It's Not His Manly Physique

I know that it is Max Von Sydow day, but there is another actor whose art has touched me to the very core of my being. He has been struggling for years, working in the periphery on shows and in movies that just couldn't make it because they were so hilarious. When given a show, he dominates the screen with his wit, charm, and boyish good looks:

One of many examples


Oh Andy, when are they going to release all of your failed sitcoms in one huge DVD boxed set?

Wishes in Order

Happy Birthday to the greatest Swedish Actor alive. As of today, I am dedicating the fifty cents a week of disposable income I have to creating the ultimate Max Von Sydow movie collection. My first choice, Flash Gordon. Second, Strange Brew. If anyone would like to send me money or the actual DVDs (I am way too cheap for the BluRay), just leave me a comment.

Let today be known as Max Von Sydow Day!

Happy Wednesday

This little nugget of a picture was sent to me by my ever loving sister, who, I guess, still thinks I am gay, but in a totally butch sort of way.






There have been many bubblings and gurglings going on in my life right now (none of which are associated with said picture). I have, for the last month or two, been extraordinarily pissed off at my job. I finally realized that even though the place was being run into the ground by people with more initials after their name than common sense in their heads, my opinions on the matter only fall on deaf ears and no change can be brought about through either rational suggestion or full out rebellion. Sure, things could run a lot more smoothly, but I am inundated with work (I spend my lunch hour blogging). This is a good thing, even if the work is, at most, trivial. I am doing the technological equivalent of digging a hole in the morning and filling it up in the afternoon. I am loving it.

Why, gentle reader, do I love my job? Why wouldn't I quit such a shitty existence that does nothing to tax my creativity or work ethic, but merely hones my muscle memory and ability to sleep with open eyelids? One word: benefits. Last week, I was brought down by a bug of unknown origin. I took half a day off on Wednesday to go to my primary physician, fifteen miles from where I live. It was the first time I had ever seen him. I have been sick off and on since November of last year.

My primary doctor, being more concerned for my health than those practicing nurses at the drive through diagnosis clinic that I usually frequent, ordered a slew of tests. How did he know which tests to give? Let me include you in the dialog:

Everdapper: So, Doc, what is wrong with me?

Primary Physician in White Coat: Well, you are a big fat guy, so you probably have diabetes, definitely have apnea, and, given the tattoos on your arm, are going to die of hepatitis.

E: Yes, but what is wrong with me right now?

P: Oh, it might be strep. Let me get a culture of your throat. That is, if I can scrap away at the probable inch thick coating of chocolate milk and Doritos you fatties are so used to ingesting every two minutes...

E: But Doc, I hate processed foods. As a matter of fact, because my throat hurts so bad, I have only had a bowl of soup since yes... (Chuckie gags and almost throws up big splash of bile to prove to Doctor that he does not eat Doritos and Chocolate milk. Both give him the wind something terrible).

P: Sorry.

E: No Problem.

P: I'm just going to run these swabs down to the lab for testing. Why don't you follow me down there so we can chip out a chunk or two of your cholesterol soaked blood and prove you have the diabetes and are going to lose a foot unless you switch to splenda.

E: Sounds good.

Yesterday, the blood tests came back. I do not have diabetes, or a hyperactive thyroid. As a matter of fact, I am the healthiest of the fat guys. I can lunge over my cubicle walls from a sitting position. And, after a brief three hour nap, can repeat the feat. This is the point of why my job is the greatest. There is absolutely no stress unless it is misdirected to the chaos that is government service. Also, I have taken a grand total of twelve and a half days off of work this year alone. I was totally paid for all of them and I could take another two weeks off before I would have to dip into my vacation days.

Holy shit, I have vacation days. I could take a vacation day to go see the doctor to get a prescription for Viagra. The prescription and the office visit would probably cost me a grand total of twelve dollars. Not that I need any sort of male performance enhancement, but the whiskey dick sometimes rears its ugly head. I will ponder this on my second 15 minute break of the day. Now, if you will excuse me, I have three hours worth of meaningless tasks to do before I can go home.

Snubbed by a Third of My Readership

Oh mercy, I have received a boo plus from one of the two people who are not directly related to me that actually read this thing. So I don't blog with any sort of regularity, my life is so complacent right now that the usual tides of rage that awaken the sleeping writing beast within me have seceded.

Let us begin this tale of woe almost a week ago, ironically enough, on Good Friday. It was the last Friday I had to fast, not eating meat. All I had to do was think about my crucified Lord, eat a fish sandwich, and meditate on the suffering of a half man/half God because I sometimes fire off some baby batter in the shower and occasionally question the moral fortitude of those around me. Oh, and get drunk on big dirty pints of stout, and chew tobacco, and listen to the heavy metal, and consider running for political office, and not giving my tithes, and, well, you get the picture...

So, I am not the most devout follower of the Catholicism, but there are a few steadfast rules that I do not stray from. One of those is not eating meat on Friday. Last year, on a Friday during Lent, I ordered clam chowder. Halfway through the cup, the wife noticed a big piece of bacon on my spoon. "Well, fuck," I thought, "Now I'm going to be sodomized by pigs when I get to hell on top of all the other punishments." To atone for that, no more clam chowder, ever. Better safe than sorry.

Back to last Friday, Good Friday. I ordered a fish sandwich at a local bar. Sounded safe. I should have noticed something was amiss due to a giant piece of melted cheese right on top of the fish. I did not care, fasting had left me starving. I was halfway through the sandwich when a friend noticed that there were two strips of bacon concealed by the mound of cheese. My mind flashed with images of Warren Beatty as I picked the rest of the bacon off of what remained of my sandwich.

Come on, who in the hell puts a couple pieces of pork on a fish sandwich during Lent? Satanists, that's who.

I hope that this appeases the few people in Georgia who read this little slice of cyberspace. I probably won't be blogging with more frequency, since I just discovered the digital crack that is Facebook. Anybody want me to poke them?

Debt Consolidations

The wife and I had a long chat about budgeting our money for the future on Monday. We sized up our current incomes, the debts we owe, and what we will need in the near to distant future. Like everyone else out there, we are pretty much fucked.

For fun, we set up a budget that would have our credit cards paid off in exactly one year, provided we never went out to eat, had to pay for gas, shopped only at the big box superstores (via the bus lines) that have various meats with 90 shelf lives (unholy and delicious), and never turned the thermostat above 50 in the winter or below 90 in the summer. Sweet financial freedom. Fuck that. I like my big dirty pints of Guinness after a hard week of kowtowing to the man. I like to occasionally go see a movie or buy a fancy bobble on the Amazon.com. Sometimes I even like to eat a sandwich for lunch instead of nothing.

Yesterday, I was cutting my friend's hair, and he gave me a book to read. Before you ask, yes I hang out with literate peoples. It was something akin to planning your financial future even if you start really late and very deep in debt. I looked it over and realized that the wife and I had been doing exactly what the book said years ago, "paying ourselves first" and what not. Oh yeah, I've got a couple of thousand dollars in a retirement account that is quickly tanking right now. My house is worth about $15000 less than what I paid for it, and the credit cards are charging us upwards of $200 a month for the privilege of owing them money.

This morning, I turned on the news and the world is going to hell in a handbasket. The dollar has officially gone into the toilet, the housing market is kaput, and the price of food is skyrocketing. I went to work with a smile on my face. I thought, "Huh, if I can pay off most of my debt in a year, why am I so panicked? I have a job, a wife, a house, and am fairly healthy. Who really cares what happens?"

I am totally voting for Nader again.

SAD and the Brush with Overindulgent Chickens

This morning, as I watched the morning news and waited until the absolute last minute to catch my bus, I noticed something extremely odd. There is a sequence on the news program that I watch in the morning called "Wonderful Ones," in which parents send in pictures of their children and the said pictures are plastered on the screen with a little blurb by the casters as to how the child will be celebrating, where, and with whom.

This segment always heats my core with rage because it is not only a sheer violation of the child's right to privacy (come on, you know in ten years, when the parents bring out the DVR of this clip, it will be totally embarrassing), but the parents sound like such schmucks. For example: Kailey will be celebrating a farm motif for her birthday, celebrating with big brother Kevin and her parents Todd and Julie. Hmmm, farm motif for a first birthday. Do you really think little Kailey wanted a fucking farm motif? What is even better, is that an androgynous blob of baby flesh dressed in head to toe camo is called Kailey. I was stunned, but I am also now well aware that while homosexuality might be genetic, it can still get a shove through proper nurturing.

But back to the segment. In the last week, they changed the background surrounding the pictures from shitty 80s clip art to shitty 90s clip art. Leaps and bounds for this tiny CBS affiliate. Then, something else struck my ears with the force of an armada of hummingbirds blowing taps at a bowling alley. The background music had also been changed. Instead of shitty 1980s car commercial music, there was now some bastardized Danny Elfman carnival music playing in the background.

I quickly cranked up the volume and dropped my jaw in horror as pictures of camo laden, baby lesbians gave way to my own internal hallucinations of Pennywise making a California ham roll on a tractor.

I decided it best to change the channel. So I did.

A commercial for Egg Beaters was playing on the other station. A stockboy had just finished stacking about four million cartons of the disgusting fake eggs on the shelf and then bent down to see if there were any more in his obviously empty case. He looked back and they were gone, stolen by a marauding group of mother hens who could not tell the fucking difference between an egg and a fucking mother fucking shit in a box craptacular square fucking cartoned egg substitute (the announcer told me so). The problem with this was, the chickens, after moving all these cartons, tore ass out of the store, passing a rotisserie oven full of dead, cooking chickens.

This made me make a minor comparison to the current degradation of these great United States. The people, so obsessed with consumerism, have given over even their children to the needs and wants of the corporation. No one can recognize their children anymore because they are too dressed up in the latest designer clothes and medicated with the latest name brand anti-depressants. This need to consume makes us ignore the solemnity of death and to totally forget the wisdom of our now departed loved ones, thus forgetting so much history that it is doomed to repeat itself.

Did anyone else see this commercial and get filled with existential dread and despair?

Government Conspiracy?

Has anyone else noticed the horrendous amount of entertainment and advertising focusing on pregnancy and child rearing? I know, there have always been commercials for Luvs and Pampers since the disposable diaper first started piling up in landfills. There was a salute to pregnant actresses at the Oscars this year. Movies like Knocked Up and the Brothers Solomon line the shelves of the local Blockbuster. Every third commercial has either a pregnant woman or a new born in it. What happened at the last high powered advertising meeting? I think I know:

Advertising exec #1: Consumer debt is at an all time high. Everyone wants to pay off their debts before buying our new cheap shit from the Wal Mart. How can we get the customer base to buy again?

Advertising exec #2: Maybe we should try to convince them to breed, then we can drain their wallets while they raise their children and get a whole new crop of consumers.

Advertising exec #3: Brilliant. It will also boost sales of various shitty body sprays because men watching commercials filled with pregnant women and newborns will be hard pressed to perform and secure their own immortality through procreation and hitting themselves in the chest with doorknobs.

Advertising exec #1: I'll run the slicks tonight.

Also, for some reason, I believe that all this pondering of conspiracy and advertising trickery has made me sterile. Either that, or someone really needs to bring back the sun.

The Morning Conversation

Word for word, what was spoken as I was getting dressed and the Wife was getting ready to use the bathroom:

C: How did you sleep?

W: Like a rock. You?

C: I kept having weird dreams and waking up?

W: What did you dream about?

C: You know that book, Indian In the Cupboard?

W: Did you dream that you were being attacked by midgets on scooters again?

C: No. I dreamt that I had the cupboard and was putting all kinds of weird shit in it.

W: Like what?

C: Well, dildos mostly.

W: Do you have an overwhelming fear of anal rape?

C: I don't think I am more afraid than any other guy.

W: Can you take the bus to work this morning?

And thus ended my morning at home.

Well, at least I don't believe in Retro

Disorder	Rating
Paranoid Disorder:	High
Schizoid Disorder:	Moderate
Schizotypal Disorder:	Moderate
Antisocial Disorder:	Moderate
Borderline Disorder:	Moderate
Histrionic Disorder:	Low
Narcissistic Disorder:	Moderate
Avoidant Disorder:	Moderate
Dependent Disorder:	Moderate
Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder:	Moderate
-- Personality Disorder Test - Take It! -- -- Personality Disorders --

An Oldy but a Goody

Your Adult Film Star Name Is...

Master Humpy Jizzalott

What's Your Adult Film Star Name?

Next Stop: World Domination

Your IQ Is 140

Your Logical Intelligence is Genius Your Verbal Intelligence is Genius Your Mathematical Intelligence is Genius Your General Knowledge is Genius

A Quick and Dirty IQ Test

The Reason for the Season

Today we celebrate the festival instituted as a misconstruction of Chaucer's bird mating timeline by those fine folks in the greeting card industry. Also, today is a great day to settle old business debts by killing every last motherfucker in the room. For the wife and myself, it is a day of irony. To explain this, I must go back to December the 7th, a day that will live in infamy.

It also happened to be the wife's birth day. As a treat, we went to a Teppanyaki restaurant. She has since fell in love and so have I. Their Cosmopolitans are to die for (so I am told) and they have the big bottles of that Japanese beer with the golden dragon on it. Whilst spending the birthday evening surrounded by knife wielding chefs with a shaky grasp on the English language, I leaned over to the people sitting next to me and asked them if they thought it ironic that we were spending Pearl Harbor day getting shit faced and eating Japanese cuisine.

The girl lifted her glass of water and told me that she did not know what I was talking about. The only reason they were out and about was because of a bomb threat at the local community college. Huh. I thought. Imagine an institution of learning, which enrollment is strictly voluntary and should only be sought out in the pursuit of knowledge and understanding of the world we live in, is the potential subject of destructive violence. And all the while I'm staring at a flaming onion volcano on Pearl Harbor Day. Suffice it to say, the place was packed.

Tonight, we are going there again for the customary Valentine's pre-coital meal (because God wants us to). This morning, I was strongly encouraged to attend an information seminar on sexual harassment in the work place. So help me God, I will never use the phrases "Wookie Bush," "Midget anal," "four inches of Irish fury," or "Dinky Donkey humping cum dumpster" out of context again. At one point during the seminar, the informational video skipped from a man saying he had an appointment with the doctor to a woman explaining that it is never a good idea to grab a woman's breasts in the workplace, even in the context of a joke. The people putting the seminar on never rewound the video, so now I have Tom Poston running through my mind grabbing detached floating boobies and going "Honk! Honk!" all the while. Should make for an interesting afternoon.

What are you doing for the Hallmark Holiday?

Mwahahahaha

I apoligize for the lack of posty goodness. We almost got a dog, but settled for a kitchen instead. More on that later. For now, let's get this fucking bitch dick suicide machine on the road:

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