“Hey. I got a question.”
“Do you pick your nose?”
The pause wasn’t quite as long as you’d think. “Yeah. I do.”
Beat. Then, of course, the inevitable.
“Fuck off! I ain’t answering that.”
Never underestimate the power of a fully-formed glare. “Yeah, okay. I do, too.”
The rest of that conversation, pertaining to the eating of said nose pickings, will not be published in this space. That’s premium content. We accept all major credit cards. But not PayPal!!!
Then, this other time, I turned to my wife and asked, “How many times, in your entire life, have you ever sued anyone?”
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Tickmaster is a website service that sells tickets. (Yes, this is a bona fide typo but I’m not fixing it. -Ed.) They offer a “fan guarantee” chock full of neat-o sounding stuff. I just looked and only counted three fine print asterisks on a bulleted list of eight items. Certain exceptions apply.
Wow. Is that a festive and fun fan guarantee or what?
Some people who purchased tickets through the official Ticketmaster website may have been signed up for a “rewards” program that costs $9 a month. According to Consumerist.com, the attorney for the plaintiffs in a suit against Ticketmaster claimed 93% of program participants never redeemed a single coupon.
This week Ticketmaster settled a $23 million lawsuit alleging that customers were signed up for the program without realizing it costed $9 month which was charged to the same credit cards used to make ticket purchases.
The settlement has been approved by a U.S. District Court judge and, it goes without saying, Ticketmaster did not admit any wrongdoing. Like me, apparently they love to pay $23 million to make problems go away. Hell, I’m always out doing that. Perhaps that’s one reason why I don’t have a lot of money on me. You know my motto. “Never leave home without $23 million.”
The average rewards member lost about $72 because it apparently took about eight months for them to notice the mysterious recurring charge on their statements. “Hey. What’s this giant sucking sound in my account?”
About 1.2 million people who signed up between September 2004 and June 2009 are eligible to file claims as part of the settlement and could receive up to $30. What the hell, it only went on for almost five years. That’s a pretty good run in ecommerce circles.
This sort of thing reminds me of the time my wife booked travel plans from a snarky gnome and we got hit with similar “membership” charges. To this day we don’t know what benefits were part of the program. They never told us.
With all this in mind, I am pleased to announce the new Gigantor Abyss Rewards Program (GARP). According to the world of GARP you provide your credit card information and I respond with a personalized notice of acceptance. The guru will fee you now and, as an added bonus, there’s no waiting room. Membership has its snivileges.
Slay me, betray me
Filet me, all the way me.
Douse me in alcohol
Set me aflame and flambé me.
It was rapidly approaching 8pm. Darkness was engulfing the land. Wearily my wife and I made our way to the bedroom. It was time for the nightly ritual of getting ready for bed. The end of another long day.
For me, going to sleep is like giving up. It’s saying, “Once I close my eyes it will be time to open them again, on a new day, and do all of this stuff all over again.” Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
I can’t imagine a more gloomy sentiment.
Yet little did I know at that moment the betrayal that was heading my way before I’d even had the chance to experience that sadness. I wasn’t going to make it to bed unscathed.
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Do you remember what you were doing on Feb. 12, 2010? Me either. The only record I have of that date is a lame post about Valentine’s Day and chocolate. While the biggest worry in my life was some inane holiday, a 23-year-old young man was having his life terminated by an asshole of gratuitous evil.
On Feb. 12, 2010, it is reported that a man named John Goodman (no relation to the actor) was driving in his Bentley convertible. He ran a stop sign, smashed into a car being driven by 23-year-old Scott Patrick Wilson, and fled the scene. Wilson was left for dead, in his overturned car and at the bottom of a canal. The accident ended Wilson’s life.
Goodman was found later and had a blood alcohol level that was twice the legal limit.
The catch? Goodman is rich. Filthy rich. He inherited his wealth from his daddy. I checked prices on Bentley convertibles and they can cost a couple of big ones. The hundred-thousand variety of big ones.
The douchebag plead “not guilty” to a charge of vehicular homicide and currently awaits a criminal trial.
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Am I prescient? I must be. This has happened so many times. I love it when something I’ve bitched about becomes a class action lawsuit. Because of my luck (or lack thereof) I have been in many!
This morning I got an email that informed me, essentially, I am already a winner!
There has been a settlement and Classmates.com has agreed to pay $2.5 million.
In 2008, San Diego man Anthony Michaels sued Classmates.com for using the names of his former classmates to mislead him into upgrading from a free membership to a paid one. Michaels claimed the site had sent him emails to alert him that his old peers were trying to contact him, and when he upgraded his membership and logged in, he learned that it was all a ruse.
As part of the settlement Classmates.com, of course, denies any wrongdoing. Duh. But we all know you’re a bunch of ass weasels.
At least I’ve got one thing in my favor. Unlike Anthony Michaels, I didn’t fall for their bullshit. You see, I already knew it was impossible anyone from high school would ever try to contact me, therefore the Classmates.com fishing expedition was exposed.
The only problem now is where do I go to cash my $2.5 million check? I’m thinking the 7-Eleven down the street.
Huh? My share of the settlement will be approx. $5 to $10? What the fuck?
I want to buy all of my reader a round! The drinks are on me! (As long as they cost two cents each.)
If you don’t follow my Twitter feed you’re only getting half of the story…
Sometimes events so important will happen only in Twitterville so they must be told again.
This is one of those times.
Pants pulled down
Around ankles on the ground
On the toilet I sit
Good taste dictates that I omit
Hang on for the true story of what happened this very week.
This post has been rated DNR (Do Not Read) by the BPAA (Blog Post Association of America).
Warning: This post is intended for infantile audiences only. It may contain violence, sexual content, drug use and/or strong language. You must be IQ 17 or higher to read this post. By reading this post you are certifying that your IQ is at least 17. Do not read this post around meal time.
This is what I call a NEXUS post. How does a post get elevated to NEXUS status? It must meet a stringent set of criteria as specified by humble Abyssian scientists. These criteria are:
Only a post that meets all criteria will justify the NEXUS designation. This is how we work to guarantee a quality reading experience for you, our loyal reader. We are committed to entertainment.
Sadly, what you are about to read is true. No embellishment or artistic license here. Not this time. (Yeah, I’m breaking the rules just this once.)
I started the new job back in October 2010. Like the little engine who thought he could, I thought I could avoid the bathroom. I tried and tried. I really did. But after a few weeks I finally gave in. What can I say? I’m only (partially) human.
The first thing I noticed was the door handle was broken. It wouldn’t lock.
As spooky as that was, things went fairly well. If the door was closed and the fan was on (it’s tied to the light switch) then you knew the room was in use. You didn’t go in.
Until seven months later. Until this week.
Tom B. Taker
At last my training is complete. Coworker just walked in on me using the toilet. Door has broken lock. Get me off this fucking planet!!!
11 May via Twitter for iPhone
Yep. Female coworker, walking around like a brain-dead idiot, flung the door open to the restroom while I was … erm, how shall I say? Doing my best thinking!
Yep. Believe it.
Yep. There is a Hell. And I’m already dead. I’m a permanent resident. And I’m looking forward to next week’s annexation vote. Be afraid if you already live within Hell’s urban growth boundary. You’re next, motherfucker.
Remarkably I took it fairly well. I imagine it was a much worse experience for her than it was for me.
Yep. Seven fucking months with employees and it never once occurred to the boss to get the lock on the bathroom door fixed. So yeah, I blame him. I blame him hard. Hate isn’t supposed to be good, but it’s a healthy hate.
You’d think an incident like this would be enough to spur him into action. You’d be wrong. He’s the slob of the century. Reminder: He felt compelled to tell the rest of us why washing your hands after using the restroom is a “waste of time.” One time he was in the bathroom and I heard the toilet flush. Within half a second the door opened and he hopped out. Yep. No sounds of running water. He then came directly to me, held up his hand and said, “High five!”
Holy shit. Who thinks up scenarios like this? Not only am I an atheist, I actively pray there isn’t a God. Because, let’s face it, I don’t want to meet whoever thought this shit up.
But wait. There’s more!
Tom B. Taker
Holy mother of God!!! The toilet walk-in thing just happened AGAIN. This time by the boss. I love being surrounded by zombies. #walkamongus
12 May via Twitter for iPhone
This time the boss himself graced me with his presence. Yeppers. I shit you not. (Although I was shitting at the time.)
This one got me. It got me good. I was so fucking pissed.
I came out and the boss was gone. Coworker filled me in. “He went to see the landlord about fixing the lock.”
YOU FUCKING THINK?!?!?!?
I was so pissed I got the shakes. They went full throttle for about two hours. I had to get out of there. I took a late lunch. I left the building That helped a little. But four hours later, I was still so upset I still had the shakes. Did I mention I was fucking pissed?
God I hate that fucking place. Oh look! It’s time for me to go there again. Ta ta for now!
When you flush, please stop and think of me. I’ll be there!