The fact that gray hairs grow faster than regular hairs, E.D., and giraffes.
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There’s nothing here. I gotta go shopping, but I hate to go shopping , so put it off until I end up in the situation I find myself in tonight.
I have chickpeas, olive oil, barley, an onion, a bulb of garlic, and half a bag of frozen corn. I am also spoiled for spices.
I’m gonna cook the barley and chickpeas till soft, dice the onion and garlic, and throw everything in a cast iron skillet (along with the half a bag of corn), and just full-on fucking fry them all up.
I will spice promiscuously, mostly with hot stuff (if the dish does taste like ass, I won’t be able to tell because my mouth will be on fire). Then I will eat it in bed while doing crossword puzzles with my dogs, who probably won’t be jealous at all.
If you don’t hear from me in the next few days, know that I am dead and that I loved you guys, strangers technically though you are.
Well, last night my dog woke me up around 3 AM to take a piss. He does this by jumping off the bed, walking around the house, jumping back on the bed, walking around on the bed, then jumping off the bed and walking around the house, over and over again.
That’s Duke-speak for “Yo, Mike, I gotta piss, man.”
So I take him outside and he’s goes about pissing around the yard, while I stand blinking on the step in a pair of Charlie Brown boxers and a wife-beater t-shirt that says, for some reason, “Ireland”.
Suddenly I hear hollering and commotion coming from the Primatene house. They are on the other side of the house next to me. Really loud yelling, saying again and again, “COME OUT AND PLAY! COME ON OUT AND PLAY!” in a snotty, taunting voice.
I look toward the alley behind me and see flames flickering on the other side of the hedges. Duke is now aware of the commotion and yelling and is starting to bark and leave the yard. He wants to get into some shit! I get down off the step and catch him before he leaves. I carry him back inside, put on a pair of pants and investigate further.
Well, they got a big bonfire burning in their back yard. They’re yelling and fighting. What a buncha losers, I thought, and was about to go back inside when cops and firetrucks showed up. All hell broke lose then.
I remained on my step, listening to the festivities. I couldn’t make out what was going on, but I would wager resisting arrest was part of it. Eventually a cop came over to me, shining his light in my face. He asked which vehicles were mine.
"The two cars on the street there and the truck in the back."
He shined his light on my Olds, which was closet to my house. “Six or eight cars down the street have all had their tires slashed. Did you hear any gunfire?”
"Gunfire! No." I told him about the yelling and what was said.
"Nothing about a gun?"
He told me I might want to go back inside for safety reasons, thanked me, and went on. He was a very nice cop, but then I’m white.
I don’t know how it all played out, but this morning all the cars in front of or near their house had flat tires. This evening they’re still flat, but they seem to be taking it well because right now they are having a kegger in their front yard.
A 16 gallon keg and three people…
Who the hell are these people and why am I not invited?
I am who I am because of the choices I made yesterday. —
Eleanor Roosevelt, in a simpler time.
Today, we know that we are victims—of bad parenting, of bad childhood experiences, of media imagery, etc., and that we are all sufferers of whatever psychological illness removes all or most of the culpability from our behavior.
People from the olden days are cute, aren’t they?
So tonight I thought, “Wouldn’t it be ridiculous if I went to Bingo?” and did.
Actually, that’s not true. I thought on Wednesday, “Wouldn’t it be ridiculous if I went to bingo Friday night?” and so just got back.
I knew absolutely nothing about Bingo. For one, I didn’t realize it was a form of gambling. People were winning $90, $75, $25…It was nuts. (I won jack shit). I didn’t know how to play and learned by doing. I bought a green sponge marker, a packet of cards, a pitcher of beer, and a cardboard tray of cardboard French fries, all for around thirty-five bucks.
I had to watch other people to figure out what was going on, plus there was a big display up on the wall with numbers and flashing lights that told you vaguely what was going on.
You know, the standard bingo game where you try to make a straight line up and down or back and forth or diagonally we only played once? Each game was different, a different shape you had to get, to win. On one, you made an X. On another, a 6-pack. Still another was a kite. There was the Crazy Cross, where you tried to get various permutations of a cross. That was the most holy one, and as I played it, I thanked Almighty God Himself for allowing me to live long enough to play bingo bemusedly with a bunch of geriatrics.
It was at The Retired Enlisted Association building and the whole time I was there I could feel the simmering rivalry with the VFW. “Everybody knows about the VFW,” their sad eyes told me, “but TREA? Yeah, we’re all but forgotten.”
I imagined war breaking out between the VFW and TREA and laughed. Then I imagined the Rotary Club brokering the peace between them and laughed harder.
It was a good time. I enjoyed myself. I’m gonna go every Friday night.
Why not? What else is there to do?
Which, by the way, they don’t put in a garbage can but on the ground in front of their house.
Walking my dogs passed there yesterday, I came across eight or ten empty Primatene packets, plus an equal number of empty car air freshener packets—you know, the trees you hang from your rearview mirror. This was all scattered around their small yard. I also spied one empty packet of condoms.
LOL. I’d never fuck anyone who scattered empty Primatene and air freshener packets around their yard.
Who the hell are these people?
his life was totally in danger.
True story; this officer (John Pike) got a settlement of $38,000 because he said he got depressed after pepper spraying these kids. Oh, the depression wasn’t for feeling remorseful for pepper spraying a bunch of college kids peacefully protesting. He got depressed because he said since the media kept playing the video of him pepper spraying peaceful kids without cause, he got threats and didn’t feel safe. He didn’t feel safe. I’m not making that up. This motherfucker collected nearly 40 grand on worker’s comp after assaulting a bunch of college kids.
What a piece of shit this guy is. Wow.
But I am just an observer half a world away. Imagine: a significant world event in which nobody dies. We have, like, one of those a century.
What would the Union Jack look like, I wonder?
Oh, and Obama and Bill Clinton and the UK government are all against Scottish independence. That should tell you right there it’s a good idea.
She’s so swishy in her satin and tat
In her frock coat, and bipperty-bopperty hat
Oh God, I could do better than that!
Reinstate Pete Rose! (Pretend he only beat up his wife or toddler or tortured dogs or something).
You have that whole Ray Rice wife-beating monster case, where he was given a slap on the wrist…until everybody got outraged that he was only given a slap on the wrist. A bunch of lies were then told to cover up the obvious bullshit reversal.
Now you got this Adrian Peterson ass who beats toddlers with wooden sticks. Just three days ago, the Vikings said he’d be allowed to play and practice while his child abuse case oozed its way through court…until everybody got outraged, and they were all, suddenly, “After giving the situation additional thought…”
Only a freshly Windexed pane of glass is more transparent than these NFL dipshits.
What is a country? A country is a piece of land surrounded on all sides by boundaries, usually unnatural. Englishmen are dying for England, Americans are dying for America, Germans are dying for Germany, Russians are dying for Russia. There are now fifty or sixty countries fighting in this war. Surely so many countries can’t all be worth dying for. — Joseph Heller, Catch-22