Ramblings of a 30 something suburbanite - By Jason Martin

Come Papa’s girl

take a seat right there

Your life is soon changing

so you must be prepared

Live your life free

And find your own style

Don’t rush into marriage

Go play for awhile

Experience the world

See all that you can

A secluded warm beach

Your feet in the sand

Live life simply

But reach for the stars

And never let others

Define who you are

It does not matter

If you are rich or poor

Owning the company

Or scrubbing its floors

Be the best at your job

Work hard every day

Keep your work ethic high

No matter the pay

Never give excuses

But always results

Always give compliments

And never insults

You will fall for a man

Who will hurt you so deep

Take time to grieve

Take time to weep

When the pain subsides

Wipe off all the dust

But dont let it keep you

From learning to trust

When the time is right

Love will find its way

Mold it with care

Like plyable clay

Experience comes with time

Gather what you can

But if you want it at all

Complete what you began

Take time to find God

Or lose Him completely

Love Him outloud

Or hate Him discreetly

It’s all up to you

Independence is yours

Just always remember

When it rains, it pours.

A time will soon come

When you fall to the ground

You will pray and pray

And not hear a sound

It’s OK to scream

It’s OK to shout

Just keep in mind

Life works itself out

I have taught you to adapt

and always overcome

When they take away your bread

You still have a crumb

Happiness is not guaranteed

But it can be pursued

Its found in your relationships

Not in money you accrue

As you spread your wings

And take flight from our nest

It’s Ok to come home

If you’ve given your best

Now  Listen to your papa

go out to the world

these words are my gift

to your life unfurled.

Honor.

It is a funny thing that I often wonder about. It is difficult to define, but somehow you know it when you see it…

When two boxers are done bashing one another, they embrace one another.

Two football players on opposite teams help each other up after a play.

These things tend to leave you  feeling that there was honor in what you just witnessed.

But it is still difficult to define. Webster tries to sum it up by saying that honor is “a keen sense of ethical conduct” and “the recognition of one’s right to great respect or to any expression of such recognition”

Honor is something that cultures all over the world have pursued in their own unique ways for thousands of years . Cultures that never came in contact with one another, yet they all tried to gain and maintain honor.

You see a lot of this on ancient and as well as modern battlefields.

The Samurai, if defeated, would keep his honor by committing Harakiri right there on the field of battle. This is a process in which the warrior took his short sword and jammed it into his abdomen then sliced himself open from left to right, spilling out his entrails. This was typically followed up with a swift beheading by a ”kaishakunin” , assigned to the grim task.

All in the name of “honor”

Honor was later seen in Japanese culture in WWII with their Kamikaze attacks. They would rather blow themselves to pieces than be dishonored by defeat. It was not religious brain washing, like the suicide bombers of today…

…it was about honor.

Then you read about brave and valiant ship captains and admirals of the 17th and 18th century.

Men such as the English Lord Admiral Horatio Nelson or the French Admiral Brueys or  Dupetit-Thouars. These men truly “led from the front”, as Auddie Murphy once said. They would be in the midst of a horrific naval firefight, floating just a few yards from an enemy ship, taking full broadside after broadside from enemy cannons, combined with sniper and musket fire from the yards and decks of the enemy ship.  And while the crew did their best to take cover in a hopeless situation, these men insisted on keeping their “honor” by standing tall at the quarterdeck, dressed in their finest uniforms,  in full view of men on both sides of the conflict, and they did it without flinching.

It was honorable to trivialize the the enemies attempts to kill you.

However, it was honor that ultimately killed both of these men, and many others. Admiral Nelson was shot by a sniper at Trafalgar in 1805. Admiral Bruey’s had both his legs shot away in a similar battle, but refused to stop commanding his men. He was propped up onto a chair where he continued to give orders when he was hit by another cannonball that almost cut him in two, but stayed at his post until the end. The French Admiral Dupetit-Thouars had both arms shot away, then one of his legs shortly after. He then ordered his men to prop him up onto a wheat barrel, where he also commanded until the end.

Honor.

Honor was not only sought after in battle, but in everyday life as well. Medieval Knights brought forth the concept of chivalry and being chivalrous towards their fair maidens. They did this because it was the “honorable” way to behave. It was “honorable” to protect the “honor” of woman.

What does that even mean?

Simply put, men of a knightly and honorable status were required to stifle their natural aggressive behaviors in situations where it was not warranted. They were to speak the truth, obey those placed in authority, protect the weak and defenseless, be fair to others and possess many other such attributes that were considered “honorable”.

Things I think most human beings will agree are, in and of themselves, inherently good.

Many of these honorable traits survived the ages and were still seen as recently as the 1950’s. Only instead of calling it the “Knights Code of Chivalry” it was loosely termed, the “Gentleman’s Code“.  The origins of this loosely structured model of modern “honor” is rooted in the middle ages, but was refined by a man named John Wayland in 1899. He said..

“The True Gentleman is the man whose conduct proceeds from good will and an acute sense of propriety, and whose self-control is equal to all emergencies; who does not make the poor man conscious of his poverty, the obscure man of his obscurity, or any man of his inferiority or deformity; who is himself humbled if necessity compels him to humble another; who does not flatter wealth, cringe before power, or boast of his own possessions or achievements; who speaks with frankness but always with sincerity and sympathy; whose deed follows his word; who thinks of the rights and feelings of others, rather than his own; and who appears well in any company, a man with whom honor is sacred and virtue safe.”

Again with the word “Honor”.

Frank Sinatra even eluded to this gentleman’s code of conduct in his song “One for my Baby“…

“I could tell you a lot, but it’s not

In a gentleman’s code

Make it one for my baby

And one more for the road”

With this whole idea of honor being so important in so many cultures for so many thousands of years, I have to wonder how we define the word in today’s American society? Is it a dead concept?

Some say if a boy gets a girl pregnant out of wedlock, they must “do the honorable thing” and marry her. Is THIS our new definition of honor? Is that the extent of it now? Where else in our modern vocabulary do we find the word or its elusive meaning?

Is it in the gangster rap music that brags about some guy’s “bitches”, drug money and fame?

Is it in the rampant infidelity that occurs all throughout our society from Presidents to famous golfers?

Is it honorable to sell DVD’s of young college girls with their tops off committing sexual acts on each other at Mardi Gras, Spring Break and other such gatherings?

Is it honorable for us to idolize overpaid and overgrown men in tights who run around on a football field running into each other for our amusement?

Is it honorable for me to send $10 to assist the people of Haiti? Is that enough?

Is it honorable for me to hold a door open for a lady or pay for a dinner out? Or has the feminist movement quashed these ideas of honor right out of our society forever?

Is it honorable for me to profess my love for my wife of 12 years without being guilty of something?

Is it honorable to for me to even be judging these things? What am I even judging them against? The Gentleman’s Code of 1899?

How is it that for thousands of years, every culture has managed to embrace this idea in their own cultural ways and be willing to die in order to preserve it, but it seems to elude Americans in 2010?

IS there honor in 2010? What does it mean to be “honorable” today? Does John Waylands definition of a “Gentleman” still apply today?

Many people use the Bible as the standard of which to live their lives, however I think that bar is set too high for any human being to reach.  So then what code are we supposed to be living our lives by? What is honorable right now?

Would we be willing to stand tall and face front down the barrel of a gun at the cost of our lives in order to obtain this ideal?

Would we be willing to cut ourselves open with a sword in order to preserve this ideal?

In today’s society, we look upon these acts of honor as acts of stupidity. But it was what they did as a people, as a nation, and as a society in order to achieve honor. It was what they were supposed to do.

So how are we supposed to achieve honor, in America, in 2010? Is it simply too archaic of an idea?

———————————————————–

I think that our idea of honor is less nationalized and more individualized in nature.

I think that each subculture within our culture has their own set of ideals as to what it means to obtain or maintain their “honor”.

A gang member finds honor in killing a police officer.

A teenager finds honor in out-drinking everyone of his buddies.

An Muslim extremist may find it in an”honor killing” of his disobedient daughter.

A firefighter finds honor in saving a life.

A Marine finds honor in taking one.

Each person, each group of people still possess some shred of honor in some unique fashion. Often times in a misguided way, but it is honor nonetheless.

But what about Americans as a whole?

Is it ingrained in our society to find and maintain honor every day life? Not everyone can save a life or give up their own life for the sake of another. What about the average guy who gets up in the morning and drives to the same job day in and day out in order to make ends meet and feed his family?

Is that honor or insanity?

Perhaps we can find nationalized honor on a much smaller scale by backing off the person who just cut us off on the freeway and allowing him his space.

Perhaps we can find nationalized honor in stopping to help a person change a tire or simply in coming home to your wife at night rather than meeting up with a mistress.

I think in order to define honor in 2010 we must first find the root of what it means to be honorable in the first place. We have to examine what was inherently honorable about the actions of Admirals and Samurai’s. Was it really pure stupidity? Or do we look at them and say, “I get them. I understand them. I get that“.

We respect and admire what it took as an individual amidst the rule of society to be able to follow through what was thought to be an act of honor.  They had a code of conduct with which they dedicated themselves to completely and it is in their ability to “stick to the code” that honor can be found.

Honor lies in the individuals ability to stick to what a person believes to be right, just, and honorable. And if that person can stick to that, THERE you find honor. What may be abhorrent to one may be honorable to another. But honor still the same.

Perhaps honor today comes from simply being able to treat your fellow humanity with respect and decency because somehow you know its the right thing to do. Maybe it boils down to the golden rule, which weaves itself through all religions all throughout the world.

Perhaps honor is a commitment to others and the preservation of another persons identity, self respect and mortality. But even so, where is the code? What is the nationally recognized standard?

Quite frankly I happen to agree with John Wayland’s 1899 definition of the Gentleman’s Code. Perhaps we all, men in particular, should take heed of his words and the ideals set forth by him and our medieval ancestors.

I started this blog posting out by stating that despite the difficulty of defining the concept of honor, somehow you know it when you see it. So, I will conclude with an experience that I had about two years ago.

My dad and I were in his vehicle driving back to his house after a trip to the hardware store to purchase some flags for the 4th of July. He lived in a small, Colorado mountain town and the daily afternoon rain shower was in full swing. As we were making our way back to his house through downtown, he spotted a woman in a wheelchair across the street slowing trying to make her way along a wet sidewalk, uphill, in the pouring rain. I didn’t see her right away.

All of a sudden, my dad whips the truck around, obeying traffic laws by only a small margin. He made a bee line for that woman. After some brief zig zagging through traffic and various parking lots, he finally caught up to her at a gas station where she was taking refuge from the downpour.

He  reached behind the seat and grabbed his very expensive umbrella, stepped out of the truck, shut the door and ventured into the rain to make contact with her.

I sat in the front seat of the truck, trying to peer though the raindrops that were pelting the windshield. I watched as I saw blurry images of my father talking to that woman, with his hand on her shoulder. I then saw blurry images of him handing her his umbrella. Then, just as quickly as he got out of the truck, he returned - but without his umbrella. He had given it to that woman just so she could continue on  her way home without being soaked by an afternoon shower.

He then told me that had it not been for the fact that she was confined to a 500 Lb electric wheelchair, he would have just taken her home. But he couldn’t. So instead, so he did the only honorable thing he could, given the situation.

That is honor.

Stay tuned…

On Christmas day a young mis-guided douchebag named Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab experienced a small explosion in his underwear.

No, he didn’t consume too much Indian Food that day.

Rather, he decided he was going to stick explosive material down his tighty whitey’s and attempt to blow up a plane over Detroit Michigan. A plane that he boarded in Amsterdam’s Schiphol International Airport.

Amsterdam.

You know the place. Don’t you?

Amsterdam is known for providing all-you-can-smoke marijuana clubs and brothels on every corner, prominently displaying their scantily-clad wares in glass display cases along downtown store fronts.

So is it really any big surprise that this terrorist prick managed to slip by those ultra-liberal pot smoking , sex addicted douche bag “security” guards at Schiphol International?

“Wow man…like, huuuhh. Um. Like…wow man….”

Then there is the breakdown of the entire counter-terrorist “intelligence” organization. Our President said that

“The U.S. government had sufficient information to have uncovered this plot and potentially disrupt the Christmas Day attack, but our intelligence community failed to connect those dots“

Really?

Are you fucking kidding me?

Connect the dots?

This asshole’s father flat out told you that his son had joined an Islamic Extremist organization while in Yemen.  And you had information that he had trained with Al Qaida!

Well, I feel that it is my civic and patriotic duty to help out our illustrious Homeland Security Secretary Janet Napolitano.

Ms. Napolitano - Simply print these exercises off and give them to your staff.

Make sure they work on them at least once a day, prefferably right after their morning intelligence briefing. They are designed to improve their performance in the deficiencies that Mr. Obama has stated that they seem to have. Feel free to make as many copies as necessary as to ensure that this kind of thing doesn’t happen again. Because even though Detroit is the murder capitol of the world, we don’t need to taint their reputation anymore than it already is.

Fucking Moron’s.

Those closest to me and those who peer upon my tiny avatar, know that I love cigars.

There is just something inherently magnificent about smoking a good cigar. It is not politically correct, it is not healthy, it is too expensive, it is time consuming…

…it is simply magnificent.

I think cigar smoking and guns are very similar to those who oppose them: Their opposition is rooted in the idea and narrow perceptions of them, but once they experience them - they too would be hooked.

Sitting down and lighting up a cigar in the evening is an experience that can be described using words such as such as relaxing, sensual, religious, spiritual, ritualistic, dogmatic, personal, social, pleasurable, and indulgent.

It begins with a stroll into the local tobacconist or cigar lounge.

A quick glance and polite pleasantry shared with with the fellow smokers as you casually make your way past the dark leather chairs, mahogany tables, and accessory cabinets. Your sense of smell being overwhelmed by the infusion of dissimilar cigars of every variety being smoked by aficionados both young and old. Each of them comfortably seated in those leather chairs discussing sports, politics, and other various anecdotes of life.

It is a place where a man can escape from his life for a short while. Away from home, wife, job, kids, and even Blackberry’s. It is like a coffee shop but without the metrosexual and yuppie undertones to it.

It is a sanctuary of sorts really.

You open the door to the walk in humidor and are instantly greeted with a sweet smelling and perfectly maintained environment of 70 degrees with humidity levels hovering around 68-72% - perfect for storing thousands of precious hand rolled cigars.

The smell is intoxicating. You saunter through the narrow aisles as you find a selection or two. Will it be a mild, medium, or full bodied cigar today? Wine enthusiasts I’m sure can relate to this.

Will it be Ashton today? Perhaps an Arturo Fuente, CAO or a Padron. Oh, I could really splurge and purchase an Acid. So many choices. But a choice must be made so you pluck two or three from their neatly packed resting places and make your way out of the humidor and towards the counter to pay for them.

You are always greeted by a knowledgeable and friendly man behind the counter, quite often the owner of the shop. I say “man” because I have yet to encounter a female shop keeper / owner. That’s not to say they don’t exist, I have just yet to find one. He rings up your purchase and offers you the opportunity to sit a spell and enjoy a smoke right there in his shop.

You decide life can wait for about 45 minutes and take him up on the offer.

You take temporary refuge in a big, comfortable leather chair nearby a T.V. and a fellow aficionado and say hello. You unwrap your hand rolled stogie and carefully cut off the end with a cutter or punch provided by the store or your own pocket. You grasp a cigar lighter or matches that hail from the same places and begin the ritual of lighting it.

This part can be a very personal experience, unique to each individual. Some like to take the cigar band off immediately, sometimes to disguise the cigar’s identity. Others like to keep it on in order to reveal it. It doesn’t matter - it’s your personal cigar smoking doctrine that will never be judged or commented on by another true fellow cigar enthusiast.

There is a certain etiquette about the experience. Some subtle, others more widely understood. But one basic rule of thumb is to respect the cigar and respect the smoker. Always.

As flame quietly meets tobacco, you get your first smell of the wafting smoke that begins to slowly rise from the end of the cigar and gently into the air, artfully prancing and whirling about like a sensual belly dancer, teasing your senses as you take in its elegance.

You take a few puff’s and blow its smoke onto the lit end to make sure you have a good light and an even burn. You put down the lighter and cutter, sit back and just take it all in. Hints of different spice, creaminess, leather, nuttiness, coffee, citrus, and earthiness combine to make the experience that much more enjoyable.

You savor the cigar and cherish every precious minute in this brief interruption from your busy life.

And so you smoke. You indulge. You escape.

Enough talking now…I have a Partagas Corona waiting for me.

Sometimes blog material just presents itself. In this case, it came to me in the form of the front page of this month’s Golf Digest.

Tip #1 - When profiled on the front page of a  major magazine, ensure that you are positioned in such a way that is a bit more flattering for the most powerful man in the free world. I mean really Mr. Obama, it looks like I am about to sink a hole in one here. Next thing you know, you will be bowing before a Saudi Arabian king or something…

Tip #2 - When “Sexting” with your mistresses, erase the messages immediately. Because if Michelle finds them, you must be able to keep your wits about you when fleeing from the White House at 2AM. Your night driving skills must be extremely proficient and skillful in order to avoid trees and such.

Tip #3 - When you are done with your Presidency and able to endorse products and services for millions of dollars, make sure to get paid in advance and sign a binding contract - just in case you accidentally slip and fall into 14 hot woman and smear your reputation. Endorsements tend to cease after that.

Tip #4 - If you want to be re-elected, don’t get caught cheating. When I did it, the US PGA Tour had attendance cut by 50 percent. That equates to votes for you buddy. Just ask Bill Clinton.

Tip #5 - When you DO text message your girlfriends, use industry related double entendre’s. For example, next time I would use something like “Hello, tonight I would like to put my three wood in your back nine then come over the top while, keeping my balls in play with your baseball grip“.  That sort of thing. You can hide your indiscretions by saying something like, “If you blow back my caucus I will use my executive branch to filibuster and bring you to Climategate” It’s all about plausible denyability.

Tip #6 - Make sure your Universal Health Coverage plan has been implemented before you have an affair. Because if Michelle finds out and comes at you with a golf club late one night as you flee from the White House,  you just may need it sooner than you think.

Tip #7 -Don’t be so obvious about not living up to your promises. I vowed not to cheat on my wife, you vowed to bring home the troops. At least I kept my broken promise well hidden for a long time!

Tip #8 - When I won the Masters for the first time, I worked hard and legitimately won the prize. I just happened to be the first African American to do so. You just happen to be the first African American to win the Presidency. Congratulations! Just remember not to accept any major awards, say like a Nobel Peace Prize or something,  before working hard and doing something to earn it. It’s just bad form. Oh wait…

Tip #9 - If you are a “Sex Addict”, you already know it. Just admit you have a problem and deal with it in a healthy manner by joining a 12 step program that will allow you to learn how to properly meet your personal intimacy needs. Or just give Secret Service the night off, download a lot of porn, lock the door, and well…I’ll stop there.

Tip #10 - If you insist on cheating on Michelle, make sure to do so with women that are hot enough to be worth losing your family, reputation, and wealth over. For example, here are the woman I risked those things with:

Don’t make the same mistake ESPN’s Steve Phillips did…

And those are my 10 tips for you Mr. Obama

-Tiger Woods

I have officially experienced 35 Christmas’s in my lifetime. Some of the early one’s were spent with a true belief in Santa Claus and all of the magic that comes along with him. Some of them were spent as an older boy, trying to keep Santa’s secret safe from the imaginations of my younger brothers. Some of them were spent as a teenager trying like hell to get my presents opened so I could take off and be with my girlfriend. Some were spent overseas in places like Hong Kong while serving in the US Navy. Most recently they were spent here in Arizona with my wife and child and other various family members with a few of them being spent at work here and there.

Then there is this Christmas.

I have yet to experience a Christmas quite like this one.

I joke around a lot about my wife and our relationship and even include some commentary on our frequent trips to the “Jina” doctor. But what is not a joke is the amount of pain she has been going through lately, a result of a botched hysterectomy she had in July. It’s complicated, but essentially they had to go back in and do a great deal more work on her.

You try your best to schedule surgery after the holidays. But when the pain is simply too great, too unbearable and too intense that the emergency trip to the doctor reveals that you must have surgery in 2 days the holiday’s suddenly get pushed aside. Then the night before the scheduled surgery your wife comes to you keeled over in pain begging you to take her to the ER.

Gift wrapping ceases. Thoughts on how to pay for Christmas ceases. Decorating ceases.

Off you go.

Then there is the experience of spending Christmas Eve in a hospital room by yourself. Some family out of town and others with different priorities. The only support available arriving in the form of electronic beeps and tones of Facebook and text messaging. Support and wishes of a speedy recovery…

…and the two hour surgery turning into three…and watching sitcoms and Christmas movies and re-runs of All in the Family on a tiny television with volume being broadcast from an empty hospital bed….empty because its occupant is in surgery…

Then four hours….and worry…and should I go get a bite to eat? What if I miss their call?

….then five hours…and I better try and sleep in this room because I still have to work…but its cold..and uncomfortable…and your mind won’t stop thinking about all of the horrible things that is happening to your wife right now….and text messaging back and forth with good friends and….

then six hours…flowers are showing up from a lifelong friend named Matt Bennett that your wife doesn’t even know….and how do you thank him and his family enough for his show of support….and why is it taking so long…and….

Finally the surgeon shows up explaining the difficulties of the procedure and showing you pictures that you pretend to understand and you nod in agreement with his decisions and can I see her? and…

seven hours…she is rolled back into the hospital room still unconscious…and my daughter is spending Christmas Eve at a friends house, thank God she is 17 and…

It is a very lonely feeling spending Christmas Eve in an uncomfortable hospital room chair, alone with a recovering spouse, knowing you still have to work that night. Experiencing internal conflict about not wanting to let down my wife but not wanting to let down my work - both of them depending on me to be there for them on Christmas Eve.  You want to be at your wife’s side but you also know that by doing so the city will have to take someone else from their family and pay someone else overtime from a budget that is becoming more and more scarce…making your employees be there with when your not and I hope they understand…and…

So you do your best to do both and find a window of opportunity between your wife’s bouts with consciousness to slip out to find a store that sells pants that you are authorized to wear to work because jeans are  not acceptable and you haven’t showered or shaved and are still in the same clothes you were in the day before and nothing is open because it is Christmas Eve and you drive and you drive and you have no idea where you are going and nobody has responded to your request for someone to cover your shift and you drive towards home which is 25 miles in the opposite direction because you have to have slacks not jeans and you are tired and you wonder if your wife has woken up to an empty hospital room by herself on Christmas Eve…and you can’t be everywhere at once, then…

Santa shows up in the form of a coworker named Stephanie Bundy and an electronic beep of mercy. Willing to leave her kids on Christmas Eve so I could be at my wife’s side. Feelings of guilt at letting down my boss and my work and my employees who have to work that night but I’m not there and how selfish that my seem to them even though they don’t know my situation… and back to the hospital to find an awake wife who thinks you abandoned her…

Then you do your best to explain the events of the day but she is on very powerful medication and won’t remember anyway and it’s almost midnight and you have to get some sleep somehow so you drive home to a daughter who is alone also in an empty house on Christmas Eve who is so sweet and greets you with dinner she had prepared in the event I came home that night…and I wish there were two chairs in the hospital room so she could visit her mother on Christmas…then your boss texts you asking about your wife and there are just not enough characters on your outgoing text to explain it all …then you sleep, as your co-worker toils on your behalf away from her children on Christmas Eve…Guilt…

Then you wake up at 8 in the morning, freaking out because you really should have been back at the hospital earlier than that to be at your wife’s side so you drive and drive and arrive and stop into the cafeteria to eat your first Christmas breakfast alone with Christmas music being played in the background surrounded by hospital staff who would rather be elsewhere too…dry scrambled eggs with hard biscuits and undercooked bacon and I need to finish and get to the room….

and what I wouldn’t give for a small desktop Christmas tree to plug into my wife’s room this morning…arriving to her room to find her asleep still, and glad about that. Trying to do your best to create a Christmas for her, so you turn on the annual “Yule Log Fire” broadcast in her room while she sleeps and you worry about the possibility that she might be discharged today because you have to work again tonight….

And right about the time you begin to think it is the worst Christmas ever, a friend named Courtney Murry electronically reminds you that it is not where you are for Christmas but who you are with…

Then it all comes rapidly into perspective again. So as I sit in a cold hospital room this Christmas morning watching the annual Yule log being burned on the television next to my wife being taken care of by dedicated nurses, I am reminded of something my friend Machelle Byers asked of me about a month ago.

She asked me to write a blog about the meaning of Christmas. Well Machelle, I have been not so gently reminded that Christmas is about…

Giving, like my friend Matt Bennett did - even though he is currently unemployed….

It is about sacrificing yourself for the assistance of others, like my friend Stephanie Bundy did - by leaving her kids alone on Christmas eve.

And its about being with the one you love the most in the world rather than the location in which that togetherness is occurring- like my friend Courtney Murry reminded me last night.

Merry Christmas Everyone!

Thank You for all of Your Kind Words and Support

From The Martin Family

Desert Banner Hospital Room B112

Have you ever really stopped to think about Santa Claus? Upon further review, I think you may think twice next time you decide to take your child to sit on his representitives lap in the local mall.  In order to bring to light some new perspectives on the jolly old fat guy, I am going to examine some of the aspects of who this man really is.

History tells us that the “Jolly Old Saint Nick” was born in the Netherlands under the name “Sinterklaas”. Sinterklaas was well known in the Dutch community for sneaking out at night and putting “gifts” in little children’s shoes.  Disgusting.

Afraid that his juvenile foot fetish would lead to more serious child crimes, a warrant was issued for his arrest. Sinterklaas soon fled the country with his wife and headed north and changed his name to “Santa Claus” in order to evade capture from Dutch Authorities.

Once Santa Claus was out of the country, he made his way to the North Pole. It was there that he came to realize that he could become supreme ruler of that uninhabited land. The problem was that he had no one to rule over. He had heard rumor of the African slave trade that was occuring in the America’s, so he sent word to the Governor of South Carolina that he was interested in purchasing as many African slaves as he could in order to build his snowy white northern empire.

Word returned to him that African slaves would not be able perform well in a cold climate, but that he had a shipment of white midgets coming in from Greenland that he had no use for in the southern United States.  Santa’s growing need for slave labor combined with his fascination with children led to his decision to move forward with this transaction, so he sent payment for them using funds he had gained from mastering the crime of burglary in Holland as a young man; a skill that he would soon be ressurecting.

 A few weeks later, his shipment of midgets arrived and he put them right to work building mansions, barns,  reindeer stables and factories. Over time, Santa bred the midget slaves to be smaller and smaller but more and more efficient in their manufacturing work. This required Santa to provide less food, water and other resources to maintain his labor poole.

In 1798 there was a brief elfan uprising after one of their more vocal leaders named “Abraelf Linkin” tried to issue an “Elfipasion Proclamation”, but it was soon crushed by Santa’s reindeer security forces led by Blitzen. (This is where the Nazi term “Blitzkrieg” comes from). Santa continues to utilize midget slave labor to this day, but the politically correct term for them is “elf”, not “midget” which is considered offensive.

What many people do not know about Santa Claus is that he is a staunch Atheist. He hates organized religion, but mainly Christianity. He thinks the idea of a virgin birth, the dead rising, turning water to wine, and healing the sick with no medicine is a bunch of poppy cock. So, in 1802 he decided that it was time to force his Atheistic views on the world and began to formulate a plan to systematically remove the idea of a virgin birth of God from the Christian Holiday. He formulated a plan to get people to redirect their focus from Christ’s birth and the idea of helping and giving to others, to focusing on him and his Atheistic ideals.

He would do this by forcing his elves to make toys 24 hours a day 364 days a year. He would then take those toys and break into the homes of middle class to wealthy families all around the world and place them under their Christmas tree, using the skills he learned as a young burgler in Holland. This has a two pronged effect.

First, it would create a sense of entitlement and greed among privileged children at a young age. Children whom he knew were more likely to grow up and become influential business people and CEO’s. Second, it would help to widen the gap between the rich and poor, which he knows would eventually lead to a global economic collapse. Essentially, Santa Claus is solely responsible for the economic collapse of 2009.

He chose not to deliver toys to underprivileged children because he believed that they would never amount to anything and are incapable of perpetuating his plan for global domination and Atheist utopia. This is why we have the “Christmas Angel” program and other charities that do their best to make poor kids think that Santa gives a shit about them.

Santa has also been using psychological warfare against children for hundreds of years. Because of the widely believed and parentally perpetuated myth that he always “knows when you are naughty or nice”, he mind fucked generations of innocent children and caused many to require therapy for paranoia later in life. He has also managed to get children all around the world to suppress their feelings and bottle up their emotions by proclaiming that they “better not shout, better not cry, and better not pout” because he was “coming to town”.  It is out of respect for Santa’s ability to constantly threaten people that the infamous Los Angeles based “Bloods” gang chose to wear red colored jackets and hats.

As time has passed, Santa Claus has grown in popularity and has pretty much eclipsed Jesus Christ in status, especially among Americans and Europeans. Because of this, he had to step up production of his products. Eventually he required more power to run his manufacturing plants, so he established North Pole Nuclear Power (NPNP) Eliminating his need for coal power. (This is why he never puts coal in kids stockings anymore). However, in 1997 there was a major radiation leak at NPNP. He did a very good job at covering it up, but was unable to keep the northern glaciers from melting more and more each year. The effects of his nuclear spill at the north pole is what has set global warming into motion. 

So let’s recap.

• Sinterklaas, AKA “Santa Claus” is a fugitive from the Netherlands who changed his name and established himself in the north pole.
• He is a wealthy white slave owner who was able to achieve supreme dictatorhip with his wife at his side, creating an empire supported by elfs descended from Greenlandish midgets.
• He leaves his country one night a year with the intent to burglarize every single home in the world. Once inside each home, he takes their food and leaves behind “gifts” for children of middle class to wealthy status with the intent of widening the gap between the rich and the poor in order to cause the breakdown of the global economic structure.
• An staunch Atheist, Santa Claus has managed to do what Richard Dawkins has not been able to do - he has slowly and systematically removed Christianity from Christmas and turned the holiday from one of giving to one of receiving, causing the Enron scandal and the economic crash of 2009.

So why has Santa Claus lived for so many centruries? Well, like they say…only the GOOD die young.

Porn

Chicken

Tires

Naughty

Ford

Boobs

Chair

Enhancement

Speakers

Chocolate

Penis

Desk

Tattoo

Jazz Hands

Ice

Elbow

Ever notice how when I write a blog that contains certain key words, the advertisement gnomes somehow pick up on the theme of my writing and manage to display ads that contain similar products to the content of my rambling?

Of course you never noticed it, because you are too enthralled with my brilliant writing. But, nonetheless, it is there and it drives me nuts to know that a computer can pick up on the theme of my writing, and try and make you click on an ad in an attempt to make money.

From what I’m writing about.

Well today, I’m trying to outsmart the advertisement gnomes. I just wanted to see what kind of ads I could make pop up to the right of the screen when I put random words up.

I was hoping to make it so random that they would implode and never show up again.

Hockey

Tooth

Sex

Honey

Viagra

Cell Phone

Paint

Can

Carpet

Lamp

Pubic hair

Peas

vacuum

shoe

You will have to let me know what kinds of ads popped up and if they have anything to do with the words I used.

Fuckers.

The following is to be sung out loud to the tune of  “The Twelve Days of Christmas“, starting with the twelfth day. It is my personal twist on this age old classic, but with the words changed to reflect what a typical Christmas day is like for the average 9-1-1 Dispatcher.

Ahem..

“On the Twelfth day of Christmas, my phone line gave to me…

Twelve Prowlers Prowling

Eleven Rapers Raping

Ten Jumpers Leaping

Nine Ladies Ho’ing

Eight Drunks a-Crashing

Seven Gangs a-Shooting

Six Families Fighting

Fiiiivveee Hoooome Invaaassioonssss

Four Calling Errors

Three English Speakers

Two Homicides

And a body hanging in a treeeeee!!!!”

Merry Christmas to all 911 Operators!

And to all a busy night!

Fornication Under Consent of the King

Forced Unnatural Carnal Knowledge

Found Under Carnal Knowledge

These are the four most accepted origins for the word

F_ _ K

It has been brought to my attention that I may be relying a bit too much on the F-word as I sit at my keyboard and weave a daily tapestry of words together in my personal blog. And that I should not rely so heavily on the unsanitary words that are capable of offending the masses.

I will concede to often being hesitant at dropping my seditious F-Bombs for fear of offending a select few who may happen across my daily ramblings. Those people include:

1. Aunt Janna
2. Pam, my lovely mother in law
3. Herman, my wonderful father in law
4. Mom
5. Dad
6. My public speaking teacher
7. A few of my old Toastmaster group members
8. Jesus

Bill Cosby never used foul language. He was, and still remains, a very successful comedian. He depends on raw talent to dazzle his audiences with his awesome anecdotes, rather than using the “filth, and the foul, and foul, foul, filth”. Even Indiana Jones manged to survive his archeological adventures without the use of vulgarities.

I wonder?

If I tried sanitizing my writing…could I actually pull it off? Or have I already gone too far and deserve to be punished for my dissident dissertations?

But I am not Bill Cosby. And as much as I would like to be, I am not Indiana Jones. What I am is a city worker without a formal degree who was baptized into adulthood in saltwater by several high priests of the US Navy. Needless to say, I happen to possess quite a foul mouth. One that I usually have to apologize for amid social circles at work, at home, and at play. Must I add my blog to the list of apologies owed to any innocent victims of my verbal violence?

Dramatic Pause

I am also keenly aware that there exists a subversive and non-vocal group of literary critics who can appreciate an old fashioned F-Bomb being inserted into a sentence with surgical precision. I think that those who do enjoy my wicked wordplay do so because they can relate to it on a personal level.

Shakespeare once wrote that, “An honest tale speeds best being plainly told.”  I believe that I use some of the nefarious language that I do in order to tell an “honest tale”, rather than one that is sugar-coated and based somewhere far off in fairy land .

To be read with a Shakespearean accent - To become the proverbial sell-out, or not to become the proverbial sell-out: That is the question: Whether tis nobler in the blog to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous F-bombs, or to take arms against those who may be offended by them.

This is my latest inner struggle. Why is it a struggle? Well, some say that people who use a great deal of foul and filth in their language come to depend on it for their success. Without it, they have no material and are incapable of grasping any authentic achievements in the eyes of the masses that matter. That real writers, comedians, lecturers do not use such haughty language.

Perhaps one day I too can rise like a phoenix from the ashes of obscenity, spread my defiled wings, and launch myself into a sky filled with sentence sterility. But until I can  find the strength to lift myself up, shake off those impurities, and take flight- I will have to continue living in the dingy land of the vile and unclean.

Shakespeare also said that “Life is a tale told by an idiot — full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.” I can relate to this much like many of you can relate to my blogs.I tell tales of life, I am an idiot, and I am filled with much sound and fury that is often represented by some rather unseemly words. And usually when you are done reading them, you got nothing out of them and walked away dumber than when you began.

So what do I say to those who may not appreciate my vulgar and vile filth?

Frankly my dears, I don’t give a fuck.

Jason.

Yes my love.

I want ice cream. Ben and Jerry’s, you know, the New York one?

Humph. She is capitalizing on the fact that I have no idea what I’m going to do for dinner and this is her way of getting me out of the house to figure it out.

No problem princess, I know the one.

God I have to get this freaking garage cleaned up. Halloween will be here before you know it. Damn, I haven’t brought the recycling bin in from the street yet.

There, now all I have to do is navigate myself around the neighbors vehicles that they can’t seem to park in there own DRIVEWAYS! One day I’m going to hit one and not leave a note.

Shit, I have a big red truck. Turning left, don’t hit the kid on the bike…his dad is right there. Whoa! Hey there neighbor! Left blinker. Look left, look right, gun it. Walgreens on the left, Ben and Jerry are in there.

Ugh! Still don’t know whats for dinner. Fast food? That’s easy, but if I get the ice cream now it will be all fucking melty and I’ll have to hear about it. Keep going straight. Make a right, HA! Walmart. I have man-flops on, so its OK to show myself in that store, Walgreens is a little too high class to show my man-flops off.

I’m not supposed to be wearing them outside of the house. It was a rule wife made long ago, it was put into the vows I think. Shit, still don’t know whats for dinner. Got it, Facebook post! “Have no idea whats for dinner”. That will spark some responses. Where am I going? Oh yeah, Walmart. What? Why? I thought I was doing fast food?

Oh yeah, her fucking ice cream. Shit! Turn left, thank God a made that light. 45MPH now, speed traps on the right. I love this song!, “…Oh set me up with the spirit in the sky. That’s where I’m gonna go when I die…”

Right turn. Ha! Cut those bastards off before they could get a green, now I’m ahead of the pack. A minuscule victory. Hey, kids playing soccer over there, in teams. I wish my kid liked to play sports. Wonder if I ever adopt another one if he or she will like sports. I hate sports, mostly. But it would be cool to….Shit, red light. Right turn.

Damn, I can’t believe that furniture store is going out of business. Fucking economy. More people out of a job. God I’m glad I have a good, secure job. Right lane, fuck the fast food, Walmart will have stuff I can make easy enough. It’s just me and Staci tonight, daughters at work.

There’s a parking space right up front! Whoa, I took that turn a little too hard, I bet I looked desperate. YOU MOTHER FUCKER! That was MY SPACE! I’m glad I ditched the Myspace thing. Facebook is a lot better. There’s another space right there, next to the cart dump area everyone forgets or is too lazy to utilize.

God I hope no hot chicks notice my man-flops. Hey, somewhere around here is where that Gilbert cop shot that shoplifter who was fighting with him a couple of weeks ago. Wonder where that happened out here. Shit, I left my gun at home. Damn, now I’m going to die. Some douchebag ex-walmart employee is going to come in here shooting and I’m going to die.

“No thank you ma’am, I won’t be needing a cart“. Hey, Subway could be good for dinner. Ech, too much of a wait. What am I here for? Oh yeah, Ben and Jerry and dinner. Ooooh, they have started selling that Indian Flatbread stuff here! Nana or something? That could be good with some olive oil and garlic heated up a little in the oven.! Ah, screw it. The girls won’t like it and I don’t feel like dealing with it.

Dinner…hmmm…..Got it! Frozen chicken strips and fries in the oven. I could also pick up a few things while I’m here too. Shit, I can’t belive I declined a basket. AAAHH!!! I can’t go back now, I’ll look like a douchebag wearing man flops! Wait, that’s what I am. Hey, there’s a cart. Abandoned, nobody around it, empty. Sitting right next to the freezers. Look left, look right…..swoop!

Time for my quick getaway towards the freezer isle. I feel a little dirty. Paranoia. What did that mother of four behind me just say? I could have sworn she said “Where did it go”?. Too bad lady, you’d better be talking about your offspring cause this cart is mine now! Mooowhahahaha!

Hey! There’s Ben and Jerry! Wait. I have to be smooth about this. I am a very fat man about to pull out 3 pints of Ben and Jerry’s Ice Cream. Look left, look right…Swoop. Shit, that lady saw me! STOP JUDGING ME! IT’S NOT ALL FOR ME LADY”!

“How are you tonight ma’am”? “Good, me too”.

I gotta get out of this isle. Where are those damn chicken tender things? Has anyone responded to my Facebook plea for help? HA! Denise!! Chili???? I don’t have time for fucking chili! She’d better bring me some on Friday night. Where are those damn chicken things? Are you kidding me? They are OUT?? What is this, a third world country or something?

Now what. And no I’m not making chili. Its already almost 6:30. Kid needs stuff for lunch. Hot dog buns. Hot dogs. Pizza rolls. That will make her happy for the time being. (Stop judging my lack of healthy culinary choices people).

I’m glad I swooped that basket. Facebook message. Dinner suggestion? Nope…Hey! Angie’s coming to shift 3! Aawwww, not until January. I’ll be on shift 2 then. She seems pretty cool, bet she’s a blast to work with. Where am I going? Oh yah, need some of this and that none of which I’m making for dinner.

Oooooo….The Beverholic Alchojiz isle. Man I want that DeWar’s bottle of Scotch. Ha, Ha! Anchorman, “Scotchy scotchy scotch, there it goes down, down into my belly“. God I love that movie. I miss working with Kerry. Good times.

$18 bucks a bottle? I can’t…gotta wait till payday. I really need to put more money into my deferred comp account. When can I retire? Hey! Mike’s Hard lemonade! I had some of that stuff recently in Las Vegas and liked it. $7.47? I can afford that.

Wait…is this a chick drink? Fuck it. I’ll say its for wife if I get stares or questioned about my manhood. Do I have 20 items or less? Fuck an A I do. “I’m doing great tonight how about yourself“?

Yes lady, its 3 pints of ice cream and hot dogs and chips and yes I know I’m a fat ass but they are not all for me so just stop and the Mike’s is for my wife, OK?

I thought I did enter my pin number? Do I have all my bags? Sweet. Hey, why didn’t she card me? God I’m getting old. Thank God I parked next to the cart return thing, that way I can judge everyone else who doesn’t put their cart away. HA! HA! Look at me cart boys, look at me fellow shoppers! I actually PUT my cart where it belongs. I am better than them.

I hope that stuff doesn’t slide around back there. God I want lemonade now. What am I doing for dinner? I wanted those chicken strips. Hey, Chik-Fil-A! They have lemonade AND chicken! And its good! And wife likes it!

Sweet. Drive thru lane has two cars in front of me. Not too bad. Still no more messages on the phone or Facebook. Nobody likes me.

“Yes, please may I have 2 Chik-Fil-A sandwiches with extra pickles and a lemonade please” … “No, not a milkshake, that’s a lemonade”…”No, not a diet one, just regular please”…”No, extra pickles…not NO pickles”..”You bet, thanks”. What kind of Al Quada Operative gets a Chik-Fil-A Sandwich without pickle? I remember when these places were only in the malls back in the 80’s. Ha! I remember when I was carpooling with Sharon when she found out they built one at the US 60 and Stapley and she just HAD to stop for one.

“Buffalo sauce please”. “Thank you”.

God I love that they have these trash cans as you drive out of the places now. They are so convenient for lazy people such as myself! Thank you Mr. Drive Thru Trash Can Placer Inventor! Hey, that sounded like one of those beer commercials. I could do voice overs. That would be so….Hey, another Facebook message. My buddy Matt!…Damn, that burger recipe looks kick ass, too bad I just left the store.

Those sandwiches smell fucking amazing. Left turn. Whoa! That guy almost got hit! Glad he didn’t, I would have to stick around and be a witness. Mainly because I would be stuck behind him, not because it’s the law. I got hot sandwiches here man! And cold ice cream! With Super Chunky Fudgy…ness!

Man, when they repave streets and leave our society without lane lines for a few days people just lose all sense of control when they drive. It’s like they are being allowed to color outside the lines for the first time! FREEDOM MAN!! Wooohoo!!! Your painted- on lines of oppression can’t keep me from creating a new lane or four!!! HA HA HA!!!

Idiots. Rebellious, cantankerous idiots.

Ah, almost home. Nope, I’m not getting out to check the mail. I miss mailboxes mounted in front of your house. I hate this community mail box bullshit. Stupid Arizona and their stupid communal mailboxes that we have to share like its a communist fucking state or something!

Man I need to finish cleaning my garage. And I really need to blog about something, I have run out of shit to say, and that whole thing about religion just wore me out. What the hell could I blog about tonight?

“Honey, I’m home”!

Anyone who answers 911 calls for a living will tell you  that they, like us, have certain members of their community that are a little…

“Off”

People who call on a consistent basis, for no legitimate reason.

“Frequent Flyers”

We call them 918’s.

People who, through no fault of their own, were sentenced to a lifetime of mental illness. Doctors with fancy degrees attach elegant names to their conditions. Things like, Schizophrenia, Bi-Polar Disorder, and Delusional Disorder, and…well, the list is long and undistinguished.

And I suppose it is easy for the rest of us to sit back and get a brief chuckle at their expense. Be honest, you know you do.

They pick up the phone and they call us. Sometimes they scream obscenities too graphic even for THIS blog. Sometimes they are paranoid and are calling to report a myriad of government conspiracy theories. Sometimes they ramble about nothing at all. Sometimes they are completely incoherent.

And sometimes they sing.

Anyone who answers 911 calls for a living will also tell you that they often learn to connect with these people on a personal level. They call so often that they become a familiar voice that in some strange, twisted way brings a momentary sense of sweet relief between calls during a busy and often violent shift.

Their insanity brings sanity to our insane environment

Richard is one of those people.

Richard has been known to call our department for decades. He is mentally ill and lives with his mother. He enjoys calling the non-emergency number and telling us about his day and often does so in the form of a song - and he does so in a completely incoherent fashion.

Mumbling really, set to a tune.

When he calls, you know it’s him. And you are secretly glad it is him. Because THIS is a call you know how to handle.

THIS is a call that doesn’t involve injury, confrontation, rape, child abuse, suicide, fatal car accidents, domestic violence, murder, heart attacks, and woman waking up next to their dead husband of 50 years.

THIS is a call that does not involve talking to someone who has just experienced the worst day of their life.

THIS is a call that brings you a few moments of familiarity in a job that can drop blood curdling screams into your ear in an instant and with no warning whatsoever.

And so Richard sings.

He sings songs to you and flirts with female operators and tells them about his day. And even though you are not supposed to encourage him, you do anyway.

You like hearing from Richard.

You like to try to converse with him on a level that goes beyond verifying if he has a valid emergency. He brings smiles to the faces of the 911 operators who hide from the watchful eye’s of supervisors who must admonish those who encourage him to tie up our lines.

Sanity through insanity.

Then one day you get promoted.

Your job is no longer to take the calls for help, but to help others learn and become better at taking those calls for help. You no longer get to talk to Richard. You must now become the one that disallows Richard’s tomfoolery. But strangely, you miss talking to him.

Time passes, then one day you reminisce about the days you talked to Richard and the fun you weren’t supposed to be having with him.

Admittedly a little envious of those who still enjoy his occasional calls.

Remembering when you had fun by transferring him to a co-worker without them knowing just to get a quick laugh to create a momentary break in the madness.

You laugh and you remember and you relate.

You ask your co-worker if they have gotten any calls from him lately.

Then that co-worker tells you that Richard died some time ago and is surprised you hadn’t heard.

Gilbert Arizona. A town sprouted from generations of hard working farmers, small business owners, and it’s very own military base. A town that has recently burst from it’s rural cocoon and emerged fully morphed into a sprawling landscape filled with  stucco homes, soccer mom’s, franchised restaurants, complete with a Walgreens on every corner. A town that seems to have lost it’s small town feel once brought forth from family owned businesses and restaurants.

Enter Baci Italian Bistro. One of the few remaining family owned restaurants that dug its heels in and survived the rapid urbanization that surrounded it. That is until they closed their doors and moved a little bit south into their own newer more modern earth toned stucco building. Leaving behind a building that generations of Gilbert natives, Airman, and Arizona State University co-eds had come to view as a familiar institution.

Thankfully fate, God, or federally protected ex-mob members had something in store for the historic building. That something is now known as Dema’s Italian Bistro. The owners of this new restaurant saved the building and turned it right back into the local family owned restaurant that it had always been. What makes Dema’s even more alluring is the brand new Tattoo shop that has recently popped up next door to it. Now I HAD to go there. Gilbert yuppies, beware.

The first thing you notice when parking there is the hand-written signs sticking out of the mostly dirt parking lot advertising their dishes and the prices you are expected to pay. This immediately turned my wife off of the idea of venturing any further, but of course it had the opposite effect on me. After some brief coaxing and a speech about the importance of having an Indiana Jones like adventuresome nature, in we went.

Immediately greeted by a young and friendly waitress we were led to a table and seated next to what appeared to be the only other couple in the restaurant - a big, old white guy and a younger Asian woman who seemed to be a bit confused about the menu options. I noticed what appeared to be a cook or some other staff member at another table devouring a plate of delicious looking wings. The paint on the walls were a hideous attempt at portraying a Tuscan-esque feel to it and the table clothes were stereotypically printed red and white stripes weaved into a tapestry that screams “Italian family restaurant”.

In front of us was a big screen T.V. broadcasting a poker tournament on ESPN. The volume was up just enough to hear the card playing commentary - but was being drowned out by cheesy Italian music emanating from sources unknown. There’s nothing quite like dining to the sounds of Dean Martin while watching paranoid sun glass wearing douche bags play cards for enormous amounts of money.

After witnessing the chef eat her own wings, I had to give them a try. Mild please. So much for adventuresome. They arrived to the table piping hot and cooked very nicely. You know, not all rubbery like? Just the right amount of crunch followed by an enormous amount of juiciness that I did not know could come from the wing of a buffalo. I recommend the wings, but not the “mild”. Because the mild is very mild, to put it mildly. I don’t think they offer “medium” so go straight for the hot.

Dinner for me was a toss up between the ravioli and the manicotti. Manicotti (with meat sauce) won after a brief inquiry about the portion size. Ravioli, I was told,  numbered 6 in total and was smaller in portion to the Manicotti. The wife? Good old fashioned spaghetti and meat sauce. Daughter? Chicken Fettuccine Alfredo.

As “Moon River” played amidst the poker game commentary, out came the side salads. A small bowl of very fresh ingredients including some of the best chopped tomatoes I have had in a while - with a great tasting Ranch dressing.

Salads complete, out came the Spaghetti and the Fettuccine Alfredo. I had to wait a few more minutes for my manicotti. My wife reported that her spaghetti was really quite good, however the meat sauce was a bit too sweet for her taste and the food got cold quicker that she would have expected. My daughter reported (now keep in mind she is 17 and knows more about good Alfredo sauce than Mario Batali)  that, and I quote, “Dad, this is quite possibly the best Alfredo sauce I have ever had”. Of course I had to confirm this claim, and with a bite. I determined that it was in fact quite delicious, with a distinct buttery flavor to it - perhaps a bit overwhelmingly so. However, my daughter knows more about her favorite dish than I do, so she highly recommends it.

About 3 minutes later my manicotti arrived. Very hot…so, perfect. A large portion of 3 cheese filled pasta tubes covered in a nice red meat sauce and mozzarella and baked with some green stuff (possibly basil?) on top. It was cheesy, melty, saucy, goodness. The cheeses that filled the pasta were not dry but smooth and velvety. The pasta was a little overcooked in parts, but overall it was a very good dish.

Would I get the same dish again? Probably not. Only because some of their other dishes looked appealing including their calzones, pizzas, and chicken marsala. Oh yeah…we DID get dessert boxed up for home consumption. And to shamelessly misquote The Godfather, we left the plates and took the canoli’s. Two chocolate canoli’s for my ladies and one regular for me. If I were to rate them I would have to say they taste very similar to the canoli’s my Italian / Brooklyn native neighbor makes for Christmas in her own kitchen, so draw your own conclusion.

Price? Well dinner for 3 of us including the wings and tip left me $60.43 poorer. The canoli’s which got sold separately cost me $12.86 (including a dollar tip just because)

Would I go again just to stick it to the corporate Italian food behemoth known as Olive Garden? Yup.

But please lose the big screen TV, get more authentic Italian music, and a new paint job.

Halloween.

A predominantly Pagan “Holiday” that has several origins that no one can seem to fully agree on. The one day of the year that both children and adults with a child’s heart can pretend to be someone or something else for a few hours. An escape from school, chores, mortgage’s and economic disasters.

The one night we are allowed to unplug ourselves from our T.V’s and internet connections in order to meet our neighbors face to face rather than through the  voiceless electronic artificial world of Facebook.

A few of us dress up, most of us don’t. One spouse takes the kids out while the other stays home to pass out copious amounts of kiddie crack to shy little children dressed in elaborate costumes and bold teenagers in really bad one’s that were thrown together at the last minute in an attempt to justify their request for a free handout. Some folks even decorate their homes for kids, family, and friends to enjoy.

Recently, I went into one of those Halloween stores that pop up every September in buildings that are typically abandoned throughout the rest of the year. The purpose of my visit was to look for additional pirate related bling to add to my ever changing Halloween alter-ego known as “Red-Beard the Pot-Bellied Pirate”.

Unfortunately, I just can’t pull off Indiana Jones.

As I entered the store I found myself surrounded by an array of assorted Halloween related junk. Very little of which was going to help me transform into “Red Beard the PBP”. However, I was able to get a glimpse of how far Halloween junk maker’s have taken their craft.

I mean damn, they have really gone to a whole new level of twisted and evil.

Imagine for a moment the look on a young Tommy’s face as he approaches your home for a sweet treat, already scared shitless at the idea of having to say “Trick or Treat” to a complete stranger, and he comes upon this:

Tommy will shit himself and beg mommy to become a Johova’s Witness.

I mean really? Are things as evil as this really necessary to create a successful Halloween experience?

EVIL BABY JUDGES YOU!!!!!

Who actually buys this stuff and keeps it stored in their home collecting bad JuJu all year long?

Did you ever notice how we go from Halloween Decorations such as this:

To decorations such as this:

in a matter of a few days every year?

Is it our human need for divine forgiveness for the wickedly vile and evil stuff we displayed to children on October 31st?

Halloween is supposed to be for kids. Fun, and scary to a degree…but when you decide to put up Demented Little Orphan Annie here, you are just gonna end up pissing off a whole lotta parents…

Really? Are you kidding with this?

Is this stuff really OK? Even if its just for an adult’s only party - I don’t want to be drinking and perusing with that little shit staring into my soul all night. I just don’t!

I’m mean it really does go from one extreme to the next. In one corner you have some seriously depraved stuff that will cause a month’s worth of nightmare’s for poor Tommy, and in the next, you offer his tiny virgin body up for a “quickie” with the  “Anorexic Anne” here…

“COME HERE LITTLE BOOOYYYY…..I’M SHOWING YOU MY BONE NOW SHOW ME YOURS!

HAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!”

Brrrrrrruuuugh. Creepy shit.

To be fair to Anorexic Anne, I guess the same could be said for the guy in this costume though too…

It’s no wonder Halloween has been taken out of the schools. It’s no wonder the hard core religious right have disallowed their children to experience the fun of Halloween.

Take it down a few notches people, it doesn’t have to be so grotesquely over the top.

In the end, it’s really about having fun with your kids and meeting your neighbors. Let’s keep it in perspective.

What is our human fascination with these social networking sites? According to a Pew Research Center poll, 22% of Americans use social networking sites such as these.  They break down the stats by saying that:

67% of users are age18-29,

21% of users are 30-39, and

6% of users are 40+

And yes, I will admit right up front that I am a card carrying member of the 21 % club. But why?

Is it some sort of primal instinct that calls to our sense of self expression? Is it because we are social creatures,  much like apes?  Would apes Twitter if they had the intelligence and means to do so?

Do they have  their own form of Facebooking?

What about other animals? Is this guy Twittering?

I suppose this could be an early form of human Twittering:

Ug’s Status: “Out shooting with my homies “

Clearly mankind has some sort of innate need to communicate their activities to others. Is it our way of trying to leave a legacy? Find new friends? Find old friends? Meet up with people that share similar interests?

What about the subject matter that people post on these sites? I think that  a false sense of anonymity exists when posting your inner most thoughts onto a screen, while sitting in a low lit room in the corner of your house somewhere. I have seen people post comments, ideas, and questions that I don’t believe they would have ever said out loud in a public place such as work, school, or even a family gathering. But yet somehow they have the courage to do it online for an even greater audience to see.

It’s like when people pick their nose while driving. Somehow they think that their car makes them invisible enough to the world that they feel they can do anything they want, when in reality everyone can still see them quite clearly. Being in your car, like being behind a computer screen, has a tendency to provide a false sense of shelter for people willing to do or say things that they may not normally do in a regular social environment.

What about people who post comments that are meant to call someone out on their behavior, but are just vague enough to keep the rest of the world wondering about who their target is? It can be used as a weapon to scream your feelings from the rooftops about another person, while leaving just enough anonymity to keep some people wondering and others paranoid.The problem with this is that they are really not revealing anything about themselves because nobody, or at least very few, understand what is trying to be communicated - they only understand that there is pissedoffedness happening. No REAL self-disclosure is occurring. But what is interesting about this is that it often prompts friends to come to the authors aid with sincere offers of  support and understanding to their situation. Maybe that’s what they are looking for. Maybe they are trying to discover who those “close” friends really are.

And what about those who are opposed to using these sites? Do they choose not to participate out of a fear of technology? Finding new or old friends? Keeping their privacy? Where are those peoples instinctive need for self expression and social communal gathering?

I think a lot of those people side with the idea that “no one needs to know or cares about what I’m doing anyway”.

Not true.

People are interested in what everybody else is doing. Perhaps it serves as a form of validation for our own life’s activities to know that others are doing and feeling the same things as we are, thereby making our life “OK” and normal. And despite the seemingly insignificance of it, there IS something interesting in knowing that Tommy Taylor is “sitting by the pool” or that Frances Franowitz is “wrestling with her kids to get them ready for school”.

These things bring us feelings of empathy, sympathy, understanding, jealousy and a myriad of other things that spark something in us. Sometimes that spark ends in feeling the need to comment on someone’s status.

One of my favorite things to do on these sites is to post comments, questions, or ideas about things and sit back to see what kind of response it will spark from people. I can then take measure of what will and will not create that spark, based on the number of comments I receive. I have found that people like to respond to posts that involve:

• Asking peoples opinions on religion, life, or current events
• Saying something negative about someone else
• Announcing some sort of accomplishment
• Writing something that is out of character for you to write
  
• ANYTHING that involves drinking
• Complaining about children
• Sports scores

Some things that have a tendency to NOT evoke a great deal of commentary are:

• Famous quotes
• Song lyrics
• Highly controversial topics
• Mundane life details, I.E. “Going to sleep” or “Driving on the freeway”
• Links to videos, articles, or blogs

Then there are those who sign up but never post anything.

I call them “lurkers”, but really they are simply playing out their human voyeuristic desires to watch other people’s activities without revealing their own. Kind of like going to the airport to “people watch”. Only instead of watching how people dress and act, they can view much more intimate details about how their friends lives play out. They are most likely introverted by nature, but not always.

Author Joseph Devito wrote that “Competent people engage in self-disclosure more than less competent people” and that “competent people have a greater self-confidence and more positive things to reveal…which make them more willing to risk possible negative reactions”.

That’s a pretty bold statement Mr. Devito.

I’m sure there are a lot of introverted people out there who don’t like being called “incompetent” just because they choose not to reveal their lives to the world as much as others. But I digress…

I wonder if those who post their status’s frequently or people like myself who blog their lives to the world possess some sort of repressed, uber-sense of arrogance? Why do we think that the world needs to know or cares about our lives, our thoughts, our ideas, and our actions? Did we have these things suppressed in us as children? Did our daddy’s not listen to us enough then, so we feel a need to express ourselves more now?

What if people like me stopped wanting to express our ideas? Would we have actors or entertainers or authors? Or would we be living in a world filled with reclusive hermit people?

The whole thing is just fascinating to me.

I wonder how many comments I will get on this one????

My bet?  4

One  from my friend Scott. One from me responding to Scott. And two more from others who took the time to read this, and as a result, have something inside of them sparked enough to take the time to share their opinion on the matter.

Because another thing I have discovered is that people don’t like to take the time to read long, drawn out blogs. Especially ones that throw in numbers and statistics and that lack a great deal of humor and words like “fuck” and “douchebag”.

Have you ever had one of those life moments where you find yourself looking around for the Candid Camera crew?

Or one that you just know will end with Ashton Kutcher jumping out of the bushes to advise you that you have just been “punked”?

One of those moments that you just know there is NO fucking way that the situation you are in could possibly be happening to you?

This happened to me a few years ago when wife asked me to go to the Walmart to buy some paint for a project that I most likely wanted nothing to do with. Especially if it involved painting. You see, 4 years in the US Navy has made me hate painting more than Al Queda, Rosie O’Donnell, and indistinguishable personalized license plates combined.

I hate painting. Why? Because I painted the USS Nimitz for four fucking years and vowed to never paint again once I left her. But that’s another story.

Jason.

Yes my love?

Go to the Walmart and buy this blah, blah, blah color of paint. Don’t worry, I will paint, I just need you to go buy it.

Your God Damn right I’m not painting.

No problem princess, I’ll be right back…

Off to Wally town. As I made my way past the endless aisles of useless crap, the hair salon, the oil change place, the bread aisle, the photography studio, the bank, the pharmacy, the Subway, and the nail salon, I found myself standing in the paint section.

Armed with the splotch of paint handed to me by wife from wherever the fuck, I stood at the ready waiting to have someone match and mix it. I waited. And waited. And waited.

I wonder if I put on my wife beater shirt, filthy jeans, and knocked a tooth out if I would recieve faster service? I mean, I WAS in Walmart and I had seen those pictures of walmart “people”:

http://www.peopleofwalmart.com/

Anyhoo…

I finally managed to flag a young man down to assist me.

“Hello sir, how may I help you”?

Hello, I need to have some paint mixed to match this color”

“Oh….wow. Um. Ok sir. Can you hold on a sec”?

Sure is there a problem? You DO work in the paint section right?

“Oh, yes sir. However, I am colorblind and I need to find my assistant to help me”

Brief pause as you take that in. Its ok to laugh at my current situation as well as his.

So let me get this straight. Walmart has gotten SO politically correct, SO far beyond equal opportunity, that they actually hired a COLOR BLIND guy to work the PAINT section?

Yup.

Thats like hiring a hot female stripper to perform at a party at Clay Aiken’s house. It’s just not going to work out in the end and everyone is going to feel a little awkward.

…But the story is not over.

The young color challenged paint mixer gallivanted off to find his assistant. There I stood, among the other “people of Walmart”. A few minutes passed and the young man returned with another young Asian man following close behind him. Smock and all.

“This man needs to have paint mixed to this color, can you help him”?

A look of wonderment befell the face of the young assistant.

“Ugh, are you fucking kidding me with this“, I thought to myself.

The young assistant, looking quite bewildered began to make funny gestures with his hands. That is when the first guy looked back at me and said…

“I’m sorry sir, but my co-worker here is deaf and can’t understand what I am telling him”

Shoot me dead right now, because I am on Candid Camara. Where is that elusive Ashton Kutcher prick anyways?

Olly Olly Oxenfree you little ass goblin! Come out on out! Because there is NO FUCKING way that Walmart has taken affirmative action so far as to actually hire a color blind guy and a deaf guy to mix paint for people!?

This is NOT happening and I am NOT signing any release to have this broadcast on MTV or any other network you slimy little douchebag fuckers.

After my brief internal rant, I calmed myself and accepted the fact that I was going to be on an upcoming Punked episode. I’ll play along.

“Um, yes…I need to have that paint color mixed“, I said with a combination of words and fake sign laguage gestures.

There was something absolutely amazing about watching a blind guy and a deaf guy try to work together to mix paint. You see, the deaf guy didn’t know how to work the paint mixing equipment. Soo…

The deaf guy could see the color, but the blind guy couldn’t. The blind guy tried to explain to the deaf guy how to work the color matching thing and mixing machine, using hand motions and gestures and pointing. It was hands down one of the most awkward moments of my life.

Needless to say, Ashton fuckstick never jumped out. I never signed any release forms for a show, and my paint came out sucking serious monkey ass.

However, I will end this blog by stating that I have nothing but respect for the two young men who tried so hard to help me that day. It’s not their fault that Walmart management, who in their infinite wisdom, assigned the blind and deaf guys to the paint isle. It seems to me that their skills could have been put to better use in other areas of the store.

For instance, the color blind guy would have worked out wonderfully in the milk isle, where he only must be able to distinguish the white milk from the chocolate milk. And the deaf guy’s skills could have been better utilized at the customer service desk where nobody listens to you anyway.

I’ll be awaiting your comments on my apparent lack of compassion for the deaf and color blind.

Thank you

1993, somewhere in the Indian Ocean.

I was 19 years old and still somewhat new to the aircraft carrier I was living and working on.

I was considered to be a “booter” and an “FNG” (Fucking New Guy).

This was my first Western Pacific cruise and the longest I had been away from home in my life. Six months at sea with a few exotic port of calls in between, but not many. I was new but had earned enough respect through standard US Navy hazing, trying not to be a pussy, and drinking myself into oblivion at every opportunity. Trying to impress those senior to me with more salt. Guys like Glidden, Jones, Jacobson, and Crump. Those guys were assholes most of the time, but you respected them, their seniority, and their leadership - no matter how difficult it may have been to endure.

I was a trained Shipboard firefighter, Damage Controlman was the official name.

A lowly E-2, but at least I was rated. I had been to US Navy “A” school and had more training than many of my fellow booters. This helped me to earn a coveted position onto the highly regarded “Nucleus Fire Party” - The elite firefighting team that was called upon to respond to any fire or flooding casualty below or above the flight deck.

“First to fly, first to die”

That was our motto that somehow made us feel tough and relevant among the other 6000 men that made up the floating city capable of destroying an entire country within a few minutes.

One night after working hours, I was laying on the cold, hard deck of the AFFF shop. I was smoking a Marlboro red while watching a movie being broadcast throughout the ships enclosed television network. Smoking in the shop was a small luxury on board ship, but it was taken away about 2 years later with the passage of time and political correctness. Movie time was good too. However, I really shouldn’t have been allowed to watch a movie, as there were qualifications I needed to be working on. Technically, TV time was disallowed for booters like myself. But, there I was. Laying on the cold deck next to my buddy Gotvastlee. Smoking Marlboro Reds.

Suddenly, I was ripped from my movie world and back into the reality of my shipboard existence with a voice coming across the 1MC:

“Casualty. Number 2 Main Machinery Room. Lube Oil Rupture. Nucleus Fire Party Man Repair 5. This is NOT a drill”.

Fuck.

This is not a drill.

Lube oil rupture in a main machinery room that maintained an ambient temperature of about 120 degrees.

Lube oil that moved those machines that could easily burst into flames with one spark.

Lube oil that, when ignited, will create solid black smoke making it impossible to see. Especially when they shut down the electrical equipment in the space - including lighting.

A lube oil rupture that is occurring 7 decks down from where we are to enter.

A descent into hell.

Out goes the Marlboro. Heart beating, remembering the words of my dad before boot camp, “When the shit hits the fan, your training will kick in - trust in that”. Shoving cooks, airmen, electricians, and even Marines out of the way and into bulkheads. Running down passageways. Full sprint down the port side passageway, heading aft. Finally, arriving at Repair Locker #5.

My comrades running around like ants donning firefighting suits and Oxygen Breathing Apparatuses (OBA) and boots and portable extinguishers and thermal infrared cameras and 50 foot sections of 1.5″ salt water hose lines. Orders being shouted down from the established chain of command, of which I was at the bottom.

Shaking, scared, excited, confused, terrified, heart pounding, what is this going to be like, Jesus Christ I am going to die? I miss my mom, fuck I put on my boots wrong, “someone check my suit, can you see any exposed skin?” OBA donned, seal checks, oxygen canister in, top has been removed, good, I’m ready.

“YOU! Get on that hose and prepare to make entry!”

A muffled, “Yes Sir”! was bellowed out from behind my sweat filled mask. I’m on hose #1. Hose is charged, waiting to make entry and drag this fucking thing down 7 stories.

Awkward wait. Whats happening down there? Why aren’t we moving in? Heart racing from a mixture of my recent Marlboro filled sprint and increased adrenaline rush.

3 minutes ago I was watching a movie with Gotvastlee. Where his he now? Who is this next to me on hose #2?

It’s DC3 Jones (Named changed for anonymity). An old salt, on his second cruise. He is  sheet white and crying behind his mask.

“Jones, is this for real dude”? I asked.

“I don’t fucking know” He replied. “But I got a kid and I didn’t sign up for this bullshit, I’m scared man I don’t want to fucking die! I don’t think I can do this Martin”!

What was I supposed to say? This guy was several years older than me, senior, more experienced, well respected among the division, popular, a guy I tried hard to impress, and he is fucking crying to me about our current situation. I was supposed to follow his leadership.

I didn’t know what to say to him, so I said nothing. I took a deep breath, and thought about my family.

I don’t have any kids or a wife, so I’m cool with this. First to fly first to die. No backing down now. This is what I am here to do. I hope it doesn’t hurt and that it’s quick.

Visions of descending into an inferno 7 decks down with zero visibility has a tendency to make you wonder how your life will end in a few minutes.

Will the guy in front of me let go of the hose and run back up? Can I depend on the guy holding the nozzle to hold fast and stand his ground? Can I depend on the guy behind me to hold the weight of the hose as we snake it around 7 flights of ladders? Will 30 minutes of recirculated oxygen be enough to get me down and back up again without suffocating in the darkness below?

I’m on a ship, we can’t just contain the fire, it has to be fought. At ALL costs. Period. There is nowhere to run, but only to swim. I am 19 years old. I have lived a good life.

My brothers will honor me, my mom will miss me and my dad will respect me.

Jones is a fucking pussy and needs to quit his whining. What is taking so long? I’m already 3 minutes into my oxygen supply. I’m willing to give my life for this ship, my shipmates, and my country.

This is my duty.

I’m ready.

“Hose Teams 1 and 2, stand down. The lube oil rupture has been contained and the AFFF bilge sprinklers have succeeded in covering it with foam. The situation is secure, break it down”.

“What? That’s it? It’s over?”

I had just gone from chilling out without a care in the world to preparing for an immenent death by fire and smoke in less than 10 minutes and now its over. A roller coaster ride of emotion, breathing, adreneline, and thoughts of mortality. It’s enough to make you mature very quickly.

I have to admit that I was a little angry rather than relieved. I was pissed off at what I had just been put through. I was ready and prepared to fight until the death and now they are telling me to “stand down” and drain fucking fire hoses?

It’s hard to describe what its like really. Watch the movie “Jar Head” - You may understand my point here. But from a Navy perspective.

People wonder how they would react in a real combat situation. I never had to face combat, but I did face what I really thought was a life and death situation while serving my country.

I’m proud of the way I reacted. I think I passed the test and hope that I would still do the same today if faced with a similar situation.

I could never look at Jones the same way again. No respect. He was still an asshole to me even though he knew I knew his secret cowardice. He’s the same guy who did unspeakably disgusting things to me on Wog Day (Crossing the equator ceremony) several weeks later. I never ratted him out. I still won’t.

Never shared this story with anyone before. Not really sure why I am doing so now.

In honor of the USS Nimitz Nucleus Fire Party / Flying Squad 1992-1996 And to the rest of the US Navy Damage Control Teams that continue to serve on US Navy ships today

Ass Clown:

1. One whose stupidity and/or ineptitude exceeds the descriptive potential of both the terms ass and clown in isolation, and in so doing demands to be referred to as the conjugate of the two.

2. A person who by ignorance or stupidity takes up unnecessary amounts of your time.

-Urbandictionary.com

Billboards.

These oversized rectangular signs mounted high into the air begging for you to divert your attention from driving and texting to driving and reading their ads.

Hell, some billboards are designed for your to do all three at the same time:

I just HAVE to know what Ashton is doing THIS second! Thanks, billboard,  for encouraging me to pick up my cell phone and download that Mr. Dreamboat pants at 70 MPH!

Many of these billboards have undergone dramatic changes in the past several years. They have gone from old school billboards that were wall papered onto oversized sky walls by guys with long sticks,  to fancy, brightly lit digital billboards like these:

These billboard have pissed a lot of people off including the old-school stick wielding bill board pasters, homeowners who live within eye shot of them, and alcoholics that have crashed after being hypnotically drawn to the alluring Hi-Definition digital images of an ice cold glass overflowing with Budweiser.

Some billboards aren’t selling a particular product at all. Rather, they are selling an ideology…

a political statement…

or human values to passing commuters…

I will admit…those are my favorite billboards.

Then there are billboards that are just so asinine, so absurd, so utterly fucking idiotic that they are just screaming for me to blog about them. This is an actual billboard that has sprung up around the Phoenix metropolitan area:

So let me get this straight…

I live in Maricopa County and pay taxes through a variety of ways other than just through the property taxes that I DO pay. Those taxes I paid are then collected by the local government who uses them to pay a billboard company to  post ginormous signs around the valley reminding me that I need to pay taxes?

Did I just actually pay taxes for a sign to remind myself to pay taxes?

I think I just got mind fucked by a gaggle of ass clowns

“Jason”.

“Yes my love”.

“Take me to a movie”.

“Ok princess, what would you like to see?  I would like to see Paranormal Activity or Couples Retreat”.

“I heard Paranormal Activity was stupid, let’s see Couples Retreat”.

Shit. Now she is going to get some ideas about needing to nourish our relationship or some damn crap.

“Sounds good Princess. Look up the movie times and we will go. Perhaps we will get some ideas on how to nourish our relationship, that would awesome“!

So wife and I went to see a movie the other day

Before we could go to the movie we had to run some stupid errands. Doctor here, Walmart there, blah, blah, blah. The only thing that was going to make the day good was the fact that I was going to see a movie, with wife, using my neighbors movie cups that I can get refilled for $1.

Screw you expensive concession stand nazis!

Errands over, time for the movie. But I was hungry and didn’t want to pay $25 for some old ass nachos with luke-warm, fake “nacho” cheese-in-a-cup or a dry pretzel. So, I convinced wife to swing by the food court so I could SAVE us some money and grab what I thought was going to be a quick corn dog from a place called “Hot Dog on a Stick”.

You know the place. Its the one that makes their poor employees wear those ridiculous costumes and hats:

There just isn’t enough money.

Turns out they are actually TURKEY dogs, not beef. Fucking hippies.

And they aren’t quick because they make them right there. Dipping them into their “secret batter” and cooking them for 3 minutes, which is actually closer to 7 when the hot dog chick goes in the back to check her text messages.

7 minutes and a blackened corn-turkey-dog thing later, I was shoving it down as we walked to the movie theater.

We arrive, and made our way to the little booth. Behind the glass stood the pimpled face little adolescent cliche waiting to provide me with those little paper tickets that always end up in your dryer’s lint filter.

As we look at the movie time board, we notice that our movie was not playing at the time wife said it was playing. It was 1:00 and the movie, according to her, was to start at 1:15.

The brightly lit board and pimpled face ticket cliche said otherwise.

After some brief irritation, we walked away. I made the mistake of asking wife if, just by chance, she could have looked at the wrong theater or misread the website.

Now, you would think that I would know better after being married for 11 years that that was a stupid thing to ask.

Of COURSE she wasn’t wrong! It HAD to have been the website.

Yes my love.

Now what?

Now SHE was hungry and we had 2 hours to kill. Off to Chili’s for an appetizer, then more errands, home, then finally back to the movie theater.

Hello again ticket booth cliche, two tickets to the THREE TWENTY FIVE showing of Couples Retreat please.

“Here are your tickets sir, enjoy your movie” he said in a cracking voice trying to break free from its childhood squeakiness and into its manhood manliness.

Open the door for wife, 85 year old ticket taker tears our tickets and points the way to the theater. Stop off at the concession stand for my well deserved and strategically planned $1 drinks and into the movie theater we saunter.

Which leads me to the point of my rambling.

I never thought I would live to see the day when I would have to sit and watch fucking commercials before a movie. Real, actual, legitimate commercials being broadcast to me from advertisers on a big screen.

Where is my TIVO remote!!!!??

Exactly.

Those bastards are paying us back for DVR’ing through their damned car, diamond, and Shamwow sales pitches. They have found a way to corner me into watching their ads and there is nothing I can do about it except be the last douche bag in the theater during the previews searching for a seat in the dark.

This is their calculated and evil response to the DVR.

That and the Superbowl.

Because you never miss a Superbowl commercial. Ever. Unless of course you are a terrorist. And if you’re a terrorist then you deserve to die a slow death by being forced to watch commercials for personal injury and bankruptcy lawyers like this greasy moron:

I guarantee you one thing. There were never any commercials in the theater when I was growing up, watching Indiana Jones and Star Wars and Ghostbusters.

After I got over my initial pissedoffedness about the commercials, I noticed that my feet were sliding all over the place. An apparent well placed bucket of overly buttered popcorn had seemed to fall RIGHT were I decided to sit. So the whole movie I felt like I was ice skating or something. Slip, slide, sloosh.

“Jason, quit fidgeting”.

God WOMAN, I cant keep my feet in one place on account of the grease pile upon which my feet lie. Or lay. Or sit. Something. God dammit, just deal with it!

“Yes dear, I’m sorry”.

So I put my feet up on the unoccupied seat in front of me. Someone is walking around Gilbert right now with two big ass grease stains on the back of their shirt, just behind the shoulder areas. Hee Hee Hee….

In the end, the movie was hysterical. I don’t have to nourish my relationship beyond what I am already doing. And your damned right I got a $1 refill on my soda on the way out. That was my calculated and evil response to their overpriced movie food.

This blog is brought to you by:

Applegate Farms Organic Turkey Dogs.

Because nothing is more disgusting than putting ketchup and mustard on turkey.

When I finished my service in the US Navy in 1996, I moved to Arizona where my parents and wife were locate. I had only been here for about 4 days when my wife left me for another man she had met while I was deployed. Needless to say, I was a bit lonely and decided that I needed some company.

Enter “Lucky” the cat.

I answered and ad for free kittens, but felt like a senstive, pansy-ass girly man when I went there, so I told the owners that I was giving him as a gift to my sister. There is just something about a big, tough, Navy guy going to get himself a free kitten that’s just a little creepy.

I picked him out of the rest of his brothers and sisters because he was quite feisty. This trait in him continued throughout his entire life. Before I got him fixed, he would escape outside and spend his evenings fighting with other cats and most likely impregnating others. He was a true Tomcat.

After I got him fixed, he calmed down a little bit but still enjoyed escaping to the outside world and kicking other kitty ass after calling them pussies. Every morning he would come home scratched, bitten and sometimes punctured.

Battle wounds.

When he wasn’t out whoring and fighting, he was busy trying to steal pizza. That’s right, Lucky loved his pizza. Anytime we would have pizza in the house he would litterally rub himself all over the box and try and swipe it from your hand. Sometimes he would lay ontop of the box and roll around on top off it, smashing the top of the box down ontop of the cheese and toppings, making a huge mess. I have never seen anything like it. I called him “Lucky Luciano” sometimes. My wife hated that name. Don’t know why.

Time passed, and eventually I met another girl. Lucky and I took her and her 4 year old daughter in and life continued on.  Eventually I married one and adopted the other.

Lucky and I had a family.

Soon after, wife and I adopted 2 other cats and 2 dogs. And realizing that he had to share his space with others, he would take off at night and stay gone for days and sometimes weeks at a time.

Well, one day he had left and was gone for longer than normal. One week turned into two, two into three. I was worried, because I had known that cat longer than my own wife.

We were buds.

Then one day while on the way home from the store, I found a cat lying on the side of the road about 3 blocks from my home. It had all of the same markings and was lying there dead- an apparent victim of a hit and run. I knew right away it was him.

With a tear in my eye, I tried to convince myself that the cat I had seen lying on that road wasn’t Lucky, but I had to face the fact that Lucky’s luck had run out. So I turned my truck around an pulled up behind him. I got out and approached his lifeless little corpse, holding back a deep sense of despair. I kneeled down, and looked him over. His gray and splotchy white fur was caked in blood and his body was mangled from the recent trauma he had experienced. I gently picked up the body and and placed it in the back of my truck.

During the three blocks home I was crying and trying to figure out what I was going to tell my wife and daughter. A member of the family was gone and we had to say goodbye. He was what brought me joy and company after my first wife had left me. He was my best good pal, despite his being a pain in the ass.

My plan was to bury him and tell my family what had happened later that night when they got home.

I grabbed a trash bag and gently placed the limp body into it and wrapped it up. I found my shovel and went into the back yard started digging. Deeper and deeper the hole was dug until I could sufficiently cover his body with enough dirt to provide a proper resting place.

I was alone that day. Just like the day I had brought him home. Full circle.

I said my final goodbyes and placed the body into the hole. And with a tear streaming down my face, I grabbed my shovel and went to cover him up with the loose dirt.

Suddenly I heard something…

“Meow”

What?

“Meeeooowww”.

I turned around to see who was calling to me. Was it a witness to the burial? One of Lucky’s little floosies come to say her goodbyes?

Nope.

Standing on the top of my wall was Lucky in all of his glory. Hungry and thirsty from his 3 week adventure, he had decided to make his grand entrance as I was standing there in tears. He stood there looking at me as if asking me what I was doing there burying  road kill that I had just scraped off of the street only a few minutes prior.

Don’t worry everyone. Lucky is still alive and rolling on top of pizza boxes still today. He’s a lot older now and stays inside. But after that day, he has one less of his nine lives because I came pretty close to killing him myself upon his perfectly timed return.

Pain in the ass cat.

I often wonder what it would be like to get a “do over” in life.

Don’t lie, you have thought of it many times also. Many people, especially moms and dads, often respond by saying something like,

“I would not change a thing, because that means I wouldn’t have my son Timmy and daughter Petunia“

Blah.

Blah.

Blah.

Whatever. Get over yourself for just two minutes and really reflect on that question. Remove yourself completely from your known reality and allow yourself to think and consider…what if?

It’s OK to do it you know. Your kids will still be there when your done. Your wife will still be there to nag you and your husband will still be there to irritate you.

Two minutes. Don’t feel guilty, just think about it.

What would you have done differently? What decisions would you make in your life to lead you down another path? And of course you have the luxury of knowing what you know now…

Let go for just two minutes and think about it.

Would you have gone to college? Would you  NOT have gone to college?

Would you have joined the military? What branch? Why?

Would you have tried harder to travel? Would you have read more? Been less lazy? Been more lazy?

Would you have settled down so soon or waited longer? Would you have married at all or divorced sooner?

What do you REALLY want to be when you grow up? Are you being it now? Did you create the life for yourself that you intended to?

Would you have paid better attention in school? Become a priest? Gone to film school?

Are you living in the place you always hoped to live?

Let the thoughts just flow, without guilt, without shame.

Many of you will begin to think about these things as you read this, but most of you will not EVER respond to these questions out loud or in the form of a comment for fear of someone close to you finding out and feeling hurt.

I get that. So I don’t expect many comments here. I usually don’t get them anyway.

When you are done and have returned back to your reality, re-examine some of those things you would have liked to have done and consider which of those things you can still do and bring into your current reality if you put some time and effort and risk behind it.

So…Knowing what you know now….

Whats stopping you?

A good friend once asked if I was offered a good steak dinner or a romp in the hay with my wife, what would I choose. Much to the relief of my wife, I picked the steak dinner.

Any person who meets me for the first time can easily deduce that I am a man who loves food. I always have. Food that is not very good for me. Food that brings such pleasure that it affects me right down to my very core, literally.  

The problem is that I have a love / hate relationship with this thing called food. No, not in the way you are thinking. The exhausting part of my relationship with food comes not from indulging it in, but rather deciding which of it to indulge in.

You see, in my household we have a bit of a gender role reversal.

 I cook. Wife pays bills.

I pick up and do most laundry.

Wife deep cleans and has even been known to fix the garbage disposal as I stand there like a recently castrated moron watching over her.

Within the role that I play everyday, there are some favorite parts to it. Things like waking up early, enjoying a good cup of coffee and reading, writing, or watching the latest episode of Craig Ferguson’s Late Late show that was recorded into submission the night before. A good cigar and a glass of blended scotch whiskey on ice. These things are a constant. They do not involve much decision making.

Then I have the absolute worst parts of my day. These include leaving my wife to go to work and the big one…

DECIDING WHAT TO HAVE FOR DINNER

Waking up every day to the dreaded words, “Dad, what’s for dinner”? And my wife calling on the way home from her work to ask me if I have “planned anything for dinner”? Ultimately upsets one with my menu choice and being told that “we can’t afford that” by the other.

I absolutely despise this daily ritual with a passion. And I’m not the only one. My two single brothers, Nick and Matt, hate it just as much as I do. I have had visits with them in which their overwhelming sense of indecision brought down so much anguish and turmoil that you’d think they were having to decide upon their own method of execution.

Despite my love of food, I would GLADLY trade in the human need for it for a lifetime of 90210 rerun’s just for the opportunity to avoid the endless ritual. Those repulsive reruns would be less of a chore and bring me some God damned consistency.

Don’t think I am being insensitive to the crises of world hunger though. I fully recognize that my “problem” is something that millions of starving children would LOVE to have to deal with. I get that.

But still…annoying.

Besides, if I could trade in the human requirement for food for a lifetime of 90210 reruns, the issue of world hunger would cease to exist, plus Jason Priestly could get his career back.

Northern Virginia, 1848

“John”

“Yes, my love”

“I yearn for a life out west. Many of our friends and neighbors are packing up their belongings and moving to Californy”

“Yes dear, I have read much about that in the newspapers”

“John, won’t you take us there”?

“Oh, alright then. Pack up yoa things and we will leave in the moanin”.

And so John, Cindy and their children packed their things into a wagon and started heading west on a great adventure towards the land called California. There were whispers of common folk finding their fortunes by plucking gold nuggets  from the streams and rivers there.

While traveling from there home in Virginia, they had barely gotten underway when they met a man who claimed to be from a town called Springfield, Massachusetts. His name was Joe Arpaio, a law man so he claimed. Joe said he wanted to join their wagon train, head out west to try and make a name for himself as a proper western sheriff, much like Pat Garrett and Wyatt Earp had done. The family agreed that he would be handy to have along in case they ran into any pesky Indians or Mexicans along the way. So, he packed his uniform and weapons and rode along with them.

Days past and they came across a man hauling a wagon full of basketballs, baseballs and other various sports equipment. When they approached him, salutations were made and they discovered the man was from Chicago Heights Illinois and went by the name of Jerry Colangelo. Jerry said that all he wanted in life was to take money from the working class folks and give it to under his under recognized professional athletes.

Well, John and Cindy thought it might be fun for their children to have some balls to play with, besides their own, so they allowed Mr. Colangelo to join their wagon train.

A few weeks later they came upon a man who appeared to be very lost. His name was John F. Shea. Shea hailed from Portland Oregon and was making his way to California when a wild turtle jumped out of nowhere and bit into his compass, breaking it to pieces. Every since then he had been walking east instead of south.

“Hello there folks”! Exclaimed Shea. “I am lost and am trying to find my way to California to look for gold”.

“You can join us” said John “What do you do for a living”?

“I am a plumber by trade, but I wish to build houses using a new technique I learned from an Indian I met named “Hu-ehmew-umawe”, which roughly translated means, ‘Man who builds roof with tile, stucco and tan paint“.

“Well” said John, “We could certainly use a home builder. Join us!”

And so John F. Shea joined in the wagon train towards California. He was glad to be headed in the right direction once again.

Soon they reached the eastern face of the rocky mountains in a small town called Colorado Springs. As the party gazed upon the beautiful blue-green mountains with their snow capped peaks, they stood in awe at what beheld them. Twas the most beautiful sight they had ever seen. The weather was perfect, there was plenty of food and water and friendly folks willing to lend a hand.

The group thought very hard about the idea of staying there. This would allow them to remain in such a place of beauty and not have to cross over those big ass mountains. That’s how Colorado Springs got to be founded in the first place, and the term “aaahhh fuck it” came to be.

But this group was determined to cross over those mountains and push on towards their dreams of riches that lie ahead of them in California. After spending a few days replenishing their supplies and preparing for the trek over the rocky mountains, they started up the hill. And off to the side of a particularly treacherous mountain trail they came upon a party of  2 men and a woman. They appeared to have a flat wagon wheel and had it jacked up in an attempt to repair it.

“Hullo there good sir, can we be of assistance to you”? announced John.

The younger, more portly one of the bunch stood up and accepted the invitation for help.

“Hello, my name is Bill Austin. These are my coworker’s Beth McDonald and Pat McMahon”.

“Glad to meet you lady and gentlemen” said John “Let’s see how we can get you back on your way”

Soon the repairs were underway. It was during that time that they learned that Beth McDonald was from Ireland, Pat McMahon was from Leavenworth Texas and Bill Austin came from the wherever Beth told him he was from. The three of them were headed to California in search of jobs in the radio industry, which they had heard rumor was going to be invented in 58 years on December 24th, 1906 . They wanted to be prepared for its arrival and be the first ones in California to make their voices travel over the air.

Well the wagon train decided that they could join up with them because they could all use a little entertainment and some good conversation. And so, the party grew by three more and pushed onward. Over the rocky mountains and back down again. Across the plains and down into the fast expanses of New Mexico. Trying to stay along Interstate 40 as much as they could.

About 100 miles from the Arizona border they came across some brown skinned people. They claimed to be from Mexico, but had been seeking something a little “newer”. And apparently had found what they were looking for in New Mexico. Their names were Filiberto, Humberto, Rolberto, Eriberto, and Ramiro. They knew everything there was to know about making the most amazing tacos.

“Buenos Dias Senior” said Filiberto.

“Well hullo there” answered John. “I see you are of brown skin and smell of spicy peppers and freshly cooked meat and tortillas. We are hungry, and would like to pay you for some tacos”

“Si senior, how many you want”? inquired Filiberto.

Right about then Joe Arpaio grasped his sidearm, weary of the brown skinned man’s taco intentions.

“Easy there Joe” said John “We hunger, and Filiberto hear can nourish our bodies with fresh tacos and machacha burritos in the form of a #3 combo plate, it even comes with rice”.

“Fine then” said Joe. But he thought to himself that the taco makers were suspect and didn’t belong there.

The wagon train ate their fill and bedded down for the night. The next morning they awoke to find that the New Mexican Mexicans were still with them. They had packed their belongings, had 1 gallon of water each, and asked to join the wagon train westward. Apparently the competition for Mexican food there was too great, so they wanted to try and make their claim in the land of California instead. They would call it the “California Burrito”.

John knew right away that Joe Arpaio wouldn’t like the idea, but granted their wish anyway because they could supply them with the most amazing tacos. So, it was decided. And soon the caravan was back on its way westward.

Days and weeks went by. The lands got flatter and flatter. It was July now, and the heat was becoming unbearable. It was later described in a journal entry of John’s that it was “hotter than satan’s ass sitting on a hot plate“. They soon entered into some sort of valley area. Mountains all around them, but nothing like the rocky mountains that were so far behind them. It was a hot, desolate,  and unforgiving place. The air was dry, there were cacti dotting the landscape in every direction, and there was no water to be found for miles. There were deadly rattlesnakes and scorpions and wild pigs running around.

Then there were the Indians. The “Pima”, “Hohokom” and the “Hopi”. They were a violent bunch, threatening the lives of any “White Man” that may step foot on their arid lands, and would literally scalp any white man who didn’t buy their turquoise jewelery and authentic Indian pottery and blankets along I-40. Temperatures would reach upwards of 115 degrees.

Needless to say, the small band of pioneers were all to ready to leave that God forsaken place as quickly as humanly possible. Of all the places they had been thus far, this was by far the worst, and least likely to sustain life in a civilized manner. But as they were getting ready to continue to trek westward, they ran into a man who called himself “Tom Cruise”

“Well hello there everyone, my name is Tom Cruise and I am traveling eastward from California in search of people to join my growing organization of Scientologists”.

“Scientologists you say”? asked John. “What is a Scientologist”?

“Oh, its the most exciting thing John!” exclaimed Tom. “It was all started when a Science Fiction writer name Ron L. Hubbard decided that he wanted to share the one  truth about life and our existence. So, he wrote a book called ‘Dianetics’”.

“Go on” pushed John.

“Well you see, Hubbard taught us that it all started 75 million years ago when the alien ruler Xenu, who ruled over his 76 planets called Teegeeack, felt that they were were becoming over-populated with billions of people. So, he decided to stage mock tax audits on all of his people. They were to arrive at an audit center, and once they did, each person was captured and given a dose of alcohol and glycol and then frozen.

Once all his people were frozen, they were put into spaceships that resemble DC8 air planes. The entire fleet of spaceships then transported all of the frozen people to Earth where they were dropped into volcanoes located in and around the Canary and Hawaiian Islands. Then, the fleet of ships dropped hydrogen bombs into the volcanoes, killing all of the frozen people”

“Why did he do that”? inquired John.

Tom replied, “Well that was his plan all along. You see Xenu had created electronic traps designed to capture the souls of the dead people as they rose up out of the volcanos that he bombed. Each of those souls were then taken to galactic movie theaters to be shown movies in order to teach them a false reality and to control them. The images helped the spirits come to believe in all of the things that control humanity today, mainly organized religion.
Once the movies ended, they roamed earth for thousands of years. And when man became man, the spirits attached themselves to our bodies. And that is why everyone on earth, other than Scientologists, live in false reality. My purpose as a Scientologist is to rid the false reality from the world by auditing all humans that have those spirits connected with them”.

“What happened to Xenu”? John asked.

“Well, he was eventually overthrown by members of the Marcab Confederation and is currently imprisoned in a mountain on a far away planet. His cell is protected by a force-field that is powered with a battery that never runs out of power”.

“Wow” John stated. “Are there others like you in California”?

“Oh yes!” Tom exclaimed, “California is filled with Scientologists like me! Plus, Paris Hilton lives there and so does the Baldwin family! We have invented the ‘California Pizza’, and don’t believe in a person’s right to own guns. The Oakland Raiders play football there and we have a wonderful little college called ‘Berkley’, whose teachers open peoples eyes about the evils of Conservativism and the free market”.

And with that, Joe Arpaio pulled out his Colt .45 and shot Tom Cruise dead in the face.

The small band of weary travelers decided right then and there that they would rather stay right where they were, enduring all the hellish elements that Arizona had to offer. They were NOT going anywhere near California and were too tired to head back the other way.

Soon they all set up camp and established themselves. They called the small town “Phoenix”, which roughly translated means, “Sphincter of the Sun“. It is an old Maricopa Indian word which got mistranslated later on, which is why many today call it the “valley of the sun“.

Joe Arpaio became the sheriff and soon decided that Filiberto, and his cousins Humberto, Rolberto, Eriberto, and Ramiro needed to be sent back to Mexico. However, when he went to round them up they all scattered. Today, their legacy remains in fine Taco Shops spread all throughout the greater Phoenix metropolitan area.

Beth, Bill, and Pat McMahon started the first radio show in Phoenix. However, Beth and Bill played Christmas music incessantly for too many months out of the year.

This led Pat McMahon to separate from the group and start his own television show called “Wallace and Ladmo”.

He would send kids bags filled with useless crap and entertain them for hours. Some say that if you put your ear close to a saguaro cactus, you can still hear his voice early in the morning and early in the evening time on KTAR.

Jerry Collangelo found his dream.

He managed to take as much money as he could from the working class and give it to his underprivileged athletes who worked for him. Now, because of him, they can all afford that home in north Scottsdale and Paradise Valley. Sometimes his players can be seen high up in the sky riding in their G5 private jets.

John F. Shea founded “Shea Homes” and went on to become a very prominent home builder in Phoenix. He took what he had learned from the Indians about the use of stucco, tan paint, roofing tiles and used it to build homes with it that can be found throughout the entire valley.

Many others took his concept and copied it. Today, Phoenix and the surrounding cities are nothing but a mass of endless tan stucco dwellings being held up with chicken wire and foam.  Aluminum siding has yet to find its way to Phoenix.

John went on to fly jets and was shot down over Vietnam and taken prisoner. He eventually was freed and later became a Senator and a presidential candidate. He and his family still live in Phoenix today.

And that is how Phoenix came to be.

The following is a brief explanation of the various freeway systems that can be found when driving around in the Phoenix Metropolitan area. This in intended for any visitor from out of town, truck driver, or newly licensed adolescent driver trying to find their way about town.

The first thing to keep in mind is that the Maricopa Freeway, Papago freeway and the I-10 are the same stretch of freeway. When your driving westbound on it, you are actually driving northbound, and when your driving eastbound on it you are actually driving southbound.

SR202 is the Red Mountain freeway and runs east then south until it becomes the San Tan freeway at the US 60 with runs east and west and northwest and is split into two sections.

US 60, also known as “Grand Ave” and the “Superstition Freeway”, runs Northwest bound from 7th av and Van Buren and goes on forever. Grand and Superstition do not meet whatsoever but are both called US 60.

The I-17, also known as the “Black Canyon Freeway” and the “Veterans Memorial Highway” is under a perpetual state of construction and runs north and south. Except at the Durango curve in which it runs east and west for a brief stretch of a about 2 miles, during which you are required by law to call it the “Maricopa Freeway” (Not to be confused with the I10 section of the Maricopa Freeway, lest you be flogged).

Perpendicular of the I17 is the US 74, or the “Carefree Highway” which is really a road that just really wants to be a highway when it grows up.

The Loop 303, AKA the “Bob Stump Memorial Highway” is actually not a loop at all, as it only connects I17 and I10 together. So, it should really be called a “line” or a “sort of half circle”.

SR 101 runs East, West, North and South. At the point where it goes west from the I-17 (Black Canyon / Veteran’s memorial highway) it is called the Agua Fria Freeway. East of the I-17 it is called the Pima freeway, which turns into the Price Freeway after it hits the US 60, or Superstition Freeway, where ends into a merge at the SR202 San Tan freeway, not the SR202 Red Mountain freeway.

The westbound merge onto San Tan freeway eventually turns into the Pecos freeway which is also known as Pecos road and / or the South Mountain freeway which doesn’t exist.

The SR143 is the Hohokom, but it’s also 48th street. The SR 153 is the Sky Harbor Expressway, which is now called 44th street, is a useless piece of road that connects University road to the Airport.

Thunderbird road becomes Cactus road, but Cactus road doesn’t become Thunderbird road because it dead ends at a mountain.

Dunlap and Olive are the same street. Jefferson becomes Washington, but they are not the same street.

Stapley is Cooper.

Mesa Dr is McQueen

and Chandler Blvd is Williams Field Road.

I hope this clears up any confusion about our freeway systems here in the Valley of the Sun.

Thank you.

The Pilgrims sailed upon the Mayflower

They had no engines

but lots of wind power

9 weeks they sailed over ocean blue

All of them Puritans,

Not even a Jew

They arrived in winter

inside of Cape Cod

but later moved south

to worship their God

Plymouth was founded

a settlement was created

But the savages nearby

were very much debated

Then one day a savage came forth

His name was Squanto

who lived in the north

With him they all

made their amends

the enemy of their enemy

now were all friends

Spring finally sprung

and the harvest soon arrived

Those who lived through winter

were glad to be alive

Celebration and feasting was to commence

it was the English way

and it made good sense

The Indians all came

because they were invited

the children showed too

and all were excited

Turkey and deer and corn on the cob

they had no napkins

so they all ate like slobs

when dinner was done

tryptophan set in

they all told stories

about where they had been

the day was done

and the sun soon set

the English went to bed

aware of their debt

Days turned to weeks

weeks into years

The English had guns

The Indians had spears

Years turned to centuries

Troops were deployed

The west was won

The Indians destroyed

Diseased and defeated

sent to reservations

White guys eliminated

all tribal nations

Centuries go by

The Indians build casino’s

For Whitey to gamble

perhaps play some Keno

They will take all your money

sit back and chuckle

while you eat too much turkey

and loosen your buckle

Whitey wiped them out

by making them all ill

but their fighting back

by counting our bills

so this Thanksgiving

remember their plight

Good Thanksgiving to all

and to all a good night.

I know, I know.

I haven’t posted a blog in a long time. The Thanksgiving poem was cute, but it’s getting old.

Problem is I just have very little to write about right now. Sure Christmas is coming and I should therefore be inspired by the spirit of it all.

But I think that it is BECAUSE of the holiday that I’m not writing lately. Too much to do, lots of work stuff going on, blah, blah, blah.

I am, however, working on a blog about the origion of Phoenix. But it has taken me some time to get it going. I’m about half way done with it. It’ll be up soon.

I’m not even going to advertise this posting on Facebook, because I’m curious to see who all may stop by just to see what I have to say. I can always count on my buddy Scott. Hell, he’s been fucking bugging me for weeks to post something.

Well, here it is.

Something.

Click

Beep, Beep, Boop, Boop, Beep, Boop, Beep

Ring. Ring. Ring.

Yes, hello, is this human resources?

Ah, wonderful.  I am a new supervisor and have a few questions about how to handle some various situations. I was wondering if you could help me?

Great! Thank you. I have run into some situations, and I need to make sure that I handled them appropriately and according to policy.

Well, I have several. The first one I wanted to run by you has to do with conflict resolution. Basically I had two employees who were really fucking pissed at each other about…

Oh sorry.

They were pissed at each other because one was fucking the other one’s boyfriend.

I’m sorry, “Sleeping with” the other one’s boyfriend…so I had the boyfriend come down to the office and brought both employees into a small room. Then I locked all three of them  in the room together so they could have some open, interpersonal communication time with one another about the situation….

Huh?

I shouldn’t have done that?

Mmm Hmm.

I see.

Well no that’s not everything. I also told the boyfriend that the girl he was cheating with had syphilis.

Really?

Oh.

Well she DOES have syphilis.

Because I read her employee file, nasty case of it too.

What is a “hippo law”?

Hippa?

Oh. Well I didn’t know that.

So does that mean I shouldn’t have taken up a collection for one of my other employees who has merza?

Oh, Sorry…M-R-S-A. I see.

Well all I did was bring each person to his desk he sits in all day, and using his favorite pen I had everyone write on a little get well note in a card to accompany the $1000 gift card I got him to Dillards for new clothes, because his current ones are clearly contaminated with his nasty disease.

With company funds silly.  I even titled the card, “Get better soon Bob, because we all Mersa here at work“!

Contagious?

Decontaminate his work station?

Oh.

Ok, you need to explain what the hell a “Hippo law”..

“Hippa law”, excuse me, is.

Ohhhhhhhh…..I understand now. Mmmm Hmmm.

Privacy laws… Ok.

Well what about people’s birthdays?

Well, for instance, I have this really hot 22 year old blond employee whose birthday was last week. So, I got her a very expensive set of lingerie and a chocolate covered banana.

Why?

Oh, well a couple of weeks ago she asked me how I thought she could get promoted and I had heard a couple of the hiring managers say that they would love to see her sucking on a banana wearing next to nothing. So, I just thought it would be the perfect birthday…

What’s that?

Uh huh.

Well their names were Bill Smith and Roy Jones. Why?

Oh, well your welcome!

Well when she opened it she gave me a funny look. Then I told her why I got it for her, and then she was REALLY surprised. So much so, that she went right to her desk and started typing a “Thank You” E-card to me. For some reason I still haven’t got it.

That wasn’t an E-card?

E-mail?

To you?

Sexual harassment?

Oh, well I didn’t know that I….

Mmmm Hmmm…

Training? I see. Well I just gave my employees diversity training.

Oh, for me? Well I guess that would be fine.

What training did I give on diversity?

Well, I thought it would fun and interactive if I brought everyone into the conference room and play a little game.

I put together a matching activity, just like in school. For instance, on one side of the white board I…

Huh?

Oh, that’s insensitive?

Well what should I call it then?

Ok fine. On one side of the DRY ERASE board I placed pictures of different colored people that I downloaded from Google images.

Whats that?

Well my pictures WERE of different colored people!

Ok fine. Different “ethnicities and racial groups”..whatever.

Then on the other side I put a brief comment that described each ethnicity….

……

…..

Hello? Are you there?

…..

Oh, I thought I lost you there for a second. Well as I was saying, I put a comment on the DRY ERASE board such as “has huge penis and prefers fried chicken” or “has tiny penis but is really good at math and can’t drive”. My favorite one was “Cheap even though they run Hollywood with circumcised penis’s”.

But I didn’t stop there, because I know the importance of recognizing diversity beyond colors, excuse me, “ethnic background”.

Well for instance, I used comments such as, “Homophobic bible thumper” and “Well dressed rainbow fairy” and “Nazi’s” and “Normal People”. Then each employee had to match the comment with the picture of the people.

What’s that?

Oh, “Normal People” , you know, like me and you.

I’m sorry?

Well what are you?

Oh, well you sound like a white guy.

Your a Indian woman?

Ohhh, sorry about that I had no idea on account of your voice being so low. You sound nothing like the guy at 7-11.

Well how the hell am I supposed to teach my employees to recognize the diverse nature of our office?

Your sending someone down here?

Oh, well that’s fine I guess. I’ll have my staff waiting in the training room for you.

Mmm Hmm.

Well typically I put all the black people in the back of the room with the whites up front.

Whats that?

Because silly, everyone knows white people can’t hear as well as black people. That’s why I sit them up front and the black ones in back.

Because, my wife tells me I’m hard of hearing all the time, THAT’S how I know. And I am white, so put two and two together, DUH!

Well I’m ONLY trying to make sure everyone can hear the training YOU are going to provide us.

Well, when you get here just go through the front doors, up the elevator to the second floor. When you pass the Christmas tree take a…

What?

A Holiday tree?

What the fuck is a “holiday tree”?

Sorry, “holiday tree”?

Religious sensitivity?

Yes, that’s all we have displayed here, just a “Holiday Tree”. Why?

A menorah? You mean that Jew candle stick thing?

Well no.

Ok, I’ll put one up, but am I allowed to call it a Menorah?

I am?

Now wait a minute. Why can’t I call Christmas tree a “Christmas tree” but I can call a Menorah a “Menorah”? Shouldn’t I have to call it a Holiday Candle Stick?

Oh I see.

Different how?

Mmm Hmmm.

Well, if that’s what I’m supposed to do then I’ll do it I suppose.

Does that mean I have to put up Qooanza stuff that Tyrone asked for?

Oh, I’m sorry… K-W-A-N-Z-A-A, got it.

Kinera candles?

Well Ok, but I’m making everyone call them “Holiday Candles”. Wait, the Jews have “Holiday Candles”. I will have everyone call them “Black Person Holiday Candles”. Is that Ok?

It’s not?

Ugh, this is making me tense. Hold on a sec…

TIFFANY!

Yes, can you come into my office for a second?

Hi Tiff, can you just give me one of your famous topless rub downs on my shoulders, neck, back and upper thigh’s you always give me when I’m feeling stressed? Thanks sweetie.

Sorry about that, are you still there?

Hello?

Hello?

Hmmm. I guess she hung up.