Friday, December 19, 2014

Sadness

Another gem, this one from 2010. I have a few more drafts, will post them then back to your previously scheduled shenaniganistas.

Sadness...

In lieu of your usual haikueygooeyness, I would like to post a poem by one of my favorite poets, Leon Phelps:

What is love?
What is this longing in our hearts for togetherness?
Is it not the sweetest flower?
Does not this flower of love have the fragrant aroma of fine fine dining?
Does not the wind love the dirt? Is not love not unlike the unlikly not it is unliking to?
Are you with someone tonight? Do not question your love. Take your lover by the hand. Release the power within yourself. You heard me release the power.
Tame the wild cosmos with a whisper.
Conquer heaven with one intimate caress.
Thats right, don't be shy, whip out everything you've got, and do it in da butt!!

BY LEON PHELPS!!

Sadness

Getting old is a sad time. Not in the trousers, since I seem to be only getting hornier at more and more inopportune times than I used to (sorry, Old Lady in Front of me at Walmart, that WASNT a garden hoe!), but in other ways. I used to be able to go to work, listen to Flanders or Crazy Eyed Santa for literally MINUTES at a time, go to karate, get home and masturbate furiously onto my neighbor's lawn (or my neighbor, whichever) and it was a good night. Hell, even last year I played football, did karate, and failed to satisfy my wife on a regular basis. I thought turning 30 would be the beginning of my drop off, little did I know how fast said drop off would hit.

Woke up this morning aching all over, annoyed at those damn kids outside at the bus stop yelling about some damn video game, and my pee came out in 3 streams instead of one. In my more youthful days, that meant chlamydia, but now it means sadness and olde age.... or chlamydia, I'm not a doctor.

Anyway, getting older seems to have some great benefits. You can be annoying as fuck, and no one can punch you in the face for it. Take Super Mario.

Super Mario is a fat guy with a delicious mustache at my dojo. He's a nice enough fella, easygoing and a great cook. Super Mario is also old. This comes into play OFTEN. He has roughly 493120894 ailments that he will list and describe anytime he has a chance to corner you. In my younger days, I was able to stand there and nod appreciatively. Now, I turn and walk away as he is talking because I realize as I get older there's no point in wasting my already shortened time on this earth listening to shit I don't feel like listening to. This stance also leads to less sexy time at home, but more satisfying quiet time for me.

Before I go on with why Super Mario annoys me sometimes, let me start by saying I like the man. He is not a no talent douchemeister like the majority of people are after pleasantries are exchanged and the real person comes out, and that is saying something in this day and age. But sometimes he annoys me so much I want to blowdry my sphincter with a rusty jackhammer instead of listening to his praddling abominations of conversation.

Yesterday, I am practicing kicking people in the face, and he comes up and says "Got a computer question for ya" and then just looks at me with an actually quite adorable grin on his face, I guess waiting for me to beg him to tell me his issue cause Lord knows I can't get enough computer work! After waiting with raised eyebrows I ask nicely "What the fuck is the problem get to it" and he looks like he is hurt, but goes on to tell me his issue which eludes me right now because I wasn't listening. Fine, I tell him to bring his machine in and I will take a gander at it. He takes "I will look at it" for "please tell me your issue 2 more times in the greatest detail you can muster as I try to walk away from you" and happily follows suit, peppering in new ailments (he comes to karate, and MUST line up ahead of me, but can't do any of the physical stuff, which is fine, but he sometimes makes a big deal about it, which is NOT fine) and how far he can lift his arm and what happened to his third ball and blah blah blah...

I mean honestly, I don't bore people with my myriad issues, or if I do I would hope they would tell me to shut the fuck up, why do people feel it is OK to tell me all about every problem they have? Is it the big nose? Do the Brown Bear eyes draw you into a false sense of security? I know I sound mean but after a while.... FUCK!

You know, reading my post over, I am sounding more and more like Smeagol. Maybe he had it right (in this regard). When someone started saying something he didn't want to hear, they got a "I don't wanna hear that shit" and he called them a bitch niggie and walked off. I used to think it was because he was a douche, and he was, but not for that. If you look over your life, try to think of all the times you had to stand there and listen to some ass-nugget tell you stories about their cat or their sciattica or their trip to Honduras or the time they got syphillis from fucking that dead midget, and add that shit up. That is wasted time. My New Year's Resolution is to let a little Smeagol shine through me in that respect. WHen someone starts telling me about their toe getting broken that one time they were eating a pickle and tripped over a curb, instead of relinquishing my soul to the utter depths of unfathomable annoyance, I am gonna take a "fuck that, bitch niggie" moment and tell them (nicely) to eat shit and die and walk off. Will it lead to awkward social situations? I would bet not, because I am also a large black man, so it is assumed I have a natural bad attitude and I have done little to nothing to dispel that ideal.

As to Super Mario, I also got told he is heavily addicted to porn, so maybe it won't be so bad, couldn't be worse than that time I tried to clean Smeag's computer off and it had been so heavily infested with hardcore porn it was almost unusable... we shall see.

Thursday, December 18, 2014

A Midsummer Nights Raptor


from the depths it came

Lands fall to plague before it

failure quells it's ire

EDITOR'S Note: These are drafts I wrote and never finished. I am going to post them because I'm lazy. You're welcome.


Ah Fall, that special time of year. Like the Brown Bear it is a time when the Stevester's thoughts and dreams take on a tender, softer appearance, for the time of hibernation is near, the Baconator has sated his hunger, and the air is crisp with the sweet smell of apples and pumpkin spice.


It is a different story for a certain wily raptor.


I am moving. I signed the paperwork, I got a place in Smithville that overlooks a pretty good-sized fishing pond (though with my incessant fear of fish that selling point was totally wasted on me) and is right off the town square, the final sign that I am moving up in the world. In a time honored tradition carried by my family for generations, instead of calling professional movers or renting a truck, I had planned on simply getting a caravan of my family together, and having them help me move with the promises of money, and then as tradition dictates never pay them.


"I thought this post was about Smeagol, I'ma stop reading right now, baby" you might be saying to yourself, playing funk guitar and eating exotic cheeses while riding a unicycle naked, but hear me out, I will get to that raptor soon enough.


I was wondering if I should invite that raptor along to help move. I know he would feel offended if he was not asked, which once he finds out I live closer to him might lead to even more thefts when he comes over, but the initial amount of stuff that would "disappear" during the move is going to be a big hit as well... .


Smeagol has a long history of stealing things or begging you into oblivion during moving. He is no longer allowed to help my aunt move as he stole stuff like soda and PS2 games from our 4 and 5 year old nephews (this is an allegation until I receive proof, but it IS kinda strange that he came up with some sweet new games that he claimed he "got from a pawn shop" soon thereafter. I know for a fact that when Smeagol enters a pawn shop they move right for the register because he only has one kind of business in a pawn shop and purchasing things is not it).


Of course he is not allowed to help my sister move, and I do not think my mom would allow him to help, either.


Another reason is he has the strength of an ape.....action figure from a GI Joe toy set. Remember when I told you he needed to put 2 pairs of socks on each hand and needed mover assist for tiny boxes?


On the other hand, Smeagol does have his strengths.If he has the idea that he can get more from you by not stealing, he will make sure everything you wanted to make the transition to your new home makes it there, with his raptor eyes of carnage. He will also tattle tale on anyone else who dares steal, even if he ends up stealing it soon thereafter. I dunno... should a brown bear trust a raptor? This is unprecedented.

Tuesday, December 16, 2014

random meander
through an oft-filled clime
great, now I got herps

I never finished my Rocksmith story I see, and maybe I'll do that one day... in the meantime;

I got a dog. A dog I fucking picked, not my wife. A dog I like, that is a man's dog, enormous in physical stature, but with no brain whatsoever. Observe:

So I was walking in to work 20 minutes late as usual (if I leave for work when I'm supposed to actually already be there I don't feel like I'm giving the muthafuckin man extra) and I notice there's a huge damn black dog leaning against the building in the breezeway, looking at me and wagging his tail hopefully. He's huge. For some reason, I'm not scared though, like Smeagol always was when the police got behind him or when some bitch niggie pulled up in a Mustang Dominator; sure, it didn't matter that he was in a 1992 Pontiac Grand Am with 200k miles on it, he was still gonna race, trust... he just knew he'd lose unless he REALLY slicked his hair back and clawed the wheel.

Anyway, people are wandering by and feeding this dog their lunches, which he gobbles up and then greedily keeps sitting there waiting for more, which should have been a red flag, but I'm fucking dumb. I call my wife and tell her there's a puppy that she needs to come get. She gets all excited like when I promised I'd watch Pretty Woman with her as long as she put out during the boring parts, but unlike that situation she did not leave unsatisfied and disappointed and wondering what I'd done to her credit.

She shows up, opens the door to get out, the dog jumps in the backseat and we now have a dog.

Couple weeks after we get him, we're making spaghetti with garlic bread. We put the industrial sized Country Crock butter up on the counter, and next to it a smaller 1lb tub of garlic butter. The dog (Link), is tall enough he can walk up to a counter and just take things off of it, but we assume since it's not meat, it's goddamned BUTTER, we'll be fine. At this point we learn a black lab/ Great Dane mix is a popular dog because they are super nice, but not super smart. I come downstairs a few minutes later to put stuff up, and the butter is gone. The 4 fucking pound tub, and the smaller 1 pound garlic butter tub.... gone. Link is sitting there like he has no idea what happened, but when you have a pure jet black dog with a large dollop of butter on his nose, you know what that asshole did.

Later that night, I'm on the computer in my room, and Link is doing his evening ritual of jumping around in a circle bucking his back legs out like a moron. All of a sudden he stops and looks at me. I just have enough time to turn and smile because he's adorable, and out comes 4 pounds of curdled warm butter and cat shit with pee flavored sprinkles on it, all over the carpet in the boys' room. We had to use a snow shovel to clean that shit up.

"Who gives a fuck about your fucking dog asshole where's the Smeagol stories" you may be saying aloud on a crowded bus, possibly while masturbating to a picture of Jeremy. Fuck you, asshole, but here is something I CAN offer you:

JJ has been complaining a little more than usual recently about Mystical's animal repository. I have some stories that I'll share at odd later dates, but suffice it to say she has too many animals. 8 cats, to be particular. They have odd fucking names like Sir Sergio Villalobos, Duke of Espanoza, and other random fucked up names. Has anyone ever called a cat and had the little shiteater turn and recognize their name? No? Dogs know their names. They don't know anything else, like "heel", "fetch", or "eat this peanut butter real slow", but they know their names. Cats do not, which is another reason they are stupid. But I digress.

Anyway, to hear JJ tell it, these cats run the fucking house: they constantly throw up, piss or shit wherever they damn well please, everyone is expected to know their names and give up their seats for them, and Mystical has these intricate back stories for each one. In very short form, I offer my favorite:

One of her cats, Sergio Jr., got out. This is cause for concern. For a week on Facebook she wrote these long, inane, incoherent diatribes about how Jesus and her favorite band are working to bring her damn cat home, and that it is a test by both of them to see how resolute she is and it's all to do with Mercury being in retrograde and I have no fucking idea. 7... fucking... days... of these long, LONGER THAN MY POSTS rants about this fucking cat. Finally JJ goes into the backyard and sees him, he runs from him and Mystical eyes him on the front porch. That night, after profusely thanking both Jeebus and Band Which Shall Not Be Named, she says she picked Sergio up off the porch, and whispered a prayer and then the name of the band into his ear, and he looked at her with solemn eyes as if to say: "I know"...

WTF. No, he fucking didn't. The cat wanted food, and was willing to reenter the abbatoir of fucking doom to get food. He didn't care about your random prayers. He doesn't care who your favorite band is. He didn't come back because the new album was coming out. He was goddamned hungry and that's all that mattered. He had a choice to make: fillet and eat my own asshole or go listen to the same CD every day all day for the rest of my days but get fed. For now... he chose the latter.

Tuesday, April 2, 2013

Let a bird go free
and if it returns to you
make it your dinner

Been a while, bitches, but I'm back. Smeagol is never going to be that raptor we know and love again, but maybe that's OK. He is still an asshole, so at least SOME of him is back...

Went to go see him with Mystical Retard, and he sees me and his eyes lit up and his thong constricted (gross), so I knew he was happy to see me. He then sees Mystical, and in his now-slurred speech says, clear as day, "Fuck off bitch!" If he had thrown a "niggie" at the end I would have giggled like a schoolgirl. In case you were wondering what a raptor's mother had to do to get his ire, wonder no more. She immediately started poking, prodding, looking at his weiner, just fuckin with him. "It's OK, I'm his mammy" she said while unceremoniously sticking a finger in his too-slow-to-stop-it clenching ass cheeks... if I ever get to that point I want to be put out of my misery.

Mystical is getting weirder and weirder. When Mercury goes into retrograde, a kind of pall of mysticism comes over her that makes what she says even MORE incompre-fuckin-hensible, and she already says shit so weird it makes you want to jam a cork up your ass after drinking a quart of laxatives.

Sometimes I feel bad for JJ as he is still living with them, as he gets to bear the brunt of the insanity. Mystical is an avid user of Facebook, and posts these diatribes that, if you understood what you were reading, would be the most inappropriate shit this side of a Caligula-style orgy. Every post has to do with hot lube and balls slapping asses and all manner of reference to her favorite band, who I won't give press to by mentioning their names but is your typical average to slightly above average alt rock garage band setups...

I'm going to go see Smeagol soon, but I can't bring myself to go alone. Not yet. I was actually in the neighborhood, and thought I'd share why, and didn't go by there...

ROCKSMITH

So I wanted to play Rocksmith. Here is a short story to show that if I had not been a cheap sack of shit I would have gotten the game for 40 dollars and a guitar for 19 and been playing it.

Starting price - $0.00

So, I went looking for the game, and see it's 39.99 at Ebgames. Im too cheap to pay 39.99. A little looking and I see the same game for 13.49 on Steam. Bazinga! I buy and download it.

Cost - 13.49

Well, Rocksmith is that game where you plug your REAL guitar into your game console with the SUPPLIED FUCKING SHIT CABLE. Guess what does NOT come with the Steam download??? You guessed it! A little looking and I see a cable for.... drumroll please... 29.99. with 7 dollar shipping.

Cost - 50.48

Fuck.

I wait patiently for a week and get the damn cable. Shows up, I plug it in... and nothing. Guess what? The plug does not work on my Windows XP computer!!! Awesome!

I figure I will go get a pickup for my acoustic guitar instead of buying a new one and start downloading the game to my laptop.

I see a story online where a guy got a pickup for 40 dollars so I assume I will only have to spend 10. The cheapest pickup I find is 86.00 fucking asshole dollars. Fuck that.

A quick search on Craigslist shows that there's a guy living 3 blocks over who would love to suck my cock, and also there's a couple really cheap guitars. The cock sucking guy does NOT have a guitar.

After seeing the cock guy I go back and there is a real cheap electric kids guitar for 25 dollars. It's pink. Fuck it, it's a game controller at this point so I tell the guy I'll be right there. I get there, he sold it. While trying not to shart in my car in his driveway I check craigslist on my phone, and there's another guitar 5 blocks from where Smeagol is for 40 dollars. The next day after work I run out to get it....

To be continued (I'm lazy, dammit)

Friday, August 26, 2011

The Ninja

Thong entanglement
claims the lives of thousands daily
get yourself checked out

So.... wow... it's been a while. Whats happened? Smeagol is in and out of the hospital and the nursing home, my sister said he is doing better but I haven't been to see him, and by "doing better" she means he tries to feel the ladies up while calling them names, and if that's the case I can only assume he will be released soon, which should kick assholes.

I also got my 4th degree blackbelt, which is cool, I guess, kinda made me wonder though: What more do I need to learn in order to defend myself? I always tell people "If all you want to do is defend yourself in your typical bathroom brawl (where all the fights I have ever been in have occured, the line to be first at the glory hole brings out the ugliest in all of us) you really only need to get to yellow or green belt. Anything past that is A) overkill, B) indication that you wish to become Chuck Norris, or C) a sign that you have an unhealthy addiction. To punching people. In the taint.

I'm still being asked to dress up in all manner of more and more inappropriate outfits, if you have seen my Elvis costume (or the honeybee, or the tutu, or the sugar plum fairy, or the Richard Simmons, or that time I showed up nude after eating 3 viagras) then you know the I no longer have any dignity, self respect, or spine. I wonder if anyone is still surprised since I dress up for all occasions, be they retirements, bar mitzvahs, interventions, or episodes of hoarding (by the way, does that show put your cluttered house into perspective or what???)

My mom's still crazy as all shitfuck, which is OK because we all love her, but her fascination/ stalking of all things Evan's Blue is getting a little out of hand. I mean REALLY out of hand...

My mom loves Evan's Blue. She loves them in the ass. This has led to a lot of consternation in her house, as because SHE loves them, then everyone else must. That includes, but is not limited to:

Concerts: My dad has come home from work to see her sitting on the front steps with a packed bag, and learned she bought tickets to a concert in Rockford that starts in 5 hours. This has happened more than once.

CDs: This has been my greatest annoyance. Mystical asked me to burn some Evans CDs. I did so, and gave them to her. She then called me 3 FUCKIN DAYS later to inform me she had listened to the CDs so much they melted, and could I burn a couple copies of the CDs now? I made 5 a piece. What the hell. What....the.....FUUUUUUCK. I love my mom, but seriously, how fucking annoying is it to be at home, excited because you're alone so you decide to jack one while watching Teen Wolf (don't judge), and then you get a phone call because Mercury is in Retrograde and Andromidus-Persei VIII is orbiting .666 million parsecs from Ganymede and so all of the cds she was listening to spontaneously combusted and turned into little butterflies, VAMPIRE butterflies with an unquenchable bloodlust and a natural exoskeleton that did 1D4 hit dice of mana damage whenever they cast Shocking Ray due to their Charisma modifiers, and could I burn 48390284 more so she could have them last 2 days?

Goofy Videos: I thought these were great, but JJ and Toboggan had these looks.... I know I am going to take flak for this, because I have never said anything inappropriate before, but they looked like 2 poor, starving, beaten down Jewish people in a concentration camp, just without the hope. I was asked to come down and film a short video of her that she is on a "very strict deadline" to make for them. I get there, and it's hilarious, she knows all the words, there's takes, she has to take a moment to get into character, the works. JJ is standing there with this most godawful look on his face, which only makes it funnier. In the video she wants at random times for a little doll to be thrust into the foreground of the camera, and this job was given to JJ. The fact that he was genuinely and demonstrably annoyed, coupled with the fact that he had apparently done it so many times he knew EXACTLY when to do it, and did so with so little gusto I assumed he was atrophied, meant this was not his first rodeo. I still have the video if you're interested.

Facebook: O....M.....F.....S.....G... (Oh My Fucking Shitfuck Gonads)... Mystical loves her some Facebook. First thing's first: A status is just that... a one sentence fucking STATUS. Her statuses (statii? Statutory rape?) are epic diatribes written in the 5th person by the acclaimed Viking berzerker Kraag the Unfettered, high ruler of Valeria in the Upper Danish Norsk region of the 3rd century, beater of all manner of Beast, killer of Beowulf, and hi ruler of Zamunda. I mean seriously, some of these statuses are 4 paragraphs long, and by "paragraph" I mean a huge 300 word fucking block of text that no one can possibly read or comprehend. I am now positive she is using code like those Windtalkers in WWII to send nuclear secrets to Krsyphillistan. She also has friended random people at my job, which lead to the inevitable "Hey dude your mom friended me, now I'm gonna pound her in the browniehole" remarks. OK maybe he didn't make those remarks but I would if I was him and that's just weird. Haven't I been through enough? I worked with someone who had seen and possibly stuffed money into her unobstructed smelly hairhole at one point, I assumed it could not get any worse but it could. If Tylester befriends her, I must then kill myself.

Anyway, don't hold your breath for updates, I am not going to post too regularly, or when I do I might post 3 times in one day, though I haven't done anything 3 times in one day since my wife took the kids to the ozarks and I found out the playboy channel had free previews. Zing!

Friday, March 11, 2011

The DMV. Fuck you.

The DMV. Fuck you.

people in line, pissed
wond'ring why it takes so long
to get turned away.

Fuck the DMV. Fuck it in the ass. Do not use lube. Do not give it a reacharound. It is the skidmark of all society. It is the reason state workers are hated. It is the Mordor of all beauracracy. It is shit.

That's what I wanted to use as my haiku but could not find a way to limit it to the correct format.

So last year my license expired. I didn't realize it. Before it had expired I got a couple of tickets for doing 70 in a 40 and for failure to provide insurance (I have insurance, the paperwork was a week expired and I had not printed up my new cards yet). Please keep these 2 seemingly unrelated facts in mind as you read my lamentations.

I finally realize my license is expired and mosey on down to the Gladstone Drivers License Bureau to renew it, thinking I will simply have to pay a fine. By the way do you know what they call Gladstone? "Happy Rock". In all my dealings with the police there I think I know why it was named that. In 1847 It was the town of Inbred McRacistville, completely indistinguishable from any other town in Norther Missouri. Otis Jenkins III, a young black man, was caught making eye contact with the wagon wheel of the local sheriff, Adolf "Niggerhater" McNazi (no relation), and as was common practice back then, was fired upon with all manner of shotgun, rifle, and slingshot loaded wooden dildos. Being black, Otis easily jive danced his way Matrix-style around all of the projectiles, adding to the consternation of the townspeople, until one young man, Silas Gibson, picked up a random rock and threw it, hitting young Jackson right in his fuckin' eye and taking him down. At the fair trial/ hanging later on that morning, The judge praised young Silas, calling him a Lethal Weapon, keeping young Jackson from holding the town Ransom, and how he had such a Braveheart (do you see the picture I am painting here???) and officially renaming the town to Gladstone to commemorate such a happy occasion. The police there hold that brave tradition to this day, in ways I will be happy to elaborate on, though they oppress anyone who is poor just as much.

Anyway, I go get in line, sit down and look at some porn on my Android tablet, showing some sweet split hairy beaver pics to the 6 year old young man sitting next to me (hey, he's gonna see it soon anyway), until my number is called. Before I get into the raging shitstorm that is the DMV, let me ask a few rhetorical questions:

1. What the FUCK takes so goddamn long?! I give you a paper with a number on it. You stick it up your ass and then type my name in your computer. The computer says pay, and I do. DONE.

2. Why do they have 5 booths for DMV, 3 for drivers license and alt vehicle shit, and the DMV ones have 1 fuckin person working while the others have 2 people per station? Is it THAT complicated to give me a tag for my boat?

3. Why do they go on break 3 times per hour?

4. Canada...please explain.

Anyway, I head on up, politely throw my paperwork at the lady and scowl at her for wasting my time. 11 minutes of random typing and looking at the sheaf of docucrap I had to bring and she asks what my name is. WTF?! You can't tell who I am from my old drivers license, my registration, title, stool sample and VD card? (Hepatitis free since 2008!) I answer her stupid questions, and she informs me after wasting 20 minutes of my time after having me wait 45 minutes to talk to her by telling me I need my birth certificate. Why. Why do you fucking need that. There's no reason I can think of that my birth certificate would be needed. Also why can I not get that there? Why do I have to drive ACROSS town to get that, then to fucking shithole ass Liberty to pay property tax, but oh shit I lived in Platte County for 11 minutes so now I have to go to Platte City, it's no wonder people drive unlicensed or while suspended: they aren't criminals, they have NO idea how to maneuver through the shithole of a system we have in order to get their licenses so must spend their lives in a kind of purgatory for all eternity, being constantly harrassed and annoyed by all manner of douchebaggery both real and imagined, crying softly into their pillows as the Man gently thrusts his police baton into their....whoa. Sorry about that.

Anyway, long story slightly shorter, I go get my damn birth certificate, which now proves I was born in 'Murrica. Wait another 30 minutes, get the SAME FUCKING LADY who takes my shit, and starts going through it like she has never seen it before. Get all that done and....no license. I have warrants. I must pay compliance.

OK, I am going to take a little blame here. I got the tickets, the police officer informed me while sprinkling crack in my car that I could mail the money for the ticket in, and I would get a court date in the mail for the insurance. Fine. I will readily admit I threw the ticket on the counter when I got home and promptly forgot about it. I will say I NEVER got a court date for the other, and I told the lady this. She looked at my license and it had my old address. I TOLD the cop my new one. How do police ever catch criminals? This is mind boggling. I got the ticket in August of last year, and it's February. No one bothered to contact me or look for me or arrest me for 5 months?! She says maybe the ticket was sent to my old address but it's still my fault for not showing up to court. Not sure what kind of sense that makes. I head to the police station to pay "compliance", which turns out to be "All my fucking money I got back from taxes". THis takes the rest of the day as apparently while it is easy to book someone IN, getting them back OUT of jail is a lot more time consuming.

THe next day (this is day 3 of the saga, day 2 was spent running around getting documents) I head to the DMV again, wait in line, and give the lady the compliance. She takes my picture and I wait for 20 minutes to get my license. SHe calls me up and guess what? I have to go to court on one of those now. Awesome. I head down to the KC municipal court, wait in ANOTHER line for a little over an hour, listening to the people there talk proudly about how many times they have waited in that same line and telling me tips and interesting facts about the tellers ("Tracy there is faster but she just broke up with her boyfriend T-Dawg so she is not thinkin' real clear, Olga is slow as shit and she's on her period"...), all of which I ignore because I don't like black people. I get to the front of the line, the FUCKING network goes down. AS I am walking up. For all but ONE computer. In a line I am not in. I shit you not.

Wait in the other line for another hour, get to the front and they stamp "Compliance" on my paid tickets, I head up to court which is thankfully quick and then head back to the DMV. This is where the story SHOULD end. It does not.

I get there, there is a skinny black guy there now. Being black myself, I assume he will quickly process my paperwork because we have something in common. This does not happen. After the requisite Jive Handshake we all know he prints up my license after looking all my paperwork over, and then quickly picks up the phone and whispers into it for 4 minutes. WTH now? Well apparently I paid compliance to the police but I have to pay all manner of fees to reinstate my license. Fine, whatever - at this point I have spent a little over 600 fucking dollars to get my license. He takes the money, PRINTS UP MY LICENSE, types something in the computer, and then puts my license under his desk. I politely ask him WTF he did that for in a menacing tone and he informs me that they don't process payments for 24 hours just to make sure the payment clears the bank. I counter with while that is a sound business practice I paid him in CASH. He informs me that be that as it may they can't change the rules for one person otherwise anarchy would ensue and undead zombie kittens driving German panzer tanks would duct tape us to the floor and use our nipples as catnip while a morbidly obese man takes a shit on our chests and Muslims would take over the country all because he bended the rules for me. Whatever, I leave.

2 days later, after I go to court on the insurance ticket, I go back to get my license, and the same guy informs me that they are going to put my license in the mail, and that they STILL haven't processed my paperwork yet, because they are backed up. This boggles my mind, because that implies this is a daily occurence, and if so why is no one else complaining? Because they are still in line, that's why! He says my license will come "in a few days" and he's oh so sorry about all that. I can come back when the payment clears and get a duplicate for 12 more dollars if I like. I storm out.

Long story short, after waiting a week I go get a duplicate. Same guy tells me according to their records they sent my license out that morning, do I really want a dupe? Seriously....What....the.....Fuck. Never have I wanted to study bomb-making or just get a large car and bulldoze a building more. Putting up a NAMBLA Pedophiliac Drive-Thru would be a better use of a building than having a DMV there. Shoving my arm full force up an animals ass and unblocking it's impacted colon while it shits down my arm and into my shirt would be better than going through this process again.

Epilogue, still waiting on the original license they mailed out February 18...

What else....today is Smeagol's birthday, in honor of such a day I am going to the hospital to watch either Black Dynamite or MacGruber with him, well wishes are welcomed, insults will be rebuked with photos of Jeremy.

Tuesday, November 16, 2010

Ridicula.

damn you homeless guy
why do I even bother
you shit on my tire

First, before I begin, if you haven't already gotten it, At Home by Bill Bryson is one of the most interesting, thought provoking, fantastically chock full of useless facts that will annoy people and bring out your inner elitist books I have ever read. It really is fantastic, it's a history of the home and how it has evolved over the millenia, from the lowly bus station skank, to the high class, sophisticated, Fifth Avenue, bus station skank.

Smeagol update: Well kids, he's doing better, but still not to his normal self. He talks at about half speed, and moves like he is in water.... I'm not going to lie, it hurts to be there and see someone you love and who owes money to you going through that. Am I EVER going to get my 10 dollars back? All jokes aside, he is displaying glimpses of his old self, as when I guess Mystery got a ride from her mom's house 120 miles away, and he told her to get the hell out of his room as he had just woke up and didn't want to see that shit. Classy times. I am torn between forgetting about the past and feeling sorry for him because no one deserves what happened to him and wondering how much of this is karma and could have been avoided with one trip to the doctor's office, or, you know, asking someone at WORK because he works in the medical field. I do know Thanksgiving will not be the same without him... not looking good for him being able to make it out by then...

Anyway, on to other things. I recently picked up one of those Chinese knockoff ipads, and am pleased to say that for only 100 dollars you can safely rub one out to some bondage goat porn as they surf the web at a pretty decent clip! I also like letting people check it out then tell them I only really use it on the can after they touch it and lick their fingers. I do that because I am a classy guy, and because 80% of the time I am using it I AM on the can, so there's that.

Anyhoodles, we took the kids around for Halloween recently, and it led to some observations, observations I would like to share with you:

1. The child molesters that are not allowed to participate, do you think they are jacking off while looking out their curtains? Like I do when old ladies walk their dogs by my house? Well I'm not behind the curtains but still...

2. How fucking lazy have kids gotten? I remember when I was a lad we got dressed up, Mystical and Toboggan would drop us off at Mr. Z's on 39th and Volker Boulevard in Westport, and told us they would be back at 1030. We usually got dropped off at about 6. Smeagol was told to watch over us, so naturally as soon as the car pulled off he would tell us to go fuck ourselves, take what little candy we had started out with and run off with his buddies, probably to assault another wino who was just down on his luck.

We would walk ALL over Westport, and this was the 80s, when 3 out of 5 houses looked creepy anyway because back then the weird molester look was in for some reason, or maybe we were infested with the back then, I dunno... houses without lights on, fuck it we didn't care... and every once in awhile Smeags would come by, assault us and relieve us of our bounty, and disappear again. I miss those simpler times...

We get outside, and first, about every 7 out of 10 kids is getting DRIVEN from house to house by their cell phone yakkin moms, almost running us over and glaring at us when they have to stop talking long enough to apply the breaks..... WTF?! is it really that taxing on your fat ass to get out and walk around for 20 minutes?!
Fuck!

Anyway, kids are fucking lazy too.... my jizz-spawn walked around 2 fucking blocks and then started whining about being tired and could carry them. ?! I mean I thought I was a lazy shitsniffer because I would get tired before we made it to Gennessee, thinking back that was almost 2 miles in... I know, I know, I am old now because I am whining about how it used to be, but shit!

And the trust thing... we get home, I take my thong and nipple clamps off, the kids are already balls deep in candy, candy that could have razors or jizz or arsenic in it, I thought that was a well known tradition: wait until the parents check it and take all the good candy. It's a tradition passed down for generations, yo!

I recently had to have "the talk" with my oldest. How awkward can things get? Try explaining to your kid that if he plans to rub one out make sure he erases the history and uses a laptop so I don't have to walk in on him. Funny side fact: after we got done talking, later on that night, one of the checkout laptops was gone and he was downstairs. I had already heard that he was on some Harry Potter site but told the wife he was rubbing it out to necro porn. She was less than impressed both with my knowledge of the various types of porn but with my insinuation that our kid liked seeing dead people ravaged, but you know, fuck it if people can't take a joke.

So that's about it for now, I will be uploading my elvis pictures on facebook soon and will post some in here as well, I ought to start a business or something, I may have found my calling.