Posts
Last night, in Santa Fe, I discovered that "tapas" is Spanish for "tiny, costly food."
Two pieces of cheese, three slices of pepperoni, 4 olives, 1 oz. prosciutto: $18.00.
8/31/08
8/20/08
Now It's Time for Change
Maybe I should elaborate on why I closed my account at Wells Fargo. I didn't really need my money, I just wanted to move it to another bank where I keep my other money. So, why not move it to Wells Fargo?
Well, one day, just before closing my account, I went in with a jar full of pennies and asked the bank teller to exchange them for bills. She gave me a super surly sneer and said, “Sir, what do you think this is?”
I looked around at the desks, the guard, and at the vault. “I think it’s a bank. This is what you do. You count money for a living.”
“We don’t do that, sir. If you’d like to make a transaction…. A deposit, for example—“
“Fine. I’d like to deposit this in my account.”
“Fine, sir," she looked at the jar, "How much is there?"
"I don’t know. Looks like you'll have to count it."
I filled out a withdrawal slip while she counted.
Well, one day, just before closing my account, I went in with a jar full of pennies and asked the bank teller to exchange them for bills. She gave me a super surly sneer and said, “Sir, what do you think this is?”
I looked around at the desks, the guard, and at the vault. “I think it’s a bank. This is what you do. You count money for a living.”
“We don’t do that, sir. If you’d like to make a transaction…. A deposit, for example—“
“Fine. I’d like to deposit this in my account.”
“Fine, sir," she looked at the jar, "How much is there?"
"I don’t know. Looks like you'll have to count it."
I filled out a withdrawal slip while she counted.
8/19/08
I Will Go Butch Cassidy On Your Ass
Why do I have to stand in line to argue to get my money from my bank? I use more than one bank, because I have a major problem with paying non-customer-related additional fees at ATMs. There are some banks that don't charge you for your ATM use, so I decided to consolidate some of my institutions, and walked into Wells Fargo to close my account – in essence, to ask to use all of my money.
I was ushered to a large desk in a small room of glass walls, where I was later met by a woman her hair pulled back so tight it looked as though her head had been threaded through the eye of a needle. Her facial muscles held a pained expression in place until she sat down in her big leather chair behind her big desk in her small room, cautiously folded her fingers, looked at me intently and audibly cracked a smile. I mean I could hear the ripping of facial tissue as the upper row of her teeth forced themselves into the open air.
“Mr. Blair, I’m Ms. Penniworth. I would like to find out if there is a problem with your account, or with our service.”
“No problem, really. I would just like to have my money now, thanks.”
“What do you need it for?”
This gave me pause. I felt 16 years old, asking my mom for the keys to her car. Are you kidding? What do I need MY MONEY for? It’s my money, isn’t it? “I’d just like to have it, please.”
“Mr. Blair," she cleared her throat and continued to bare her teeth, "Are you aware of the advantages of taking a loan as a Wells Fargo customer?”
"Umm... if I hold onto your money, I don't have to give it back either?"
Blank stare from her. She seemed to be in her mid-thirties, and, despite a serious pucker factor and wardrobe choices by Barbara Bush I tried to imagine for a moment that if she let down her hair, kinda shook it out a bit, took off those horn-rimmed glasses and maybe put on a little lipstick, she might actually be kinda hot.
Nope.
"By taking a loan with us, or perhaps a second mortgage--"
"I don't have a first mortgage with you."
"Splendid, because right now we're offering exceptionally low rates on--"
"I rent."
"That doesn't matter." From behind a computer monitor she pored over my entire worth in the eyes of Wells Fargo, "How much did you say you wanted to borrow?"
"About $7,100."
"Heh," she started to laugh -- finance humor, I guess, "It just so happens that is the exact amount you have in your account with us."
"RIGHT."
"Well then," crack, ripppp, "This shouldn't be hard to process at all, seeing as you've been a loyal customer and you have the current fluidity to back the loan,"
“I don’t need a loan. I have my own money. Well, YOU have my money.”
She furled her eyebrow in confusion, “But if you take a loan you wouldn’t need to close your account with us.” Which, I'm sure made perfect sense to her.
“Oh no no no no no, darlin': I WANT to close my account with you.”
8/18/08
The Return of Gerald
Anyone... everyone: I need your help!
There's, like, no good way to tell Jane this, but this morning, at an ungodly hour, unable to sleep, I was puttering about in the kitchen attempting to make coffee that didn't taste of tar, when out of the corner of my eye I saw something run from the laundry room to under the fridge.
Now, granted, I've been up since 3:33 a.m., but I've seen this streaking act before in a different house and I'm pretty damned sure that I didn't hallucinate a mouse. And it's not like the place is dirty. It was cleaned top to bottom just last week... I mean CLEANED: Spic n' Span, Ajax, Mr. Clean CLEANED... every nook and cranny. I'm thinking that with a sudden and severe weather change two days ago, the little bastard decided to move into the house from the garden or something. Plus, the laundry room houses Bob's dog food, so maybe he sniffed out a renegade kibble nugget or something.
But how the hell am I going to tell Jane? Mice freak her out. She's going to have a cow. And I sure can't house a dog, a cow and a mouse.
I mean, I can go to the store and buy a buttload of D-Con, but the sudden presence of D-Con will lead her to the same conclusion, and then I'll be in trouble for not telling her I saw a mouse.
What do I do?
3:33 a.m.
Why do I keep waking up at 3:33 a.m.?
I've been researching it for awhile this morning and some say it's just an easily remembered time, so we ignore the other times when we wake up. Others say that it's angels/spirit guides trying to send you a message or comfort you. I don't know what's so bloody comfortable about being awakened in the middle of the night and then not getting back to sleep (especially on a Monday)! And what's the message? "Good morning, Brian. It's 3:33 a.m. Have a nice (long) day!"
Some say angels... but it feels like devils. I like to think angels are a bit nicer. Angels would let me sleep.
I've been researching it for awhile this morning and some say it's just an easily remembered time, so we ignore the other times when we wake up. Others say that it's angels/spirit guides trying to send you a message or comfort you. I don't know what's so bloody comfortable about being awakened in the middle of the night and then not getting back to sleep (especially on a Monday)! And what's the message? "Good morning, Brian. It's 3:33 a.m. Have a nice (long) day!"
Some say angels... but it feels like devils. I like to think angels are a bit nicer. Angels would let me sleep.
8/17/08
I Dated the World's Worst Mom
Meanwhile, back in Innanet Dating Land....
My wicked, nimble digits had clicked their way into the life of a Colorado Springs mishap. I couldn’t help it. Her photo portrayed this really cute and shapely brunette (my Achilles heel: brunettes... or... well, women) and in a cosmic display of certain destiny, she wrote back. Letters led to long-distance phone calls and an eventual coordination of schedules. I should have known better than to entertain the idea of dating a girl that lives an hour away, but at the same time the concept had its merits.
Shanon called me the night before and told me she forgot that friends of hers from Germany were visiting, but that I was welcome to join them. How can you forget you have visitors from Germany? When I indicated on the phone that the following weekend might be better to try to meet instead, she said, “Well, I may be going to Florida next weekend.”
“You ‘may be’? Why don’t you know?”
“Well, I’m not sure what the guy expects from me in return for the trip. You know? But still… it’s like free tickets to Florida.”
Warning.
I tried declining to make the trip, as I was still recovering from mononucleosis, and any activity more than an hour was taxing. She urged me on, saying she'd show me "a really good time."
When I arrived at 2 p.m. they were finishing their second round of Bloody Marys. She didn’t look quite as arousing as her photo, but then, they rarely do. There were two girls and three guys sitting around the dining room table and I was having difficulty identifying which one was Shanon. I said hello to the room, and in a moment Shanon stood up and introduced herself. (I was relieved that I didn’t have to pick her out of the crowd, but troubled that it was an issue.) While the guests introduced themselves, Shanon drifted into the kitchen and offered me a drink, casually draping a napkin over a bong that stood at the end of the counter, her girlfriend discreetly sweeping up a scattering of marijuana seeds from the table. All but one fellow introduced himself, so I took the initiative, "Hi, I'm Brian. I didn't catch your name."
"Rob."
"Are you one of the visitors from Germany?"
"No."
"Oh. Umm... So... how do YOU know Shanon?"
He said nothing and Shanon interrupted with a singular laugh saying, "Oh, Rob's my ex. We met on Match, too!"
Rob didn't find it amusing. I postulated, "Well, that's cool. So you guys are still friends?"
"Yeah," Rob growled, "'Friends'."
Shanon began to laugh, bray almost, recounting how she got home at 4:30 that morning from dancing the night away. In fact, she was partying so strong that her visiting friends decided to leave her at the bar dancing with two guys, take a cab back to her place and wake her roommate just so they could get in and go to bed. The lot of them started drinking again upon waking at 8:30.
A dark-complected, brown-eyed child wandered about the living with a drooling watering can, seeking plants to drown. He paid me no mind. In fact, he ignored everyone in the room. Something told me he was the mature one of the group, so I asked his name. He ignored me. "Oh," Shanon said, "That's Dante."
"Who's Dante?"
"I am," he said without looking at me.
"Heh. OK, Dante. I mean, who's little boy are you." He looked at Shanon for a second and then went back to watering. Shanon interrupted his work to introduce me as Uncle Brian. I felt a little ill.
"Didn't I mention I have a son," she asked.
"Umm, no. No. Yeah -- no. I would have recalled that."
"He's from my first marriage. That guy was a real asshole."
"First marriage? How many times--"
"Oh, just twice."
She was between 25-26 years old.
No one had eaten that day and Shanon promised to lead us to a restaurant. It didn’t seem to be a priority for her though, as she instead directed us to the geological marvel, the Garden of the Gods, Dante in tow. Shanon had seen fit to bribe Dante with large amounts of cola earlier that day, and the caffeine had now taken possession of his mind and body. He twitched and kicked about in his car seat while chattering incessantly about the magnificent magnetic space rocks that keep us all from floating into the sun. When we freed him from the vehicle, we spent the next couple hours chasing him around the Garden, pulling him off of rocks and away from belaying climbers. His mother nonchalantly blamed it on the caffeine, accepting no responsibility for giving him the stuff in the first place. She was quite a sight in heels and dress slacks, climbing the rocks behind him with a burning cigarette dangling from her lips. I didn’t realize she smoked.
Shanon’s friends – now dwindled to two, Abbey and Joe, and me – were ready to fall over from hunger. We pleaded with her to reign the boy in so we could leave. She eventually led us to Manitou Springs, essentially an even more redneck suburb of the already ultra-conservative Colorado Springs, to a bar where literally everybody knew her name, first stopping off to see her mother so she could get some spending money.
Warning.
Her mother is a chain-smoking shop owner with a mouth like a sailor and a sense of humor to match.
By this time you may be wondering why I’m still on this date. So was I. It was certainly no longer a matter of manners. She had separated me from my wheels, and I was quite at her mercy, much as I was at the mercy of the bar menu. We were in luck, for the yellowed, tattered menu boasted “Manitou Springs Best Burger”. If it was the best when the menu was printed in 1993, I was sure it’d be even better by 2003. We impatiently ordered a round of meat, then drinks for the wait. From the bar Shanon brought Dante a pile of maraschino cherries for dinner and promised him some of her fries when the adults’ dinners came. He began pouring sugar packets into his glass of water to make it fit for his consumption.
“Dante, don’t.”
He sipped the drink, shook his head disdainfully, looked at his mother then me, raised an eyebrow and emptied another packet into the water.
“Dante, don’t,” she repeated, dragged off her cigarette and rolled her eyes away.
He sipped again and repeated the process until the water was sucrose saturated. She sighed in a “Well what can you do” fashion and went back to smoking and drinking.
This was no environment for a child, or for myself. I was tired, hungry, and the Epstein-Barr virus (mono) had my head in a vise. I wanted to go home, but Denver seemed a lifetime away from that smoky, noisy pit. I leaned over and mentioned to her that I needed to head back to my truck as I had plans to see a friend’s band that night.
“Oh, OK,” she said, then ordered Jaigermeister shots for Abbey and herself. More friends joined the table. She accepted a pitcher of beer from a flirtatious man at the bar. She began to loosen up, and suggested another night of dancing, picking up her cell phone and procuring a babysitter for her son for later.
Shanon and Abbey began to drink like true champions: red wine, Jaiger, vodka and cranberry, beer, peppermint schnapps. I was ill just watching them. The daylight slowly disappeared outside and the drinks kept coming, all to the soundtrack of Dante running around the bar, wailing like a fire engine while intermittently flailing his arms about and beating himself on top of the head with his hands. Out of boredom I wandered over to the jukebox where a new acquaintance, Daryl, joined me. He pumped some money into the machine and selected Blondie’s “Tide is High”, then proceeded to pick crappy pop song after crappy pop song. Daryl was cautiously gay, and I applauded his courage for living in the Springs. He corrected me, stating he was there on a date with one of Shanon’s bar friends, and prayed to get back to Denver safely.
I sat back down next to Shanon and asked yet again to be taken to my truck. She agreed, but the waitress brought another round. A tear may have welled in my eye. She sang along to Blondie on the jukebox, “I’m not the type of girl, who gives up just like that…”
What? The “type” of girl? You stupid bitch, it’s “I’m not the kind of girl!" She had gotten the lyrics wrong. I’d had enough. We were a poor match, with obviously differing values, and I was not going to spend another minute in that bar when I could be home doing something more stimulating like clipping my toe nails or watching the impression patterns of my popcorn ceiling. I stood up and announced to the table that I needed to be driven to my truck. She chugged her vodka and cranberry and within 15 minutes had joined me outside to transport me back. It had taken two and a half hours to pry her from her drinks.
Finally, back at my truck, she told me what a wonderful time she had and how interesting I was and that we should do it again real soon... as soon as she gets back from Florida, that is. She leaned in for a kiss. While I found her to be an atrocious mother, an obnoxious, inattentive date, and not nearly as attractive as the photo she'd posted, I honestly did quickly consider giving her a long, slow kiss. After all, I might still be contagious with mono.
Instead, I gave her the stranger hug where you only touch shoulders and arc your back and hips away as though there's a three foot flame coming up from the ground inbetween you.
“Call me?” she suggested.
"Mm." Call you the World's Worst Mother, you loon....
My wicked, nimble digits had clicked their way into the life of a Colorado Springs mishap. I couldn’t help it. Her photo portrayed this really cute and shapely brunette (my Achilles heel: brunettes... or... well, women) and in a cosmic display of certain destiny, she wrote back. Letters led to long-distance phone calls and an eventual coordination of schedules. I should have known better than to entertain the idea of dating a girl that lives an hour away, but at the same time the concept had its merits.
Shanon called me the night before and told me she forgot that friends of hers from Germany were visiting, but that I was welcome to join them. How can you forget you have visitors from Germany? When I indicated on the phone that the following weekend might be better to try to meet instead, she said, “Well, I may be going to Florida next weekend.”
“You ‘may be’? Why don’t you know?”
“Well, I’m not sure what the guy expects from me in return for the trip. You know? But still… it’s like free tickets to Florida.”
Warning.
I tried declining to make the trip, as I was still recovering from mononucleosis, and any activity more than an hour was taxing. She urged me on, saying she'd show me "a really good time."
When I arrived at 2 p.m. they were finishing their second round of Bloody Marys. She didn’t look quite as arousing as her photo, but then, they rarely do. There were two girls and three guys sitting around the dining room table and I was having difficulty identifying which one was Shanon. I said hello to the room, and in a moment Shanon stood up and introduced herself. (I was relieved that I didn’t have to pick her out of the crowd, but troubled that it was an issue.) While the guests introduced themselves, Shanon drifted into the kitchen and offered me a drink, casually draping a napkin over a bong that stood at the end of the counter, her girlfriend discreetly sweeping up a scattering of marijuana seeds from the table. All but one fellow introduced himself, so I took the initiative, "Hi, I'm Brian. I didn't catch your name."
"Rob."
"Are you one of the visitors from Germany?"
"No."
"Oh. Umm... So... how do YOU know Shanon?"
He said nothing and Shanon interrupted with a singular laugh saying, "Oh, Rob's my ex. We met on Match, too!"
Rob didn't find it amusing. I postulated, "Well, that's cool. So you guys are still friends?"
"Yeah," Rob growled, "'Friends'."
Shanon began to laugh, bray almost, recounting how she got home at 4:30 that morning from dancing the night away. In fact, she was partying so strong that her visiting friends decided to leave her at the bar dancing with two guys, take a cab back to her place and wake her roommate just so they could get in and go to bed. The lot of them started drinking again upon waking at 8:30.
A dark-complected, brown-eyed child wandered about the living with a drooling watering can, seeking plants to drown. He paid me no mind. In fact, he ignored everyone in the room. Something told me he was the mature one of the group, so I asked his name. He ignored me. "Oh," Shanon said, "That's Dante."
"Who's Dante?"
"I am," he said without looking at me.
"Heh. OK, Dante. I mean, who's little boy are you." He looked at Shanon for a second and then went back to watering. Shanon interrupted his work to introduce me as Uncle Brian. I felt a little ill.
"Didn't I mention I have a son," she asked.
"Umm, no. No. Yeah -- no. I would have recalled that."
"He's from my first marriage. That guy was a real asshole."
"First marriage? How many times--"
"Oh, just twice."
She was between 25-26 years old.
No one had eaten that day and Shanon promised to lead us to a restaurant. It didn’t seem to be a priority for her though, as she instead directed us to the geological marvel, the Garden of the Gods, Dante in tow. Shanon had seen fit to bribe Dante with large amounts of cola earlier that day, and the caffeine had now taken possession of his mind and body. He twitched and kicked about in his car seat while chattering incessantly about the magnificent magnetic space rocks that keep us all from floating into the sun. When we freed him from the vehicle, we spent the next couple hours chasing him around the Garden, pulling him off of rocks and away from belaying climbers. His mother nonchalantly blamed it on the caffeine, accepting no responsibility for giving him the stuff in the first place. She was quite a sight in heels and dress slacks, climbing the rocks behind him with a burning cigarette dangling from her lips. I didn’t realize she smoked.
Shanon’s friends – now dwindled to two, Abbey and Joe, and me – were ready to fall over from hunger. We pleaded with her to reign the boy in so we could leave. She eventually led us to Manitou Springs, essentially an even more redneck suburb of the already ultra-conservative Colorado Springs, to a bar where literally everybody knew her name, first stopping off to see her mother so she could get some spending money.
Warning.
Her mother is a chain-smoking shop owner with a mouth like a sailor and a sense of humor to match.
By this time you may be wondering why I’m still on this date. So was I. It was certainly no longer a matter of manners. She had separated me from my wheels, and I was quite at her mercy, much as I was at the mercy of the bar menu. We were in luck, for the yellowed, tattered menu boasted “Manitou Springs Best Burger”. If it was the best when the menu was printed in 1993, I was sure it’d be even better by 2003. We impatiently ordered a round of meat, then drinks for the wait. From the bar Shanon brought Dante a pile of maraschino cherries for dinner and promised him some of her fries when the adults’ dinners came. He began pouring sugar packets into his glass of water to make it fit for his consumption.
“Dante, don’t.”
He sipped the drink, shook his head disdainfully, looked at his mother then me, raised an eyebrow and emptied another packet into the water.
“Dante, don’t,” she repeated, dragged off her cigarette and rolled her eyes away.
He sipped again and repeated the process until the water was sucrose saturated. She sighed in a “Well what can you do” fashion and went back to smoking and drinking.
This was no environment for a child, or for myself. I was tired, hungry, and the Epstein-Barr virus (mono) had my head in a vise. I wanted to go home, but Denver seemed a lifetime away from that smoky, noisy pit. I leaned over and mentioned to her that I needed to head back to my truck as I had plans to see a friend’s band that night.
“Oh, OK,” she said, then ordered Jaigermeister shots for Abbey and herself. More friends joined the table. She accepted a pitcher of beer from a flirtatious man at the bar. She began to loosen up, and suggested another night of dancing, picking up her cell phone and procuring a babysitter for her son for later.
Shanon and Abbey began to drink like true champions: red wine, Jaiger, vodka and cranberry, beer, peppermint schnapps. I was ill just watching them. The daylight slowly disappeared outside and the drinks kept coming, all to the soundtrack of Dante running around the bar, wailing like a fire engine while intermittently flailing his arms about and beating himself on top of the head with his hands. Out of boredom I wandered over to the jukebox where a new acquaintance, Daryl, joined me. He pumped some money into the machine and selected Blondie’s “Tide is High”, then proceeded to pick crappy pop song after crappy pop song. Daryl was cautiously gay, and I applauded his courage for living in the Springs. He corrected me, stating he was there on a date with one of Shanon’s bar friends, and prayed to get back to Denver safely.
I sat back down next to Shanon and asked yet again to be taken to my truck. She agreed, but the waitress brought another round. A tear may have welled in my eye. She sang along to Blondie on the jukebox, “I’m not the type of girl, who gives up just like that…”
What? The “type” of girl? You stupid bitch, it’s “I’m not the kind of girl!" She had gotten the lyrics wrong. I’d had enough. We were a poor match, with obviously differing values, and I was not going to spend another minute in that bar when I could be home doing something more stimulating like clipping my toe nails or watching the impression patterns of my popcorn ceiling. I stood up and announced to the table that I needed to be driven to my truck. She chugged her vodka and cranberry and within 15 minutes had joined me outside to transport me back. It had taken two and a half hours to pry her from her drinks.
Finally, back at my truck, she told me what a wonderful time she had and how interesting I was and that we should do it again real soon... as soon as she gets back from Florida, that is. She leaned in for a kiss. While I found her to be an atrocious mother, an obnoxious, inattentive date, and not nearly as attractive as the photo she'd posted, I honestly did quickly consider giving her a long, slow kiss. After all, I might still be contagious with mono.
Instead, I gave her the stranger hug where you only touch shoulders and arc your back and hips away as though there's a three foot flame coming up from the ground inbetween you.
“Call me?” she suggested.
"Mm." Call you the World's Worst Mother, you loon....
8/13/08
Two Years, Two Dates, Toodaloo Tw@#
Meanwhile, back in Innanet dating land...So, I made a second date with Paula, whom I took to the Hard Rock a week prior -- but I had actually met her two years prior at a Hipshake gig. Well, I called on a Wednesday telling her I just wanted to firm up plans for Friday and find out what time to pick her up, and she says, "About Friday..."
Iew. The next object will suck. Then she goes into this bit about how she has a fear of abandonment and that she needs to break the date, then tells me that she's sought immediate help for the situation but for now cannot see me again.
I laughed.
She didn't.
"Oh, you're not kidding, are you?" I asked.
"No. I have trouble getting close to people that I like because I'm afraid they'll leave me."
"So, you make a pre-emptive strike and leave them first?"
"Kind of."
"So... you like me." I can work with this.
"Yes. It's why I can't get involved with you right now."
Hmm... maybe not. "Am I the only one that sees the irony here? Would you prefer to go on a string of first dates with guys you don't like? Would that be more enjoyable for you?"
"My friends pressured me into putting my profile on Match. I should take it down."
"So, you like me... therefore you're dumping me."
"I am sorry. It's heightened when health issues are involved, and you have..."
"HAD. I HAD. I'm better now!"
"But you may relapse or something, right?"
"SHIT I hope not!"
"Well, you 'hope not'," she sighed, "I just don't want to fall for you and then have you taken away from me."
No worries. I think I'd run before I was taken.
We Spaniards, We Make Joke
Smart move, fellas. Hey, if your sponsor told you to jump off the Brooklyn Bridge, would you? I mean, no, would you, please?
Spanish Coach, Aito García Reneses, said the intention was a joke. Guard Jose Manuel Calderon said the intention "would always be interpreted as an affectionate gesture," and, "Whoever wants to interpret something different, confused absolutely." Kinda like Calderon's grasp on language? Player Pau Gasol asserted he was uncomfortable with it, and that some of the players in the photo weren't making the gesture. He must have been looking at a different photo. Ummm... ain't that you, Gasol, third from the left? Just checkin'.
Hey team, here's an idea: let's play ball in front of the whole world, do it in China, and -- OOH! I know: preface the whole thing by pissing off Asians and the rest of the thinking world!
Spanish Coach, Aito García Reneses, said the intention was a joke. Guard Jose Manuel Calderon said the intention "would always be interpreted as an affectionate gesture," and, "Whoever wants to interpret something different, confused absolutely." Kinda like Calderon's grasp on language? Player Pau Gasol asserted he was uncomfortable with it, and that some of the players in the photo weren't making the gesture. He must have been looking at a different photo. Ummm... ain't that you, Gasol, third from the left? Just checkin'.
Hey team, here's an idea: let's play ball in front of the whole world, do it in China, and -- OOH! I know: preface the whole thing by pissing off Asians and the rest of the thinking world!
(Sorry folks... usually I post the dumb shit I do. I don't think I can top this today.)
Joke, affectionate gesture, racial salutation? At least call a time out to pick one story. Me think they went pee-pee in their own Coke.
Comments?
8/11/08
Gametic Deficiencies
I got to see much of my family this weekend, which was nice because it reminded me of what an educated, intelligent, clever, creative clan I come from. I think the world of them, and feel confident that they are proud of 
me.
me.
For the Record
It should be noted that I started this blog on April 2 of this 2008th year of our Lord. And while I've been called many things, including foolish, I was careful to begin posting AFTER April Fool's Day, so that you would know that the content herein is no joke... it's all true.
Recently, I have had people read certain excerpts, then call me up and question the credibility of what I wrote -- which is very upsetting. INFIDELS! Therefore, to mitigate any uncertainty out there that all the events described herein are true, I am making this simple, humorless post today and permanently removing my phone number from the site.
I am, however, leaving my address up. If you wish to question the validity of any content herein, I encourage you to come to my home instead. Please knock, because the doorbell's been dodgy lately. I will answer and either invite you in to discuss your concerns over coffee or tea, or whack you over the nose with a rolled up newspaper. (It could go either way.)
Thank you,
Monster
Recently, I have had people read certain excerpts, then call me up and question the credibility of what I wrote -- which is very upsetting. INFIDELS! Therefore, to mitigate any uncertainty out there that all the events described herein are true, I am making this simple, humorless post today and permanently removing my phone number from the site.
I am, however, leaving my address up. If you wish to question the validity of any content herein, I encourage you to come to my home instead. Please knock, because the doorbell's been dodgy lately. I will answer and either invite you in to discuss your concerns over coffee or tea, or whack you over the nose with a rolled up newspaper. (It could go either way.)
Thank you,
Monster
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