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Hey Microsoft, I have $400.00 to give you for an Xbox 360! Yay. What’s that you say? You have none to sell me? You don’t want my money? Ah, well, I guess I’ll spend it on Playstation II games.
Note: the “in stock” Xbox 360s are auctions where the prices are at least two to three time the retail price of around $400.00.
So today I was stopped briefly in traffic on the freeway on the way to work and the dude ahead of me sticks his hand out his window palm down with his fist wrapped around something crumpled. I’m all, don’t do it. DON’T! DO! IT! But then he straightens his fingers and the crumpled garbage floats to the ground and I’m screaming “nooooooo!” in slow motion, pounding on the steering wheel, and generally not taking the whole thing too well. I wanted to lay into my horn. But instead I did nothing but stew in my anger and wish for a laser guided missile strike.
This reminds me of quick story. Worst litter out the window story ever actually. It was me and Reeves driving back from a track event in Southern Ca. on I-5. I’m pulling a car trailer with my Corvette in it and he’s following me in his Corvette. I blow a tire on the trailer and pull over onto a wide expanse of weeds on the side of the road. Reeves pulls outside of me on the grass and hops out. We begin the process of taking the wheel off the trailer. Then we’re like, “holy mother of god, what is that smell!?” Turns out Reeves had run over a diaper that some upstanding citizen had tossed out a car window. On the freeway. A full to the brim diaper that had exploded inside his wheel-well when he drove over it. This had us both gagging and retching and saying unchristian things, but it was worse for Reeves since he had to drive the car to the next stop and then hose it out. Gah.
Holy crap, (no pun intended) why throw your litter our your window? Worse, why throw your childs poo out your window? Explain this to me. How hard is it to put your trash in a trash can the next time you stop? Chances are there’s a trash can within a few feet, where ever that might be. Think about. Rest stops. Gas stations. Starbucks. Fast food. Malls. Even stores that sell trash cans have trash cans out front.
I say bring back the stockade. If you’re caught littering we all get to pelt you with whatever you tossed out your window. I wouldn’t want to touch the diaper, but for this I’d get some welding gloves and a close pin and have at you. Then you would be transformed from a virtual to a literal shithead. And it would be well deserved. So there.
So here I am, mr bad ass blog poster technology whizz, and just as I’m reaching for the mouse to click the “post” button on a lovingly crafted post that frankly cures cancer and world hunger, I bump my mouse’s back button and poof the post of the century is gone, shattered into tiny little ones and zeros and I’m staring at a page I just don’t want to be starting at. Then the cursing starts. And the stomping. And the breaking of things.
I just know that God is sitting on her pinkly padded thrown cackling and and pointing her nice manicured and jewelery adorned finger at me. “I told you to use a more robust tool to post to your blog, you putz,” she says, followed by a Nelson-esc “haw haw”. I bite my tongue, swallowing a spicy retort. God, you can have your laugh. For now.
True, I’ve been meaning to research tools for posting to my blog. I supposed God can take credit for the notion, but either way, I’m done typing into this frackin’ web site to post to my blog. Each time is accompanied with anxiety that just this scenario will be played out, just as it has, with just the dastardly consequences to be felt by little ol’ me. God laughing at me frankly doesn’t help much. But since I’m not omniscient (like SOME people) I guess I learn from my mistake. I’ll never type my posts into IE again. We’ll, except for this one.
As God is my witness, this technology crap is going to be the death of me.
Go to http://www.kingkongmovie.com/ and click the trailer button. What in the name of holy hell randolf? Suddenly I’m on a page on Volkswagen’s website with no apparent way to view the trailer. I do see a King Kong graphic but have no clue what it means. Someone deserves a good bitch slap for this bull shite. What unbelievable stupidity. Furthers my low opinion about the type of folks who decide things like this. Did a group of monkeys decide this was a good idea around a banana buffet in a conference room somewhere? Jeez, I’m stunned. This instantly soured me on the King Kong movie. My interest was peeked for a few minutes today and now they can fricking talk to the hand. I don’t want to hear it. Enjoy your bananas dumb asses.
[Edit]
Here’s the actual trailer. In case you care. Which I don’t. Ok, maybe I do a little. But still, lameness abounds.
I love my dog, but holy mother of buddha there must be something wrong because he’s letting some ungodly stink bombs fly, let me tell you. I think it’s time for professional intervention.
I’m talking the kind of bomb that forces you to your feet no matter what you’re doing (I’m talking even brain surgery or nuclear bomb defusing) so that you can kick down the door SWAT style and run outside screaming and waving your arms like a swarm of killer bees is chasing you.
I’m talking the kind of bomb that combined with open flame would cause a whump and then a lingering rain of shingles on the neighbors.
I’m talking the kind of bomb that kills cactus, the most hearty plant known to man.
Friend, that’s a lot of stank.
These stink bombs take twenty minutes to clear and causes the dog to become overly excited, wagging his tail and running around in tight circles, his back arched and his back legs passing his front legs, leaving a rooster tail of chopped lawn like a ocean racing cigarette boat. He’s excited because everyone is running around and opening doors, and he thinks he’s going on a car ride or walk, but the last thing you want it this mortar cannon following you around. So all you can do is run, and run, and run, and hope the wood floors will take him out (he spins out like a race car on a frozen lake), and you hope you can make it to the safe house, the oasis, the hermetically sealed escaped pod, but you hear the ffffsssssssssstt, and you yell “incoming”, dive head first into your foxhole, and grab that gas mask even though you know it’s too late for you, the bell has tolled for thee.
“ffffssssssssstttt!”
So I have XM radio in my soon to be sold H2. I listen to the comedy channels a fair amount hoping to have a laugh. And most of the time? Not funny. Not funny at all. In fact I frequently start getting the same feeling I get when I watch TV shows like Funniest Home Videos or Mama’s Family. I start looking around for something to start smacking myself repeatedly about the head and neck. Just make it stop. Oh, god. Kill me now. The pain! The pain! IQ rapidly dropping! It can literally have me curled up and drooling on the floor in no time. OK, figuratively. You got me. But still. It hurts. It hurts bad.
I’ve developed a few observations about stand-up and what is NOT funny. First, if your whole routine is centers around your ethnicity, then talk to the frickin’ hand you hack. Hey, I’m white. I can’t dance. I might be redneck. Criminey, get the frick over it. My second pet peeve is shocking language with no substance. Some comedians swear, and it works, but some delve into the most obscene language just for the sake of shocking you. Hey I bleeping bleeped my bleeping bleep you bleep! You too can talk to the hand, you frickin’ hack. Jeez, how is this funny? Answer. It’s not, you bleeping bleep bleep. Go pump gas for a living and stay off my radio. What gets me also is the people coughing up a lung they’re laughing so hard. I have one thing to say: “I remember my first beer.” Jeez, how embarrassing for you.
The good news? There are a few comics who are genuinely hilarious, and have something to say. But boy howdie, do you ever have to suffer between the good bits on XM. I’m going to steer my truck into a light pole if I hear one more redneck joke. Anyway, my current favorite is Lewis Black. Trust me he’s funny. But you might have to think a bit. If you think a video of someone getting kicked in the nuts is the pinnacle of the comedic arts, then, er, um, well, say hello to Bog Saget for me. On second thought, don’t.
