… not again!

When I first carved out this little corner of the intarwebs with but a left hand tossing painkillers and shots of Jameson down the hatch, I was writing purely for my own sanity.  I would mock my own crippled ass, and marvel at how difficult some tasks could be with only one usable hand.  All in all, more of you read that shit than my rants and running commentary.

It’s ok, I understand that I was a better writer while shitfaced.  It’s been a trait that I’ve been aware of for about a decade.  That, however, has positively jack dick to do with this edition.  I think I may have killed Jill 2.0.

That which hath gimped me, sans sling.

Remember this?  Yeah, very real fear.

That’s right, my precious repaired hand has given me reason to worry enough to call a physician.  What genius move did I do to cause this, you ask?  What could I have possibly done that would do more damage than a Tough Mudder (let alone two?)  I’m almost embarrassed to say, and it actually didn’t involve a foray into my boxers.

I played dodgeball…  for five freaking hours.

That’s right.  It wasn’t catching a fridge, it wasn’t doing dumb shit at the gym, and it surely wasn’t a marathon fap session in front of the tube.   I was playing a game that fellow 80′s children know and love.  I hadn’t played since maybe high school, and I was being called in as a ringer for my wife’s company team…  I figured, “Hey, what’s the worst that could happen?  We’ll play three or four games, get eliminated, and it’ll be fun!  I can’t wait to see what this body of mine can do compared to runt me.”

Yeah, I'm saying the same damn thing.

Shut up, Jean Luc.

So here I am, two full weeks later, and my wrist is snapping in ways it hasn’t since the doctor fixed the initial injury.  Was an astounding third place ranking in the tournament worth it?  Maybe.  Would I do it again?  Maybe–  it was pretty funny seeing what this body can do when I’m listening to Amon Amarth and playing a game based upon agility and relentless hostility.  There’s a certain delectable joy that can be derived when you’re playing against a team of high school varsity athletes, you’re the last one standing, and you gun down the three remaining members of their team with extreme prejudice.

Then again, that might also be how I threw my hand off my wrist.  That’s all I can figure happened.  The arm hasn’t thrown full power in years, it’s a lot stronger than it used to be, and Jill 2.0 isn’t as durable as she was in yesteryear.

Tomorrow I get to find out where I go from here, and if I’m going to be able to tackle Tough Mudder #3….  if my last workout is any indication, I’m seriously worried.



I Loathe April 1

Pretty strong words from an insufferable wiseass like myself, right?  It’s true.  I despise April Fools Day with a hatred that is well beyond the vocabulary of the Westboro Baptist Church.  Kind of ironic when I used to love this holiday– almost as much as Halloween.  Well as the song goes–  I used to love her, but I had to kill her…. or in this case, me.

If you’re scratching your head with confusion, that’s perfectly ok.

There are also some of you pointing your fingers and screaming, “Serves you right, you bastard!”

That’s also ok– except I know my father and you should reconsider your insults accordingly.

But I do love Adam West...

Hold your shit, boy wonder, I think he’s about to explain…

You see, only I could destroy a holiday I love by doing it too well.  After all, I am that guy.  Some of you are still scratching your head trying to figure out what the penultimate prank would be… and those same people mistakenly insulting my parentage are further wishing that I’d be on the receiving end of sex with a cactus.

Figured it out yet?  How ’bout another riddle–  what has two thumbs and faked their own death?

If you answered, “You’re an asshole,” you’d be 100% correct– and you should reward yourself with a cookie.  That’s right, 12 years ago today– I became the hood ornament for a Mack Truck and died at ECMC in Buffalo.  The details of the story and execution are about as mundane as they are despicably brilliant– but needless to say, it worked.  When I say worked, I mean like using a napalm strike to light a cigarette.

Yeah yeah, I've already been rebuked over this 1000x.

I haven’t even got to the best part yet!

Now, see, if it had merely been a successful act of social engineering and misinformation– I might have continued with my fantastic fuckery.  However, here’s where it backfired–  I killed me off so well, I had people coming up to me three days later just astounded that I was alive.  Let’s put aside the fact that apparently nobody knew how to internet in 2002, and ignore all other logical debunking methods– I was still no-selling my own death all the way to April 4, well beyond the point where I could still be impressed with my act of gratuitous assholery.

In fact, it only served to drive the nail home that I will never be able to pull off something like that again.  Ever since, the joke’s been on me– not for every time I happen to get suckered by a savvy troll (or George Takei posting that he may host SNL)– but because I remember that on this day:  I killed something I loved because I decided it wouldn’t hurt to turn it to 11.  Not only that, but I can’t do it again.

So yeah…  Go on with your fake life events and deliberate misinformation.  Carry on like you’re being clever.
You, and this holiday, officially suck– and I have nobody to blame but myself.


It’s all about plausibility–

Let’s face it, nobody knows what happened to Malaysian Flight 370.  Every media outlet is trying to cash in on the ratings frenzy because oh my God, it’s not like we don’t have enough to not report on… you know, corruption on Capitol Hill, NSA overreach, Russians in Crimea (what century is this?)…

Let me put this flying tin can to rest– because I have FIVE more plausible explanations for what happened to Flight 370 than the shit being over-broadcast….

Number Five!!
4 8 15 16 23 42

STFU.  You laughed.

ZOMFGWTFBBQ, which one of you assholes played the cursed numbers?!

Number Four!!
Interdimensional rift

That’s right, Walter Bishop is at it again… or would it be Walternate? Damned if I know, but it explains how a whole fucking plane vanished into the same thin air it was flying through– yet the government knows where I took my last shit.

Ladies and gentlemen-- ask this man.  Your answer may depend on which universe you live in...

Alright, which one of you broke reality? …. and was it on purpose?

Number Three!!
There was no plane in the first place.

Try this one on for size, tinfoil hatters.  Stolen passports? Conspiracy theories? Yeah, eat a bag of dicks—the whole plane was a ruse to hide something far more sinister. Sure explains the stolen passports magically being associated with the flight, now don’t it?

Number Two!!

I'm surprised nobody said it before.

Because they needed more genetic diversity in their test subjects than can be obtained from inbred hicks.

And now, drumroll please…

I’m waiting.

Why aren’t you drumming?!

Number One!!!1!!(one)!!
Amelia Earhart finally got lonely.

…so she shot the motherfucker down.

Damning evidence?  I think so.


Dispute me all you want, these all make a lot more sense than the glorified conjecture, hearsay, and horseshit you’ll find on all the major media outlets.  I’ll take my Nobel now.


Stupid is as stupid… what?!

Anyone who’s paid any attention to anything about me knows that although I’m a serious fan of doing dumb shit, I’m allergic to stupid.  I’m talking full-blown anaphylaxis– which is probably a good thing because my lack of breathing prevents me from breaking out in handcuffs.  This is especially true since I work with the general public six days a week, and believe you me– I should probably be lacing my coffee with antihistamines.

Naught to be seen.

Dumbasses don’t seem to understand… Then again, I shouldn’t be surprised.

I am not a patient individual.  I can fake such qualities that might make me seem almost saintly.  Seriously, have I gone full Postal yet?  No.  Calling Pope Franny– next saint.  Over here.  My head hasn’t exploded yet– another miracle right there.

Example:  how many people can’t comprehend a simple task like addressing/stamping an envelope?  When did this become quantum mechanics?  A girl, probably 13 or 14, came into my office with a large envelope.  There was no address written on it, two random stamps slapped in the wrong corner, and wanted me to send it out.  At first I was confused– seriously, was this shit really happening?  While I’m too sober to appreciate it?  Mind filled with “no fuckin’ way” pity, I inquired what she wanted to do with this envelope– because people often figure that they can fill out the appropriate label at the counter.  No way could this be happening, right?

Wrong.  It was happening like a case of diarrhea on the first hill of a roller coaster– this fine example of what I deal with on a daily basis just fractured reality for me.  I told her to put the address on the front, I’d slap the postage on it– and away it’d go.  You know, give her the benefit of the doubt.  Now, if you’re the kind of asshole that just thought “I’ll bet she couldn’t even fill out the address,” I love you.  Guess what.  The little jiggling wad of fail before me couldn’t even write out the address right, but I won’t get to the icing on the cake yet.  I noticed that the address is for one of the boxes in my very office– but the envelope is clearly labeled as a Tim Horton’s camp submission.  As expected, the next day it’s delivered to the box she wrote down.

Just wait for it.

In so many ways...

That moment when you realize that the person in front of you is the very personification of irreconcilable fail.

Well yesterday the box holder showed up with the envelope, with several pieces of opaque tape slapped over her writing, addressed to where a Timmy Ho Ho’s camp would be expected… Canada.  That’s right, not only did she have no idea how to send it in the first place– she sent it to herself.  Oh yeah, and according to this cloud of piss in the gene pool– she was sending this in because she was invited back to be a counselor.

Nice try, assjack, I think camp counselors have a basic understanding of how to send a letter.  Well.  You’d hope.  That bit of brain-melting ignorance aside, I saw that same porcine sack of genetic party favors screaming obscenities at one of my elderly neighbors last summer and the summer we moved in.

I am nothing short of astounded that these toxic levels of stupidity haven’t killed me.

When Buddy Christ says you're fucked...

I mean, what else can you do?

Ladies and gentlemen, do the world a service and cockblock/beaverdam your dumber friends.  You know the ones.  Otherwise, life’s gonna go full Idiocracy before I’m old enough to retire.

Fuck you, it’s not on the horizon!


I want to go home.

This is not a work of biting sarcasm, and will be bereft of my usually delightful penchant for the obnoxious and outlandish.  If you were expecting something uplifting like that, I don’t blame you– however I will apologize in advance.  My sense of humor has increasingly failed me lately, and has been replaced by a simple phrase, “I want to go home.”

This basic desire, in its purest form, is voiced by a child once they’ve grown tired of where they are.  It is quite simple, really, and everyone has vocalized this sentiment at one juncture or another.  I want to go home.  It makes perfect sense when you’re somewhere you no longer wish to be, regardless of why.  Sometimes situations do not allow us to bring this desire to light, but it doesn’t stop us from thinking it.  Rationale aside, it is an easily understood concept and desire no matter how old you are.

Imagine how mystified I was when I first caught myself uttering this perfectly understandable phrase while standing in my Elysium, my kitchen.  Not only am I home, I’m in the place where I am most at ease.  The understandable had instantaneously become so preposterous, I grabbed a drink and silenced it.  Randomly incongruous thoughts are no stranger to me, and I thought this occasion was no different.  The problem is, that errant thought made itself known months ago– it has grown to be an unrelenting compulsion.  I want to go home, even when I’m home, no matter what I’m doing, or my mood.  Considering my unerring love for adventure, shenanigans, and randomness– this repetitive compulsion has perplexed me to the point of considering that I may, in fact, have begun to lose my already arthritic grip on reality at long last.

However, I realized that in my case “home” is less a location as it is a state.  In direct spite of my affinity for chaos, I have always had a sense of equilibrium.  At the surface I change readily and quickly because at the core, I am as unwaveringly constant as a geological epoch.  Rather, it is not me but my circumstancesUniformitarianism may be a term unique to geology, but I find it aptly applicable here.  I have wanted to go home since the day I lost my gramma, and unlike losses I have experienced in the past– I have not been able to internally resolve this one and go on.  Every part of our relationship defined that unwavering feeling of “home.”  No matter where my residence was, no matter how crappy life had become, I could always “go home.”  For over thirty years, I was spoiled with that ability.  I was so spoiled, in retrospect, you could almost say I took it for granted.

Now, that I am truly starting to experience the best that my life has yet to offer– a happy marriage, solid employ, good friends, progress towards goals– I have this unending chant within my head.  I want to go home, and suddenly I realize that I never will again.

Are my coping skills ill suited to grieving?  Certainly.  However, I think my problem is even bigger than that–
– I don’t know how to silence nor comfort that inner child that has lost his home.


Fine! I give in!

There have been several individuals that have repeatedly accosted me over my supposed “secret recipe book.”  No matter how much I repeat myself, they don’t get the point: recipes are for bakers and sober people.  As you all know, I am neither.

That said, it took a request from one of my wife’s coworkers (and the fact that going this extra mile may, in fact, help me land a job with them) to get me to write this down.  By “write this down,” I meant take a large portion of my “mental health day,” get bombed, and pretend like I have any goddamn idea how to write a recipe down…  so your results may vary.

Just go with it.

Yeahhhhhhhhhhhhhh… it’s the best I could Google. Bear with me, and enjoy the ride.

Tropical Chili

Seeing how there is no recipe for what I’m doing (as I truthfully never know precisely what I’m doing at any given time for any culinary task)–  I’m just going to write it out as I go as a set of guidelines/steps to follow…  in drunkenese.

Stuff you need

  • 2lbs of ground turkey (yeah, it’s one of those chili concoctions)
  • Chili Powder
  • Paprika
  • One small/mediumish onion
  • Garlic
  • 2 12oz cans mango
  • 1 20oz can pineapple tidbits  (yes, I said “can,” don’t judge me)
  • 1 12oz can diced tomato (obviously, if you were going to a competition, you modify this to use fresh)
  • Dry navy beans  (if you don’t have time for that shit, any canned variety will work—except black beans.  Too much flavor.)
  • 1 12oz can corn, drained
  • 3-4 medium poblanos
  • 2-3 big bell peppers (red, yellow, orange… NOT green)
  • Cinnamon
  • Crushed red pepper
  • Season salt

Optional stuff

  • Corn starch
  • Brown sugar
  • Stupidly hot peppers

Start off with a big ass crock pot.  I’m not talking those pansy two quart size ones, I’m talking a crock pot.  Obviously you can do this on the stove in a large kettle, but I’m doing this the slackinese way.  Rinse a little under a pound of beans and throw them in the crock.  Yes, this is like the second time I’ve ever used my kitchen scale, but I digress.  Turn it to high, add mango and pineapple juice.  You can throw in the can of diced tomato at this time.

Grab a knife.  Dice up all peppers, and make sure you’re wearing gloves.  I know, this is a big “no shit” moment, but I’ve burned my corneas three times (all three followed immediately by “dammit, should have known better.”)  Seriously, just scrubbing your hands with dish detergent won’t cut it.  Add those to the crock pot.  Toss in a decent amount of chili powder and paprika.  Add a little crushed red.  Don’t go nuts with it, there’s time for that later.

Alright, next up!  Grab your handy dandy food processor.  Don’t have one?  This next part is gonna suck for you.  Finely dice the onion and garlic.  Figure the amount of garlic you’re gonna clean and dice should be about 1/3 the amount of onion you have.  This isn’t a weight nor a volume call here– it’s called eyeball measurement.  Sure, I guess you could substitute dried/powdered onion/garlic—but that’s kind of the difference between slackinese and outright lazy.  Don’t be lazy.

Add a “blupp” of olive oil to a large pan, or decently sized kettle.  Yes, that’s a technical measurement.  Combine ground turkey with the finely chopped onion/garlic combo, then toss in a lot of chili powder and paprika.  Think it’s enough?  It’s not, because you’ll add more while browning the meat.  Also add a little bit of cinnamon.  Here’s the stage where you’d add firepower to it in the form of Habanero peppers, or crushed red, or Serrano/Thai chilis (thereby creating Tropic Thunder).  Do not use Jalapenos, their tartness will throw it off.   Also add in some season salt to taste.

Combine the entire contents of the pan with what’s in the crock pot.  Also, add in the pineapple tidbits.  Slice the mango, and add that.  Drained corn?  Yup.  Stir it up, throw a lid on the summbitch, and walk the hell away.

Total time elapsed:  I have no damn idea.

It really doesn’t matter.  I’m halfway drunk and you’re not.

Now, you’re probably wondering if there’s another way to do this if you don’t have all damn day to wait for slackinese magic to occur.  Sure—you substitute the dry beans for canned (drained, obviously), and you brown the meat with the peppers.  Add beans, fruit, juice, and tomato after the turkey’s sufficiently browned.

But wait, you’re a tree hugger that doesn’t eat tasty animals!  Well this recipe was originally executed on some Lenten Friday, and instead of turkey—try a shitload of quinoa… and triple the amount of beans.  You also have to really know your spices.  No, I don’t remember what I did; I wing it every time I’m in front of my stove.

Anyway.  Leave the crock pot alone for a couple hours, but you might want to give it a stir around hour 2-3.  Or not.  That’s the beauty of a crock pot.  About an hour before you’re ready to eat, make sure you have a stir and a taste test.  Too hot?  Add some brown sugar—very sparingly.  Test and stir.  Too weak?  Add some cayenne, Tabasco, whatever extra firepower you have handy.  Too much liquid?  Dust in some cornstarch to thicken it up.  This is also the point to test the beans, since they’re going to take the longest to cook.

Your concoction should be done within 4-5 hours.  Again, none of this is exact—so you will need to tweak it towards the end.

In other words, if you need an exact recipe to make something edible—this is not a project for you.
However, if you even have the faintest idea of what to do in a kitchen—this is easier than pie.

… it absolutely has to be, because I can’t make a pie.


Econ 101 for the kids who slept through that class…

Over the past couple months, I’ve seen a lot of posts giving attention to the picketers demanding over $15 an hour to work at McShitheads.  It’s either that or ridiculously raising the minimum wage.  Political posturing aside, let’s break this down for the dumb kids who think this is a good idea…

Truth hurts, don't it?

Truth to life– there are consequences to your actions, no matter what those asshole Baby Boomers tried to litigate out of reality. (Newsflash– they failed.)

First things first– supply and demand.  If suddenly everyone at Greasy’s was paid over $15 an hour, that would be justification for ridonculous inflation.  Meaning– that $15 bucks an hour is going to buy even less than the “minimum wage” you’re getting today.  Interesting sidebar– most of these jobs pay a buck over minimum wage, and you don’t even need to pee in a cup to get them.

You think that life’s too damn expensive now?  Just wait until there’s a sudden influx of money into the system.  Prices will skyrocket as the money will be devalued– and the corporate fat cats will justify raising them to “stay in business.”  We all know this is a blatant lie, but come on– if you truly don’t think this is going to happen, you’re even dumber than you look.  Case and point?  Just look at the asshole ways these employers have gotten around providing healthcare.  This situation is no different, and don’t delude yourself into thinking otherwise.

This disastrous desire would utterly screw each and every American by opening this flood gate, especially seniors who are on fixed incomes.  Not to mention, that increase would be across the board– rent, groceries, gas, healthcare, everything would go up faster than anyone has seen in this country… ever.

Crank faster, buddy, we need more money!

You probably think this is a solution to all our economic issues.

Was that clear enough to start with?  Let’s move on to another reason that fast food isn’t worth premium pay– do you honestly think that the people who did their time in the grease traps and worked their way into good jobs are going to get a commensurate raise to match yours?

Here’s another revelation– they won’t!  That’s right all my little sacks of soylent green, all that time you spent struggling, studying, working, and achieving will be negated.  In fact, if you have done your time in the grease traps (myself included), you might just find yourself making significantly less than the drive-thru operator that just fucked up your order.  Everything you’ve done with your life to better it has officially been for nothing.

Excuse me, I run a post office alone 6 days a week…  I’m responsible for everything that happens in that building, about $20,000 in inventory, and roughly 1,000 customers worth of delivery.  I have keys to a fucking federal building, and I don’t even make $13 an hour.  Do you mean to tell me that slapping processed ass on a bun is worth more than what I do?  Do you think I’ll get a raise too?

Go fuck yourself with a salt-crusted cactus.  Twice.

Guess what, you fucked up-- and I don't care.

Take that spatula, polish it up real nice, turn that summbitch sideways and cram it straight up your ass!

Here are a few small revelations for you if you support this bastardized assholery.  Fast food joints were meant to be supplementary income, starter jobs, or meant to remove the unemployment curse.  It’s called a stepping stone– and almost everyone I know has been there and done that, myself included.  If you can’t step above that stone, I feel bad for you.  I’m not being facetious here, because it’s a thankless job.

Let’s be honest here, it’s not about the job.   The primary problem is people who are working can’t pay to live.  That’s wrong.  The discussion shouldn’t be about unrealistically raising the wages of Thomasina Taco, Franky Frenchfry, and Bobby Burger– because let’s face it: you shouldn’t get $15.00 an hour to fuck up my drive-thru order.  The discussion should be about how to realistically lower the cost of living.

Then again, welcome to America– where rationally assessing and fixing a problem is apparently a thing of the past.



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