Blind Faith

Posted by John

The other night the wife and I went with some friends to see a few bands play at a place called The Basement here in town. It’s called The Basement incidentally because it’s located in a basement. Dark, musty, and cramped; the only thing missing were the rats but I imagine that’s only because they didn’t like the music. Despite its name and location, The Basement is actually a great venue to catch bands – small, intimate, and no rats, depending on the band.

We arrived early enough to see the first band set up their equipment and do a sound check. The band played a bunch of emo-ish/punk/angst-ridden songs about “the world doesn’t know who I am, pay attention to me, I’m important even though I don’t care about anything except music, video games, and emotionally dettached, angst-ridden punk rocker chicks” bullshit, and consisted of a lead guitarist/vocalist/angst-ridden-20-something-year-old-recluse, and rhythm-guitarist/keyboardist/angst-ridden-hipster-wannabe, a bassist, and a drummer. At one point while they were bringing their equipment in to set up, one of the band members walked in carrying a guitar case in one hand while holding the hand of his girlfriend with his other, who was carrying a case full of drum equipment. Now, I’m pretty allergic to all forms of PDA, but handholding in particular really gets my goat. Not only does it appear unnecessarily possessive of your significant other, but I for one prefer to keep both my hands free, in a constant state of vigilness, always at the ready for any surprises the world has to throw at me. You never know when you’ll need to deflect a would-be ninja kick, thwart a would-be purse snatcher, or catch a would-be falling baby. The absolute last thing I want to do is handicap one of my appendages by resigning it to dragging my girlfriend/wife all over the place. It just doesn’t make sense.

As much as I despise hand holding, the wife absolutely abhors it. So much so that when she saw the band member’s inexplicable hand-holding PDA she didn’t hesitate to guffaw and say, “Oh, that is so disgusting! I hate when people hold hands; it’s so ridiculous.”

Never one to miss an opportunity to make the wife feel bad, I half-jokingly said, “Well, she’s probably blind.”

“Yeah right, she’s not blind!” The wife shot back. Except, as it turns out, the girl was actually fucking blind. It became evident she had no vision a few seconds later as the boyfriend/band mate led her over to the drum kit where she helped set it all up. “Ah shit, I am such an ass,” were the next words out of the wife’s mouth.




Understandably she felt horrible and understandably I didn’t miss the opportunity to allow her to feel horrible about it. To make matters even worse for the wife though, the girl wasn’t just the girlfriend of one of the band members, it turned out she was actually the fucking drummer. And the thing was, in spite of her lack of vision she absolutely fucking rocked. She completely stole the show from her angst-ridden, emo band mates and I can only assume if she weren’t blind she’d be able to see what douches they all were and she’d move on to a bigger more badass band. I still hope she does.

The wife’s little faux pas reminded me of something I witnessed several months ago out in front of my office building where there is a large brick plaza and a small grassy tree lawn. As you can imagine, grassy real estate is quite the premium downtown so urban dog owners don’t have a lot of options for their pets’ potty breaks. So when I returned to the office one day from lunch to find a blind woman with her seeing-eye dog taking a leak on a tree not more than 5 paces from a sign that read, “NO PETS ALLOWED ON GRASS,” I just had to laugh at the irony of it.

If that wasn’t funny enough, I almost lost it when I actually witnessed the ever-attentive security guard emerge from the lobby of the building to reprimand the woman for allowing her dog to piss on the grass only to fall victim to the biggest foot-in-mouth faux pas I could ever possibly imagine when he realized she was fucking blind.

The woman didn’t take kindly to the mistake but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t the first time it’d happened. In fact, if I didn’t know any better I’d say the dog was actually able to read the sign and knew exactly what he was doing:

Dog: Watch this, watch this. I’m going to piss right on this sign that says, “NO PETS ALLOWED ON GRASS.” Oh god, this is going to be an absolute riot.

Then just as he’s squeezing the last drop out: 

Dog: Oh my, that was too fun. Too fun I tell you. Oh wait, what’s this?... No, it can’t be… Oh my, it is… the security guard is actually coming out here to shoo us away. I cannot believe how hilarious this is going to be. Oh my god, here he comes. Here he comes.

Security Guard: Ma’m… Ma’am! No pets on the lawn! Ma’am!

Dog: Hahaha! This is absolute proof there is a God in heaven. Look at this! He’s getting closer and still has no idea what he’s walking into! Dear Lord, this is too precious! Wait for it… Wait for it…

Security Guard: Ma’am! No pets on the lawn! Ma’am, you need to get your dog off… Oh… Oh my… Oh I am so sorry… I had no idea…”

Dog: AHH-HAHAHA! AHHHH-HAHAHAHAHA! Oh sweet baby Jesus, do you see the look on his face? You would have thought I’d just dropped a turd right in his coffee. Oh this is too funny! Too funny! I’d piss myself if I hadn’t just pissed.

(I can assure you that last bit is funnier if you read the dog’s parts with a British accent and the security guard with a slight southern drawl.)

I know it must seem that I’m getting a proper laugh at the expense of a few blind people but I can assure you that’s not the case. Rather, the laugh is at the expense of the unfortunate individuals who’ve made a slight faux pas at the blind person's expense, or in the case of the security guard, a major one. The absolute last thing I want is for a blind person to read this and think the joke is on them because it’s not, so take that for what it’s worth. 

This is Literally the Best Post I've Ever Written

Posted by John

Language is a funny thing, especially the English one. Words that were once quite popular are no longer in use while new words are being invented all the time. Some words have kept their meaning for centuries while the meaning of others have changed all together. Just think about how Merriam Webster added 25 new words to the dictionary in 2009 ranging from “carbon footprint” to “frenemy”; from “locavore” to “staycation”; from “webisode” to “waterboarding” (really, Cheney? You honestly thought waterboarding was legal? It wasn’t even a fucking word until you did it to a bunch of people so how in the fuck was it going to be legal? Fuckindouche. Have you ever heard of that word before? Well now you have and the definition is you).

Sometimes it’s not just words but phrases that come and go from our lexicon. “I’m all about that,” or “I’m just saying,” or “How’s that going for you?” as a sarcastic response to someone informing you that they’re in the process of doing something really stupid like, “I’ve decided instead of working out I’m just going to do some crystal meth,” to which you reply, “Oh really? How’s that going for you?” Those are all phrases that were entirely too common at one time but have since fallen by the wayside and if you find yourself still using them then you’re a real proper fuckindouche.

Other phrases have been around forever and are still used all the time and mostly just as filler in small talk conversations when someone has run out of real things to say. I hear the phrase, “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,” at least once a week and generally about something that is broken and should be fixed like all the fuckindouchewad conservatives about healthcare. I also still hear people say the word “period” to denote a definitive end to something. “This discussion is over. Period.” What do you mean the discussion is over because a period really just denotes an end to a sentence? Maybe when the discussion is really over what you need to say is, “This discussion is over. The end. Period.” Because then I would know that “The end” is the end of the discussion and that “period” is the end of the sentence “the end” and then I would know for certain that you are done talking.

Or you still hear, “You hit the nail right on the head,” a lot, but its overuse has changed its meaning to, “I really don’t care what you have to say, I’m just blowing smoke up your ass,” which in itself is a catchphrase that’s been around forever and quite frankly should be around for awhile longer, especially when its origin is explained like this on answerbag.com: “The origin of the "blowing smoke" part is from stage magic, where magicians use smoke to hide their actions or to distract the audience. Of course, anyone who studies American slang knows that pretty much any phrase can be improved by adding a reference to someone’s ass, so I suppose it's inevitable that is where the smoke would eventually be blown.” That’s a pretty good-ass explanation.

Other phrases have probably been around for a while but for some reason or another just seem to be really popular right now. I hear this all the time now: “It is what it is.” In fact, I’ve been using it a ton myself lately but it seems to just be a nicer way of saying, “Well, we’re fucked, but what are we going to do about it?”

Similarly, within the past few years people have been adding a whole bunch of cynical inflection to the word “really” to imply mock disbelief, then you can repeat it and change the inflection to sound ever more disbeliefed. For instance, if someone says, “I was going to donate money to the Red Cross for Haiti but instead I just bought this prostitute,” you would reply, “Really? Real-ey?” as if that one word repeated twice would be enough to convince the person they are a royal turd and should seek counseling.

Even with all the changes that words and phrases go through, the other day I really found myself wondering at what point in our language’s history did the word “literally” stop meaning “literally” and start to mean “not at all literally”? Seriously, follow me on this one. You’ve all heard someone telling a story that they think is quite unbelievable but is actually shockingly mundane but in order to make their story seem interesting and unbelievable to the listener the storyteller will use the word “literally” to describe something that isn’t remotely literal at all. For instance, “So he was just talking to me and I was like literally beside myself that he even knew who I was.” No, in actuality it is literally impossible for you to be beside yourself unless you have created teleportation and/or time travel so what you should have said was, “I was like figuratively beside myself because he shouldn’t even know who I am because I am literally a fuckindouche and no one should be talking to me.”

Or something like, “I was so wasted dude; I literally drank like 50 beers.” You know, I don’t think you did drink 50 beers otherwise you’d literally be dead. I think what you meant was, “I’m a boner who drinks too much and when I drink I become an epic boner that no one likes so I have to pretend that I drank more than I did as some sort of explanation for my bonerish behavior but the reality is I am literally just a boner. Oh, and I’m a fuckindouche too.”

Or like the other day when I overheard someone say, “I literally shit my pants when I heard the news.” Wow. I think this is one instance where you literally don’t want to use the word “literally” to describe something figuratively because whereas it is not literally possible for you to be beside yourself without a time machine it is literally possible to shit your pants and I don’t think you want to mislead people about the literal or figurative nature of such an act because if you are prone to literally shitting your pants then not only do I not want to hear your stupid overblown stories but I don’t want to be anywhere around you in general. Ever. Fuckindouche.

This post is now literally over. The End. Period. 

Street Justice

Posted by John

Every now and then you will find yourself in a situation where you have to take matters into your own hands. Not necessarily in a violent way, rather just in a way that gets things done. You can’t anticipate these situations, you just have to be on a constant vigil and be ready for anything. When this happens – when you are called upon to act – it can be referred to as many things but it’s most simply known by two words: Street Justice.

Street Justice I

The other night I was in the back half of the house when I heard the wife, who was in the front half, scream out, “Oh my god! Someone just hit my car!”

“What!” I yelled back.

“Someone just hit my goddamn car!”

Immediately one thought went racing through my head: “Ahh, shit! It’s time for some street justice!!!” Right away I grabbed a flashlight and the baseball bat that’s conveniently located next to the night stand, “Oh yeah, it’s definitely time for some street justice!”

But I paused for just a second to consider what I was about to do. I mean honestly, if it was a hit and run, what was I going to do? Chase after the car and beat it mercilessly into submission with the bat? Or worse yet, what if it wasn’t a hit and run? What if it was just some old lady with nightblindness who stopped her car after the hit and was getting out to survey the damage? Then I come bursting out the front door of my house violently waving a baseball bat above my head, screaming something about street justice; then what? Not only would our car be wrecked but then some old lady’s intestines would be spilt out all over the ground after I scared the bowels right out of her abdomen. No one wants to deal with that.

So cooler heads prevailed and I set the bat down. But I still went tearing out the front door with a flashlight and let me tell you, this was the brightest flashlight known to man. Seriously, it could stir Edison from his grave. If you don’t have an LED flashlight yet you need to get one. I’m not sure if it’s powered by battery or nuclear fusion, it’s that bright.

It turns out Sara’s car had in fact been hit. The girlfriend of our neighbor across the street backed out of his driveway directly into it the back fender of Sara’s car. It also turns out that the baseball bat wasn’t necessary because she’d already spilled her bowels onto the ground out of guilt and embarrassment for her stupidity. She was overly apologetic and kept saying, “I don’t even know what to do here.” Oh, I’ll tell you what you do: First you get some karate chops to your face courtesy of me, then you pay us some fucking money to fix our car. It’s called street justice, baby!  

As it turns out there was barely any damage to either car, just some scratches to the paint and nothing to get upset about so we called it a wash and let her off the hook. Still, I couldn’t help but think about the situation from the girl’s perspective and laugh: She’s backing out of the driveway after watching some American Idol and making out with her boyfriend only to unwittingly run into someone else’s car, then all the sudden before she can even get out of her vehicle there is some bearded maniac racing across the yard waving a flashlight like he’s doing an interpretive dance of God on the first day of creation and he’s got this crazed look in his eyes like if he had a baseball bat he’d beat her face in. Maybe she didn’t get an official dose of street justice but I guarantee she’ll never back into our car again.

Street Justice II

The other night we went to a little bar here in town to listen to some bluegrass. It was an amazing experience and a great time. Now, anyone who knows me will find it hard to believe I was out listening to bluegrass. The truth is, I’m just barely getting into it so I can’t even call myself a fan of the genre, but I can say it sure is fun music, especially live.

The thing about bluegrass is though, there is absolutely no irony, figurative language, metaphor, or analogy in the music whatsoever. For instance, when Flatt & Scruggs sing Blue Ridge Cabin Home they are literally singing about a cabin in the Blue Ridge Mountains. Maybe that cabin doesn’t exist in reality but the cabin isn’t a metaphor for something else; it’s literally just a cabin in the mountains.

Not to belittle the genre at all, in fact I’m citing this as evidence that it is just a fun, whimsical type of music. Anyone can understand and enjoy a bluegrass song and in fact just about anyone can write one. All you have to do is mention your home state, the house you grew up in, which should be on top of a mountain or in a valley, mention your mama and daddy, then throw in something that is unquestionably country like corn, or trucks, or whiskey. Here, I’ll write a bluegrass song right now:

Oh, I feel so far from my country home

The home of my mama and daddy

So far from the mountains I used to roam

Oh, I miss my home in sweet Hawaii

In my truck on that old dirt trail

Up in the hills and down to the valley

Past the fields of corn all in a bale

Just a-sippin’ some moonshine in Waikiki

See, they don’t even know what bluegrass is in Hawaii and most bluegrass fans don’t even know Hawaii is a state, but I just wrote a song about it.

That’s not the point of this though. The point is, we were out listening to some bluegrass the other night when I went to the bar to settle a tab and some dude shoved me in my back. It wasn’t like a little bump or anything, he shoved me hard enough that I stumbled forward and had to maneuver to keep my balance. As soon as it happened there was one thought on my mind, “Ahh, shit! Somebody’s gettin’ a dose of street justice tonight!”

When I turned around I was mad as a hornet and I must have looked like a rabid mongoose because the guy just about emptied his bowels right there. It turns out it’s not because he was afraid of me; it was because he mistook me for someone else. “Oh man, I am so sorry! I thought you were someone else!” he apologized profusely. What? Somebody else? What is wrong with you? You know what, I’ll tell you what’s wrong with you – you need a little street justice in your face right now. 

Alas, I didn’t administer and street justice but seriously, who goes around shoving strangers in a bar? And actually, what kind of person tries to greet their friend by pushing his face into a bar? Worse yet, what kind of person goes around shoving people that he isn’t 100% sure are friends of his? Honestly? Who does that? I think I was just more flabbergasted than anything. “Oh, hey, sorry – I thought you were someone else I know that looks drunk and homeless.” Who does that?

--

Come to think of it, sometimes street justice is best administered with a baseball bat and some fists, but sometimes street justice is just self-administered, especially when someone is a complete dumbass. So in conclusion – you should be constantly vigilant and always at the ready whenever you might be called into action, and sometimes that action is just making sure you personally don’t do anything like a dumbass. 

High Society

Posted by John

Owning a home is a major milestone in anyone’s life. Personally I love having a house. It gives me an endless supply of projects to occupy my time that would otherwise be spent watching Jersey Shore. But there are times, especially in an older house, when being a home owner is like showing up on a blind date only to find out it’s Snooki – the worst thing ever. Like having your heater go out two days before Thanksgiving, or finding mold growing rampantly through your garage, or like the other day when our shower drain clogged up and it took over an hour for the bathtub to drain.

It was one of those situations where you hope if you ignore it long it enough it will just go away. So that’s what I did. I ignored it all day Monday until Tuesday morning when the bathtub filled up again and took two hours to drain. Apparently the clog hadn’t fixed itself. So I ignored it again all day Tuesday until Wednesday morning when the bathtub filled up again and took four hours to drain. Apparently the clog hadn’t fixed itself yet again. So I ignored it all day Wednesday until Thursday morning when the bathtub filled up again and then didn’t drain at all. I thought to myself, “Huh, this is strange. I’ve been ignoring this issue for four days now; I would have thought it would have fixed itself already.”

At that point I had a decision to make: I could either get under the house and fix the problem myself, or call a plumber and have him fix it for me. On the one hand, I’m a man and my house is my domain and I should have complete sovereignty over my domain, including the shower drain and any clogs therein. On the other hand, it was a disgusting shower drain, it was under my house, and it was 20 degrees outside. So I relinquished my domain (and my checkbook) to a plumber.

The plumber came out right away Thursday afternoon. When I opened the door upon his arrival I was met by a man who was clearly hardened by decades of hard labor and maybe even some hard time, reeking of cigarettes and coffee. He said, “You call zee plum-er?” In the thickest Russian accent I’ve heard since I last watched a Matt Damon movie. Seriously, I thought I was staring into the face of one of the bad guys from the Bourne films or John Malkovich’s character in Rounders. I was taken aback and paused long enough that he said again, “You call zee plum-er?”

Uh, I called a plumber, not Teddy KGB… “Yes. Yes I called a plumber.”

“Where is zee probe-lem?”

I ushered him into the bathroom where I explained there was a clog in the shower drain. He took a quick look at the standing water in the bathtub and then he did this thing where he raised his eyebrows, scrunched up his nose, stuck out his lower lip, turned the corners of his mouth down, shrugged his shoulders and rocked slightly from side to side. It was an expression he repeated several times throughout his visit that I came to realize was Russian for, “Well, you’re screwed,” or “I’m about to screw you over,” or “If you screw me over, I’m going to kill you.” So he did the expression, rocking from side to side, and said, “It eez clog.”

Oh, really? Well thanks for that diagnosis, Teddy. With your powers of deduction I’m fucking amazed your career in espionage for the Kremlin was cut so short.

I just stared back at him and said, “Okay?”

“Uhh… I go under zee house.”

So he disappeared under my house to either inspect my pipes or wire up some C4 explosives, then came back a few moments later and put on that same expression, rocked slightly from side to side, and said, “It eez clog…”

Ahh, fucking-a, man; I am so glad I called you.

“I feex for you for two-twventy-fiv…”

“Two-twenty-five? Did you say $225???”

“Uhh, yes… two-twventy-fiv.”

Listen here, Teddy KGB – I will admit it was impressive how you screwed Matt Damon out of those two stacks of high society in that poker movie, but I am not about to let you screw me out of $225 to get a fucking hairball out of my shower drain. “I’m sorry, I can’t justify $225. I’ll fix it myself.”

Then he did that expression again, rocked from side to side a bit, and said, “No?” in a manner that made me realize I may have just asked him to shank me with a shard of metal. “No two-twventy-fiv? Vell… I cut you deal. Two-hundred doh-lars…”

Oh, Teddy, really you’re too generous. $200? Wow. I was thinking along the lines of $50, but $200 is a much, much better deal. “No. No I can’t justify that. For $200 I’ll fix it myself.”

Then he did that expression again, rocked from side to side a bit, and said, “No?” in a manner that made me realize I may have just asked him to shank me with a shard of metal again. “Vell, how much you pay?”

How much I pay? Honestly? Are we negotiating here or are you extorting me? ”Listen, I appreciate you coming out, but I’ll take care of it myself.”

“Zoot yur-self. Eet is no hair off my back.”

Alright, dude - It’s “no skin off your back”. Skin! Fuck it, whatever; just get out.

Having wrestled the domain of my house back from the Russians, I was forced to fix the problem myself, so I suited up in the worst work clothes I could find and went to the most godawful place on earth – the crawlspace beneath my house.

Cramped beneath my house in the freezing cold I tried about 8 different things to free the clog from the drain without any success. Finally I got pretty aggressive and archaic and grabbed an old broom handle because it was a smaller diameter than the drainpipe and just start violently ramming it through the drain in effort to dislodge the clog as if I were packing ammunition into the barrel of a canon. If that doesn’t sound gross enough, as I was forcing the clog down the drain I was also simultaneously violating a very basic law of fluid dynamics; a law that quite honestly should not be violated in that type of situation. As I was ramming the clog through the drain I was compressing all the water and air downstream of the clog  causing it to build up a lot of pressure in the pipe so just as I pushed the clog to a point where the pipe expanded  and the clog was free, suddenly all that pressure was released, unleashing a torrent of shower drain waste back through the pipe and out onto my face, shirt, and pants. I almost threw up. I realize it was my shower waste, but it was still pretty fucking disgusting. Looking at myself covered from head to toe I expected to turn around and find Mike Rowe from that show Dirty Jobs crouched behind me in the crawlspace. He wasn’t.

When it was all said and done at least I had the satisfaction of knowing I had fixed the problem myself, maintained sovereignty over my domain, didn’t give any money to the KGB, and hadn’t been shanked by a metal shard. All in all the only loss was some otherwise perfectly fine work clothes that were covered in shower waste that had to go directly into the dumpster… right next to an otherwise perfectly fine suitcase covered in cat shit.

The overall lesson here is, you can ignore a problem all you want and hope it fixes itself but when the bad guy from a Matt Damon movie shows up to fix it for you, it’s time to get off your ass and get to work. 

Male Pattern Beardness

Posted by John

The other day I alluded to a recent situation where I, or more accurately, my beard, was cornered by a drunk, old, redneck cougar at a bar here in town. While the situation made for a humorous retelling it also left an indelible impression on my psyche and one that I have yet to be able to shake free.

To digress for a moment, the subject of beards is not a new one to the blog. My friend Chris and I wrote extensively about them on the previous blog here, here, here and here. While I wouldn’t consider myself an expert on the subject of beards I have had one in some form or another for the better part of my existence and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t spend a good deal of time meditating on the subject for one reason or another. I know that sounds weird to the vast majority of the readers out there with two X chromosomes, but it’s true and if you think most dudes don’t spend time thinking about beards, well then that’s why you’re from Venus and that’s why they don’t have beards there. Seriously, even dudes without beards think about beards. Maybe they don’t long for one but they certainly appreciate their existence and at least wonder what it would be like to have one. It’s just part of being a man.

While contemplating the subject extensively I’ve come up with only a few reason why dudes normally grow beards:

1.    Religious reasons.

2.    They don’t like the way their naked face looks/need a change of appearance.

3.    They’re lazy/hate shaving.

4.    They wear one through the winter months to stay warm.

5.    They were born in Maine, Wisconsin or Oregon.

I don’t have any religious connections to a beard and I wasn’t born in any of the above listed states so I rule out those two reasons right off the bat. While I’ve never grown a beard for the express purpose of keeping my face warm during the winter months, I can’t deny that it does help at least a little bit towards that end but what gets overlooked in that scenario, and the reason I would not specifically grow a beard to keep my cheeks cozy, is the beard as a repository for frozen snot factor. When it’s cold it’s inevitable your nose will leak onto your upper lip. In the absence of a beard/mustache you’ll notice that snot almost immediately and make the effort to wipe it up with a tissue, your sleeve, or the index finger of your gloved hand. In the presence of a beard/mustache that inevitable snot will collect in that upper lip facial hair, generally unbeknownst to the individual, where it will freeze into little snot icicles, much to the amusement/disgust of onlookers and much to the subconscious embarrassment of the beard wearer. Therefore, the beard-for-warmth argument isn’t reason enough for me to grow one.

That means my beards have always been for reason 2 or 3 above. It’s true that I don’t like the look of my naked face, primarily because even at the age of 30 I look like a pre-pubescent schoolgirl. And while I’ve not yet found the need to grow a beard to change my appearance because I committed a crime or to combat a quarter-life crisis or something, I understand that utility of it. No, my beard presently exists because of reason 3. And really, as my friend Chris and I wrote about before, there is a sub-reason to number 3 that I subscribe to as well – the beard acts as a buffer to society at large and makes an otherwise approachable, congenial countenance gruff, unpleasant, and distant. Think of it this way – if the naked face is a Volkswagen Beetle, the beard is a windowless van.  

The whole point is I have a beard now because I’m lazy, I hate shaving, and I hate people.

The only reason I bring any of this up is, the incident the other week with Granny Moses at the bar has been far from isolated and it’s properly pissing me off. In fact, barely a day has gone by in the past month when someone hasn’t made a comment directly to me about the beard, and usually one of admiration, and usually that someone is a dude who I either barely know or who is a complete stranger to me.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m used to getting compliments on the beard by complete strangers all the time, just as I’m used to giving out complements to beards of complete strangers; it just never happens verbally. It’s always in the form of a barely noticeable dude-nod from some guy in passing as if to say, “Nice beard, dude,” that’s always followed by a nearly imperceptible dude-nod of acknowledgement back, as if to say, “Thanks; I know.”

To actually stop and verbally compliment someone’s beard, especially a complete stranger, is on par with sexual harassment. Yeah, I said it. It’s unwelcome, uncomfortable, and unacceptable. If that’s not the definition of harassment then Randy in the construction administration department is just a really nice, sweet guy who enjoys talking exclusively with women in the office. All day. You know who I’m talking about; he works at your office too.

Just last week alone I had one guy walk past my desk, stop, walk back, pause, and say, “That’s a nice looking beard. Wish mine came in that thick…” Okay, you are now officially on my national beard offender registry. That was followed the next day by another guy, whom I’ve never spoken to, who walked by me, stopped, and said almost in a whisper like he was telling me a naughty secret, “I really like the beard…” Alright, well if I wake up tomorrow and my beard is missing I’m going to issue an Amber Alert and hunt you down like the facial hair predator you are. That was then followed the next day by some complete stranger who said, “Man, that beard is really coming in there. I’ve been growing this one for like two weeks…” as he stared longingly at my chin Hey, easy buddy, my eyes are up here. Up here.

The point is, this shit has to stop and it has to stop now. And don’t give me that bullshit like, “Well if you don’t want people to stare at you beard then don’t flaunt it out there with all your open collar shirts and v-neck sweaters and whatnot.” God didn’t give me this beard so I could wear a bandana around my face all day or something. 

It’s one thing If you’ve known someone without a beard and then days or weeks later you see them again and they suddenly have a beard; that would warrant a comment like, “Nice beard, dude,” or “Oh, I see you’re going with the beard; looks good,” or “You look like a bear’s ass.”

All of those comments are justified. But when you see someone every day of the week and they’ve been growing a beard little by little for the past three months, a comment is not warranted, justified, or welcome. It’s not like I went to the eye doctor and came home with a pair of glasses after 3 decades of 20/20 vision. It’s not like I came into work one Monday with a tattoo of a leprechaun on my face. It’s not like one day I became a woman. All of those drastic changes would warrant some sort of comment to acknowledge a difference in appearance. And worse yet, a beard does not need a comment from a complete stranger. A facial tattoo of a little green man would and should garner a comment. A Mohawk would inspire some recognition. A nipple instead of a nose would come with at least 8 comments a day. A beard is a beard any way you cut it and no beard needs a comment, especially creepy, lustful comments of longing and desire from dirty old men.

So to recap, the purpose of the beard is to inspire fear, isolation and anonymity; not admiration, envy and dare I say, predatorial yearning. If you see a beard, show some class and keep your eyes and your comments to yourself. If you see my beard, if you so much as think about complementing it you better believe it has a whistle, a can of mace, and it took a semester of kickboxing in college so back off, asshole.  

Year of the Deuce

Posted by John

Ringing in the New Year brings with it some very bizarre traditions, not the least of which is the New Year’s Resolution.

Resolutions are really just benchmarks for guilt and disappointment. You resolve to join a gym then when you go only once you just feel guilt and disappointment every month when you write the check for your membership fees. You resolve to go on a diet then you just feel guilty and disappointed every time you eat a Chipotle burrito. You resolve to get divorced then she takes half your money and you feel guilty and disappointed for being poor and lonely. In this light, the New Year’s Resolution just sounds like a bad idea.

I’m not one to make resolutions but if I were I think I’d resolve to do things worse than the year before so I’m not disappointed if/when I actually do. For instance, I might resolve to drink more and sit around on my ass being lazy. If that’s what ends up happening then I’ll probably have a very relaxing and/or drunk year, absent of any guilt or disappointment, which actually sounds like a really good year. If I fail in my resolution and instead drink less and adopt a more active lifestyle, then at least I’ll feel good about myself and again, no guilt or disappointment. It’s a win-win.

I think my cat is a fan of the New Year’s Resolutions too but he only has one and he just renews it every year – “Make my owner’s lives more miserable than the year before.”

He got off to a glorious start when we returned from our Christmas holiday to find not one but two steaming piles of cat shit on the bathmat. The house has wood floors literally from wall to wall with only a small bathmat in the bathroom and a doormat at the front door. That’s it. He just so happened to drop deuce deuces on one of those small rugs, and the white one at that. Good show old chap. He has a shitting accuracy equivalent to a predator drone in South Waziristan.

He followed that up a few nights later by trying to shit on our comforter right in front of me. I was quick to react though, saving it from any permanent damage. Unfortunately it was at the sacrifice of the first things I could get my hands on – one of my small tool boxes. I was positively seething as I had to crouch behind the sonofabitch and watch him fill up one of my perfectly fine toolboxes with a huge load of shit.

Then last night I came home just in time to find him perched on top of one of our suitcases unloading a massive deposit. The thing is, he absolutely loves that suitcase. We leave it setting out all the time because he loves to play on it, sleep on it, hump his mice on it, you name it. I don’t know if it’s the material of the suitcase he loves so much or the smell something like that picks up from the outside world during its travels. Whatever it is, he loves that thing to death. So why on earth would you shit on your most favorite thing in the world? It’s beyond explanation.

What do you do with a suitcase that has a pile of cat diarrhea on it? Do you clean it up? Put a little Resolve on that? Maybe some club soda? What? I’ll tell you what you do – you take it straight to the dumpster. There is no amount of cleaning that can be performed that will clear my mind of the thought that there was a huge pile of cat shit on my suitcase as I’m wheeling it through the concourse at the airport. It just has to go into the trash.

I want to give the cat the benefit of the doubt that he isn’t just a maniacal little sonofabitch; that he may actually be sick and this is his way of showing it. But he shows absolutely no other signs of illness and appears to strut around the house after one of these episodes like he doesn’t have a care in the world; like he just enjoys shitting on our possessions from time to time. I don’t get it.

After the suitcase performance last night I suppose it was inevitable that he’d try to top himself in some way so it wasn’t surprising to hear him yowling from the living room shortly after, like he was the ringleader of a circus getting everyone fired up for the majesty of what was about to unfold before them. The wife was in the kitchen while I was in the bedroom and neither of us hesitated to jump into action. I immediately went to the litter box, yanked it out of the hall closet and ripped the lid off while the wife scooped him up to throw him inside of it. She didn’t make it. I can tell you now from experience there is nothing more hilarious while simultaneously terrifying than the sight of your wife holding your cat in the air by its front paws while diarrhea is spraying out of it’s ass like a goddamn garden hose onto the floor. Even funnier/more terrifying was the fact that while this was happening the wife was still trying to get the cat to the litter box so when the dust finally settled the scene looked like this: the wife still holding the cat by his front arms, dangling over the litter box, nary a drop of poop left in his body, and a line of cat shit arcing all the way from the living room to the hall closet, stopping 12” shy of the actual litter box. The look on the wife’s face was one of sheer horror; the look on my face was one of absolute disbelief; the look on the cat’s face, still dangling in the air, was one of, “WHAT THE DEUCE JUST HAPPENED!?! One second I’m trying to squeeze out a fart and next thing I know I’m being vaulted through the air like a goddamn feline trapeze artist with shit pouring out of my ass like I’m crop dusting the house with diarrhea! What the hell is going on here???”

The cleanup from such an accident looks a lot like that of the Exxon Valdez oil spill – lots of paper towel pontoons to contain the waste and plenty of Dawn dish soap to clean up the fur of the animals caught in the disaster.

So what do you do with a cat that shits wherever the wind takes him? You call the vet and get a dose of kitty Flagyl, which is basically like a sphincter cork. That’ll show him. I came home from work today to find him positively furious, staring at me with eyes full of rage like he was thinking, “What the fuck did you do with my suitcase? Where is it? Did you throw it away? Huh? Did you?”

I stared back as if to say, “Listen, shithead, you’re the one that crapped all over it; what did you want me to do?”

“What did I want you to do? You’re my goddamn owner; I’m a goddamn cat; you’re supposed to clean up my shit wherever it is and my life is supposed to go on uninterrupted. Oh boy, I’m mad as a hornet right now and I’m going to show you that you have messed with the wrong SOB, muchacho! Watch this; I’m just going to squat down over your favorite shoes right here and just… uhh… squeeze a little bit… errrr… and drop a nice… grrr… steaming,,, ergh… deu-… Hey! What in the hell is going on here?!? Why the fuck can I not take a shit right now??? I used to be able to do this on command. Did you do this to me??? Is this your doing??? Oh, if it is, so help me God, when this wears off I will unleash a fury and vengeance upon this household the likes of which has never been seen! You thought this was going to be the Year of the Tiger? Ha! I scoff at your silly zodiac signs. No, no… heretofore 2010 will be known as the Year of the Deuce! Did you hear me? Year of the Deuce I tell you!!! Hahahahahaha!!!”

Happy New Decade

Posted by John

I hope everyone had a great New Year’s Eve full of overly crowded bars, ridiculously priced drinks, and more than one expectation falling flat before the ball even dropped… or at least that’s how New Year’s Eve used to be for me in the past. This year, fortunately, was not like that at all. After an enjoyable evening among friends I was fast asleep by 12:30, not, for once, because I was passed out, dreaming about how in the past 10 years I feel like I’ve aged 40. Seriously, I’m old as shit now.

At the end of every year, and certainly at the end of every decade, it seems like everyone is making lists. Lists of the top movies, best albums, worst dressed, biggest hookups, most shocking breakups, blah, blah, blah. How about this list:

Top Ten Ways the Aughts Made Me Feel Old As Shit:

1. I wake up in pain now. Not like headache/hangover pain; like my body hurts as if I’ve been through an unsanctioned cage match with Kimbo Slice. That kind of pain. Sleep is supposed to be restful, relaxing and regenerative. Bullshit. I wake up feeling like I’ve been beaten mercilessly by a man who is the direct descendent of a silverback gorilla.

2. I recently came to the realization that children’s cereals are no longer good for me. It’s not like they don’t taste good anymore; nothing could be further from the truth. In fact they still taste awesome, like if I someday meet God and he’s eating a bowl of Fruit Loops I’ll be like, “Fucking-A, man, I knew it! I knew you created that shit. It just tastes too damn good.” No, I came to the realization that regardless of how good it tastes and no matter how great that sugar rush feels immediately following, it’s not worth the inevitable sugar crash that comes 30 minutes later like you’ve fallen off a cliff made of Cocoa Puffs. When you’re driving to work and the thought actually crosses your mind that it’s worth the risk of a head on collision to close your eyes just for a chance at a few more seconds of sleep, it’s time to get off the Frosted Flakes in the morning. Now I eat fucking Fiber One and stuff with flax in it and shit. I don’t even know what flax is. Oh, don’t get my wrong, my colon loves me now. My taste buds, on the other hand, hate me like the devil.

3. I now feel closer in age to people who are 40 than people who are 20. Seriously, I look at 20 year-olds and think, “Goddamnit, who raised you? Where did you learn to behave like this???” While I look at 40 year-olds and think shit like, “Hmm, he sure does drive a sensible car…” What??? What does that even mean and why am I thinking it??? I mean, my brain is telling me I still want to be 20 but my body is telling me that in a year from now I’ll wish I was only 40. Just the other day over Christmas I had a bit too much to drink with the fam and as an impulsive joke thought it would be funny to shotgun a beer, so I did. Then I dropkicked the can from the patio into the backyard and pulled me goddamn hamstring. When I went to retrieve the can in the morning it was still ¾’s full. I swore to God the night before it was empty. What’s wrong with me? When I was 20 I would shotgun a beer for breakfast. Now 3 ounces of beer overwhelms my esophagus like I’m drowning on the Titanic and apparently also deteriorates the muscle quality in my legs.

4. I look forward to the weekends not so I can sleep in; so I can go to bed early and get up even earlier. It used to be if a Saturday didn’t consist of at least 2 hours of TBS it was a strenuous day. Now I have lists of shit that I want to get done and I’m disappointed if I don’t. “Ah, fuck me! I was supposed to go to Petland this afternoon but I had to wait in the goddamn line at Sears then my dry-cleaning wasn’t ready when it was supposed to be so now we’re going to be late to dinner and I’m just going to have to get cat food tomorrow after a trim the hedges and before I run to Darren’s to borrow his leaf blower! There just isn’t enough time in the day!” I wish I was making that up.

5. When I was 20 I’d have conversations about someday being the CEO of my own engineering firm, or owning a bunch of restaurants, or starting up a brewery. Now I just have discussions about retirement. And not like retirement so I can travel the world and do a bunch of shit I’ve always wanted to do, but retirement so I can have a regularly scheduled nap at 2 PM.

6. Younger females used to ignore me, now they call me ‘sir’; older women used to ignore me, now they hit on me. We were out the other night at an establishment where the bartender looked like she was about 20. When I bellied up to order a beer she asked, “What can I get for your sir?”

“Sir? Well, no need to be so formal; it’s not like I’ve been knighted or anything, hehehe…” She stared back at me blankly. Ah, shit, I’m such an old douchebag.

Then I looked over to see a 65 year-old woman drunk off her ass standing next to me looking me up and down.

“That’s a nice beard you have there,” she said in a raspy voice that only comes from 4 decades of cigarettes and beer.

“Uhhh… thanks. You should tell me my wife that, she tends to disagree…” I said as I started to quiver and my bowels loosened into my pants a little bit.

“Nah… nah, that’s a good lookin’ beard,” she said with a wry grin, “You’re a good lookin’ guy…”

Oh, wow, I am not prepared for this situation. What is the proper protocol for surviving an encounter with a hillbilly cougar?  Don’t make eye contact? Make a lot of noise to scare it off? Climb the nearest tree? Ah shit! She’s starting to advance. Oh boy, I did not think I was going to go out like this…

7. We make reservations for dinner now. It used to be that a reservation was where I went to gamble and a 45-minute wait at Outback was an opportunity to get a beer at the bar. Now I get pissed off when the table isn’t ready when I get there and it stresses me out when we get seated in a ‘bad’ section of the restaurant. When did I get so cranky?

8. When I was 20 all I thought about was making out with chicks. Now when I see two people kiss, even two attractive people, it just grosses the shit out of me. Especially teenagers. If I see two kids making out at the movies or something I just think, “Ah, come on now, that is just disgusting. You better hope she doesn’t have a cold, dude; you’ll be sick for a week.”

9. I don’t understand that outfits 20 year-olds wear these days. Not like I don’t understand why they’re wearing it; more like I don’t understand what they’re wearing. Like the girls who wear the extra long shirts, tights and boots. Ten years ago I would have dedicated a lot of time and effort to figuring out how I could make out with someone wearing something like that. Now I’m just thinking, “What’s going on here? It looks like you forgot your pants. Did you seriously forget trousers today or was this ensemble somehow intentional? It was intentional? Seriously? My nightmare is being out in public without any pants on yet here you are. How is this happening?”

10. I’m tired all the time. At least once a week someone stops me and says, “Wow, you look tired.” No, actually this is just my face now. Just the other week we did Christmas dinner with my grandparents; my grandmother, who just spent a few days in the hospital was like, “You’re looking awfully tired…” Ah, for fuck’s sake, Grandma, you were just in the hospital and I’m the one that looks tired??? Jesus, this decade is wearing me down.