There’s nothing to do in Wichita but look at boarded up buildings, wait for tonadoes to ruin everything, and drink.
Archive for March, 2006
So, my body is covered in a rash.
But not like a filthy, horrible-looking rash like this, this, or this.
It’s more of a light rash, like chicken pox, or an allergic reaction or something. Like a charming, little venereal disease that chose to colonize on my body rather than focusing on my genitalia, which have remained much to my relief, rash free.
Or, maybe it looks like I’m covered in mosquito bites. Actually, that’s probably the most accurate description so far. It’s like a whole bunch of mosquitoes decided to hold their family reunion on my torso and upper legs, and then they all started feeding simultaneously. Sucking out my tasty, sexy, delicious blood. That’s right. Not only does my blood taste like buttered popcorn and bacon, but it’s also an aphrodisiac. Vampires have paid me hundreds of dollars for just a few platelets. It’s like Viagra for them, and you know they need it since their wieners are like two-thousand years old. Vampires aren’t as passionate as you would think. Mostly, they’re just accountants and medical equipment vendors with saggy, millennial scholngs.
Anyway, back to my rash. I have no idea where it came from, but Benadryl has been completely ineffective, except to put me quickly to sleep and subject me to crazy dreams. Also, it doesn’t itch. It’s just kind of there. I mean, as far as medical problems go, I guess this is a good one to have, since it’s completely aesthetic, and it doesn’t effect my junk. At the same time, I’d prefer to not look like I was just used as Fuddruckers for an 8-year old mosquito’s birthday party.
I have an appointment today at 2 with the doctor, so we’ll see what he says. Even though the rash is all up on my stomach and chest, he’ll probably insist on stuffing one, if not two, fingers into my butthole. And it’s getting to the point where I don’t believe he needs so many Polaroids of me with his fingers up my butt for his medical “portfolio”. But whatever, I get a free refill of Percoset with each visit, so I don’t really mind, and the Percoset will come in handy in Kansas. I just wish he would use some Vaseline or something.
UPDATE:
Guess what everybody? It’s pityriasis rosea! I was so sure that I’d gotten elephant herpes from all of the pachyderm butt-spelunking that I’ve been doing lately, but it turns out I have instead contracted a disease with no cure! Seriously. On top of that, it seems to only affect .13% of men. That makes me feel so special!
Here’s more info:
Background: Pityriasis rosea (PR) is an acute and characteristic exanthem that has been described for more than 2 centuries. Initially, a primary plaque, called a herald patch, is seen. The herald patch is followed by a distinctive, generalized rash 1-2 weeks later. The rash lasts approximately 2-6 weeks.
Pathophysiology: The primary plaque is seen on the skin in 50-90% of cases a week or more before the onset of the eruption of smaller lesions. This secondary eruption occurs 2-21 days later in crops following the lines of cleavage of the skin. On the back, this eruption produces a “Christmas tree” pattern. [I don't have any of that christmas tree shit]
Frequency:
* In the US: The overall prevalence of PR has been calculated to be 0.13% in men and 0.14% in women. The prevalence reported at dermatologic centers has been between 0.3 and 3%.
* Internationally: An increase in the prevalence of PR has been reported in Uganda. No change in the prevalence of PR has been reported in Sweden.
Mortality/Morbidity: PR is a self-limited benign illness. [This means I'm not contagious, and they have no idea where it comes from.]
Sex: PR is reported to occur equally in the two sexes or slightly more often in females. The ratio of men to women varies from 2:0.55.
Age: PR is most common in children and young adults. Prevalence of PR rises during childhood and is most common in persons aged 15-40 years. PR is rare in infants and in the elderly; however, it has been reported in infants as young as 3 months.
I fucking HATE it when I get diseases that my doctors have never seen before. I swear, this is like the third thing I’ve gone to the doctor about and they’ve been completely stumped. At least this time they finally found an answer. I’m still trying to figure out why my larynx occaisionally feels like it’s sliding to the right of its own accord.
1) I’m an idiot. After all the trouble we just had with Sears and our microwave, and their distinct lack of customer service, I used the brain in my pants instead of the brain in my head to make a decision.
What? No, I was talking about my wallet, not my penis. Are you some kind of pervert? I say, “brain in my pants” and all of a sudden you’re thinking about my junk? Sicko. Grow up.
Anyway, ACWF needed new tires, so we dumbly decided to get some from Sears, because they had H rated tires on sale. So I plugged in all of ACWF’s car’s information into the Sears Auto webiste, and it told me what sized tires I needed, so we took it to Sears, and I told the guy what the computer told me. He told us to come back in about 45 minutes for the car. So as we were wandering the mall, I got a call from the guy telling us to come back to the shop. It had been about 30 minutes, so I was hoping the car was ready. Ha ha.
When we got there the guy told us that the information that I had given him was wrong, and that he couldn’t put 14 inch tires on 15 inch rims. Well, of course not, but it’s not my fault that a) Sears website is completely retarded, and like their customer service, provides zero accurate information, and b) wouldn’t it have been smart for them to check and see that the tires that were going on were the same size as the tires that were coming off?
So the dumb-dumb tried to sell me some tires that cost 100 dollars more than the original tires, and said those 100-more tires were the only ones he had that would fit. So I told him to put the old tires back on the rims, and suddenly he managed to find another set of tires that would fit, but they would only be 50 dollars more. I was pissed, but ACWF needed new tires so we did it anyway.
I know it was dumb of me to assume that Sears could do one god-damned thing properly, so the next time I try to buy something at Sears, someone needs to beat me around the head with a sock full of quarters. It’s the only way I’ll learn.
(You’re still thinking about my dangly man-bits aren’t you?)
2) Did anybody notice that Bill O’Reilly recently had James Van Praagh on recently? Talk about a fucking departure from reality. In one corner we have hypocrite douchebag O’Reilly, and in another corner we have the lying shit-eater Van Praagh. It was so surreal that I could hardly belive my eyes. A consumate liar talking to another consumate liar, both of them acrobatically performing blow-jobs and reach-arounds on the other in attmept to make themselves look good. I’m glad I didn’t listen to the whole thing, or else my head may have exploded from the sheer magnitude of bullshit that was clearly flowing from their lips. If nothing else, this meeting proves to us that O’Reilly’s fans are idiots for being the same demographic that supports Van Praagh, and Van Praagh fan’s are assholes for being the types of douches who would turn on O’Reilly to see that shit-licking death-peddler.
3) On a lighter note, I just recently had a bizarre experience at a store the other day. I walked in and picked out a flower-girl dress that ACWF had pointed out on a previous occaision. The dress was put on sale later, and I was the only one available to pick it up, so I went, grabbed it, and took it up to the counter. While the woman behind the counter was ringing me up, I realized that I was a grown man, own his own, buying a tiny, little, frilly dress, and that situation probably looked a little suspect.
Making me feel even weirder was when the woman at the register asked, “Do you buy a lot of children’s clothes?” And I was like, “Oh, Jesus, she knows I’m a pedophile!” and then I was like, “Wait a minute! I’m not a pedophile, I’m just buying this dress for my cousin for the wedding.” So I told her that I didn’t really buy a lot of kids clothes. Then she kind of leaned in and looked at me and said, “Well, if you ever do decide you’ll be buying lots of kids clothes, just let me know, and we can get you signed up for the Kids Program, and we’ll mail you discounts on all types of kid’s clothes.” Then she winked and gave me the receipt.
I had no idea what the hell she was talking about. Why would I need lots of kids clothes? Why would she think I would need lots of kids clothes? Why did she wink? Was she a pedophile? Do I give off some sort of inaccurate pedohile vibe? Why did such a simple situation suddenly become so squicky?
P.S. You can stop thinking about my meat and potatoes now.
My office is in the process of hiring someone to fill a position in the tech department, and a resume just crossed my desk that was so special that I thought I would share a portion of it with you.
The “Career Goals” section at the top of the first page of the resume said, “To be an ambassador for Jesus Christ, and to obtain a position using the skills within my technical background.”
And to no one in particular I voiced aloud, “Are you completely retarded?”
First of all, I wasn’t aware that Jesus Christ was a country, much less a country that required an accredited representative in residence by one government or sovereign to another. I can see it now…
“Hey, let’s invade Poland this summer!”
“Nah, they’ve got an ambassador for Jesus Christ, and you know how they get when you mess with one of their allies.”
“Turn all our wine into water, and our models into lepers?”
“Exactly.”
While we’re on the topic, what are Jesus Christ’s main exports? I bet many of you would like to say “love for all humankind, puppy-dogs, rainbows, and bad-ass magic tricks” but in reality the exports of that country would be guilt, an encompassing derision of all things fun, a petrifying fear of masturbation, and child-molestation. The imports are cash, money, and wealth, and a soul or two if they have the time.
Seriously, what the hell is wrong with you, Jesus-preaching resume-guy? With regard to professionalism, you could have said that you wanted to be an ambassador for the “Cult of hanging raw shrimp off of your erect dong, filling your asshole with cocktail sauce, standing on your head, and saying you’re a seafood bar” and gotten the same result from me. (After I contemplated shrimp for lunch, that is.) It’s not professional, dipshit! What the fuck would posses you to put something so ragingly idiotic on your resume?
I bet I can guess. I bet it’s because your religion tells you to bother people all the time with sales pitches about your nonsensical, fairy-tale, imaginary friend in the sky and his promise of never-ending hookers and blow. (Hey, heaven is different for everybody.) And by the way, the only reason I’m hating on Jesus right now, is because a dumbshit follower of his decided it would be smart to ejaculate his beliefs all over his resume. I would be ripping some other fartsniffer for the same thing if they had said they wanted to be an ambassador for Thor, or Ganesh, or Superman. It’s not professional to wear your religion on your sleeve.
So, to dumb-dumb religion-resume-guy, here’s something you should consider before the next time you try to get your savior crammed into another public or private crevice: How would you feel if YOU got a resume saying that the applicant wanted to be an ambassador to Satan?
Right. You’d be pissed off, and you’d think it was inappropriate, and you wouldn’t want to hire them.
Now imagine, hypothetically, that Satan worship became the dominant religion in the United States. Imagine that all our money says, “Hail Satan” and the pledge is “One nation under Satan”. Would you be comfortable with that? Of course not.
So even though you like to pretend now that you’re really about Freedom of Speech and how those evil, secular, gnome-loving, homo-liberals are trying to indoctrinate your kids into becoming Cosmopolitan-drinking fashion-consultants/flag-burning abortionists, the real problem is that you only want free speech for yourself, and you want to be the one doing all the indoctrinating. If the shoe were on the other foot you’d be crying bloody murder because the Satanists next door won’t stop having their ten-hour orgies on the front lawn. So stop peddling your religious bullshit on your resume because it really makes you look like an idiot and an asshole.
…
By the way, not only am I going to throw out your resume because I’m sure that you would drive away customers with all of your Tiger Beat-esque Jesus-fawning, but I’m also going to trash your resume because you have the technical savvy of a brain-damaged hippopotamus who’s eaten paint-chips all his life, and has just come back from being lobotomized.
Friday night ACWF, my buddy Matt, and my friend Jim & his girlfriend went out for St. Patrick’s Day, and though I wasn’t really drinking, it was quite the amusing evening. The weirdness started when we were walking into Canton. I saw my ex-girlfriend walking through the square by herself. She’d gained a ton of weight since I’d last seen her, so I was pretty happy about that. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about her somehow becoming super-hot in my absence. Now I could say for certain that she had grown ugly in the years since we’d separated.
I could also mention that she had a belt made out of the hearts of what looked about 3 dozen men, or that her chin and throat were coated in blood from what I can only assume was her most recent female-praying-mantis-type-mating experience, but it would be rude, and her unholy boyfriend Beelzebub would come after me because she’s a manipulative bitch on wheels, and she could even make the Prince of Darkness do whatever she wanted. But she passed us by without recognizing me or my friend Jim, and once she was gone she left nothing but a sour, sulfuric smell.
After shaking our heads clear of unfortunate memories from high school, we moved onto Canton Station, and as soon as we walked in I saw Jayne Miller chilling at a table upstairs watching the basketball game. I pointed her out to about a dozen people, and not a single damn one of them had any idea of who she was. I guess the stupid fucks are all too busy watching reruns of Friends and text-messaging their plastic surgeons about the next episode of Prison Break to ever watch the news. Ignorant uninformed shits.
I figured I wouldn’t bother Jayne because she looked like she was enjoying her relative anonymity, and I’m the kind of guy who can respect anonymity, and plus I had nothing more to say to her than any other random person I would meet in a bar. So I made sure that I wasn’t in the way of the basketball game, and tried to think of a way to blog about the situation in an amusing way later. Clearly, I didn’t think about it for very long.
The whole time we were there my friend Jim was getting progressively drunker, so I thought it would be funny to call his cell phone every time he said or did something stupid. By the end of the evening he had about a dozen calls in his voicemail saying things like, “You just tried call me a douchebag, but instead you said something like deuce-bat’. Just thought you should know.” or “Hey man, it’s me again. You just tried to light the wrong end of your cigarette, then you laughed when you realized what you did, put the cigarette back in your mouth, and tried to light the wrong end again. Just wanted to tell you.” or “Hey, hope you enjoyed these messages and your hangover you balmy, Irish twat.”
We left a few hours later, and who should we see on the way back to our car but my ex-girlfriend again. She was wasted, looked like she was about to throw-up, and still alone. It made me so happy to see her that way after how shittily she had treated me when we were dating that ACWF and I just laughed ourselves across the Canton square, envisioning her passed out in a gutter, covered in her own filth, while drunken frat boys used her stupid-fucking-thought-she-was-Meg-Ryan-haircut as a urinal. Man, she was such a bitch.
Our new cat WookieSo named because of the noises she makes in lieu of meows. ACWF and I went around and around with different names before settling on the perfect name. Being English nerds, ACWF and I are loathe to settle when it comes to naming things, so it took us quite some time to come up with Wookie.
ACWF had suggested “Clementine” and “Marzipan”, while I had suggested “Spatula” and the apropos, but political, “Dick Cheney Shot A 78 Year Old Man In The Face”. It was decided that name was hilarious, but too long.
Well before we got around to naming the cat, she was already starting to get along better with Sherlock. The growling and hissing had stopped completely, and they began to behave more like playmates, and less like warring Yakuza gang members. They went to a tractor pull, a taffy-strecthing demonstration, and they even got a little elective surgery together. Most of the time, however, they can be seen as they are below.
Yes, they sit and stare for hours out of the same window. They’re never content to look out their own window. No. They insist on sharing a window, and staring at nothing at all for hours on end. If I wasn’t so sure they were doing opium, I’d call them a couple of potheads.
Sherlock had been absolutely great for this entire ordeal, so when we thought about how to reward him for his good behavior, we did what any responsible pet-loving, cat-owners would do. We sent him to the vet for a series of painful and unnecessary inoculations! I’m just kidding. We actually bought him a twelve-pack of beer.
He jumped right in and was done with two beers in the time it takes most people to put their pants back on when they hear their significant other’s parents coming down the steps into the basement. He was done 6 or 7 more beers in another half hour or so, and though we told him he could just sleep in his regular bed, he passed out in the beer box anyway. While he was blacked out, Wookie emptied his wallet of cash, used his calling card to prank-call Japan (which was admittedly funny the first time, but around the 8th call “Hey, Japan? Meow? Got any sushi? He he he he!” got to be pretty boring, and irritating.) and charged about $3000 worth of phone sex on his credit cards. Even I didn’t know that 1-800-GOAT-NUT existed. So much for them being best buds. Apparently Wookie, like all women, was only after Sherlock’s cash, and cared little, if at all, for his feelings.
Sherlock awoke a few hours later, drunkenly stumbled over to a potted plant next to his litter box to relive himself, vomited on the floor while taking a dump, and then sauntered over to Wookie and made like Canadian Federal Police Officer.
Sherlock pretends to be a Mountie
Wookie, lucky for us, was in heat, so she was all about the fumbling and uncoordinated humping experience, but unfortunately for the both of them, Sherlock hasn’t had the proper equipment for a few months, after having suffered the unkindest cut shortly after we got him.
Since then they’ve been spending a lot of time recently acting out the same frustrated scene. Wookie throws her butt up in Sherlock’s face, Sherlock tackles Wookie, Wookie ululates in anticipation, Sherlock wrestles with her like a pre-pubescent schoolboy during gym class, Wookie calls Sherlock a “castrated retard with all the sexual knowledge of a herd of eunuchs” and Sherlock looks at her dumbly and says, “What? You don’t want to wrestle? Fine, I’ll take my functionless though temporarily satisfying non-penis and go elsewhere.”
And then the fun starts all over again.
So, it’s St. Patrick’s Day, and I’m already one Guinness in, and will hopefully have a few more under my belt after lunch. It’s a benefit of having a drunk for a brother within a 5 minute’s drive from your place of employment on a day devoted to drink.
But something has me pretty steamed up. Where are all the African-Americans celebrating St. Patrick’s Day? Where are all the Asians? Where are all the Pakistanis? I don’t get it! All year long we have to celebrate their stupid holidays. Like Black History Month or Kwanza. All right, I’ve got my makeka mat and I celebrate Umoja with the best of them. I bake a special cake with Martin Luther King Jr’s face on it, and then put a bus on top of the cake with Rosa Parks in the front-most seat.
When the 15th day of the first month rolls around in the Chinese Lunar Calendar I celebrate the Lantern Festival with some of the most fantastic lanterns you’ve ever seen. And I celebrate Buddha’s birthday on the 8th day of the 4th lunar month of the Korean lunar calendar with my Korean friends.
Or what about Eid ul-Fitr and all the fast-breaking I do with my Pakistani friends? Never once do those bastards say, “Hey, we’ll bring some Lucky Charms over on the March 17th.”
Well, this is where I draw the line. All year long we have huge amounts of time, education, and resources set aside for holidays like Russian Protector of Motherland day on February 23rd, or Boxing Day on December 26th with all our Canadian immigrants, or the Peruvian Festival of Inti Raymi, and I swear, if I get one more invitation to a Nepalese Tihar party, I might just go crazy.
So listen up all you non-Irish bastards. We celebrate like, every single one of your holidays, and we’re forced to pretend like we’re culturally sensitive by saying things like, “Oh no, I don’t think that Hanukkah is a fake holiday celebrated by baby-eating pagans, at all. I love Hebrews!” so the least you could do is have some Lucky Charms in Guinness in the morning, some Guinness and potatoes dyed green for lunch, and some corned beef, cabbage, whiskey, Guinness, potatoes, whiskey, Guinness, whiskey, whiskey, whiskey, Lucky Charms, and Guinness for dinner.
