Saturday, December 8, 2007

Match dot com - a preview

I was just wondering if any other women in Portland want a free dinner. FUCK!!! Just give me your god damned address and I'll mail you a gift card. At least then I can use the money I saved on gas and parking to buy more beer and hand lotion.

Hmmm... maybe its my upbeat personality.

To be continued...

Sunday, November 11, 2007

I dislike Jiffy Pop

I guess it doesn't really matter in the big scheme of things. I can't imagine that Jiffy Pop sales have been through the roof since the advent of the blessed miracle that is microwave popcorn. But I was starved last night, and as luck would have it I was in that depressing period of time between having a house with no food in it and going to the grocery store to remedy the situation. But there, atop the fridge, shining like a beacon in the night sky, was a container of jiffy pop that I had acquired months earlier as leftover spoils from a camping trip.

I suppose Jiffy Pop was made for camping. I mean, it's not like you bring a microwave with you into the woods. Even though the label clearly states "Do not pop on ... open campfire or other uneven heat", millions of humans have probably fumbled with a long stick to pop this vile shit over a campfire. It always seems to taste like burnt styrofoam, but hey, we're in the woods and we should be thankful that we have burnt styrofoam to eat. It probably helps that there is usually a lot of beer with which to wash it down.

But there I was, holding my container of Jiffy Pop over my electric oven burner because it was either that or pretending a stick of butter was a Snickers bar. This stuff is pretty damned simple to cook. The instructions clearly say to continuously shake pan in a circular motion on the burner. So I'm shaking the ever loving shit out of this pan and then the evil starts to erupt from that microscopic anus in the top of that foil lid. As the foil expands like the boil on the neck of that guy at the airport, smoke that vaguely smells like popcorn and burning bodies is wisping up into my apartment, drawing my awareness immediately to the smoke alarm that is wired to the other floors. Not wanting to explain why I am cooking popcorn in my underwear to angry neighbors, I opened a window and let some fresh, although nipple freezing air into the kitchen. So the boil, er... foil reaches maximum size and I fearlessly open it to reveal what, for the most part, looks like popcorn. But as I pour it into a bowl, then it becomes evident that despite my vigorous shaking, the entire bottom of the pan is burnt to hell.

While eating it, it was pretty easy to just avoid the bits that looked like coal, but it was the worst tasting popcorn I had ever had. Even if only because I was not sitting on a log in front of a fire, and I had no beer to wash it down. It also had the texture of eating rocks. The kicker though, was the fact that the entire place now smelled like burnt corn. I lit a candle and let that burn for a while, but that only succeeded in making the place smell like butter cream cupcakes and burnt corn. It's not as appealing as it sounds. But even that wasn't the worst of it. This morning when I woke up, I discovered that my hair and my pillow now smell like burnt corn. Luckily, a shower and some open windows seem to have exorcised the ConAgra demons from my home. I'm sure Fred Mennen was a great guy and all, but I think I'll stick to my microwave bags from now on, and if I find myself in front of a campfire, I'll just have an extra s'more with my beer. At least burnt marshmallows still fucking taste like marshmallows.

Thursday, November 8, 2007

To the douchebag in the red pickup truck...

I have come to the realization over the years that I am different from other people. One of these differences is the fact that I like to drive quickly. When I am in my car I am generally trying to get from point A to point B, in as little time and with the fewest interruptions possible. It seems that not all people where I live share this vehicular determinism. I may even be guilty of speeding a bit. I am not talking about fast and furious automotive hooliganism here, you know, with fire erupting from my tailpipes and layers of rubber peeling from my tires. No, when conditions allow I generally like to be going somewhere between 5 and 10 miles over the speed limit. Illegal, yes, but not a capital offense.

This means that I pass a lot of cars. Once again, let me be clear. I am not rocketing by these cars in a cloud of nitrous across a double line in a school zone. I am using the passing zones. You know, the areas of the road that have a dotted center line. These lines are not merely an attempt to save money on road paint, they actually indicate that now may be a good time to dispatch the slower moving traffic in front of you. Not everyone likes to take advantage of these passing zones, but I do. I love them. Why? Because this is how I get by slow motherfuckers.

You, mister "red pickup with a trash bag for a rear window" driving asshat, are a slow motherfucker. At no time was I tailgating you, nor were my high beams on behind you. So when I passed you, I cannot think of any justifiable reason why you matched my speed, placed yourself on my rear bumper and followed me for two miles with your brights on. Well, except for the fact that you are a douchebag. Perhaps by passing you I offended your manhood, and you did it to defend said manhood in the presence of the scraggly haired troll who was sitting in the center of that finely crafted vinyl bench seat. Perhaps even the sound of my roaring four cylinder engine scared said scraggly haired troll into choking on said manhood, dragging her tooth. If this is the case, I am truly sorry. Regardless of your reasoning, you sure done showed me. I have so much remorse for hurting your feelings that I sold my car and bought a fucking Segway and a windbreaker, so that I will be less of a danger to people like yourself. Please accept my humble apology, knowing that I will never have the gall to want to drive faster than you ever again. I would also like to apologize to your troll, in the event that her tonsils were damaged.

I hope that next time you sneeze, you shit your pants.



For your reading pleasure:

The Lost Art of the Rant

Thursday, October 25, 2007

Why am I here...

I bitch a lot. No, really. A lot. I find that bitching, complaining, and ranting can actually be therapeutic. And believe me, I need therapy. But therapy is expensive, and Blogging is free. Besides, some of my coworkers and friends actually find my tirades entertaining, and I don't really have any outlets for my frustration.

Screaming ferociously in my car while I'm following some genetic defective who is perfectly happy to meander along at 10 MPH below the speed limit is great and all, but nobody sees or hears it. Well, except for that woman with her small children in the church parking lot, but I digress. Perhaps if I jot down my frustrations on this virtual soapbox, I will stumble upon the path to wisdom and enlightenment. I mean, I pretty much fucking doubt it, but it could happen. Weirder shit has happened.

Oh, and let me apologize in advance for the language. Swearing is a fantastic way to over-emphasize exactly how much something sucks. Take the following example for instance. I could say that "I find Mary to be generally disagreeable as a person". This would indicate perfectly that, well, I find Mary disagreeable. But if I were to say that "Mary is a fucking cunt and I hope she gets hit by dump truck full of shit and burns for eternity in hell!", then you get a much clearer picture of my feelings for the bitch. Yes, some people find colorful language offensive. Try imagining that I have an upper class English accent, that might help. Or just bugger off.

What sort of things will I write about here? I guess that remains to be seen. I work in the technology industry and deal frequently with people, so that is ripe for material. It seems every day I am surprised by how truly ignorant people can be when it comes to computers. I suppose this makes me sound either like an elitist prick, or a partner in misery, depending on your profession. Try explaining how a Blackberry works to someone who insists until they are blue in the face that they don't have an email password, and they never had one, and you will know where I'm coming from.

I suppose there may also be several entries about driving. I'm not sure what country is known for the most inconsiderate drivers, but the United States has to be up there on the list. I firmly believe that every man is born with the divine knowledge that he possesses the skill, if not the means, to be a championship racing driver, and can do no wrong on the motorway. This notion is of course horseshit, but I see it everyday, and I'm honest enough to admit that I am similarly afflicted. Oh yes, there will probably be copious amounts of written road rage on these pages.

Then of course there will probably be many observations about dating, women and the like. I feel that I would be doing the world a great injustice If I didn't talk ad nauseam about my frustration over my neighbor's absolutely perfect, ample breasts. Or more accurately, my frustration over the fact that I will likely never get to squeeze them like bicycle horns. No, seriously, they are like two enormous glistening scoops of vanilla ice cream, and there isn't a spoon in sight. Bollocks!

Hmmm, looks like I won't be censoring myself either.