Tuesday, January 30, 2007

I Gotta go where it’s Warm (part II)

After the fall, I realized my car doors were frozen shut, along with the trunk of the car, which of course contained my ice scraper. I ransacked the kitchen drawer for the sharpest knife I could find; skated back to the driveway and chiseled my way into my car.

Although they look nice, leather seats are just a bad idea. They are comfortable on average for about four months out of twelve. For the other months the seats serve no practicality at all. Leather will fry or freeze your ass, just not in the right sequence of months where an ass would require either frying or freezing. But truth be told, on this day, the frozen seat served as a much welcomed ice pack.

As I turned the key in the ignition the car made a sound that can be best described as a cross between a wounded elephant and a life-long smoker drawing a terminal breath. After several “just take the bus today asshole” groans and hacks the car reluctantly started. Besides the sub-zero leather seats the windows were frozen as well, I felt like I was perched inside a glacier. The few minutes it took for the heat come on felt more like an hour. Finally, I could feel the numbness leave my extremities; which is always a positive sign.

Because I needed extra time to clean off the car and get the heater to work, then wait for the car to warm up to defrost the windows I was already forty-five minutes late for work before I left my driveway.

Then I tried to make up the time by driving like a maniac because my boss is a jag-off who arrives at the office an hour earlier than anyone else at all times, regardless of the weather. He also lives the furthest from the office which only makes things worse for everyone else. I could hear dickwad already; “If I got here on time, you can get here on time, you just need to leave earlier when the weather is going to bad” pulsing through my ears as I maneuvered through the icy road like I was an Iditarod team captain. It’s just then that my estimated time of arrival was halted by the over cautious motorists. You know the type; could be a man or a woman doesn’t matter. They never go one mph over the speed limit on a clear and dry 70 degree spring day, and ride in the left lane while doing so. They know you’re pissed and want them to move over, but they just don’t give a rat’s ass. On most days their car simulates the lead funeral car; you know, the one that's carrying the corpse. The row of cars trailing are flashing high beams , beeping, cursing, flipping the bird, but that over cautious motorist just doesn’t care, he is oblivious to all and he knows the speed limit and a rule is a rule.

On snowy days the cautious motorist really shines. He knows the reduced speed limit is in effect, he’s the only person on the road who knows what that reduced speed limit is, and by God he will stay 10mph below it all times. He taps the brakes in an exaggerated manner every 30 feet or so, to keep all of the trailing motorists in check, and to make sure our commute eats up roughly half of our eight hour work day.

Another annoying snow day commuter is one I like to call “the tank commander”; Soccer mom cleans just enough of her Range Rover windows to see the road, the rest of the car is still snow covered. She notches small rectangles on the windshield, back windows, driver and passenger side windows so her beady eyes can peer out onto the road. Her Sherman launches snowdrifts on my windshield because I happen to be lucky enough to be right behind her. Of course I’m fresh out of wiper fluid so I can’t fend off the barrage, so eventually it’s like I’m driving legally blind.

I could only squint though the areas between the muck on the windshield. The only car I could make out was a rusted I’d say late-seventies Cutlass Supreme with hanging muffler in the right lane with a memorial label in it’s back window that read; “In Loving Memory of Greg Babchak 1982-2006”. I felt bad for the person driving the car and wondered how they are connected to the deceased and how well they are coping with the loss. But then I came to my senses and only really felt bad for Greg Babchak, well, because he is dead. Then I wondered if the person in the car loved or hated Greg because they paid tribute to him on the window of a piece of shit rusted out ’78 Cutlass Supreme? Maybe Greg was a real prick who didn’t have many friends and the few he did have didn’t want to waste a late model Mercedes window in his memory? If nothing else these thoughts temporarily took my mind off the icy roads and the prick awaiting me at the office…

Monday, January 29, 2007

I Gotta go where it’s Warm (part I)

The next time I hear the word “wintery mix” my unmotivated ass is staying home, especially if I hear it on a Monday morning.. “Wintery mix” is a cute little compound word created by the weather forecasting community. It’s a veiled way of saying “We don’t have a freakin’ clue on what’s going to fall from the sky today so let’s just cover all the possible scenarios shall we?” Snow..Maybe? Rain..Maybe? Freezing rain…Maybe?. A frozen meteor… Sure, why not?

You and I have just as good a shot at forecasting wintertime misery as well as any of the Doppler radar worshipping geeks on the local news.

Due to forecast uncertainty I left the house with the following ensemble of gear: umbrella, boots, shovel, gloves, raincoat, hat, and flashlight. I looked like a schizophrenic poster boy in a vacation in Florida ad. Carrying all this shit made my balance worse that it usually is, so after my ass hit the icy driveway I slid feet first into my car door with the ferocity of a hitter trying to stretch a bloop single into a double.

My tailbone hurt like a son of a bitch from the fall. My next door neighbor; a male nurse named Garth and his friend/domestic partner Jay happened to be leaving their love nest at the same exact time and saw me take the spill. They ran over in matching Ugg boots and helped me to my feet. To avoid any possible awkwardness, I apologized to Garth and Jay in advance before clutching my throbbing ass area and told both; “It’s nothing personal”.

Garth looked at me and said “No offense taken Will, we saw you fall, it appears that you bruised your coccyx” . “If you really saw the fall you’d realize that I fell on my ass, not my front so my cocks is fine, and it needs no attention… medical or otherwise!” I gruntingly responded.

Garth said “Your coccyx is your tailbone, about three inches north of your rectum, and above and between the buttocks muscles” My inner monologue said the following: “Does he know these facts because of his job as a nurse, or because of his fascination with all things butt?” I was proud of myself for not blurting out this question to Garth and Jay. I have a surplus of neighbors who already hate me and I don’t know if they are accepting any new applicants. I thanked them for their help and they went on their way to the hospital where they work together on the same floor as register nurses.

From my experiences I know that when a husband and wife work together it usually leads to divorce. I’ve seen it happen twice, and they were the only two married couples that I ever worked with. Ironically, both couples met at work, and after the divorce one of the spouses had to leave the company because if they stayed someone would have been killed, or at the very least seriously injured. The one woman left her husband for another guy at work. After the divorce, both the woman and her new boyfriend left the company; much to the delight of the rest of us.

We didn’t want to get caught up in the gun play if and when the jilted ex-husband finally went postal on the happy new couple in the lunchroom. You see, the ex had coke bottle glasses and the realistic chance of him only mowing down just those two without any collateral damage (i.e. the rest of us) was real remote. We were all caught between a rock and hard place. None of us wanted to die, but nobody wanted chip in to get the poor bastard Lasik surgery either. So we did the next best thing; we got coke bottles hooked-up with another woman as soon as possible, and made sure she didn’t work with us. Thank you e-Harmony.com!

I don’t know how it works for gay couples?? Could it be the same? This is a topic ‘Ellen’ may want to tackle sometime. The old saying “Don’t get your honey where you get money” suddenly comes to mind...

Monday, January 22, 2007

Baby You Can Drive My Car…Right To The Bank

Heather, Heather, Heather. Now that it’s over between you and Sir Paul can I call you? Email? Fax? IM? Please. I can’t play multiple instruments, I can’t even write silly love songs, but I can do whatever you say, whenever you say.. real good.

Landmines… I hate ‘em too
The Fur Trade in Canada…Let’s get those bastards, not the seals.. the bad canucks!
The war in Iraq...terrible idea! What’s that Heather? You support the war in Iraq? Yes me too. Cheers Tony Blair. Splendid job, simply splendid!

Paul and Heather Mills; who were married in June 2002 in a lavish ceremony at an Ireland castle. McCartney and his soon-to-be ex-wife had a daughter, Beatrice Milly, in October 2003. Paul blamed the media for the deterioration of their marriage. Yeah, sure the media is to blame, that’s it! That’s like blaming the internet for my calloused hands, poor eye site and unquenchable appetite for pornography,. Bad analogy, nevermind.

Paul, don’t you think it has more to do with the fact that you are 63 and she is 38?

You have platinum albums older than her! She thinks Sgt. Pepper was the nice police officer who helped find her kitty as a child.

Paul McCartney wrote some of the greatest music and lyrics of all time. Yet he didn’t feel the need to spend a few hours to scribe a pre-nup? Paul refused claiming a pre-nup to be “unromantic”. Note to Paul – even more unromantic than the pre-nup is the full-on reaming you took sans lubricant.

Now Sir Paul McCartney will give Heather Mills a $62 million cash and property payoff to end their bitter divorce battle, it was reported yesterday. Not a bad windfall for four years of marriage! Paul was on tour for probably a year or so of the four, so she it wasn’t even four full years.

I can hear Yoko now yapping “You grow girl!” English translation “You go girl!” Poor John and George are turning over in their graves or just stirring in their cremation urns, and Ringo is looking to round up some more has-beens for his “All-Star” 2007 summer ’tour.

Sunday, January 14, 2007

If it Really was Football Somebody Would Care

David Beckham is set to become the second highest-paid athlete in United States after signing a five-year contract worth up to $250 million with Major League Soccer team Los Angeles Galaxy.

Who new LA had a soccer team? Better yet, who new there was a professional soccer league in America? And who the hell in America is going to give a rat’s ass about David Beckham?

He is a thirty-four year old soccer player he should be playing in a senior league by now. Beckham is married to Posh Spice, she is the one Eddie Murphy didn’t knock up, I think?

Beckham and Posh are hoping to maintain celebrity status long after his soccer days are over. They are two good looking people with no discernable talents other than his fading soccer skills and her lip-synching talent. Like a Britney and K-Fed, if Federline played soccer and Posh was fat.

The problem is LA is already over-loaded with even better looking people with less discernable talents trying to get noticed. In fact, on the Richter scale of good looking people in LA, Becks and Posh aren’t posting any aftershocks.

The allegiance with Tom-Kat is already creeping people out. Be careful Becks, Tom might get his non-medicated little hands on some of that cash. Can you say “David Beckham Scientology Sports Center”??

Your post soccer days will be spent teaching the Travolta kids how to properly corner kick while dodging Kirstie Alley sexual advances.

Beckham’s soccer alone won’t get him noticed in America unless he kills somebody on the field. Even then it will be buried underneath the high school baseball scores in the last page of the sport section.

We don’t care about soccer and we have less patience for celebrities with no talent. If you don’t believe me just ask Paris Hilton, K-Fed, or Ryan Seacrest.

In order for us to truly care about Becks and Posh there has to be more than there is right now. A fight with Rosie or Trump, rehab for Vicodin , a throw down with the Paparazzi.

Maybe a taped threesome with any of the following: Pam Anderson, Paris Hilton, or Clay Aiken would greatly help advance your celebrity status?

Soccer alone ain’t going to do it.

Thursday, January 11, 2007

The Threesome from Hell

The only similarly between Trump and Rosie is the fact that his ego is roughly the same size as her ass, and they both really stink. If Barbara Walters has another facelift she will interview guests through her short and curlies.

As painful as it might be let’s look at Rosie first: She is a paranoid lesbian who can’t keep her lips closed (no pun intended). First she attacks poor little Kelly Ripa about the Clay Aiken incident accusing Kelly of gay bashing. This is problematic on two fronts, first Kelly did no such thing, what she said to Aiken was “ I don’t know where that hands been”. It seems like a fair statement to make since he put his bare hand on her open mouth. Rosie took this as homophobic, I took this as maybe Kelly thinks Clay may not wash properly after wiping. It was only after a public blowout that Rosie realized she may have misunderstood Kelly’s intent.

The second problem: Aiken has never publicly stated that he is gay. It’s not like we don’t already know, but technically Rosie opened the closet door, pushed aside all the winter coats and yanked Clay out. What’s next Ms.Obvious? Are you going to out Richard Simmons?

Now Rosie O’Donnell starts an unprovoked attack on Donald Trump about reinstating that Miss America bimbo. She can’t seem to keep her ample ass out of trouble

Donald Trump is rich, very rich. Just ask and he will tell you all about it. The only asset lacking from his balance sheet is humility. Sure his dad was rich too and had all the necessary connections in politics and money to help young Donald buy his first major properties. The silver spoon was firmly lodged between his gums at an early age. But, give him credit, he took what was given and made it greater. But, it’s funny how he doesn’t mention Pops all that much when talking about how rich he is.

His casinos were close to being bankrupt, and he needed a bailout from the banks to keep them afloat. The fact is, he is a minority owner on casinos that bear his name.

You want to insult Trump? Forget the hair.. Just question his net worth, the comb-over will stand straight-up like a Mohawk, the face will redden, the eyes grow wide and there is a good chance you’ll hear “YOU’RE FIRED” forget the fact that you don’t even work him. That’s exactly what Rosie O’Donnell did leading to this war of the unlikeables.

Now Trump and O’Donnell are playing tug of war with the fossil known as Barbara Walters. Be careful boys you just might rip her. I never understood the appeal of Barbara Walters. She can’t speak properly, yet she’s made an incredible living as an interviewer. This is akin to a visually impaired driver being inducted into the taxi driver hall of fame.

I have no doubt Barbara told Trump Rosie is a big fat pain in the ass, because she is. I also have no doubt that Barbara lied to Rosie about it, for the very same reason, Rosie is a big fat pain in the ass.

Is Barbara two faced? Her plastic surgeon claims to only have lifted one... many times. Maybe it’s not her fault because she is caught between a boulder and a head case.

As part of his new plan can’t Bush send these three to Iraq? Then they may realize how meaningless they all are in the grand scheme of things.