A Really Great Pumpkin
Just thought I’d share this short piece of fiction that was featured on Blogdramedy’s blog today. I hope you like it!
Thinking About Drugs Makes Me Want Drugs
I rarely drink but when I do it’s something unusual.
Vicodin! Oh, my poor wee bairns.
Credit: A Guru’s Lament
First things first. I hate drugs*.
*Per the Drug Subsistence Manual (DSM) III: A definition of “drug” that excepts caffeine and alcohol.
As I was saying, I hate drugs. I almost never take them. Present company of alcohol and caffeine excepted, of course. I have to be in some dire straits to even consider it and, even then, I generally take less than the recommended dosage.
I don’t like ibuprofen and I don’t like Tylenol. I even eschew aspirin. My wife knows a lot about prescription medications she’ll often respond to my whining by saying something like, “Take four of these horse-sized pills.” I’ll usually only take one or two.
Topping my list of things I hate is nicotine and marijuana. Gross and pointless. I understand life is hard. My advice? Eat it. (Life, I mean.) If you’re not going to live in the reality of the here and now, why bother? What’s the point?
I do admit, though, that Walter White’s “blue ice” looks tempting. I wouldn’t mind taking some of that fictionalized meth for a spin. Just one time.
And yet…
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Tweetography
During my illustrious Twitter career there have been some recurring motifs. If I was George Lucas I’d likely call them “notes.” Like my Twitter is some kind of minuet or something.
Pshaw!
The self-memes include things like Tombstone Authoring, Demotivational Dictionary, Bucket List and so much more. You, of course, won’t have any clue since you ignore my Twitter which is where the vast majority of my comedic goodness goes to die. And deservedly so.
The notes I’ve decided to share today deal with my “Autobiography” meme. And midi-chlorians. Lots and lots of midi-chlorians.
I am the chosen the one. The one who will bring unbalance to the farce.
Without further ado, bring on the notes!
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The Brett Favre Dating Guide
I was just thinking a bit about Brett Favre. I truly feel for his unfortunate memory loss due to his crunching time in the NFL. Worse, it must really be terrible not being able to remember who you may have sent pictures of your junk. That’s gotta hurt.
OK, just a bit of fun to go along with yesterday’s post. I hope you enjoy this little doodle I created using an online generator.
I watched a video about the Favre situation. Apparently Favre would leave voice messages that said something like this. (I’m paraphrasing from memory.) “Hey baby, I’m off practice now. Just back chillin’ in my hotel room. I’d really like to see you tonight.”
That is some seriously smooth scrambling. I mean, what woman do you know who wouldn’t get all turned on by that level of romance???
Curious, I ran those words through the translator. I was surprised by what came back. “Me Tarzan. You Jane. I will fuck you.”
You just can’t fake class.
When the woman somehow miraculously failed to show up and produce a touchdown for the aging QB, he then reportedly sent pictures of a penis to her cell phone. Why…
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Killer of soccer referee gets three years
On Saturdays this space normally features a WordPress reblog but I wasn’t able to find a post regarding a story from earlier this year that deeply affected me. I’m posting an update regarding this story instead.
Earlier this year there was a very disturbing story involving a 17-year-old youth playing in a recreational soccer league that was intended to give suburban kids a chance.
While playing the goalie position, the unnamed youth reportedly pushed a player attempting a corner kick. After justifiably drawing a yellow card the youth protested the call and shouted at the volunteer referee who had made the call.
As the yellow card was being written, the youth suckerpunched the referee, Ricardo Portillo, 46, in the side of the head. By the time police arrived Portillo was curled on the ground in a fetal position and complaining of nausea and back pain. The referee was rushed to a hospital and slipped into a coma later that evening. Within two days Portillo was dead from brain swelling and injuries resulting from the punch.
On Aug. 5, 2013, the youth plead guilty as part of deal reached with prosecutors. The deal prevented the youth from being tried as an adult, only about three months before his 18th birthday. Under the deal the youth will serve a maximum of just over three years in a juvenile prison, although a juvenile parole board could decide to release the youth earlier.
The juvenile court judge also ordered the youth to maintain a picture of the victim in his cell and write a letter to the man’s daughters every week to remind him of the pain he caused the man’s family.
Again, that’s three years in a juvenile prison for a guilty plea on a charge of “homicide by assault.” Sad.
TryThreat
Sometimes a negative thought can be eclipsed by an even more negative one. I call this phenomenon “normal reality.” It turns out that negative thoughts are stackable, much like little plastic block toys. Your mileage may vary.
My wife and I are new to the big city. Apparently we have a certain look that tells the outside world, “Listen up! Target these motherfuckers. They are easy prey. They are soft marks. Easy fish to fry. Hit them up with your broken car stories, requests for loose change, and sponsoring sadly unfortunately children around the world for only $7 a week.”
Too bad my math skills alerted me to the fact that “only” $7 a week is the same as $364 a year. Sorry, I don’t have time at the moment to hand over my wallet (and then some) to a perfect stranger no matter how friendly and yet pushy they are.
So we have a look that allows the vultures, leeches and do-gooders zoom in on us like a drone strike on an American citizen peacefully protesting a big bank. I’m not sure what we’re supposed to do about that. Maybe fedoras would function as riffraff repellent and/or pass us off as locals?
Having that look is mostly a pain in the ass but the other day it may have saved us $175. As always, my negativity played a part.
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Shouts from the Abyss 
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