Wednesday, July 23, 2003
Okay, I changed my mind. All new posting is going to be done over at my new spot. Go fix your god damn permalinks, you slackers!
Now get to work!
Movin' on Up
Through the generosity of Pixy Misa, I'm getting the fuck off of blogspot. You've been so kind to me; maybe one day I can repay you by saying "fuck you", as it meant so much to Bill. I may post here a bit more while im transferring all the shit over there and getting it to work right, but soon enough i'll be at http://collinization.mu.nu
What can I say? In the words of the dice man...
OH! I'M OVA HEA NOW!
Shows What You Know!
Bill thinks I'll be in federal prison in November. That just proves what a fool you are! I'll be in jail long before then, as next month I plan to drive down to your house and ram a plastic penguin into your ear repeatedly. Then I'll build a little raft out of rubber tires and spam, and use it to tow your lifeless body around the ocean so that you collect barnacles. I will then sell the barnacles to Norman Van Aken for a hefty profit, as someone who looks like Bill will doubtlessly collect a great number of barnacles, since bottom dwelling scum tend to stick together. After running this scheme for about a month, someone is bound to notice that the guy in the tire raft dragging around a dead body is not actually a Cuban baseball player, and they'll start asking questions. So I'll tell them don't worry, it's just Laci Peterson back there.
That will draw the media into a frenzy, due to the arcane magic inherant in the word Laci which causes people to care deeply about something that holds no impact over their lives. Once the media gets involved, I will be exposed for my under-the-table barnacle smuggling operation, and thrown into jail for tax evasion. This will all happen by labor day, the latest. By November, I should be the head of a ring of corrupt cops and jail guards, putting out contracts and selling smack and Winstons from the inside with impunity. I mean for chrissakes Bill, give me some credit. I have a 5 year plan here.
The New York Football Jets opened their training camp yesterday.
Opening Day at Saratoga is today.
Life is good sometimes.
Tuesday, July 22, 2003
Does not Play Well with Others
That's what it always said on my report cards, anyway. I wasn't quite sure what the teacher meant by "problems with authority" either, until yesterday when I went for a golf lesson. My girlfriend's parents had gotten me a gift certificate for 50 bucks to take a golf lesson(I really am that bad). So I sign up and go down to the driving range. But when I go to pay for the lesson, the lady at the desk tells me I can't use my gift certificate for a golf lesson, because the gift certificate is from the pro shop. So I look 5 feet to my right, where the pro shop is(inside the driving range), and the little hamster in my head starts to run.
"What's the difference between the pro-shop and the driving range?" I ask in my most innocent tone.
"Well, they're separately owned and operated companies."
"Separately owned and operated companies you say?"
"So your telling me that the pro-shop right over there, with the same name as the driving range, located inside the same building, operated by the same employees, is a separate and un-related company."
"It doesn't even have a separate door for chrissakes!"
Aurora borealis? At this time of year, at this time of night, in this part of the country, localized only in your kitchen? Yes.
Can I see it? No.
So I walk the two and a half feet from the driving range counter to the pro-shop counter. And I shit you not, the same girl from the driving range counter walks over, goes behind the pro-shop counter, looks at me and says "Can I help you?"
No, I'm just looking, you stupid bitch. Okay, you want to play games?
"Yes you can, I'd like to return this gift certificate."
"Oh, I'm afraid I can't do that."
"And why can't you do that, might I ask?"
"Because only Rich can refund gift certificates, he's the manager."
"Well where the fuck is Rich then!?!"
"He's on vacation, he'll be back next week."
Normally, this is where I lose it. Well to be fair, normally I would've lost it a long time ago. But for some reason I had a really long fuse yesterday; I don't know why. So rather than start breaking windows and scaring little children, I decide i'll just pay for the golf lesson and take it up with my pal Rich next week. So I walk back to the other counter, idiot desk chimp in tow, and tell the girl that I will just pay for the lesson. So she rings me up, I put it on my debt card, and she gives me the receipt to sign. 50 dollars for a half hour lesson. There goes that hamster again.
I look up at the huge 10' by 5' sign behind the counter that says "INTRODUCTORY GOLF LESSON $25!!! SIGN UP TODAY!"
"Do you think this is fucking funny or something, you stupid bitch!?!"
"Look if you want to be a fucking prick and bust my balls about the gift certificate, that's fine, I'll take it up with Ricky. But who the hell do you think you're dealing with?"
"Sir, I have no idea what you're talking about. Don't yell at me."
"No idea what I'm talking about? No idea? I'm talking about the HUGE NEON FUCKING SIGN behind you that says the golf lesson costs 25 dollars, and you're charging me 50. What the fuck is the matter with you!?!"
"Ohmygawd(if you've been to Long Island, you know what this sounds like), calm down. You didn't say it was an introductory lesson. You have to say that."
"Holy shit lady, did you eat paint chips as a kid? Does it SEEM like i've taken a lot of lessons here before!?!"
"Well how was I supposed to know!"
"You know what? Forget it. Let me talk to your manager."
"He's not here."
"Where is he?"
"He's on vacation until next week."
"What's his name?"
Wow. You have de-railed.
I really didn't know what to do at this point, so I just started laughing. And the counter monkey there, I guess got confused or saw something shiny, because eventually she started laughing, too. The sad part is, all this time I thought the girl was messing with me, and it turned out that she really was that stupid.
I gave up and had her ring me up for the 25 dollar lesson, and off I go. But lunch is over now, so I gotta get back to work, I'll tell you about the actual lesson a little bit later.
Back to Fart Jokes and Cursing
So yeah, back to regular blogging now. Ever notice how when you have free comments, and then you write a post where you really want people to give you feedback, your comments stop working? How dare they provide a service at no cost and not have it working perfectly at all times! Nah, the Klinks rule, im sure the comments will work soon. So anyway...
The Michigander seems to think that I'm petty and vindictive. How dare you say such things about me! I'll get you for that if it's the last thing I do! But seriously, your dead on there Tim. But my beef isn't with you, no worries, although there's a few people I would like to straighten out.
First and foremost is the Interact company. They put ATMs in cardstores and dinky little shops, and for just 1.75, you can have them give you money. So I went to take out some cash to pay the hooker...err uhm, that's not important right now. But I went to take out some cash and the thing tells me that there's no money left in the machine. Fine. It prints out a receipt, and even though it couldn't give me any cash it still charged me 1.75 for a god damn transaction fee. A lot of balls to have your machines do that buddy, a lot of balls. Now I could report them to the better business bureau, or the federal banking commission, but we all know that nobody at either of those organizations gives half a shit about my dollar seventy-five. So instead, I have opted for petty vindictiveness!
I figured that a company like this might like to get things for free, so I submitted their customer service email address to all the free porn sites I could find. I also gave their address to PETA so they could get the weekly newsletter, the federalist, that african pastor who wants me to help him move 5 million bucks into my bank account, and everyone else who likes to send spam into my email. Then I decided to call their customer service line, and do my best paperboy impression. "Where's my two dollars?" I shout into the phone. Hilarity ensues. I'm not sure what to do for Act two of "John doesn't like being robbed" so I'm open to suggestions here. One possibility is to try to take money out of the machine again, and when it charges me another 1.75, I flip out and destroy the machine, until it falls on me. Then I sue the company for negligence. Maybe I'll break my nose again, which would make Bill happy. That reminds me. Fuck you Bill!
Monday, July 21, 2003
If I can be serious for a minute...
This post isn't going to be my normal, whiny foul-mouthed tone. But we all have to grow right?
A Moment To Reflect
So I was downstairs, on line at the deli to get lunch, reading the closed caption of president Bush's press conference, or at least the part that I caught while I waited for my sandwich. He was calling out Iran and Syria for their connections to terrorism at that particular time, and it got me to thinking about what a long trip it's been from that day and today. You know which day I'm talking about. It started in New York City, blazed across half the world to Afghanistan, rolled right through to the only real quagmire we have seen since Vietnam(the U.N.), then broke through Iraq with the swift hand of vengeance. We've come a long way in these two short years, and the real danger is only facing us now; the gate guards are dead, now we assault the fortress of our enemies. We're taking it to their house, and the stakes will rise considerably. Afghanistan was backlash; they were the man holding the gun when the eyes of America turned east. Iraq, on the other hand, was the figurehead; our old enemy Saddam, today's face of evil in America. While both of them played key roles in the army of islamic fundamentalism, deep down we all realize that these countries are but the limbs of the beast; cutting them off buys us time, but alone they are not victories. To walk away now would gain us nothing but a delay from the day of reckoning. I count my blessings each day that Bush "stole" the election, that the supreme court awarded him the presidency. Had Gore been president when 9/11 happened, this would be a much different world today, and we would all be much worse for the wear.
The eyes of our nation turn now to Syria, to Iran. We climb ever closer to the top of the terrorist mountain, where Saudi Arabia sits, watching in fear. They pledge their allegiance and swear their cooperation, doing their damndest to delay that final day of reckoning when the U.S. finally admits the truth; Saudi Arabia has been at the heart of it all from the beginning. Our government knows this; there are many level-headed and well informed people out there who see them for what they really are; the source of this new enemy of freedom. But there are a great number more who cannot accept it, will not admit it until they hold a bloody dagger over the bodies of dead Americans. Lucky for us, our President, our leader knows that we cannot wait for that day to come. We continue to fight, although not always with the force of tanks and men of arms, we continue to inch closer to the belly of the beast.
It has been a long journey indeed, full of fear, uncertainty, anger and rage. It parallels a journey I took myself, just days after the defining moment of my generation. When the planes hit, I was in upstate New York at college. After assuring the safety of my father, who's office is located in the closest building to the trade center that is still standing today, I decided it would be best to head home for the weekend, and enjoy the company of the family that I damn near lost that day. A trip to our summer camp in Saratoga to bring some things home for winter, and I was on my way. A strange place to start a strange journey. Saratoga; where Washington won the Revolutionary War. I drove through that historical town, and looked around me at the quaint little summer excursion, who's only claim to fame these days is a horse racing track. In the center of the town there is a park, and in front of that park sits a statue of a man riding a horse. The horses two front legs are raised in air, because the man died in battle. His name has long since worn away from the base of that statue. In that very town, by the hand of this unnamed man and others like him, America was won. It was the first of many long, hard battles, all of which could've changed the course of history as we know it. But it all started in that small town called Saratoga, where an army of barefoot men held out a winter, outmanned and outgunned, and won themselves the freedom to decide their own destiny.
And from there I headed south. Down I went, parallel to the Hudson River, where the British planned to attack in 1812. Further and further south I drove through history, passed the old factory towns where cannons and ammunition were made for the Civil War. Over the river where the barges carried materials to be sent to Europe for the first Great War. Passed the county where my great uncle called home, after being shot down, rescued, sunk, rescued again, only to be captured and released so that he could be shot down and rescued once more in World War II.
Further south I went, passing the exit to another highway, which would lead you to the home of John F. Kennedy if you took it far enough. South and south I go, only to arrive at the Whitestone Bridge, where I found fear. 100 miles an hour the cars careened over that bridge, engine blaring at 5500 RPMs. Some sped in fear; fear of a bomb, of another attack on an easy target such as a bridge. Others, sped away in disgust, refusing to look up at the shattered skyline of New York City, where a steady pile of black smoke still leaked away into the afternoon sky. You could smell the destruction from that bridge. You could smell the charred and burning building, the rotten stench of innocent human flesh melting away into ash and bone. At the crest of this bridge, I found uncertainty, as I finally looked up and gazed at the wounded city. Would it ever be the same? Would the city recover? I looked long and hard at that billowing smoke, which is where I found anger. You tried to kill my father, you sons of bitches. A 2 year old boy down the block is growing up with a picture instead of a dad. The girl nextdoor to him moved to in with grandma, orphaned by your sickening religion. It was thoughts of those children, of their scars, their uncertain future, that finally brought me to rage. A terrible thing, rage, as I will never look at an Arab the same again. The rest of my life, I will see them as the enemy, the same way my grandfather looks at the Japanese. I can reason and rationalize all I want, the feeling in the pit of my stomach will not change, my eyes will continue to glow red behind the hazel when a black turban comes into their scope. I have become a true racist, and that will never change; it was branded on my very soul, up on the bridge that day at 100 miles an hour.
160 miles I had travelled, from the birthplace of our nation to the worst assault it has ever beared. And from there, only one thing to do; head to the east. So east I went, onto the Long Island Expressway, to my home, where I found my mother. Not my father, for he had already come and gone, spending 18 hours a day in Manhattan, assessing, organizing, cleaning up his building on West Street. On went the television, and that is where I found victory.
Thousands of men and women, just like my dad, just like the orphaned girl's late fireman father, headed west. In they went, an army of heroes; regular men and women just like you and I. They carried their weapons: Water. Food. Blankets. Flashlights. Shovels and cranes, asbestos masks and dump trucks, sawzalls and the jaws of life. Off they went into Manhattan, to save lives. To restore power and light. To restore order. To clean up the mess left for us by the depraved minions of religious zealots and murderers. And it was then that I knew we would emerge victorious. There was no fear in these people; sadness, uncertainty, anger and rage abounded, but there was no fear.
My journey that day ended where our latest journey as a nation had begun. In the shadow of smoke, where the rubble still burned. And a long trip it was, down the alley of history, right into the center of our nation's greatest wound. There will forever be a scar on New York City; if you have seen the design for the building to be erected there, you can see the shape of it. A curved and surreal structure; a modern painting in the heart of a gothic gallery. A building who's sole shape and design revolved around not casting a shadow on that day at that time for the rest of history. A scar on the face of a city so rich in history that it will be spoken of until the end of humanity. Rome. Athens. New York City.
From there I have ridden a passenger, George Bush our pilot, in a journey for freedom. History is made around us, each day, each passing week, not 2 years from that terrible day. A new millenia, a new, globalized world, and a new enemy to freedom everywhere. We have landed now in enemy territory. We took the Afghanistan outpost, marched through the screaming enemies of freedom in the U.N.. We crushed the guards at the gate in Iraq, where we hold our position and wait. Wait for something, for anything. A sign of some sort, it seems, or a provocation. We stand in the middle of Mesopotamia, glaring all around us, waiting for someone to test the rage of our country which has only barely been tapped to this day. We wait for Iran to fall from within. We wait for Syria to make a mistake; to reveal their hand and give us reason to exact vengeance on them as well. We wait for the proof we know exists, the final piece of the puzzle that undeniably proves Saudi Arabia to be the belly of the terrorist beast. Guns drawn, teeth clinched in rage, we wait. What a long journey it has been.
And yet, it has only just begun. Our destination lies somewhere, in the cradle of humanity; in a putrid desert unfit for human inhabitants, where crazed bearded men sit reading some evil tomb which teaches them to hate. To hate their own wives; to martyr their children in the name of a God who doesn't exist. Or perhaps he does, and he chooses to punish and torture these people, who live in poverty with no hope of escape. Still they believe the words of an insane ghost called Mohammed, who refuses to allow them to grow and prosper as a people. But their days in that squalid wasteland lay numbered, because of men like the fireman down the block; because of men like my father; like my neighbor, who floats on a ship outside of Iraq this day; his newborn son growing a bit older without knowing his own father, as the battle rages on. Each numbered day, George Bush leads us, inch by inch, toward the belly of the beast.
We pull the unwilling behind us, protecting them as best we can, although they proclaim their hatred for us and their love for the enemy; the same enemy who wishes nothing more than their destruction. The day is fast approaching when this trip will be over, and victory is certain. Victory is visible in the heart and soul of our City, where men and women continue to dig, to rebuild. It is visible in the flags that adorn our streets, and in the eyes of our soldiers who remain longer than they should in the wasteland of Iraq. It is audible in the flaring tones of anger that come from the Iraqi council, who are only now taking their first steps toward democracy. Toward freedom. There is no fear, because there is nothing to fear. Victory is all around us. We will win this war on terror, of that much I am sure.
Sucking at Golf
I'm taking a golf lesson today, it should be a humbling experience. I don't do well with lessons, so it's going to be interesting. Basically all through my life I was that kid who new everything in school; no, not that kid you hated who reminded the teacher to give you homework. I was that other kid, sleeping on the desk in the back row that the teacher tried to embarrass daily by waking them up to ask them a question only to find out that the kid(me) answered the question perfectly, put his head down, and went back to sleep. Yeah, the guy who wrote your english papers for 10 bucks a page, that was me. Anyway, I was never really good with teachers because I never really needed a teacher; it was all right there in the book, you god damn idiot. But I'm awful at golf. Really...really awful. I'm no star athlete, but i'm not useless on a field either(batting .450 in my softball league). I'd probably be better at sports but I never really was much inclined for coaches. So stay tuned for tomorrow: Young man who has problems with authority figures pays to be told what to do; hilarity ensues.
Otherwise, nobody has answered the god damn question yet. There's 5 points sitting right there in front of you, but I guess you don't want them. Maybe if I put the leaderboard above the blogroll you would be more interested. Well, its almost lunch time so I'm gonna go eat and then put up some really cool posts I've been thinking about since last thursday. I hope they turn out good, but if they don't, it's not like your paying me for this shit so suck it up and deal with it you pinko-commie bastards. I wonder if being insulting and derrogatory toward my readers will cause their numbers to increase? An experiment in the theories of french tourism!
Live From The Rat Race
Gotta love the monday morning drive to work. I live on a 2 lane main road. I take it 2 blocks to another 2 lane main road, cross a set of train tracks, go half a mile to a 4 lane main road, and another 1/8th of a mile to get on the highway. then it's 5 exits on the biggest little parking lot in the world (L.I.E.), you would think it would be a quick and easy drive. On sunday morning when there's no traffic I can get here in 5 minutes door to door, but not on monday...Let's just take a look at the stats:
Distance Travelled: 8.4 Miles
Time of Trip: 29 Minutes
# of trains I had to stop for: 2
# of lights missed due to the idiocy of the person in front of me: 2
# of accidents narrowly avoided: 4
# of those that would've been my fault: 1
# of blown out 18 wheeler tires lying in the road: 2
# of people seen reading the newspaper while driving(over 20 mph): 4
# of women seen doing their makeup while driving (over 20 mph): 3
# of people who tried to box me out of an entrance/exit lane: 5
# of people I subsequently cut off and brake checked for boxing me out: 4
# of unpaved roads I had to drive on due to road work: 2
Road Rage Threat Level: Yellow (Medium)
Not that you care or anything, but it's my blog, so I'm all like "Whatever, whatever! I roll with 12 gangs! I ran for congress and I won, and then I had sex with an intern and killed her and buried her body in the woods! Whatever, I do what I want!"
And now for your quote of the day:
"You're comin' with me, feel it or not, your gonna fear it like I showed you the spirit of God lived in us"
And let's play a little game called "Who said it?"
A. George Bush, speaking to the United Nations
B. Tony Blair, speaking to the Saudi Arabian Government
C. Eminem, speaking on his latest album.
D. Kobe Bryant, allegedly speaking to the woman accusing him of sexual assault
First to answer correctly will receive 5 points. As I have nothing of value to give, I am going to add a section below my blogroll which will be the High Score board. When you score points, your name goes on the board with a link to your website, highest points on top etc etc. Best I can do for incentive to participate ATM.
Edit: Damn that Susie and her superior proofreading skills!