Saturday, August 19, 2006

old man games

i know for damn sure that i am looking forward to being and old guy. if you think about it, it pretty much gives you the excuse to do whatever the fuck you want in public, and people will just put up with you, and write you off as "just old".

"ah, he just ran three stop signs, made an illegal u-turn at a red light and ran over a fire hydrant....but it's cool, he's just old."

and really, are you going to pick on an old guy? how many times have you proudly extended your middle finger out the window to the a-minor tone of your horn only to see a foam dome hat way too high up on the head of the other driver, or the tuft of blue hair juuuust peeking up over the steering wheel....and then just feel like a complete asshole for doing so. god, i just flipped off an old guy, i'm going to hell.

but what if that's not necesarilly the case? i am convinced that old people, and old guys in particular (since i am a young guy right now and have no doubt about my future conduct as an old guy), are nothing but scammers, and that flipping them off is just calling them the fuck out.

well maybe not a scam, but it is all an act. think about it: you're old, married, lots of your friends are dead, you're sick of the wife, and the kids don't call anymore.....what the fuck are you going to do all day? you're fucking retired, what are you going to go get a job bagging groceries to pass the time before you finally kick the bucket?

fuck that. you are going to do what i am going to do, and what countless old guys do everyday: bug young people. these yungins, they have their whole lives ahead of them, damn it. hair on their heads, the chicks that are into them still have tits above their waistlines, etc. why not do your best to irritate them in whatever way possable? i look forward to it.

i base this theory off of two particular instances, and an overwhelming need to explain why old people behave like frigging aliens. the first was not something i remembered until just recently, and only because the second instance jogged the memory loose. it was a funniest home videos or something, and in the video an old guy was arriving at a relative's house whom he had not seen in quite some time. the reletive being visited had a front stoop that the old fella wasstruggling to get up to the door: being helped, leaning on a cane, taking breaks, etc.

then the old guy makes it to the top of the steps, reares up from his hunched position, grabs the relative in a huge bear hug, and bellowes "happy christmas, you s.o.b.!" it was all an act. an old act, and this was likely the first and only time the act was dropped and caught on camera.

the second instance is an old guy who comes into the store and, no matter what is happening, makes everything grind to an absolute standstill. it's like a frigging superpower. he needs a case of mike's hard berry, which has to be gotten from the cooler, he can't remember what kind of cigarettes he smokes and gets angry when you get him the wrong kind, every other word out of his mouth is "WHAT?!", etc. we take ID's with every credit card purchase, and so it was i came to learn he is only 5 years older than my dad.

so can it be that this one dude managed to age so much fucking faster than my dad (because there's no way my dad will be that bad in 10 years, nevermind the 5 to catch up to this cat), or is it just that he really couldn't wait any longer to start his 'old man games'? i really do believe it is the latter. because i myself, as i have stated endlessly, cannot fucking wait till i get my first set of standard issue old guy-ttire in the mail: one pair pants, brown; one pair pennyloafers, size 8, also brown; goldtoe socks, navy; faded yellow button-down shirt, longsleeve despite the temperature; and the foam dome.

so for now, i flip off old people and don't lose a wink of sleep over it. it's just my way of letting them know that i know, and that i am waiting, just biding my time, like they were once.

the big taste

origionally posted april 29, 2006

i figured out, finally, what my favorite little human moments on television are. though you can most commonly find them on the food network, you can also catch these moments on the travel channel, and sometimes the discovery channel.

it happens after they have been talking about preparing a dish, or discussing where to go for the best this or that, and they finally get down to it, sitting in front of a plate of whateverthefuck it is. they pause, taking in the presentation (which is impeccable), the odor (which must be exquisite), and then finally, grabbing a utensil and spooning up a bit of it, they take a bite. obviously you know it's good.....it's a television show about good food, fer fucksake. but the poor host must convey this to you: they sit there and make an exaggerated 'mmmm' sound, eyes closed, weathering the effects of an apparent micro-orgasm. then follow this quickly with a cute quip about weight gain or not ever leaving the food establisment or something, then endscene.

these moments are so deliciously awkward and forced, that they are easily my favorite momnts in television. the unflappable on-air personality of even the most chipper host/hostess is momentarilly circumvented in the one and a half second reaction to how good the food is. in these moments they are just as human, just as awkward and self-concious as the rest of us. it brings them down a notch, and that comforts me....you know, since i am hopelessly intimidated by the success and charisma of anyone on television....or something.

but anyway, that's it. if you haven't noticed the 'big taste' moment yet, take fifteen seconds and flip to one of these channels to catch one. and really pay attention to it. there's almost no dignifid way to do it, and still convey the absolute delciosity of their meal. totally awesome.

or maybe i need a hobby.

drive-thru ettiquet

origionally posted april 22, 2006

don't mean to be on such a tear, but i just find myself continually at odds with stupid people and their blatant disregard for any kind of basic behavioral protocal. from the clever title of this one, you can probably guess where our tirade of the day begins: drive-thru at dunkins (dunkin donuts, for all you non-massholes out there).

i was there to get my daily iced coffee, and running just about perfect to blast through the drive-thru and get to work on time. up ahead i can see the dunkins, where an enormous green suv has just turned into the drive-thru before me. whatever, this will be quick, it's drive-thru!

i roll down my window and the conversation between the driver of said suv and the squawk-box wafts in with the fine early-spring breeze. and its an order for an army. dozen donuts, coffees, bagles, the whole fucking ball of wax. i squint through the ultra-dark tint on the rear window of the thing and can just make out row after row of people. i mean this large suv is packed.

this is my only point: people, if you are just getting a coffee, by all means use the drive-thru. but if you are taking your daughter and what appears to be her entire eighth grade class to dunkin donuts, then DON'T USE THE DRIVE-THRU. please, just go inside. you'll make everyone's life easier. they have maximum amounts of transactions at bank drive-thrus exactly for meatheads like this woman and her damnable suv of preteens.

the worst part about these people is that they get all pissed off when you call them out out on their boorish behavior. then they get all smug when they spit their "snappy comeback" at you. wich is usually something very fundamentally unclever and moronic and not very snappy at all. i may have tooted my horn in displeasure, i can't be sure. but i did get her snappy comeback: "hold your horses!" believe me, lady, i have no option but to.

okay, thats all for now. sorry for being such a negative nancy, but its either blow off steam here, harmlessly blogging....or road rage. so yeah, i'll take this option, my keyboard can take the punishment.

no-fault livin'

origionally posted april 21, 2006

bitching about customers is actually not something i really do that often...well, in blog format anyway. daily, and in person, i will bitch about one customer to the next, if properly provoked (and okay, only if the next customer initiates said trash talking about said previous customer)....got all that? no? well, the long and the short of it is that i am about to bitch about customers, or the general public...or human beings in general. since thats what customers are....human beings...ahahaha....okay, some of them barely even qualify as human.....but i digress...on to the bitching....

so there are these two customers in particular that i am thinking about as i write this bolg....and both of them happened to rear their ugly, stupid, ignorant, blame displacing heads in the very same past week. funny how things happen in pairs, unless they happen in threes, in which case its funny how things happen in threes....but in this case, there were two of them, so it's funny how things happen....you get it.

customer one:
a little backstory first. children in the retail environment have looong been my pet peeve. which sounds horrible and ogre-like, i know, but i am not alone here. think of how many stores you have seen in your life that have had a sign in it that says something to this extent: "children left unsupervised will be given a free kitten and an espresso." i've seen it, you have too. the message is simple: parents watch your fucking kids. they are young, blameless, endlessly curious souls, and when you aren't watching, they are antagonistic little snots.

in a convenience store, they are way worse than you can imagine....touching everything, pleading for anything, trying to wave a candybar in their parents face only to leave it wherever they get told "no" for the final time, etc.... and noisy. they need mute buttons. no, really.

so here is irritating customer of the week number one:
we have these little pocket knives on the counter that we sell for .99 cents. they sell well, who doesn't need something on the job to cut packing tape or whatnot? so this one mother comes in and plants herself at the counter leaning on her son who is maybe seven. pretty old, but still in constant need of supervision. but like i said, she is in direct physical contact with her son at the counter, and i am doing all the fetching for her cigarettes and lottery tickets and whateverthefuck else habits she is feeding.

nevertheless, i is me who notices her son staring at the knives, attention rapt...not her. and soon enough he starts poiting at them, fingers only milimeters away from them. "what are these?" shit like that. i say very clearly "those are knives." since mom is still without reaction. then he touches them, and is in the process of trying to open one when i point directly at him and say "don't touch those, they are knives!"

finally mom grabs his hand (after he has already put down the knife) and is like "hey, yeah, don't" then, feeling like a complete idiot (which she was), she looks at me and is like
"yeah, i heard on the news that anything in reach of children is impossable for them to not grab." long pause, she is working herself up to something... "in fact, thse shouldn't even be here, they should be there" she moves the knives back a half a foot.
"yeah, probably better that way." i say, i just want her and her idiot children out of my store.
"definately better, you should keep them there." she is heading for the door.
"yeah, either way."
almost out the door, but won't just let it drop. "no, not either way, it's..."
and whatever she was going to say there is lost because i cut her off and say what is on everyone's mind when there is some noisy child meddling in things they shouldn't with the ignorant parent right the fuck there..."ma'am, maybe you should watch your children better." for fuck's sake.

remember this part? she was leaning on her child as he reached for the knives....and suddenly it was my fault because i caught her with her pants down being a bad parent. and then i had to call her out on it because she just wouldn't let it drop. maybe the knives were in a bad spot. maybe i should have them behind the counter or something. but definately she should have been watching her kid! otherwise she shouldn't be allowed to have them out in public. keeping the knives somewhere safer is a fine argument when you have a finger to point somewhere else, like at the clerk behind the counter. but what about when he runs out unexpectedly in traffic? is it the driver's fault for having his car too close to the spot where her kid ran out into the street? or is it COMPLETELY SANE FOR HER TO EXPECT THAT THE ENTIRE WORLD IS TO BE MADE SAFE FOR HER AND HER OFFSPRING BECAUSE SHE CANNOT COMPREHEND THE RESPONSABILITY OF BEING A PARENT??????

unfortunately lawyers have realized that it is profitable to take her, and people like her point of view. now nobody has to take responsability for their own actions anymore. there is always somewhere to point the blame other than on the fucking idiots who hurt themselves in the first place. like the burglar who breaks into your house, cuts his hand on a knife in your kitchen and then SUES YOU. or the fucking woman who buys a hot coffee and puts it between her legs then SUES MCDONALD'S for not warning her it was hot when she burns her gennys. FUCKING HELLO! THERE ARE CONSEQUENCES TO YOUR ACTIONS. we used to know that, i think. they still know that in other parts of the world. here? bureaucracy (even the word itself has too many loopholes to spell correctly) and no-fault existence are king and ruler.

fuck that shit. slip on some ice and blame yourself. yeah, they could have salted, but if they didn't? you should have been prepared for that, the world does suck sometimes. you need a sign telling you not to flip over your lawnmower and poke at the blades while it's running? then good riddance to you, i say...survival of the fittest. if you're too stupid to realize that your hands will go flying off, then you damn well need to lose your hands to learn your lesson. how else can you expect to ever be a better person? how can we then expect to ever be a better society?

whatever. i guess i am done here. and congradulations to anyone who made it this far. im pretty sympathetic to alot of things, but society's coddleing of idiots will never be one of them. oh, and fuck the other customer i never got to bring up too, that's for another blog, i guess.

in which i battle a bird

origionally posted march 28, 2006

so this is some shit i just couldn't make up. to set the scene, i first need to make mention of the fact that my parents are currently remodeling their kitchen...so there is a constant stream of contractors and other construction related personel trucking in and out of my house at all times (between 9-5 on weekdays only). which is the explanation i am going with on the following:

this morning the dog wakes me up at around 9:30 to tell me that he has to go out. he has been sleeping on my bed this past week because my parents are out of town. so me being the primary caregiver in this small, defenseless animal's life, i dutifully throw on some slippers and take the beast out. it is when i head back into the house that things go awry. the dog slithers off to other parts of the house on god knows what agenda, and i find myself catching movement at about eye level on a scaffolding they have set up in the kitchen. my still groggy eyes focus, then refocus on the scaffolding and i realize but slowly that i am looking a medium sized bird in the eyes.

wha....? on cue, an explosion of flapping and feathers....what i can only guess is the bird realizing that he is looking a medium sized fat guy in the eyes. i realize two more things at the same time: 1. i left the door to the basement open (my environs), and 2. bird is heading straight towards it.

gracefully, and in exquisite slow motion he arcs through the doorway, banks right and dives straight down the stairs....hopelessly further away from nearly every door in the house. i stand there stunned for about five minutes, my thoughts just now starting to cut through the sleep-fog. okay, no problem....go downstairs and check out the situation. i creep towards the door and arrive at the landing at the top of the stairs at the same time bird has decided to come back up. we both instantly freak and bolt 180 degrees from each other....he back downstairs, me back into the kitchen.

i have no previous training or life experience to draw on at this point. so i call my dad. see if there's a butterfly net or something in the house that i can use in my upcoming battle with bird. 26 years old, and completely in over my head.....not a very good morning for the self esteem, in retrospect.

"dad, there's a bird in the house."
"a wh..."
"a bird. in the house. it's downstairs now. i need a net or something, how do you catch a bird?"
"i don't think we have any nets, get him to the other side [unfinished] of the basement. then you should be able to get him to go out the bulkhead."
"what, just lure him?"
"yeah, turn off the lights where he is, turn on the lights where you want him to go, he'll follow the light. he just wants to be outside."
"are you sure? it's a bird, not a moth. do birds like light? why do you know that about birds?"
"just try it, call me back."

i try it. i turn off all the lights in the finished part of the basement, open the door to the other side, and turn on the lights over there...within moments he flies through the door. yes! that was wicked easy! i run after him and close the door behind me. i do the same thing with the bulkhead door to the outside, open it up so the daylight comes in, and i shut off the lights in the basement. but i can't spot the bastard anywhere. so i start to poke through the stored lawn furniture, boxes, and contractor equipment very carefully. i kick at things to flush him out. suddenly from behind a table saw, he comes bursting out in a flurry of frantic flaps, buzzes my head by centimeters, and heads straight towards the small window next to the open door. at the last possible second (thank god it was a dirty window) he sees it and pulls up, backs off, and finally blasts out the open bulkhead like the millenium falcon and mos eisley.

"hey dad,"
"yeah?"
"yeah it worked, no problem. i totally manipulated that bird."
"good, he's outside?"
"he's outside. neat trick with the light. i never would have thought of that."
"you just have to think like a bird. i guess you're not such a birbrain after all."

right. i deserved that. i may not be a birdbrain, but my approach would have been drastically different.....something involving a tennis racket, a plastic bag and a few hopes and dreams, no doubt. this way was definately better for all of us.

so how was your morning?

don't read this one

hi! how are you? good, good. soooo...! i've come to a realization. you'll find i'm full of them....cathartic moments where i am so stunned by the clarity of thoughts pouring into my head that i hardly seem to notice how glaringly more obvious it becomes that i am a bag of shit. right...so here's the latest.


i need someone to give me a) a large sum of money...like a vast fortune...so i can do nothing. or b) something to do for the next thirty or forty years of my life.

i'd probably prefer the money, but i am open to careear suggestions as well, you know, and making a good go at things. my requirements are: as little physical exertion as possible, no cubicals, a cactus, and large stipends. my qualifications are: wit, charm, a tremendous immune system, and oodles of sex appeal. that's what you have to work with. now find me a job/life plan/winning lottery ticket.

finnish

origionally posted february 19, 2006

its often the small, unnoticed things in life that amuse me. for example: when you are installing a program on your computer, it always asks you to click on "finish". i read this in my mind as "finnish", as in "of or pertaining to finland". i understand the difference between the two, but i just find it more amusing to read it my way.

now that we've knocked off a couple of those pesky 'ol iq points....

car people...assinine theories

origionally posted january 26, 2006

i am fond of saying that i have assinine theories about everything, which i do....most of these were concocted in various states of.....bakededness....in high school (haha, high school...)....

but anyway, heres one....probably my most famous, which i call

car people -

you've seen them. they are literally everywhere, most noticeably in rush hour traffic. if you are like me at all, then you invariably get stuck in the one lane that will come to a complete and utter standstill even as the other lanes around you pick up and begin to move....this is redundant. look, just pop in 'office space' and watch the opening credits. that's me. hi...that's my life.

but yeah, traffic situation on the interstate: me with a great deal of non-moving freetime. most of which i spend trying to get the girl in the jetta blasting "my humps" to notice that i'm wearing gold aviator sunglasses....and failing. but yeah, people watching in general....and that's where i first saw them. car people. i swear to god, next time you are in traffic, take a look at the lane next to you as yours begins to take off....this is what you will see: guy in extremely large pickup truck picking nose, girl in jetta blasting music, old guy in some sort of buick being old, scared looking middle-aged broad white knuckleing her steering wheel (despite the fact that she is not moving), and the car person. taking up space, filling in an otherwise empty spot in traffic.

there he is....no expression, hands in the 12:00/2:00 position, looking straight ahead. while everyone else in said traffic jam seems to have a personality manifesting itself in what they drive, how they look, what they are listening to, how they curse the traffic, the acidic look they give back to you as your lane begins to move...whatever.

except for the car people. because they are not real people. they exist as extras in the great movie of life. fillers. glitches in the matrix (for you gen y'ers). people that you look at and are just blown away by how incredibly generic they are. from the nondescript gray car, to the nondescript beige tunic, to the stony, unmoving expression...they sit. moving with the flow. unless it's three am....then they are both that set of headlights five miles back in your rearview, and that set of taillights five miles in front of you.

you've seen them! trust me. and if you don't believe, just open your eyes the next time you drive....you will see them. they don't adjust anything in the way they are sitting in their seat...they don't try to coax extra AC out of their shitbox when it's 98 degrees out....they don't get off for gas, they don't need to eat. they aren't even a person in a car....they are merely an entity, a car shaped entity designed to look and feel exactly like a person on the road next to you. a fellow motorist. but he isn't. you'll need to pull over in 30 miles to eat at the roy roger's...he won't. he'll just keep on driving off into infinity.

so take comfort from it. or be perturbed...either way, know that they are out there, doing what they do. getting cut off, not blowing the horn...not doing anything at all that will make them even remotely memorable....just driving. car people. i'm for fucking real, man. these theories aren't asinine because i like the sound of the word. (assinine, but he's.....right! i've totally seen a car people too....!) it's okay. i'll be here. disbelieve for now, but i'll be here for when you all have seen the light and come back to tell me so.

i can't believe it's not bullshit

origionally posted january 20, 2006

okay, so before i get this bloggie under way, i want to state for the record, that i am a liiiiiiitle bit drunk....so don't read this with a 'concernicus' look on your face, read it with....a grain of salt, i suppose....yeah, don't read it seriously.......in fact, you better go to that collection of wierd sunglasses that you have (i know you have it somewhere, everyone does) and grab a whacky pair....then read it thru those. that's how i want this bloggywog read, thru a wacky, wacky pair of sunglasses.....okay.

that being established, i feel that it is my duty as a member of the modern greek nation (though i am but a halfie, i could still be required to serve in the greek army if i were to relocate, so i consider myself legit), and as an unwitting witness to the horror that is daytime television in america to mention this commercial to the roaring, seething masses.

it's for "i can't believe it's not butter" and it is aimed squarely at the bored housewife looking for an escape from a) her household chores, and b) her trashy romance novel designed to give her escape from her household chores...but anyway, heres the scene, let me set it for you:

everywoman walks into diner setting, sits down, contemplates menu. swarthy "ethnic" woman approaches our hero and makes random inquiries to everywoman's desires. everywoman says something about needing a rich buttery taste or some such fucking bullshit. to which the swarthy woman replies: "heeeeey niiiikos! the gold key..."

nikos responds, steppng forward from the seductive mists issued by the fryolator..... holding up a golden key suspended by a thick golden chain draped like lovers arms around his massive tan man shoulders. together bored housewife and mysteriously seductive nikos step thru a door activated by the 'gold key' into a mystical rhealm of swimming pools and evening gowns. she is glowing, being fed a bagle by nikos loaded with a substance that she just can't beieve is not butter, while onlookers observe with knowing smiles in the postively radiant sunshine. housework and greasy spoon diners are mere memories in this wonderous dimension.....fuck!

like i mean......am i not supposed to see these commercials? beacuse i never, ever want to eat i can't believe it's not butter ever again, just based on the lack of respect they aim towards whoever they think is their target demographic with this shit. not only am i appalled that they think that any self respecting human being would so fall for the notion that they could be magically whisked away by a product..... as to remember such a ludicrous notion whilst next ressuplying the weekly family rations....and then slipping a tub of ICBINB (said product) into the cart with a wry and wistful smile, remembering nikos....the greek goon, bane to the rest of his countrymen for his antagonizingly blatant sex appeal.....

wtv, i guess this has gone on long enough......the only thing that gives me any comfort is that chuck norris CAN believe it's not butter.

Wednesday, March 29, 2006

autopilot

so i drove my best friend patrick to the airport this morning at around 8:00am (hence the absurdly early posting time of this blog). and as i was sitting in traffic, i found myself coming to terms with the fact that i may very well be obsessed with paris hilton. well, maybe "obsessed" is too strong a word, i'm not stalking her...yet....but let's call me a "concerned party". i love her catchphrases.....talk to me for five or so minutes and i'll throw a "that's hot" or a "loves it" in there...i know, i know....i'm a fucking valley girl trapped in a dumpy white guy's body.

n e way....i got to thinking, can she really be that aware? i mean, and not be so utterly horrified by what she is? let's think about this...in my tenure as a clerk at a convenience store, i have come to realize that there are two distinct kinds of people. there are those that are actually awake, thinking humans; and then there are those that are simply vessels by which tiny concentrations of societal impulses act. in other words, robots. it's true.

most of the people that you know and interact with on a daily basis are thinking, feeling humans that worry about things like "does my breath stink?" or "should i have worn this hat?" or "what am i doing with my life?" people that actually have the lights on, or somebody behind the wheel. people that are concious of the fact that they are part of a whole, and that their actions do actually have an impact on others.

then there are people who just have no concept of this whatsoever. they barge into your life, bellowing and demanding, cutting you off in traffic (i will cut you off too, yes, but only to make a point, ask my brother about that), buying single beers and drinking them on the way home. buying their way into and out of trouble. unconciously destroying the world around them. these are people that seriously couldn't even comprehend having a deeper conversation than why the patriots will kick the broncos' asses this saturday (that was gratuitous, sorry). which is fine, and its not to say that they are idiots, its just that nobody's there. they either checked out a while ago, or they just don't care. which means they are on autopilot, and not making descisions for themselves, but like i said, just outlets for societally influenced responses to everyday situations.

which brings me back to paris hilton. because i think she is one of these people. the only major difference is that she has limelight....for now anyway, it looks like she may be on her way out for 2006....and these others just have pickup trucks and packs a butts. but the great thing about these autopilots....maybe i just coined me a phrase there....the great thing about them is that they are a perfect glimpse, a wonderful cross section of whatever portion of our society they happen to occupy. so if you treat them as such, social barometers, if you will, then they can actually be quite entertaining to watch. hence my morbid fascination with paris. she, being nothing more than preconcieved generic responses, is a great window into "high society". and the view thru that window, is that they are all fucked. loaded, but fucked. and everybody loves a trainwreck.

and then the middle classes that come into the store...they are bred consumers. the buy a six pack (maybe), they always buy a carton and ten dollars on pump three, and always buy a 1-5 dollar scratch ticket and always always ask for a plastic bag for their carton of butts. they don't need a bag, they are just conditioned to ask for one. and they may be financially okay, but that only justifies their 1-5 dollar scratch ticket donation. then they grab for the nearest chemically created snack with the most amount of packaging (always on impulse), and throw their change at me before vanishing out the door.

then there is the lower class, who are born to destruct themselves....kinda full circle from the ultra rich. they buy the dirt cigarettes, or maybe even the non-filtered ones. they buy singles for the ride home, just daring fate to pull them over and fuck them. allthough they are not aware of it.....like i said, just on autopilot, going thru the motions...........

whatever....whats the point? well the point is, have fun. observe. and if you find yourself able to comprehend the act of observing, stepping out of the great race, then count yourself lucky to be awake. and embrace it man, i think there's less and less of us every day. be concious! but not concientious......

cranky old guy

looks can be decieving. places called delaney's in the middle of landlocked north conway, nh can have surprisingly good sushi. like really good. if pricey.....but then, everything is pricey nowadays.....DON'T GO spending 600 fucking dollars on a game system you don't even understand and then bitch at me because i want a sushi roll called pink-pink lady......it was good. and it had pink seaweed on it. PINK! wow.

so is there a point to what i am writing (what you are reading) at this very moment? no! not at fucking all. you just wasted the 38 seconds it took you to get this far. how do you feel about that?

back to the gaming system phenomenon. i remember my first. atari...ahhh, sweet, sweet pixelated amusement. it was a 2600. it cost $50, which was down from whatever. so to all you people (except mikey traister, who is one of The Men, if not The Man) who got a x-box 360 in time for christmas, congrats...you are idiots. 600 dollars. lets repeat that. six hundred dollars. does it suck you off? i sure hope so, because good graphics can only get ME so far.....knowing microsoft though, the extra suck off feature is exaclty that. extra. meaning "pay more".

like the whole dvd player thing with the first x-box. PS2 played dvd's right out of the box. why? cause it's sony, and sony is owned by people in a country called japan, where they still believe in doing a little extra for the customer. the x-box, on the other mitt, was made by people in a country called microsoft, where they believe in FUCKING YOU SQUARELY IN THE ASS. hahahahaha....i hope that line caught your attention first and you zoomed to the bottom of this post just to read that line before reading the rest.

but back to the square ass fucking....microsoft designed a system because they could, bought all the game companies because they could, and made you pay extra for the fucking dvd player because they could. and now the new system is 600 dollars IF you want the good one...but you can buy this one for less money that sucks....no memory. and guess what? in a year it will be at least half the price....there isn't more than $14 worth of actual electrical parts in there, i promise.

wtv. i just rebooted my NE fucking S. so who's in for some up up down down left right left right B A select start???? (thats two players, my man!)

humor to avoid

origionally posted december 17th

what follows in the body of this blog is a functional list of quips, jokes, and asides that you can safely avoid regurgitating to the poor trapped clerk in whatever place of business that you happen by in the holiday season. you may think you're being clever and possibly brightening their day, but believe me, your good intentions actually physically kill said clerk just a little bit inside each time. thats right, kill. you don't want to be a murderer.....so go ahead, memorize it, print it out, clip it, put it in your wallet.

1. i just printed that or be careful, the ink is still wet: the all time most reiterated joke on the planet. we at first chance convenience are in the habit of checking 50 and 100 dollar bills with our magic pen (tells us if its real or not). i imagine that many other places of business are in this same habit, as it just doesn't make sense to take a fakie. right? so if you see someone following along with this practice, please, please resist the urge to make a crack about how your real 50 or 100 is in fact a fakie...its not. you arent involved in counterfitting. you just got it from the bank. in fact, the only illegal thing you're going to do today is crack open that bud single on the ride home (smooths the road out...). and maybe kick your dog. i don't know. but it's just not funny anymore. i tried this line out once on a fellow c-clerk just to see his reaction, you know, from the other side of the counter. and i saw the same emotion restrained from his face that i feel inside every time this gets said to me. a forced smile, a single tear rolling down his face....you get the idea, just hand him the 50.

2. i'll take one WINNING powerball: ahahaha....whooo! you know, all it takes is to ask for the winning ticket, i really do control the entire outcome of the 25 state powerball jackpot from my suprema 2000 (it's really called that) lottery console in pelham, nh. but i know that's not the point, you're going for the quip. trying to make me laugh. i understand that, which is why i have a specially prepared counterquip for this one instead of a specially prepared ice pick to stab you in the jaw. "oh yeah, i'll just hit the WIN button for you, but i gotta let you know ahead of time that i charge 5 percent of the jackpot for that." verbatim. every time i get asked for a winner, i repeat that line identically to the way you just read it. even if it's to the next person in line who obviously heard the whole quip/counterquip in the first place. anyway, if i could just hit a button and win the fucking lottery, WOULD I STILL BE WORKING IN A CONVENIENCE STORE????? no, i would be paying hookers to spill champagne on each other and then roll around on $50,000 oriental rugs....or something.

3. i can't complain, nobody would listen anyway: except for me, because i am trapped behind the counter and now i know that the gasoline i just dispensed to you is on its way into a molotov cocktail because your ex wife just started sleeping with your mother's dogsitter and it's friggin -30 degrees out, or maybe its 98, either way you're miserable because space heaters start fires and you don't take no truck in AC. i know. we are all miserable in some way or another, we all have those things that we surmount every day just to put a good face forward. it is this illusion of percieved happiness that keeps the rest of us going, why shit on this happy balance? don't pop the bubble, just smile and nod if you feel like emotional vomit is going to spew forth the next time you open your mouth. i'm just an asshole with a stockpile of cigarettes and beer and gas, i'm not a psychiatrist. i have no good response for any problems beyond "dude, that does suck." believe me, it's not that i don't feel for you, i do, i really do think that sucks. but when you're buying a 30 rack, it's not the place to unload on the clerk. and as far as nobody listening....well, its unfortunate that you feel like you're surrounded by people who don't give a damn, but that's nothing to make a joke about. i'm sure there's somebody who will listen...like maybe your wife? maybe if you talked to her more instead of just complaining, she may be more inclined to listen. i digress.

4. 5 bucks on the shitbox on three: okay, this i still apreciate. unless the shitbox in reference is a corvette or a bmw. now you just sound like a pretentious dick who wipes his ass with other people's money. to be fair, it is usually guys in bmw's more than the corvette guys, which is okay because nobody likes a guy in a bmw. which reminds me of a joke:

what's the difference between a porcupine and a bmw?

....wait for it....

on a porcupine, the pricks are on the outside!!!

its FUNNY because its TRUE. if its a 1987 cavalier held together with a roll of scotch tape and a few hopes and dreams, then by all means crack this joke. otherwise, don't.

so maybe that's it. i'll add more if i forget anything obvious. remember: it is the job of the clerk to process as many people as he can in the shortest amount of time, so he sees hundreds of people a day. he may be the only clerk you see that day, but try to look at it from the other side sometime. i hope this blog has done that for you. be well.

cops: pelham

no, this is not about yet another sting operation, but rather a continuation of the one from the other day....so the guy that they nabbed came into the store before the big nab, and in an odd parody of the sting operation from two weeks ago came up to the register with a gatorade and a pack of gum. wicked wierd combo, total: $1.59. except he paid with a bona fide 1957 silver certificate $1 bill, two quarters and a dime. i looked at him and knew in that instant that these brown, slightly watery eyes staring across the counter into my own were the eyes of a man about to go to jail. thats right, i knew it from his purchase, and the odd drug dealer currency...who pays in silver certificates? that's worth like six dollars. retard.

also, the undercover cop involved in luring the dealers into the sting borrowed our dustbin-on-a-stick parking lot sweepy thing and a broom to give him a reason to be hanging out in our lot. when they dropped the net (not literally a net, unfortunately) the stick part of our dustbin totally got run over by a cop car, and now bears the disfiguring curved handle to prove it. "oh, this thing? yeah, it got run over in a sting operation a couplea weeks back. no, the other one." so rad. by the way, you can't get tired of typing sting operation, no matter how many times you do it. sting operation. heh. sting operation.....

the weakest gazelle

never has it been more obvious to me, as i sat watching the second sting operation in my parking lot in as many weeks, that i am in a severe position of disadvantage in the convenience store.

being that we are 1/10th of a mile over the border from mass into new hampshire, a large quotient of unsavories come to deal, and be delt with in our parking lot. they figure, "hey, the prices are better in NH than they are in mass, and if i happen to stab anyone while i'm there, well, i can be back over the border in less than twelve seconds." what they don't know is that cops are in fact pretty smart, and have learned to use the radio to communicate with other cops who can chase them past the origional jurisdiction of the crime.

so they come to me. i am the unwilling centerpiece to their scheming. i sell them gas which they pump into cars and canisters and use to get them to ex-girlfriend's houses which they light on fire. i sell them butts and beer which they use to put them in a mood where setting a fire or two sounds good. i let them use my parking lot, where they buy drugs and prostitutes that created the ex-girlfriends in the first place. and occasionally they get themselves nabbed by the cops.

i'm open every night, have been for the last three years (except for christmas). i've only seen two spectacular arrests...both in the last two weeks. what has gone on undetected, frankly frightens the shit out of me. its only a matter of time before i tell the wrong person we have a ten dollar minimum for credit or debit cards and they decide to burn down my store and peepee on the ashes.

sitting there, behind the counter, i am a humbly captive audience. i have an obligation to the people that come in to be there, behind the counter, so they can buy their butts and booze. and as a result, they know exatlcy where i'll be if they ever decide that "the fat guy must DIE!!!!11"

so i'm buying a gun. not a big one, but one that can nevertheless put holes in someone before they put holes in me. not that i'd be looking to get in a firefight, but if they came in with a knife, well i could tell them to politely "fuck off and go to hell" because i could put holes in them from a distance. or, i could riddle the escape vehicle with a few bullets if they came in with a gun too. make it easier for the cops to find them if they only have to look for the malibu with bullet holes.

anyway, keep it in mind whenever you're in a convenience store after dark: the clerk in there is definately more afraid of you than you are of them. and he doesn't mean you any harm. its not his fault that it just costs too much money to let people charge a pack of butts and a stick of gum. it's a small store, mom n' pop...have pity.

but all i wanted was a nutrageous....

never a dull moment at first chance convenience. tonight we had a full on sting operation involving two kids, most of the pelham police department, and even some collaberation from dracut's finest. so let's rewind a month or so......

*wicked cool rewind noise*

i'm a hip young sales clerk at a border store selling butts and beers to the fine denizens of southern n'ampshire and northern mass. it's a slow night. i notice a honda del sol that has been sitting out in the lot for quite some time. it doesn't worry me, it happens. then i notice some dude, obviously dressed 'undercover' standing outside the door, looking around and shit. i step out, under the guise of checking on my trash cans, and he approaches, asking me if anyone has been asking for him......i tell him no, nobody has been looking for anybody. then i go back inside. he follows in about five minutes later and grabs a water, heading for the register. he flashes a badge and says he's undercover, trying to meet someone they wanna bust. great, whatever, hang out in the lot as long as you want. the night ends with no further action. fast forward back to tonight...

*not quite as cool fast forward sound*

i'm still a hip young sales clerk at a border store selling butts and beers to the fine denizens of southern n'ampshire and northern mass. two young kids come in, guy and girl, sniff around, and end up buying like three candy bars. i think nothing of it, pelham is one stoned-ass motherfucking town, so we get munchies in all the frickin'. anyway, an hour or two later, the girl comes back in and buys yet another candy bar....this might register a little wierd to me, but again, i don't really think anything of it. she pays, heads out, and all fucking hell breaks loose. the first thing i notice is a cruiser whip into our lot, cutting across all the pumps in full persuit mode from one entrance. from the other entrance, cutting off any exit comes a k-9 unit with dog going absolutely batshit. from around behind the store a plainclothes on foot with gun drawn comes out yelling. and from across the street comes the undercover from a month earlier, this time in his cruiser. in about thirty seconds there were four cruisers blocking this chick's car in, all with the lights on, all spewing out yelling 5-0's.

i'm sitting in the store, staring out the window with no idea what the hell is going on listening to the dogs bark and the guys yell. five minutes later i see the kid and the candy bar girl in cuffs being stuffed into the backs of cruisers. in another ten minutes, there is no one in the parking lot, like nothing ever happened. just like that, two scum-ass kids get a life lesson. moral: don't eat too many candy bars, there is a daily legal limit, and the man is always watching.

we do chicken right...and sometimes not at all!

as i was driving home from work tonight, i just remembered what has got to be my wierdest single fast food experience....admittedly, of which there are many, being a professional fat guy....anyway, this was back in college, so three, four, five years ago, whatever. it was late in the evening, probably a weekend, and i was doing absolutely nothing as usual, just driving around in my car. i think it was me and my buddy gillespie. eventually, hours of aimlesness found us hungry, and we headed to the nearest KFC drivethru with dreams of triple crunch zingers (general note of interest: anything with the word 'zinger' in it is automatically good) and tater wedges.

but, alas, it was not to be. when we looped around to the talk box, we were informed that they were out of chicken.

let's let that sink in, for just a moment.

this kentucky fried chicken, as the drivethru employee so matter-of-factly informed, was completely out of an ingredient that they use so much that mention of it is made in their name. welcome to kentucky fried chicken, we have no chicken. i ask you, who fucked up on that week's chicken order?

either way, i would be remiss if i didn't mention how that kind of limits the breadth and scope of the kfc menu. i think we went to wendy's after that, driving the whole way in a kind of a stunned silence, neither of us wanting to mention what had just happened. it kind of rocks your sense of security, you know? like your first earthquake....if you can't depend on the ground to remain solid, what can you depend on??? and if you can't depend on kfc to have some fucking chicken, then nothing, i guess is really sacred or guaranteed. the lesson i learned that hot, florida night is that you cannot depend on anything, and you can never, ever take anything for granted.

on a not unrelated sidenote, the subject for this entry was 'we do chicken right!' which was kfc's slogan throughout the 80's (and therefore, my formative years). i find it remarkable that this is the only one i can remember out of all the fast food slogans i have seen come and go in my admitedly short span of conciousness. mcdonald's has had many, and the only one i can ever remember is the current one....i'm lovin' it....which i am not, actually.

wtv. i felt like i needed an entry with a lighter, flakier texture after that last one. so this is what you get. someone keep me away from my keyboard.

looking down the barrel of a sun

you ever sit still for a second and think about what you're going to do? all the places you could end up? all the things you will do by the time you shuffel off this mortal coil? you ever think that what you are doing at that very moment when you stop to contemplate these things may not lead you there, wherever "there" is?

we all have this allotment of conciousness that we call life. beyond that, nobody really knows what happens, so we can only assume that, if this really is IT, then we might as well do the most we can with IT, that brief flicker we are awake for. because if this is IT, then theres a whole lot of pressure here. why did i eat a chicken sandwich for lunch today? i hate chicken sandwiches, and the number of lunches i have left is, in fact, finite. so why waste one on a chicken sandwich? because it was there? because it was easy? what an excuse!

now for the hypocritical twist: i hate what i'm doing right now, thats definately no secret. i tell myself it's just an ends to a means, that i'm only working at the convenience store because it's here, it's easy, out of an obligation to my father, my family, whatever. but maybe i am afraid of what i may or may not accomplish. i have this life, this time to be awake, what if i fuck up? what if i am fucking up as you read this?

it is such a responsability, being concious while i am alive. i look at people all the time, people that come into the store, beaten down, existing. the only thing they look forward to is the beer that i sell them, or that they may win a couple thousand on that scratch ticket. but they have lines in their faces, worries, obligations, complications. so if this life thing is so precious, and since it is so finite, why do we waste it on trivial persuits? making a million dollars? saving for retirement? if you never make it to retirement, then all that saving, what did it get you? you were living your life based on the assumption that when you got to retirement, you could start doing that. but you didn't get there, so did you not live? is there a difference between just existing and living? maybe, if we have conciousness after the great barrier of death, it will be a conciousness that can appreciate life, whatever life you had before you died simply for the experience of it, irregardless of what you did.

so do nothing? do everything? accept life as a ______, so you can get the paycheck and put the brats through college? am i alone here? or does anyone else feel like they might pop? wtf?

whatever the answer, don't be blinded by it. do something, follow a path, any path, and don't be miserable if you can still draw breath. and go ahead and pop if you want to.

i know, i know, !@#$ english majors. i wish i could at least offer the excuse that i'm messed up right now, but i am stone cold sober. reality. woah.

hit the monkey, win a playstation 3!

on a completely unrelated and lighter note, i will admit to absolutely loving the shit out of those games that appear in advertizements on the top/side of webpages. you know the ones: "beat the bad rapper, win an iPod", that sort of thing. just today i hit a monkey out of a tree with a boomerang, knocked another monkey out with expertly flung coconuts (to be fair, he was throwing them at me first), and i helped a frog catch a fly. totally sweet.

the bee rant

okay, so i just want to throw this one out there. it seems that i can't turn on the tv, flip open a newspaper, read a magazine, etc. without seeing some asshole who has covered himself with bees. i know that you've seen this too. a stunt extravaganza, fear factor, whatever....there he is! covered in bees?! at least like 250-300,000 of the fucking things too. when can we stop being impressed with this? i really just want them to go away.

today, for example. as i was manning my usual post at the convenience store, i flipped open the "sidekick" section of the boston globe to get my daily dose of dilbert and calvin and hobbes. first page, dude in bees, on rollerblades. damn. turns out he was covered in 260,000 bees to celebrate the opening of a new subway in sri lanka or something. now don't get me wrong, i am a man who is all in favor of mass transit, but i certainly didn't feel the need to swarm myself with stinging insects when boston opened the new silver line. maybe you set off some fireworks, go grab a beer, whatever.

final observation:....the sheer logistics of it. first of all, he must have been somewhere near the new subway and not near his home, where he theoretically keeps this collection of celebratory bees. so question one is transportation. how do you move 260,000 bees? does he throw them on at home, then head out for the day? do they follow him there? maybe they were just feral bees in the area that he happened to get along with. which begs the further question of why anyone would set up a subway in an area known to be populated by hundreds of thousands of bees. i don't know. i give up on this particular stupid human trick. end bee rant.

powerball

origionally posted october 19th

well i need to go ahead and just get this off my chest now, or all im going to be able to talk to anyone about in the next week is how batshit the friggin convenience store is because of the powerball jackpot.

ok, so what is powerball? well, i'm just darn glad you asked. powerball is the combined lottery jackpot for like 22 or 24 states that draws every wednesday and staurday. you pick five numbers, plus the 'powerball' and you win cashmoneyhoes. they just recently increased the field of numbers from which you pick from 53 to 55, so it just blew the chances of anyone ever hiting the fucking thing right out the window. at 70 mph. in a school zone. anyway, they reason that this will increase the jackpots because people will hit it less. no one hits it, the jackpot rolls on to next week, the bigger it gets, the more people play, and the more money evil, corrupt fatcat politicians can skim off the top.

and boy is it working. the jackpot is now a genuine 340 million dollars. 340 million dollars. just like that. its the highest jackpot powerball has ever seen. needless to say, every asshole with a buck and a dream is out in force playing this shit, and i'm pretty sure half of them came to my store. tonight i spent four hours straight printing out powerball tickets in various combinations for people. no stopping. you kinda get this glazed, haunted look in your eyes after hour one and become less of a person, and more just a machine running a machine. no personality, just business: "hihowmanythanks. hihowmanythanks. hihowmanythanks...." sucks.

and then theres the people who want all singles. fuck them. if you are reading this and were contemplating getting your powerballs all in singles tomorrow, dont. think of the poor clerk. he may be cold and dispassionate when hes behind the powerball machine, but hes a warm-blooded human being most of the time. when you ask for 20 quick picks (machine picks em, what most people get), i can push three buttons and they will come out on four sheets, five picks to a sheet. nice, neat, organized. when you roll up to the machine and ask for 20 single quick picks, the number of buttons jumps from three total to three for each fucking pick. so the number of finger taps on that hard, hard touchscreen goes from three...to sixty. my fingertips are literally sore. im typing with my thumbs. so have a heart. get them regular.

....well, maybe thats it. oh yeah, one more thing. if your dad ever calls you on the phone and asks you if buying a convenience store is a good idea, the correct answer is "no."

deep thought

i've always wanted to be the kind of guy that could get away with a nickname like "Animal" or "Snake". you know, and have like a scorpion tattoo, wear a shirt that says "guns don't kill people, i kill people", that sort of thing.

i wanna be the guy in the bar that gets whacked off the back of his head with a pool cue, and it just pisses him off. you know? just be a real tough guy, so when i say hi to someone instead of snapping their head back like a pez dispenser, they'll think "wow, what a nice guy," unfortunately, "ham sandwich" or "pillow" are much more suited nicknames, and ive never actually been in a fight, nevermind hit off the back of the head with a pool cue.....

rant

this will be a short one, i just have to get this off my chest. so here goes. right now. uh...right, so those damn people....and i see this ALL OVER myspace and shit...those people wHo TyPe iN a raNdoM misHmaSh oF cAps anD lOwerCase.....what the muthafuck? really, those ten words i just typed took me longer to write than the rest of this paragraph put together AND seriously pissed me off as i was doing it. do i make this one a cap? how about this one? i dont want to have too many caps in a row, or cap the first letter in a word, cause then i'll have a brand new sentence in the middle of a pre-existing sentence. then does the other one end? or are we in a dual sentence reality at this point? obviously, said perpetrators do not give a rat's puckered ass for the laws of grammar, or we wouldnt be having this rant in the first place. ah well. sometimes i wish i was a little more dummer (hah) myself so this kinda crap wouldn't bother me. end rant.

ps- i do realize that i may make up for their seeming wanton use of the shift key by refusing to capitolize anything at all. but f'real people, this is the i-net, not an english paper. and i'm lazy. whats the excuse for keeping rhythm on your shift key?

b-a-n-a-n-a-s

i remember when gwen stefani used to be the innocuous lead singer of a mediocre ska band called no doubt. does anyone else remember them? i do. i remember that their songs were kinda catchy, but they didnt infect your brain like a hanta virus and stay there until you went insane. not like her current solo cheese dick pop sellout crap, oh no. i have had hollaback girl stuck in my head ever since i read an article in a magazine describing it as one of the worst songs of the year several days ago. it wont leave. i've tried everything. i downloaded it, played it, sang it in the shower TO NO AVAIL.

uh huh, this my shit! i aint no hollaback girl, oooooh, this my shit, this my shit. AAAAHHHHHH!!! somebody save me. this shit is driving me B-A-N-A-N-A-S.