought was an itch, I was actually grinding the jellyfish into the crack of my butt. I informed the dive supervisor of my dilemma over the communicator. His instructions were unclear due to the fact that he, along with five other divers, were all laughing hysterically. Needless to say I aborted the dive. I was instructed to make three agonizing in-water decompression stops totaling thirty-five minutes before I could reach the surface to begin my chamber dry decompression. When I arrived at the surface, I was wearing nothing but my brass helmet. As I climbed out of the water, the medic, with tears of laughter running down his face, handed me a tube of cream and told me to rub it on my butt as soon as I got in the chamber. The cream put the fire out, but I couldn't poop for two days because my butt was swollen shut. So, next time you're having a bad day at work, think about how much worse it would be if you had a jellyfish shoved up your butt.
Now repeat to yourself, "I love my job, I love my job, I love my job"
Sunday, December 04, 2005
Teeth Are Overrated, Anyway
So it turns out I'm good at ice skating. And with all talents one possesses, one must best decide what to do with said talents. Being of the belief that figure skating is for sad girls and gay men, I have decided to apply my talents in an area that desperately needs someone like me: Ice Hockey.
Hockey is pretty tough. The ice is slippery, and people will punch you in the face without any forewarning. And it's had it's share of problems. It just got over a strike, and most Americans don't like watching sports dominated by people named Sven. So I, yes I, am volunteering for the thankless job of restoring hockey to its once prestigious title of America's least watched sport.
The problem is, most people have a hard time watching hockey. The puck is too small. So, as soon as I'm on a team, I'm going to demand that we use something a little more visible- like a bowling ball. It will make the game a lot easier to follow. But Sergio the goalie is gonna have to get some more padding!
We need more players, too. 5 people is not enough, and there's only four if there's a power play. Football has 11 players on the field, plus the 600 guys on the sidelines. Did you know that the same guy who plays 4th string right tackle is not the same guy who plays 4th string left tackle? Americans love excess! We need like 12 guys out on the ice.
And we're going to have to make the fights more interesting. There's 24 hockey players stoned on testosterone and wearing ice skates, so there's always going to be some bloodshed. But Americans need more than just some broken noses. We don't watch NASCAR because it's interesting, we watch it because there's a chance we're going to see an explosion or two. So from now on, players can whack eachother with their sticks. In fact, let's trade the traditional hockey sticks for some good old fashioned baseball bats. That ought to help. So go ahead! Feel free to beat a Canadian over the head.
Basketball has always been know for it's half time contests. A fan gets to come down and shoot a basket for a prize. Except they have to shoot from half court, and the prize is always a gift certificate to The Olive Garden. So let's kick ours up a notch. We'll let the fans onto to the ice to fight over the teeth left from bowling balls and baseball bats. Whoever collects the most teeth wins a gift certificate to The Olive Garden. But they get to take Bjorn, Gunnar, and Ivar with them. Someone's gotta pre-chew their food for them.
And by the way, what's up with this 3 period bullshit? Who wants two halftimes? American's like their games to come in pairs, not treys. Even baseball has the 7th inning stretch. I don't care how Canadians count, us Americans don't want to do more than we have to, and two halftimes is twice as much standing and stretching than we're comfortable with.
We should change the prize too. Who the hell is Stanley? And why would anybody want his cup? I think we should play for pizza. The winner gets free Pizza Hut for life. Or we could play for free dental work. Maybe we could have some sort of lottery. Fuck this Stanley guy. And his stupid cup.
We're going to start serving beer in the penalty box. We'll call it "The Penalty Box Pub," and I guarantee that players will do anything to get in there. So our halftime show will always be fully stocked with teeth. And whoever loses the most teeth during the half will get a free drink with a purchase of any menu item over 5 dollars.
We're gonna need to make over our fans, too. Hockey fans are crazy, sure, but there's not a rink full of cheeseheads, or people doing the "truffle shuffle." So no fan is allowed in unless they are wearing one of the following:
A beer can hat
A viking hat, a hat in the shape of a food object, or enough mardi gras beads to make Pamela Anderson work for them
Enough body paint to make Jackson Pollock jealous
Bongo drums
Indian gear
A jersey made entirely out of garbage bags and stuffed animals
Nothing
Our fans need to be as unruly as the players. So upon entering, all fans who are dressed in the proper attire will be given their own baseball bats. Feel free to beat eachother senseless, just like your favorite hockey players do!
And finally, all hockey players have to have theme names. Like "American Gladiators" used to. So Sven is now "Nitro," and Roland will be "Turbo." It will give hockey a more American feel. "Killer" and "Dog the psychopath " will be reserved for championship games only.
I think I'll start knocking some teeth out now just so I fit in when I get there. I'm also in the process of giving myself a black eye. Does anybody have a hammer? Or a baseball bat?
Hockey is pretty tough. The ice is slippery, and people will punch you in the face without any forewarning. And it's had it's share of problems. It just got over a strike, and most Americans don't like watching sports dominated by people named Sven. So I, yes I, am volunteering for the thankless job of restoring hockey to its once prestigious title of America's least watched sport.
The problem is, most people have a hard time watching hockey. The puck is too small. So, as soon as I'm on a team, I'm going to demand that we use something a little more visible- like a bowling ball. It will make the game a lot easier to follow. But Sergio the goalie is gonna have to get some more padding!
We need more players, too. 5 people is not enough, and there's only four if there's a power play. Football has 11 players on the field, plus the 600 guys on the sidelines. Did you know that the same guy who plays 4th string right tackle is not the same guy who plays 4th string left tackle? Americans love excess! We need like 12 guys out on the ice.
And we're going to have to make the fights more interesting. There's 24 hockey players stoned on testosterone and wearing ice skates, so there's always going to be some bloodshed. But Americans need more than just some broken noses. We don't watch NASCAR because it's interesting, we watch it because there's a chance we're going to see an explosion or two. So from now on, players can whack eachother with their sticks. In fact, let's trade the traditional hockey sticks for some good old fashioned baseball bats. That ought to help. So go ahead! Feel free to beat a Canadian over the head.
Basketball has always been know for it's half time contests. A fan gets to come down and shoot a basket for a prize. Except they have to shoot from half court, and the prize is always a gift certificate to The Olive Garden. So let's kick ours up a notch. We'll let the fans onto to the ice to fight over the teeth left from bowling balls and baseball bats. Whoever collects the most teeth wins a gift certificate to The Olive Garden. But they get to take Bjorn, Gunnar, and Ivar with them. Someone's gotta pre-chew their food for them.
And by the way, what's up with this 3 period bullshit? Who wants two halftimes? American's like their games to come in pairs, not treys. Even baseball has the 7th inning stretch. I don't care how Canadians count, us Americans don't want to do more than we have to, and two halftimes is twice as much standing and stretching than we're comfortable with.
We should change the prize too. Who the hell is Stanley? And why would anybody want his cup? I think we should play for pizza. The winner gets free Pizza Hut for life. Or we could play for free dental work. Maybe we could have some sort of lottery. Fuck this Stanley guy. And his stupid cup.
We're going to start serving beer in the penalty box. We'll call it "The Penalty Box Pub," and I guarantee that players will do anything to get in there. So our halftime show will always be fully stocked with teeth. And whoever loses the most teeth during the half will get a free drink with a purchase of any menu item over 5 dollars.
We're gonna need to make over our fans, too. Hockey fans are crazy, sure, but there's not a rink full of cheeseheads, or people doing the "truffle shuffle." So no fan is allowed in unless they are wearing one of the following:
A beer can hat
A viking hat, a hat in the shape of a food object, or enough mardi gras beads to make Pamela Anderson work for them
Enough body paint to make Jackson Pollock jealous
Bongo drums
Indian gear
A jersey made entirely out of garbage bags and stuffed animals
Nothing
Our fans need to be as unruly as the players. So upon entering, all fans who are dressed in the proper attire will be given their own baseball bats. Feel free to beat eachother senseless, just like your favorite hockey players do!
And finally, all hockey players have to have theme names. Like "American Gladiators" used to. So Sven is now "Nitro," and Roland will be "Turbo." It will give hockey a more American feel. "Killer" and "Dog the psychopath " will be reserved for championship games only.
I think I'll start knocking some teeth out now just so I fit in when I get there. I'm also in the process of giving myself a black eye. Does anybody have a hammer? Or a baseball bat?
Sunday, November 27, 2005
Why I'm Cooler Than You
Do not be offended. Some things just are, and this happens to be one of them. In case you don't believe me, here's a fairly comprehensive list:
1. I can milk a cow. And I know what part steaks come from. You know, the really tender yummy ones.
2. I can call you a motherfucker in Arabic, tell you to fuck off in Japanese, tell you to suck my dick in Spanish, and say "big penis" in German. I don't believe you have to learn a whole language in order to communicate in other countries, all you really need are a few select phrases.
3. I know how to make a bomb out of a 2 liter bottle and dry ice. Mr. Wizard taught me when I was seven.
4. I got drunk with a news anchor in Minneapolis who now works for CNN. So her news reports are now littered with images of her stumbling around and bitching about the sex with the weatherman.
5. I can rest my foot on the shoulder of someone who is standing (as long as they're under 5'11".)
6. I think "Sideways" is a stupid ass movie.
7. I can make artistic sculptures out of "Elmer's Glue" and as soon as those faggy, uptight art dealers in New York call me back, I'll be famous, which will be another reason I'm cooler than you.
8. I know the recipe to a Big Mac's "secret sauce."
9. I can eat gross things and not vomit (i.e. worms, squid tentacles, cow balls, and an "OJ Special," which is everything on the restaurant table mixed into a glass of orange juice.)
10. I can pop microwave popcorn without burning it.
11. I can get you to read 10 reasons why I'm cooler than you, which just proves that I am.
1. I can milk a cow. And I know what part steaks come from. You know, the really tender yummy ones.
2. I can call you a motherfucker in Arabic, tell you to fuck off in Japanese, tell you to suck my dick in Spanish, and say "big penis" in German. I don't believe you have to learn a whole language in order to communicate in other countries, all you really need are a few select phrases.
3. I know how to make a bomb out of a 2 liter bottle and dry ice. Mr. Wizard taught me when I was seven.
4. I got drunk with a news anchor in Minneapolis who now works for CNN. So her news reports are now littered with images of her stumbling around and bitching about the sex with the weatherman.
5. I can rest my foot on the shoulder of someone who is standing (as long as they're under 5'11".)
6. I think "Sideways" is a stupid ass movie.
7. I can make artistic sculptures out of "Elmer's Glue" and as soon as those faggy, uptight art dealers in New York call me back, I'll be famous, which will be another reason I'm cooler than you.
8. I know the recipe to a Big Mac's "secret sauce."
9. I can eat gross things and not vomit (i.e. worms, squid tentacles, cow balls, and an "OJ Special," which is everything on the restaurant table mixed into a glass of orange juice.)
10. I can pop microwave popcorn without burning it.
11. I can get you to read 10 reasons why I'm cooler than you, which just proves that I am.
Saturday, November 26, 2005
Ernest Goes to Gross Me Out
Here's a quick little line from Hemmingway's "For Whom the Bell Tolls:"
"I befoul myself in the milk of the springtime!"
Eiwwww. Hemmingway's kind of yucky.
"I befoul myself in the milk of the springtime!"
Eiwwww. Hemmingway's kind of yucky.
I'm As Inspired As My Cat
I've been completely and utterly uninspired this last week. Maybe it's the stressful job I have, or my friends who keep pissing me off, or my pseudo-boyfriends who never seem to call me, or something, but I feel like my cat. All he does all day is sleep and lick his butt, and while I'm not very inclined to do the latter, I do understand his motives. It's cold out, and there's no animals left to kill. So he hangs out all day in a depressive cat-funk. He's become quite the bummer.
So I suppose I have, too. Become quite the bummer, that is. And while I know I'll eventually come out of my Jessica-funk, I can't help but feel sorry for myself. All the animals I like to kill are hibernating, too.
I want to go to the Grand National Llama Show. It's here at the Lancaster Event Center. But I can't find anybody to go with me. Am I the only one who feels the artistic pull of the llama show? It's freakin hilarious. Imagine the people who go to these things for real, not like me who has the sole intention of mocking people. But I'll never go, unless I go with myself, and the Grand National Llama Show must be shared with a friend.
Mainly, when I feel like this, it's because of a boredom. I used to fix it with pot, but that ship pretty much sailed. Whenever I have a funny notion, I have to share it with myself, because at the moment, I don't have anyone else to share it with. I'm fun, but I already know that, so hanging out with myself is boring. I would listen to my "Devastatin' Dave" album, but again, that is something to be shared with a friend. Devastatin' Dave knows this, and would be offended if I tried it alone.
My job has been completely stressful, and is literally sucking all the fun from me. But I have a 3 days off, so the stress has melted like that shit on the inside of a microwave popcorn bag that leaves your hands all greasy. So I'm feeling fun again. But alas, I have all this fun and nothing to do with it.
Things like this are not going to be happening for awhile: While at the mall with my friend Amanda, I was harassed by the Carousel Operator. And I said to him- "Knave! Dost thou thinkest of me as a rider of the carousel?" And the second time he harassed me, I said fine, I'll ride the damn carousel if I can do it for free. So we got on the carousel, bitching and laughing and making jokes, and I shit you not, I got laughed at by blind people, so you can imagine how ridiculous we looked, since they couldn't even see us. And it was tons o fun.
And until my Mujo comes back, is not going to happen again for awhile. Which is fine. Being the comedian all the time is hard. I'll take this as a well earned break. In the meantime, maybe I will try licking my ass for a while. Well, this is advice from someone who drinks out of the toilet and eats dead rodents for fun, so maybe I'll lay off my cat's advice for a while. He seems to enjoy it, though.
So I suppose I have, too. Become quite the bummer, that is. And while I know I'll eventually come out of my Jessica-funk, I can't help but feel sorry for myself. All the animals I like to kill are hibernating, too.
I want to go to the Grand National Llama Show. It's here at the Lancaster Event Center. But I can't find anybody to go with me. Am I the only one who feels the artistic pull of the llama show? It's freakin hilarious. Imagine the people who go to these things for real, not like me who has the sole intention of mocking people. But I'll never go, unless I go with myself, and the Grand National Llama Show must be shared with a friend.
Mainly, when I feel like this, it's because of a boredom. I used to fix it with pot, but that ship pretty much sailed. Whenever I have a funny notion, I have to share it with myself, because at the moment, I don't have anyone else to share it with. I'm fun, but I already know that, so hanging out with myself is boring. I would listen to my "Devastatin' Dave" album, but again, that is something to be shared with a friend. Devastatin' Dave knows this, and would be offended if I tried it alone.
My job has been completely stressful, and is literally sucking all the fun from me. But I have a 3 days off, so the stress has melted like that shit on the inside of a microwave popcorn bag that leaves your hands all greasy. So I'm feeling fun again. But alas, I have all this fun and nothing to do with it.
Things like this are not going to be happening for awhile: While at the mall with my friend Amanda, I was harassed by the Carousel Operator. And I said to him- "Knave! Dost thou thinkest of me as a rider of the carousel?" And the second time he harassed me, I said fine, I'll ride the damn carousel if I can do it for free. So we got on the carousel, bitching and laughing and making jokes, and I shit you not, I got laughed at by blind people, so you can imagine how ridiculous we looked, since they couldn't even see us. And it was tons o fun.
And until my Mujo comes back, is not going to happen again for awhile. Which is fine. Being the comedian all the time is hard. I'll take this as a well earned break. In the meantime, maybe I will try licking my ass for a while. Well, this is advice from someone who drinks out of the toilet and eats dead rodents for fun, so maybe I'll lay off my cat's advice for a while. He seems to enjoy it, though.
Sunday, November 20, 2005
One More For The Road
Sorry, gotta put this out there. If only we all lived in Europe where this sort of thing were socially accepted... A girl can dream, eh?
I want a piece of Devastatin' Dave
Saturday, November 19, 2005
Welcome To The Hitching Post
The prospect of marriage has always freaked me out. Mention the words "husband", "wedding", "vows", or "boring sex with the same man over and over for eternity," and I totally whig. And the image in my head of my marriage has never been pleasant. Here's a tid bit:
As the sun sets over the park, I step out of my trailer with my husband and children onto the cool packed dirt road. My children run into the road, splendid in their bare footed, diapered, unwashed child exuberance. I crack open a Miller High Life and light up a Basic cigarette and I rub my husband's beer belly while he drinks Jack Daniels from a brown paper bag. Our Pit Bulls bark wildly and strain against their studded collars when the children get too close. My husband ends their barking with a sharp kick to their ribs, and I smile because our electricity is back on. Marriage is bliss.
So you can imagine my trepidation. How am I going to please my husband, who obviously is quite the catch, and my dumb luck to have married him in the first place? Luckily, I came across a little article designed to help women just like me. It's a little old, but marriage itself is ancient, so I'm sure it's just as relevant now as it was back then. It's called "The Good Wife's Guide" May 13, 1955.
1. Have dinner ready. Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal ready, on time for his return. This is a way of letting him know that you have been thinking about him, and are concerned about his needs. Most men are hungry when they come home and the prospect of a good meal (especially his favorite dish) is part of the warm welcome needed.
So okay. Cook for him. That's great advice, because I like to cook, and men like to eat. This guide is great!
2. Prepare yourself. Take 15 minutes to rest so you'll be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up your make-up, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh looking. He has just been with a lot of work weary people.
So looking pretty for him is a decent tip. Don't know about that ribbon, though.
3. Be a little gay and a little more interesting for him. His boring day may need a lift and one of your duties is to provide it.
Wow, being gay and "lifting" my husband. This magazine is dirty! So, kinky sex? I'm in.
4.Clear away the clutter. Make one last trip through the main part of the house just before your husband arrives.
Okay, but when? I have to come home from work, rest, do my hair and makeup, cook dinner, and clean the house? All before he gets home? Well, okay, I'll try, I guess.
5.Gather up schoolbooks, toys, paper, etc. and then run a dishcloth over the tables.
Are you trying to say that good wives are redundant? Did you read #4 before you wrote #5?
6.Over the cooler months of the year you should prepare and light a fire for him to unwind by. Your husband will feel he has reached a haven of rest and order, and it will give him a lift too. After all, catering for his comfort will provide you with immense personal satisfaction.
Okay, wait a minute. Do you really think it's wise to mix me and fire? And what the hell is this shit about "catering for his comfort?" You know what provides me with immense personal satisfaction? Throwing darts at girls who think that catering for men's comfort will provide them with immense personal satisfaction.
7. Prepare the children. Take a few minutes to wash the children's hands and faces (if they are small,) comb their hair, and if necessary, change their clothes. They are little treasures and he would like to see them playing the part. Minimize all noise. At the time of his arrival, eliminate all noise of the washer, dryer, or vacuum. Try to encourage the children to be quiet.
Children are "treasures" and should "play the part?" HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! What a moron. Quiet kids? HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Oh man, that's good.
8. Be happy to see him.
Finally, something that makes sense. But what's all this hoopla about "his arrival?" This whole guide seems to be all about him...
9.Greet him with a warm smile and show sincerity in your desire to please him.
Okay, hold on. What if I don't have a desire to please anybody? And I don't have any sincerity to show when it comes to not wanting to please people. My mere presence should please him enough anyway.
10.Listen to him. You may have a dozen important things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival is not the time. Let him talk first- remember, his topics of conversation are more important than yours.
WHAT!!!!???? You are fucking kidding me. You think my husband talking about who can belch loudest after lunch while scratching his ass is more important than my "dozen important things?" Fuck that.
11.Make the evening his. Never complain if he comes home late or goes out to dinner, or other places of interest without you. Instead, try to understand his world of strain and pressure and his very real need to be at home and relax.
Are you planning on my husband being a bomb diffuser? Or a CIA spy? Because having a job is not exactly what I would qualify as bad enough to warrant being a jerk face and not coming home. And if he has a "very real need to be at home and relax," then why is he coming home late and going out to dinner?
12.Your goal: Try to make sure your home is a place of peace, order and tranquility where your husband can renew himself in body and spirit.
No, my goal is to avoid going to jail for spousal abuse or attempted murder. I'm not his Zenmaster.
13.Don't greet him with complaints or problems.
Well, tell him to quit pissing me off.
14.Don't complain if he's late coming home, or even if he stays out all night. Count this as minor compared to what he might have gone through during the day.
Okay, once again, where the hell does this dude work? And why are you telling me not to worry if he doesn't come home at night? If he doesn't come home, then whatever he might have "gone through during the day" is going to seem like a fucking picnic party.
15.Don't ask him questions about his actions or question his judgment or integrity. Remember, he is the master of the house and as such will always exercise his will with fairness and truthfulness. You have no right to question him.
The only thing men are masters of is the toilet, and even then they get yelled at if they leave the seat up. And I have every right to question him, because if I didn't, we would be eating polish dogs and pork rinds every night while the kids watch porn on the couch his college roommate spilled bong water on.
16. A good wife always knows her place.
Yeah, you know where it is? On top.
Well, I think I can safely say that if this is how marriage is going to be, then I want nothing to do with it. What kind of backward ass world world would we be living in if this were how marriages actually were? Oh, wait. We'd be in a nuclear cold war and Joe McCarthy would be knocking on my back door. Men are such idiots.
As the sun sets over the park, I step out of my trailer with my husband and children onto the cool packed dirt road. My children run into the road, splendid in their bare footed, diapered, unwashed child exuberance. I crack open a Miller High Life and light up a Basic cigarette and I rub my husband's beer belly while he drinks Jack Daniels from a brown paper bag. Our Pit Bulls bark wildly and strain against their studded collars when the children get too close. My husband ends their barking with a sharp kick to their ribs, and I smile because our electricity is back on. Marriage is bliss.
So you can imagine my trepidation. How am I going to please my husband, who obviously is quite the catch, and my dumb luck to have married him in the first place? Luckily, I came across a little article designed to help women just like me. It's a little old, but marriage itself is ancient, so I'm sure it's just as relevant now as it was back then. It's called "The Good Wife's Guide" May 13, 1955.
1. Have dinner ready. Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal ready, on time for his return. This is a way of letting him know that you have been thinking about him, and are concerned about his needs. Most men are hungry when they come home and the prospect of a good meal (especially his favorite dish) is part of the warm welcome needed.
So okay. Cook for him. That's great advice, because I like to cook, and men like to eat. This guide is great!
2. Prepare yourself. Take 15 minutes to rest so you'll be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up your make-up, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh looking. He has just been with a lot of work weary people.
So looking pretty for him is a decent tip. Don't know about that ribbon, though.
3. Be a little gay and a little more interesting for him. His boring day may need a lift and one of your duties is to provide it.
Wow, being gay and "lifting" my husband. This magazine is dirty! So, kinky sex? I'm in.
4.Clear away the clutter. Make one last trip through the main part of the house just before your husband arrives.
Okay, but when? I have to come home from work, rest, do my hair and makeup, cook dinner, and clean the house? All before he gets home? Well, okay, I'll try, I guess.
5.Gather up schoolbooks, toys, paper, etc. and then run a dishcloth over the tables.
Are you trying to say that good wives are redundant? Did you read #4 before you wrote #5?
6.Over the cooler months of the year you should prepare and light a fire for him to unwind by. Your husband will feel he has reached a haven of rest and order, and it will give him a lift too. After all, catering for his comfort will provide you with immense personal satisfaction.
Okay, wait a minute. Do you really think it's wise to mix me and fire? And what the hell is this shit about "catering for his comfort?" You know what provides me with immense personal satisfaction? Throwing darts at girls who think that catering for men's comfort will provide them with immense personal satisfaction.
7. Prepare the children. Take a few minutes to wash the children's hands and faces (if they are small,) comb their hair, and if necessary, change their clothes. They are little treasures and he would like to see them playing the part. Minimize all noise. At the time of his arrival, eliminate all noise of the washer, dryer, or vacuum. Try to encourage the children to be quiet.
Children are "treasures" and should "play the part?" HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! What a moron. Quiet kids? HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Oh man, that's good.
8. Be happy to see him.
Finally, something that makes sense. But what's all this hoopla about "his arrival?" This whole guide seems to be all about him...
9.Greet him with a warm smile and show sincerity in your desire to please him.
Okay, hold on. What if I don't have a desire to please anybody? And I don't have any sincerity to show when it comes to not wanting to please people. My mere presence should please him enough anyway.
10.Listen to him. You may have a dozen important things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival is not the time. Let him talk first- remember, his topics of conversation are more important than yours.
WHAT!!!!???? You are fucking kidding me. You think my husband talking about who can belch loudest after lunch while scratching his ass is more important than my "dozen important things?" Fuck that.
11.Make the evening his. Never complain if he comes home late or goes out to dinner, or other places of interest without you. Instead, try to understand his world of strain and pressure and his very real need to be at home and relax.
Are you planning on my husband being a bomb diffuser? Or a CIA spy? Because having a job is not exactly what I would qualify as bad enough to warrant being a jerk face and not coming home. And if he has a "very real need to be at home and relax," then why is he coming home late and going out to dinner?
12.Your goal: Try to make sure your home is a place of peace, order and tranquility where your husband can renew himself in body and spirit.
No, my goal is to avoid going to jail for spousal abuse or attempted murder. I'm not his Zenmaster.
13.Don't greet him with complaints or problems.
Well, tell him to quit pissing me off.
14.Don't complain if he's late coming home, or even if he stays out all night. Count this as minor compared to what he might have gone through during the day.
Okay, once again, where the hell does this dude work? And why are you telling me not to worry if he doesn't come home at night? If he doesn't come home, then whatever he might have "gone through during the day" is going to seem like a fucking picnic party.
15.Don't ask him questions about his actions or question his judgment or integrity. Remember, he is the master of the house and as such will always exercise his will with fairness and truthfulness. You have no right to question him.
The only thing men are masters of is the toilet, and even then they get yelled at if they leave the seat up. And I have every right to question him, because if I didn't, we would be eating polish dogs and pork rinds every night while the kids watch porn on the couch his college roommate spilled bong water on.
16. A good wife always knows her place.
Yeah, you know where it is? On top.
Well, I think I can safely say that if this is how marriage is going to be, then I want nothing to do with it. What kind of backward ass world world would we be living in if this were how marriages actually were? Oh, wait. We'd be in a nuclear cold war and Joe McCarthy would be knocking on my back door. Men are such idiots.
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
I'm Hitching a Ride With John Madden
So I have a new job. Yay! I don't have to work at the gas station anymore!!! It's a pretty cushy job, too. 10 bucks an hour, yeah I'm okay with that. There's just a small problem. They want me to fly to the regional headquarters in Cheyenne, Wyoming.
Now besides the fact that instead of going to the national headquarters in Florida, which is a lot cooler place than Wyoming (way to go Captain Obvious,) I have to FLY. Let me emphasize that a little: FLY.
So let me be clear. I don't fly. Ever. Well, I have 4 times. And I didn't like any of them. So, like smoking, I quit. And, like smoking, I guess I'm starting again.
The problem is I think I'm gonna crash and die. Now I know people will say things like "flying is safer than driving," and "the most dangerous part of flying is driving to the airport," but fuck them. I'm sorry, but how many people get to survive a plane crash? When you're driving you car, you can be almost sure you're not going to plummet 40,000 feet to your death.
I just really don't want to be aware of what's happening when the plane goes nose first into the Sandhills. It really scares the hell out of me.
And now, I can't even bring matches on the plane. So after they pry my hands loose from the arm rests and kick me out into the terminal, I can't even smoke a damn cigarette. Fucking terrorists.
I'm not afraid of them, either. After 9/11 everybody was scared of terrorists. The terrorists who would hijack a plane going from Lincoln, Nebraska to Cheyenne, Wyoming are the terrorists who got kicked out of terrorist school for smoking crack between prayer times.
What the shit is wrong with driving? Hell, I could explore the beauty of our Sandhills, and drive towards the Rocky Mountains, and check out everything Wyoming has to offer. Like livestock.
John Madden gets to roll around the country in this giant bus motor home thing because he's afraid of flying. I'm on his side. Flying is for people who have a death wish.
But then, I do realize that planes rarely crash. 100,000 people flew today, my parents included. They went to freakin Disney World. Without me, I might add (don't get me started.) They all made it okay. Maybe if I could take 2 Darvocets washed down with 3 glasses of wine I could fly okay. But it's a business trip, so I can't show up unconscious.
So I guess I'm writing this so there's a record of how I ended up dying. Cuz I will. Or not. I guess you'd have to be a lucky person to beat the odds of dying in an airplane, and I have yet to see the results of my 20 dollar Powerball ticket. So obviously, I'm not that lucky.
Whatever. If I die on a trip to Cheyenne, Wyoming, I'm gonna be pissed. If I'm gonna die on a plane, then I should be going to fucking Hawaii.
Now besides the fact that instead of going to the national headquarters in Florida, which is a lot cooler place than Wyoming (way to go Captain Obvious,) I have to FLY. Let me emphasize that a little: FLY.
So let me be clear. I don't fly. Ever. Well, I have 4 times. And I didn't like any of them. So, like smoking, I quit. And, like smoking, I guess I'm starting again.
The problem is I think I'm gonna crash and die. Now I know people will say things like "flying is safer than driving," and "the most dangerous part of flying is driving to the airport," but fuck them. I'm sorry, but how many people get to survive a plane crash? When you're driving you car, you can be almost sure you're not going to plummet 40,000 feet to your death.
I just really don't want to be aware of what's happening when the plane goes nose first into the Sandhills. It really scares the hell out of me.
And now, I can't even bring matches on the plane. So after they pry my hands loose from the arm rests and kick me out into the terminal, I can't even smoke a damn cigarette. Fucking terrorists.
I'm not afraid of them, either. After 9/11 everybody was scared of terrorists. The terrorists who would hijack a plane going from Lincoln, Nebraska to Cheyenne, Wyoming are the terrorists who got kicked out of terrorist school for smoking crack between prayer times.
What the shit is wrong with driving? Hell, I could explore the beauty of our Sandhills, and drive towards the Rocky Mountains, and check out everything Wyoming has to offer. Like livestock.
John Madden gets to roll around the country in this giant bus motor home thing because he's afraid of flying. I'm on his side. Flying is for people who have a death wish.
But then, I do realize that planes rarely crash. 100,000 people flew today, my parents included. They went to freakin Disney World. Without me, I might add (don't get me started.) They all made it okay. Maybe if I could take 2 Darvocets washed down with 3 glasses of wine I could fly okay. But it's a business trip, so I can't show up unconscious.
So I guess I'm writing this so there's a record of how I ended up dying. Cuz I will. Or not. I guess you'd have to be a lucky person to beat the odds of dying in an airplane, and I have yet to see the results of my 20 dollar Powerball ticket. So obviously, I'm not that lucky.
Whatever. If I die on a trip to Cheyenne, Wyoming, I'm gonna be pissed. If I'm gonna die on a plane, then I should be going to fucking Hawaii.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
