Trying something new.

Yup.  Haven't posted in a year.  I suck.  I suppose I have less to be angry about, seeing how I got married last year.  But that's no excuse.  I sincerely apologize to all six of you. 

Have no fear however, be assured that shit still pisses me off.  Like the old guy I saw this morning.  The one with four ex-military bad-ass bumper stickers on his car ranging from "Don't piss me off, I'm running out of places to hide the bodies!" to "Marine sniper.  Don't run, you'll only die trying." 

Thank you for your service. 

There.  I got that out of the way.   But dude, what the fuck?!  Aggressive much?  Try some chamomile tea.  Why not a simple bumper sticker that says "Veteran".  Either way, point taken.  I won't key your stupid Volvo.

But I digress.  I simply wanted to point out the silly little Facebook and Twitter icons to the right.  Perhaps I will be able keep up with this better if I try a more direct and instant medium.  Seems like by the time I have something to write about here, I have often already drowned the idea to death with a beer.  Or six. 

Pop quiz.

I have a question for you. What is the brand name of this product? Too small, hard to read? Here is a hint:

It is "Linksys". It has two syllables, "link", and "sys". It would be pronounced [link-sis]. Where am I going with this you ask? Well if you pronounce it linsky or lingskees, you may very well be a FUCKING IDIOT! I shit you not, less than 30% of the people I encounter who have the need to utter this proper noun in conversation with me can pronounce it correctly. If there is some specific sort of mass dyslexia that I am unaware of that causes this condition, then I apologize profusely to those afflicted. But holy fucking shit, it is not an intimidating word by any stretch of the imagination. Today, for the first time, I actually saw someone write it "L-I-N-S-K-Y." I must naturally assume that this person then went to Kurger Bing and ordered a chacon-double beeseburger.

Shhh... Tonight is the night!

Tonight has been a long time coming. I have felt the need to hide for far too long, keeping my feelings inside me for fear of being persecuted, perhaps even assaulted. But tonight, for approximately two whole hours, I, and those who feel the way I do, will be free for the first time in months. For tonight is the night that "Twilight" opens in theaters, and all the obsessed nut jobs will be busy watching it, leaving regular folk free to ridicule them mercilessly.

Tonight I will not have to stifle my disapproval while some thirty-something, vacuous, wide-eyed ninny goes on and on about Edward fucking Cullen and his perfect, topaz eyes or sparkley, muscled chest. For fucks sake ladies, he's dead and in high school. Perhaps if you spent less time cooing over pubescent, undead, fictional magazine models, you wouldn't have to go home after the movie to your house full of cats.

I don't understand why women too old to be reading this shit are all in an orgasmic tizzy. I don't think there is even any sex in the book. That's right, I haven't read it. Why the fuck would I? It's a teen romance novel for fucks sake! "But its a cool vampire story." No, it's a horrible vampire story. Edward Cullen goes to high school. High school is usually in session in the daytime. VAMPIRES ARE SUPPOSED TO BURST IN TO FUCKING FLAMES IN THE DAYTIME! "Look at that boy over there. Wow, he's hot!" Well of course he's hot, HE'S ON FUCKING FIRE!! Now if that scene was in the movie maybe I'd go see it.

Ok, I suppose I'm done ranting about this crap. I guess I will just calm down, go home, and masturbate to nude pictures of Hermione on the interwebs. Losers.

Dr. Feelgood

Well my doctor retired. Shit. Oh well, I hardly ever go to see him anyways. I rarely bother with that sort of thing unless I really need help, like with strep throat trying to separate my head from my body, or creeping death-rot between my toes that won't go away with four weeks worth of Lamasil AT. Well I needed my cholesterol checked, and my MMR immunizations verified due to some impending foreign travel. So I called up a new doctor, and set up an appointment. After fighting to get my health records transferred (which could be a blog post in itself), I went to see him. No worries, just the usual introductions, blood work, schedule another appointment, etc...

Well I had my second appointment yesterday. It ended up being a full physical. I haven't had one of those in a long time. I guess all doctors want to do this for new patients, but this place is a bit nuts about it. They were checking all sorts of useless retarded shit like if I had full motion in my arms and if I could flip flop my hands over and over on my lap. The whole time I'm thinking, If I couldn't move my damned arms over my head, don't you fucking think I would have gone to see someone by now? Do people go through life not realizing they should be able to touch their toes? Would I have been rated any less of a man if I hadn't been able to successfully squat to the floor and walk like a fucking duck??

Of course this all leads up to the grand finale when he asks to juggle my nuts. Apparently my nuts are unremarkable. I think I would have been OK not knowing that. I like my nuts and would like to imagine that they are special. Like if I ripped them off and planted them in the ground, a huge vine would grow straight into the clouds and Mario could climb it to get some more damned gold coins. And I could stand there all proud with my fists clenched at my hips and say, "I'm glad you are enjoying my magical nut-vine you sadistic, red plumber suit wearing prick!"

But the best bit was when he asked, and I quote, "Do you have any need or desire for a rectal exam today?". This was of course a relief because it meant I could possibly avoid that particular slice of heaven. But I couldn't help but ask him how many patients he sees who claim to possess an intense desire to have a rectal exam. After having my cranium squeezed and examined like a supermarket melon, and my testicles juggled and prodded like a set of Chinese exercise balls, I needed some levity. Well I did indeed manage to remain air-tight on this particular day, but now I have homework. I was given a kit that requires me to crap in a makeshift hammock draped across my toilet seat, and sample the resulting swinging poo with some sort of extract-o-graboid plunger device. Frankly, the whole concept is going to give me night terrors.

I suppose the good news is that according to my blood work, I am a pillar of health. Except for my cholesterol. A while ago I clocked a whopping 270, and now with slight dietary modification and exercise I have managed to eek it down to 268. Whoopee-fucking-doo. Now I'm on Lipitor so I have something else to talk to my dad about. Getting old sucks. If they could create a medication that contained Lipitor, Prilosec, Viagra and a 6 pack's worth of alcohol in one little steak flavored pill, I bet it would sell like fucking hotcakes.

Match worked.

Sorry about the lack of posts here lately. Turns out Match actually found me a piglet and I haven't had much to be angry about. (Translation: I have been getting laid).

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...

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.