Weekend notes

It's been kind of a busy weekend so far, most of it involving the drinking of adult beverages. I know, hard to believe, huh?

I had to work until midnight on Friday, which usually means my old ass shuffles home directly after, but a couple of coworkers wanted to check out a new place called Zanzabar, so I tagged along.

Later that morning, a group of us were standing outside of the establishment, because apparently if there's anything cooler than going to a new place, it's loitering outside, as if to say "I'm so awesome I don't even have to enter the fucking building."

Of course, with such coolness comes a price: Running into crazy people without the benefit of in-house security. A woman walked up to me and asked me to hold her Pittsburgh Steelers hat while she removed her Pittsburgh Steelers sweatshirt, revealing some sort of Wal-Martish halter top. If she didn't have that hard, squinty look so common among white trash, she could have been a model. Ok, she could have been a model several years ago, but I'm old too so I'm not hatin' on her. At least not for that.

Cleavage shown by someone who might be a little long in the toof is old hat, but then she started talking. She was almost incoherently intoxicated, but we all speak "Drunk" so we understood her perfectly.

"Buy me a drink and I'll show you my boobs," she said to a group of amused/frightened twentysomethings standing by the door. Then she walked up to me, put her arm around me, said something about my height, and repeated her generous boob-for-booze offer.

"From up here I can pretty much see everything you have," I stated.

"Cheater! You're a cheater!" she slurred in response.

A few minutes later she suddenly remembered that the reason she was outside in the first place was because she had just been THROWN OUT of the bar! She didn't say why, probably because she didn't remember, but maybe because she was showing people her tits so they'd buy her drinks??? She pleaded with the guy at the door to let her back in, but he was resistant to her abundant charms.

When people stopped paying attention to her, the boobs came out anyway. She showed them to some guy young enough to be her son and then stumbled off to a bar down the road. There were still people in the Louisville area who hadn't seen her tits, and the night was relatively young.

After that we decided to head over to Nachbar, a stop only notable because we bought spicy beef jerky from an Amish guy at 2:30 in the morning. The man, known locally as "that Amish guy who sells beef jerky", makes the best beef jerky on Earth and sells it at bars to people who, according to his religion, are all hellbound.

He's a nice guy, though. He even told us an Amish joke:

Q: What do you get when you cross an Amish and a redneck?

A: Your horse up on blocks in the front yard.

Saturday was Brew at the Zoo, sponsored in part by our liquor store, so I worked at the event, serving beer to pretty ladies and the assorted male assholes they attract. They brought a lot of us, so we worked on a brilliant "one hour on, one hour off" schedule; meaning we could go around and eat food and sample beer when we weren't working. The weather was amazing, the incredibly large crowd was somewhat douchey but well-behaved, and best of all, I didn't have to see the store on a Saturday.

Today I'm not so lucky. I'm getting ready to go to work.

It's magic!

Before we begin my latest insignificant blurt of faux outrage, let me make it perfectly clear that I'm not a fan of magic in general or magicians in particular. I'll admit to liking the very first David Blaine special several years ago, when he was just doing card tricks on the street and freaking people out. Then he became an illusiondouche and started performing "stunts". I think his latest was trying to quarter-tilt his non-cootered hat and douse himself with Axe Body Spray while frozen in carbonite. I can't recall. Also, I admire Penn and Teller but think of them more as entertainers.

But for those exceptions, I normally find magicians to be closet pedophiles like Doug Henning or walking smegma like Chris Angel; and those are the big names. Usually when I think of magicians I think of an insurance salesman with a side gig of ruining children's parties.

However, despite my disinterest in magic and unease with the people who pretend to perform it, I FUCKING HATE THOSE SHOWS THAT REVEAL MAGICIAN'S SECRETS! I hate hate hate those shows. Not because they spoil the illusion, but because they assume there's actually something to spoil.

Revealing that "magic" isn't real is like devoting an hour of prime time television to the debunking of the Easter Bunny myth. I can only imagine their target audience, a bunch of Old Milwaukee-swilling layabouts, bragging to their respective common law wives, "See bitch, I done told you David Copperfield didn't really make the Statue of Liberty disappear. It was all a trick!"

Really? Do you mean that a closet alcoholic in an ill-fitting rented tuxedo didn't actually saw a woman in half? The fuck you say! You mean he didn't steady his shaky hands and cut through human flesh and bone with the kind of saw meant to trim small branches? He was tricking us the whole time? Damn, I feel like such a fool!

When I'm drunk it's best to not ask me a stupid question

I went to a wedding Saturday night, followed by a boozy reception, followed by an even boozier afterparty at a local bar. A younger acquaintance of mine, a guy in his late twenties, decided near the end of a drunken night to ask me "Todd, do you think my wife is hot?" with his wife standing right there.

Initially, I took the high road. I said something to the effect of "Your wife is a very attractive young lady (and she is), but of course I respect the sanctity of your marriage."

However, a few seconds later his wife walked away and I couldn't help but add "But if - god forbid - you were to die, I'd fuck her on top of your coffin."

Whenever Sarah Palin speaks the world gets a little dumber

My favorite TV show this past year was HBO's Eastbound and Down, a comedy about washed-up relief pitcher Kenny Powers. The best line so far was when Kenny was criticizing his stripper girlfriend's wardrobe: "Honey, I love you...I think you're a terrific girl...but you have clothes like a fucking dickhead." I'm sorry, that's so perfect it takes my fucking breath away. I use that insult, in different forms, all the time.

The comment works perfectly on Sarah Palin: "Sarah, you're an attractive woman, really...but you have political views like a fucking dickhead." See? It works. Or how about:

"Sarah, you're obviously a fertile lass...but you chose kid's names like a fucking dickhead."

Why do I pick on Sarah? Because she's running around the country scaring old people, that's why! Frankly, old people are annoying enough without Sarah telling them bullshit lies about "Death Panels". Now the easily duped think Health Care Reform = Shooting Granny Like She's One of Michael Vick's Underperforming Hounds.

Of course Sarah didn't invent the whole "Death Panels" deception. She isn't smart enough to think of such a devious ploy, but she is ruthless and ambitious enough to help spread the word.

I really like my congressman, Rep. John Yarmuth. When one of his collegues called for a moment of silence on the House floor for Michael Jackson, Yarmuth walked out of the room in protest, saying the idea "...made me sick to my stomach."

Just a few weeks ago, Rep. Yarmuth was invited to a bogus "town hall" organized by people who are trying to defeat him in 2010. It would be filled with GOP operatives from across the country posing as "concerned citizens" from Yarmuth's district. These plants would disrupt the proceedings and accuse Yarmuth of wanting to kill old people.

Yarmuth responded with this statement: "Fuck all y'all. If you think I'm going to waste my valuable time being ambushed by a bunch of right-wing nutsacks you must be as hopped up on pills as that smirking, self-satisfied fuck Rush Limbaugh. So basically, all of you can take turns taking a big slurp on my liberal dick."

Ok, that's what I would have said. Yarmuth politely declined the invitation.

My favorite quote from this health care "debate" comes from some crazy old man at a "town hall": "Keep the government away from my medicare!" I'm no longer for universal health care after hearing that, because someone that fucking stupid doesn't deserve medicare. He needs to be set adrift in the ocean and left to his own devices.

In fact, instead of the fictional "Death Panel", let's make the "Stupid Panel" a reality:

"Sir, do think Sarah Palin is qualified to run this country?"

"Yes. Yes, I most certainly do. (Pause) Hey, what are you doing?!"

"We're going to shoot you in the face with a high-powered semi-automatic weapon, sir. We're gathering your immediate family so they can witness your demise and perhaps learn something from your tragic, wasted life."

And the "Stupid Panel" would give no quarter to dumb people on the left:

"Ma'am, do you believe that George W. Bush blew up the World Trade Center?"

"I sure do."

You already know what happens next.

Death By Paper Cuts

There's a guy at work I call Death By Paper Cuts because he's always slightly annoying, but over time it adds up and pretty soon you're dead in the fucking gutter!

I don't want to despise DBPC because he has a speech impediment and the social skills of a Biblical-age leper, but he makes it god damn impossible. Words cannot do justice to the massive scope of this annoyance; you'd have to personally experience the rat-faced bastard to fully understand. He's smart enough to always know the right thing to say at the perfect moment to really piss you off, but he's too stupid to realize that one day it'll get him punched in his weaselly face.

I will say this: DBPC has managed to live thirty-plus years on this Earth without picking up a single friend. He is utterly friendless. Think about that for a second. As anti-social as I can be at times I've managed to con a few people here and there into becoming my friend. Fuck, even the kids who shot up Columbine High School had each other!

Death By Paper Cuts, however, is a solo act. He did have a female prisoner pen pal (it just keeps getting more pathetic, huh?), but upon her release she met him and decided to go back to her hometown of Farawayfromdeathbypapercuts, Kentucky. It's in the far eastern part of the state, I think. Suddenly abject poverty and a 60 percent illiteracy rate didn't seem so bad.

The other day the managers thought they saw DBPC doing something wrong on the store survaliance cameras. It turned out to be a misunderstanding, but EVERYONE was hoping he'd be fired. I feel guilty right this second for wishing that, but later today I'll go to work and he'll say something infuriating and the guilt will magically disappear; not unlike the prospect of someone actually liking him after he speaks.

The Perils and Perils of Online Dating

This is not an advice post. I don't seriously expect any of you to take dating advice from a guy whose personal soundtrack is "I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry" played on a continuous loop. These are just observations for you to consider before you act. In fact, I suggest you read some of my archives and anytime I've written about my actions regarding personal relationships, go ahead and do the exact opposite.

I've done some online dating in the past, meaning I've responded to "profiles" placed on various sites by single females. I've also placed a profile on a site or two, and although ignored for the most part, I have had a few enquiries. Here are a few things I've learned.

-If a woman announces she wants "No Drama" rest assured you're dealing with a Drama Queen. It wouldn't even occur to a lady who really hates drama to mention it in her ad, let alone make it the headline of said ad. Yeah, she wants lots of drama, she just doesn't want YOUR drama. Her drama is sweeping and majestic and pure; while your drama is small and trivial and sordid.

-It's the same way with girls who "don't want to play games". Yes, a lot of females truly don't want this, but the ones who mention games are already playing them. Naturally, her game is the Super Bowl. Your game is the "special" class playing Duck Duck Goose.

-Women who already have children are less likely to be charmed by your immaturity. And of course by "your" immaturity I mean "my" immaturity.

-Upon further reflection, women who don't have children aren't charmed by it either.

-If a female calls you "interesting" and you can almost see the quotes around the word as it comes out of her mouth, you will never ever see her again. Ever.

-Women who don't drink are the devil. Do you want to date the devil? Do you want to hang out with Sober Satan? Didn't think so.

-Find out if she has a really annoying laugh before you take her to see The Hangover. I realize this is technically advice and I said before to never take my advice, but go ahead and take it this time. Seriously.

-I would say if you know there isn't going to be a second date and she does the polite "pretend to offer to pay half the check" thing, go ahead and let her; but honestly I've never done this. And a couple of times I really should have. See? Even I don't follow my advice.

-If you are on yahoo personals and see a beautiful girl in her early twenties looking for men "Between 18 and 60" she's either an escort or a prisoner. Or both.

I realize this list may seem a tad sexist, but "female" is the only sex I date. If it makes you feel any better I want to punch ninety percent of the men I have to deal with on a daily basis; and I believe my own faults have been well documented on this site.

The end of beer as we know it?

To counter Miller Brewing's Genuine Draft 64-calorie beer, Budweiser - the King of Swill - has introduced 55-calorie Select, which I believe has to be legally classified as a "beer-like product", 'cause honey, this ain't beer! And yes, this is an actual product that actual "human beings" are buying.

If you're that concerned about your girlish figure (and this goes for the guys out there, too) just go ahead a drink a glass of water. That's zero calories. You can drink glass after glass of water until your internal organs shut down and you won't gain an ounce of scary weight.

But I understand that sorority girls need something to hold in the hand that isn't jacking off a total stranger, and they'd rather have a beer in said hand. Ladies and Gentlemen, introducing my newest innovation, Coors Ultra Tapeworm. That's right, there's a parasitic flatworm in every bottle and can! Drink beer after beer (and the high calorie pizza and wings that usually accompany beer) and actually lose weight!

Does that sound ridiculous? Not any more ridiculous than the country's two leading swill merchants waging a war to see which can most completely bastardize beer, one of society's great beverages. Can you imagine Bud Select 55 selling any place except this fucking pussy-ass country? Please walk into a pub in Dublin and try to get a 55-calorie beer. Soccer hooligans would kick you down the street and you'd be gang-raped in the town square. Okay probably not, but you'd be taunted unmercifully!

Fat Hitler and the Smelly Guy

It wasn't a particularly busy or eventful Saturday at work, but there were a few "interesting" customers who stopped by to make all of our lives richer/a living hell.

The first customer I'll profile was a man I nicknamed Fat Hitler, because well...he was an overweight individual who had one of those moustaches that's dark in the middle and light gray on either side, so from far away it looks like a Hitler.

Hey, those of you who read this blog and know me personally, listen up: If I ever, for any reason, start to resemble a hated despot, please tell me. Don't let me go out of the house looking like a dead ringer for Mussolini or Pol Pot. I have enough troubles.

I don't have a pithy name for the next offending customer, so let's just call him The Smelliest Motherfucker in the History of Civilization. Seriously, this guy fucking STANK. Customers were leaving the store to get away from him. Employees were hiding en mass in the back office. This man smelled like every cat in America simultaneously pissed on a landfill. Mother Teresa wouldn't have hugged him. If he died his smell would improve.

Note to my brother: Remember the girl with the horrid sewer-cooter from the Have a Nice Day Cafe? I would rather eat Thanksgiving dinner inside her pussy than ever have to smell this guy again.

So how was your day?

Someone got some stank on his hang low...

Louisville basketball coach Rick Pitino, pictured here in happier times, is in a bit of a pickle, so to speak.

It seems that in 2003 Rick decided to have after hours sex with a woman at Porcini's, a restaurant in Louisville. This tryst led to her pregnancy and Pitino, in the parlance of Jonah Hill's character in Knocked Up, got her a "schmismortion at the schmismortion clinic." It cost him $3,000 dollars, which leads me to believe the procedure was performed by Dr. Phil, followed by a self-help seminar and a gourmet meal. Seriously, that's a lot for an abortion.

The woman later married the basketball team's equipment manager (I'm not making this up), but when that inevitably fell apart she started trying to blackmail Pitino for more money, including college tuition for the children she actually carried to term.

Eventually Pitino called the FBI and they nabbed the woman for extortion. Everyone pretty much assumed the "sexual tryst" rumors were true, but most remained uncertain about the abortion talk.

Well, it all came out the other day. She had an abortion, financed by Pitino, and the Right to Lifers are going batshit about it. University of Louisville's pro life group, Cardinals for Life, the fiercest of the robin-sized extremists, issued a statement calling for Pitino to be fired.

First of all, I find it hard to believe that members of a fundamentalist "right to life" group are smart enough to get into a college. There's like an entrance exam and everything! But anyway...the group stated "If the University of Louisville doesn't fire Rick Pitino immediately, they are condoning the abortion of his child..."

Well, yeah...no shit. I'm sure there's a heavy pro choice contingency at the university. Condoning abortions is what we do. Most of us aren't as blunt about it, but when you're pro choice you're saying "People are going to have abortions and I'm basically cool with that." Not all of the women who have abortions were raped by a retarded uncle or are in grave danger of dying if they deliver a baby. Unfortunately, some are star-fucking gold diggers who get banged by adulterous scumbags on the table of a closed restaurant. They're all colors in the pro choice rainbow.

Yes, I'm being a bit cavalier, aren't I? But I didn't arrive at a pro choice stance without doing some serious thinking. Sitting around eating and thinking was what I did when I was younger and my peers were out having a good time, and I gave this a lot of thought. It would be wonderful if all pregnancies were perfect and wanted, but that isn't the case in the real world. Are we going to tell women what to do with their bodies? If so our society is nothing more than the Taliban with pizza delivery.

In the end, Rick Pitino cheated on his wife and gave the University of Louisville a very public black eye. The university has every right to fire him, but they won't because basketball makes money and they're opening a gazillion dollar arena downtown in 2010, with Louisville men's basketball as the only confirmed tenant. They aren't about to hand this revenue machine over to one of Pitino's weak-ass proteges, most of whom can barely manage to score an under table handjob at Dairy Queen!

I suck at getting people to like me

If I had a nickel for every time I was politely rejected by a woman, I'd have quite a few nickels, let me tell you. The lady always tells me how great I am, but just not great for her. It's a nicer version of this:

"Todd, you are a really great guy and any woman would be lucky to have you. Except for me. Me, I'd rather drink a gallon of dumpster run-off and pierce my labia with a dirty toothpick than be in the same room as you. All of the other girls on Earth would be crazy not to want to go out with you, even though I'd sooner fill my uterus with liquid nitrogen and hit it with a sledgehammer before I'd even talk to you on the phone."

I recently had a nice young lady tell me she didn't want to see me, talk to me on the phone, or IM me, but "If I run into you at a bar, I hope you say 'hi'." I'm glad she isn't going to let her overwhelming distain for my very being get in the way of social niceties. I think Halmark should start a line of "If We Happen to Randomly Meet in Public Let's Acknowledge Each Other's Existences" greeting cards in her honor.

But I'm not mad at her, or any of the girls who've rejected me, because when I think about it, they MADE THE RIGHT DECISION. Really, I'm no bargain. I'm broke, overweight, not particularly handsome, and I'm a lousy dancer. Also, even though when sober I possess a fiercely keen bullshit detector, I have a bad habit of getting drunk and believing what I'm told. That one gets me every time.

This was going to be a much angrier post but I just can't manage to stay mad. I guess if I didn't have such a massive case of self-loathing it would bother me more when other people treat me like shit.

I'll miss you most of all, Ghetto Smurf

The female "custodian" at work was fired yesterday. She was known as Ghetto Smurf because of her affected faux-gangsta speech patterns and squeaky, high-pitched voice. She also had a unibrow to rival Bigfoot's and dandruff like Ally Sheedy in The Breakfast Club. So she'll no longer make a meager salary for wandering around the store with a dirty mop, staring creepily at customers and coworkers, and then announcing two hours into her shift that she's sick and needs to go home. There's a rumor going around that she crapped her pants the other day, so maybe she really was sick.

Ghetto Smurf had replaced our former "custodian", the immortal 3-D Teef, so named because his giant buck front toofises seem to "come right at you." 3-D Teef was originally hired as a stocker but proved too stupid to find items in the warehouse and put them in their proper places on the shelf. I think he's illiterate, and not a heartwarmingly charming kind of illiterate, like the young con in Shawshank Redemption; I'm talking a not able to distinquish different shapes kind of stupid.

I believe I mentioned once that I had to reprimand an employee for standing at the front of the store howling like a dog. That was 3-D Teef in all of his moronic glory. He was finally fired for picking up a $16 mega-can of cashews, taking them into the break room, and tearing into them. He did all of this right in front of our Food Manager, who saw him grab the cashews and followed him to the back.

As 3-D Teef did his Walk of Shame after getting canned, he complained to no one in particular "They fired me for stealin' sumthun I don't even like. I thought they was peanuts."

See? He couldn't distinguish shapes! I knew it!

For some reason it's hard to find quality people who'll empty garbage and clean toilets for minimum wage.

John Hughes

When John Hughes died a few days ago, the memories of his films came flooding back. Just a few of my favorites are Sixteen Candles; Planes, Trains and Automobiles; Ferris Bueller's Day Off; National Lampoon's Vacation; and Uncle Buck.

When Hughes wrote Pretty in Pink (directed by his friend Howard Deutsch) he had Molly Ringwald's character reject Andrew McCarthy (as most free-thinking humans would), but test audiences didn't like it, so the studio changed the ending. As soon as the film was finished he already had a script ready for Some Kind of Wonderful, which has the exact same plot as Pretty in Pink but the ending that Hughes wanted. He even hired the same director.

I think I like Some Kind of Wonderful a little more, mainly because Andrew McCarthy isn't in it. Andrew McCarthy may be the worst actor in the history of talking pictures. He has one acting move: Reacting to any conflict with a look of abject terror on his face. Can you imagine directing this clown?

"Andrew, your character is experiencing a minor inconvenience. Can you possibly NOT look like someone watching an elementary school burn to the ground?"

"Sorry dude...this is all I got."

"Okay, that's a wrap then. Let's break for lunch."

There was always talk of a sequel to The Breakfast Club. First they were all going to be in college, then as the years passed they were supposed to meet at a high school reunion (even though they were all in different grades, but whatever). If Hughes ever finished a script for The Breakfast Club 2: The Autumn Years they should make it in his honor.

Hughes spent his last years as kind of a recluse; he was last photographed in 2001 and stopped cutting his toenails 17 years ago. Ok, I made that last one up.

In closing, it is pretty obvious that I suck at writing memorials. Do I regret using the death of a talented writer as an excuse to rag on Andrew McCarthy? Of course not. Do I wish I had better articulated how John Hughes almost single-handedly changed the tone of teen films? Of course.

Shitburger Alert!

The new G.I. Joe movie is coming out soon and the trailer looks just god awful. Also, the studio is refusing to preview the movie for critics. That usually means only one thing: It's an unwatchable pile of possum shit and the producers want to try to cash in with a big opening weekend before poor word-of-mouth buries it.

I had no desire to see this movie anyway, but be warned that it's most certainly a wretched cinematic abortion. If this movie is as crappy as advance word has it, I hope it fails miserably. I love it when a terrible film loses a lot of money. Conversely, when a dumb, lazy, by-the-numbers movie does well, it fills me with rage and sadness. Dear, sweet, stupid American public, let's stop rewarding garbage, ok?

Besides, I have it on good word that for ever dollar of profit made by G.I. Joe, a borderline angel will descend into hell. One of those iffy angels could be your grandpa. Do you want that on your conscience, grandpa-hell-sender?

Let down again?

It rained a lot this morning and parts of Louisville flooded. That's nobody's fault but that bitter cunt Mother Nature, but there was an incident that once again reflected poorly on the city's ability to handle anything beyond "75 and sunny".

Due to the flooding, heavy traffic, and overall shittiness of the morning, our store wasn't very busy this a.m., so my cigarette-smoking coworkers were toking up on the company dime even more than usual. One of them noticed a lot of smoke coming from the apartment complex behind our shopping center. It was pretty obvious that lightening had hit a building and started a pretty major fire.

Since we're nothing if not good citizens, we tried to call 911. There was no answer.

Let me repeat that: 911 did not answer our call. Or the one after that. Or the one after that. Or...you get the picture. I guess in hindsight we could have called a fire department directly, but isn't the point of 911 that you don't have to have the number of a police/fire department handy?

I realize the city was incredibly fucked up this morning, but no answer at all? No recording? No elevator music? No "Please press '1' if you can see a building burning to the ground"?

We do have a posted phone number to the Hurstbourne Acres police chief, so we called him and he used his magic Batman phone to alert the proper authorities. Five different fire departments arrived shortly thereafter, and the firemen did a fine job of keeping the blaze contained to the one building.

Given the unusal circumstances of the day, was I wrong to expect someone to answer the phone?

K "Well" Fed

See what I did there? I called Kevin Federline "K 'Well' Fed" because he's gained a lot of weight! HAHAHAHA!

When is it okay for a fat guy like me to make fun of another fat guy? When the other fat guy is a raging douchebag like Kevin Federline, that's when.

But it isn't the bowling ball he's smuggling in his midsection that caught my attention; it's his squatty little Cotton Hill legs! Is it just those ridiculous novelty-sized ghetto shorts making his legs look like that, or did Britney Spears pay someone to remove his shins?

Either way, he's got a big gut and he's playing golf. Welcome to middle-age before thirty, Kev.