Getting To Foe You
Oompa Loompa doom-pa-dee-do
I have another puzzle for you
Oompa Loompa doom-pa-da-dee
If you are wise, you’ll listen to me
Who do you blame when your kid is a brat?
Pampered and spoiled like a Siamese cat
Blaming the kids is a lie and a shame
You know exactly who’s to blame
The mother and the father
Oompa Loompa doom-pa-dee-da
If you’re not spoiled, then you will go far
You will live in happiness too
Like the Oompa Loompa doom-pa-dee-do
(My emphasis added.)
Like I’ve always said, parents are the absolute worst people to have children.
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Time to mortar a brick
I’ve been hearing a lot of hubbub of late about online retail sales overtaking traditional “brick and mortar” businesses.
Boo freakin’ hoo. To my way of thinking that’s like worrying about one turd shitting on another.
Still, I thought it might be a good idea to reminisce a few moments about the proverbial good times of ye olde mom and pop. The good old days and the “little man” of Alan Jackson lore.
Brick and mortar? Mom and pop? Who the hell is in charge of naming this shit? Dr. Seuss? Family jewels are found in aisle 42. Bait and tackle in aisle 69. That reminds me: “Clean up on aisle 69!”
I’ve already written quite a bit about Mr. Online Entrepreneur. He’s slippery, slimy and makes jackals and amebas seem like highly evolved life forms. He lies about everything including – most especially – that the product you want is “in stock.” Then he gets your money and you wait weeks to find out if you’ll ever get the product he just totally lied about or if you’ll ever get your money back. Good times.
How about Mr. Brick Mortar? How does he compare? And who is this guy?
Does the plethora of dings on the side of your car give you any kind of freakin’ clue?
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Whole Lotta Lotto Goin’ On
It’s a banner year for Unfair Taxation of the Stupid (UFS or LOTTO for short).
I don’t have the economic data to back up the “banner” claim but who cares. I feel it in my gut. We just had a big jackpot which means were were subjected to all of the usual big-lotto-prize bullshit:
- Local news covering the “story” that people are buying more than the usual amount of lotto tickets.
- Chit chat from the UPS driver about $2 tickets and that no one from our state ever wins. (He was right.)
- Lots and lots of news articles on the internet about how winning can be bad. (Fuck you.)
- Blog posts up the ying-yang about how the ill-gotten booty would be spent.
- Nigeria and Facebook users teaming up to rock the scams like there’s no tomorrow.
- Excitement about who won and – do tell! – what are their plans?
I also see a lot of stories about all of the “good” that comes from government-sponsored gambling in the form of lotteries. “$X amount went to upgrade caskets for drowned puppies.” Well, la-dee-da! When I read that all I can see is: “Citizens in the great state of Iowa wasted $10x dollars by throwing their money in the nearest toilet.” That’s $10x not spend at local stores. That’s $10x not saved for retirement. That’s $10x not spent on their past due bills. That’s $10x not given to charity. That’s probably $10x money gone forever that most of the people who spent could ill afford to lose.
Wow. That is good.
They were talking about the lotto in the office. The boss made the mistake of asking me what I’d do if I won. “You’d never see me again,” I quipped. Sometimes I’m so damn proud of myself. Of course, I then immediately played it off like I was joking. It’s only a joke. Yeah. Right.
I thought about it for a moment and I said this. “I just read a story that says winning the lotto doesn’t necessary make people happier. I call bullshiats.”
This is what I’d do…
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Yo, Jack! Handy Creep Thoughts by Tom Taker
Tom’s Law #42
Never accept personal hygiene advice from someone who smells like the laundry hamper from the high school football team’s locker room.
Perhaps you’ve met the sort. The sort that acts superior like they are somehow better than you in every way. I guess you have to grudgingly admire an overactive imagination:
I’m smarter than you. Except everything I do ends up being the most idiotic shit you’ve ever seen.
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Like Water for Assholes
As the reader, you have a task this time out. See if you can identify the above referenced “asshole” in this post. I bet you can if you try.
I’ve noticed that some of the women I’ve known in my life had certain … similarities.
I can think of a few examples.
One is the penchant of using 42 squares of toilet paper per wipe. I’m like, “Come on. If a little bit gets on you it won’t kill you. It washes off.” But they always insist it will. It is deadly and must be avoided at all costs.
Another is the desire to turn on the ceiling fan. They like that thing on. A lot. Like 24/7 a lot. Like in, “If the fan ever stops the space-time continuum will be destroyed.” Me? Meh. I can take it or leave it.
They also like doors and windows open. Even when this means our screens will be horribly mauled and disfigured by the feline members of our households. To a cat, you see, an unprotected and exposed screen is the holy grail of things to scratch. It taunts them, saying, no matter what: “You want to be on the other side of me.” If cats ever held an Olympics, screen climbing would no doubt be a headline event.
There is another commonality, though. One that dwarfs the previous examples. One that you’d never possibly imagine.
It’s water. Or, to be more precise, how we react to it.
I’ll explain how it works.
The other night I came home from work and our kitchen had been torn apart. It turned out there was a leak under the sink. My wife had pulled everything out from under the sink and had towels everywhere stopping up the flow of water. She’s clever that way. Those things would have never occurred to me.
“The sink leaks when you turn on the water,” she said.
I replied with the very first thought that crossed my brain. “Don’t turn it on, then.” Actually, it is nothing short of amazing that I’m alive and my arms still work enough to write this post. I’m surprised she let me live.
Naturally I did what any man would do. (Even though I’m not one.) I grabbed a flashlight and crawled under that sink on my back. “Yep. It’s leaking alright.” It’s really not very nice to kick someone in that position.
I figured out which line-thingy was the source and my wife figured out how to fix it. Another win-win in the Taker household. I was struck, however, by the urgency of the problem. It was water. It had to be dealt with now. Me? I probably would have napped first.
The commonality? For that, I’ll tell a little story…
It must have been about 15 years ago. It was another place (the big city) and another woman. (This was years before I met my wife.) In fact, I’m pretty sure it was the day before Thanksgiving. I was chillin’ on the sofa watching a police chase.
It was one of those cases where some lunatic was racing around in a car while being chased by multiple police cars and we were watching the whole thing on TV with coverage by helicopter and running commentary.
I had already invested a couple hours of my life watching this riveting form of entertainment. Even though the car was showing no signs of slowing down, the situation was building to a climax. You could feel it. Ever minute he zipped around he was burning up his gas. The size of his gas tank was his enemy.
Suddenly there was a shriek in my house. It came from the garage. I leaped to my feet and sprinted over. I found my main squeeze looking out in the garage, where a sizable puddle of water had formed. “Looks like we’ve got some kind of leak,” I said wisely.
And then it happened. The moment of utter doom. I went back to the sofa and continued watching the police chase.
She was incredulous. She foamed at the mouth a little. She stood in front of me and glared. “This needs to be dealt with. NOW!” Damn, she sounded ominous.
“This thing,” I said, indicating the police chase on TV. “It’s gotta be over any minute now.” I figured everything was already wet. A few more minutes of wetness wouldn’t bring about the end of the world, I reasoned.
Suffice it to say it was game over for me. I found myself in the garage working in the water. Eventually I decided to turn off the water using the knob-thingy that controlled the water to our house.
While farting around and pretending to know what a man would do in a situation like that, I missed the satisfying conclusion to the police chase. I only found out later that the car had run out of gas and had stopped on the highway. A man then got out, pointed something at the cops and was blown to bits. And I missed it.
Oh. The water thing? That turned out to be a tiny little dent in a pipe that had been installed under the concrete slab like 20 years earlier. It had finally created a hole in the pipe under a bedroom and flooded the garage from below. Clever.
So yeah. I guess my point here is that women I have known always seem to have an issue with water being dealt with now. They don’t seem to be such big fans of later.