They’re Grrrrreat!

     It is Friday! Another work week is in the books. As I celebrate TGIF I am saddened a little. Why? I was driving today on the commute to the jobsite and all Bakita and Grey, the morning sports show I listen to, could talk about was Eldrick Woods. When I went to get lunch, the biggest idiot to have a sports talk show, Jim Rome, also had to talk ad-nauseum about the “Eldrick Presser”. The Huge idiot from three to six had to blather about this as well.

     Hey bucketheads! MSU is playing the fukguys from OSU on Sunday, at noon. Think maybe we could talk about some college round ball? I am sure some Gilbert Arenas thug wannabe NBA future star thought about bringing a gun to the locker room today. That is news.

     Pitchers and catchers reported for spring training yesterday. Bondo and Z seem healthy. You know it is bad when I am clamoring for news about baseball, the longest running sport in the world. Oh, wait, can you say NASCAR? Don’t get me wrong, I like baseball. I like it more when the Tigers win. I think the season is about 80 games too long, however.

     I need my morning and afternoon commute sports fix. I do not need to hear about the dumb golfing cheater. Talk about Cricket, Jai-alai, high school bowling, or the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders. I would rather hear about a beer pong tourney. Why not talk about the Olympics and the Biathlon. C’mon, a sporting event that combines cross-country skiing and a gun. How cool is that? Gilbert Arenas, come on down…

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Biathlon

    

     The only tiger besides the boys of summer donning the old English “D” I want to see on television is Tony. He buffed up in recent years and it has to be because of the mass quantities of Frosted Flakes. I also heard he swore off gas station hot dogs. He’s GRRREAT! He is not a sex addicted (Yeah, right) so called sports figure. Eldrick is a man that lacks character. Lots of women throw themselves at me every day, and I don’t need to cheat on my wife. I have character and an aversion to complicating my life with another woman. I do not need a club in the mouth and a handful of chicklets (teeth). If I lose a chicklet playing hockey ball okay, but my wife and a golf club….not so much. I may have exaggerated that point a bit. No, not the character part, the other part about women and the throwing. And, no, I do not mean they throw up when they see me…I digress…

     News flash. Every species on the planet is addicted to sex. It is also known as procreation, AKA, spreading the seed. It is a biological mandate to have sex. It is how mankind and other animals insure the survival of the species. It is also how the gene pool became so watered down that some people find watching golf better than making babies.

     I do not care if he cheated. I do not care if his presser was orchestrated. I do not care if it was a speech that he did not memorize. I do not care if his wife was not there and his mother looked pissed. I do not care if he ever plays golf again. I would rather hear about what happened in the Olympics; didn’t USA women’s curling team square off against the team from Denmark last night?

     As a side bar, the sport of curling, while I do not understand it completely, is not as boring as you may think. It would be better if the young hotties from Denmark were competing in bikinis, but hey, it is not a perfect world.

     I hate golf. And not just because I lost a small fortune in my last fantasy golf league when Eldrick got clubbed by his wife and I had him starting the next tournament. (Seriously…me…in a fantasy golf league…really? I cannot imagine how bored with life you would have to be to participate in something like that. Better buy a gun and some bullets while brass is cheap.)

     Golf is a stupid game and Eldrick is the face of the game. Hence Eldrick = stupid. For those of you that like golf and Eldrick that’s okay with me. Do not, however try to tell me I would like it more if I played it or understood it. I understand a lot of things I do not like. Golf is just one of the many.Eldrick f-ed up and i do not feel sorry for him. 

     You might think I would find golf cool because you can drink while playing it, but even alcohol cannot rescue golf from malaise. Why should anyone care what Eldrick had to say? Why care if it was televised or not. Farting in a Jacuzzi is more exciting than watching golf. No one really knows you did it until they smell it. No one wants to see video of your buttblast frothing the myriad of bubbles in a hot tub, they definitely do not want to smell it, and no one really wants to watch a bunch of men in very odd clothing hit a little ball into a cup. SERIOUSLY.

     BTW…Norman the spell checker is having fits with the number of Brucisms I am spewing today…I think he needs a vacation.

     Boo-hoo, leave my family alone. I messed up….blah, blah, blah. WHO F-ING CARES. Isn’t figure staking and ice dancing competition heating up? I mean really. Eldrick only cares about the millions of endorsement dollars he is losing. Man up punk! You did not seem to mind all the attention when companies were throwing money at you like the government to AIG. You got punked by your wife, because you were STUPID! You also bought into all your own hype. Pride does come before the fall. It also comes before the sand wedge.

     SOBER UP people!!! All you talking heads that are pretending to be sports reporters listen to me now as I tell you later… team Canada nearly lost to the Swiss national team in Olympic hockey. If it wasn’t for punkass crybaby Crosby getting a second chance at Hiller, thanks to a glitch in the international rules that lets punkass hockey dirtbags get two shoot out attempts… oops lost my temper… I would rather have the sports pundits talk about the Crybaby than Eldrick. Anyone that has watched the Stanley Cup playoffs with me knows how much I hate Cindy Crosby…

     All of Canada is having a hissyfit. And Canada plays USA on Sunday. I hear it will be bumped in favor of Ice dancing….seriously? Hockey will be on MSNBC. At least it is not getting bumped by a replay of the Eldrick presser. I would probably have to go all Marcellus Wallace on someone’s ass.

     Fact: I would rather have my eyes propped open with bamboo slivers, and my asshair and pubicpatch hot waxed as I am forced to watch men’s figure skating and ice dancing simultaneously while gansta rap weaved with pan flute cover music is piped into surgically implanted headphones than hear one more word about Eldrick.

     Hey, I just turned on the television to find that international Olympic Committee read my mind and the girls with brooms from Denmark are Curling in bikini’s…HOT!! As the first TIGER I knew used to say… “they’re GRRREAT!!

Just another day in paradise

The pizza incident

     I love pizza. Even more than gas station hot dogs. I could eat pizza every day. I can count on one hand the number of times that I said I did not really feel like pizza. I LOVE PIZZA.  Easy, cheap, fast and filling.

     I like spaghetti too. I could probably eat spaghetti every day as well. Pizza for breakfast spaghetti for dinner, and both as leftovers for lunch. Then flip flop them every other day.
     I crashed at Rich's late winter one year when I was living in the van. I came up from Key West for a job that kind of disappeared when I got back in town, so. I crashed at his place. We had spaghetti every night for at least a week. Yummy.

Pizza has evolved into a wild array of comestibles. It is not just pepperoni, sausage, cheese, or anchovies anymore. No sir! Sun dried tomatoes, Alfredo sauce, feta cheese, and other Avant-garde ingredients dot the pizza landscape.

     Let’s get one thing straight: there is no such thing as bad pizza. Some are not very good, but any frozen pizza or Dominoes is a welcome port in a bachelor night food storm. While Dominoes and other chains may be close to eating the cardboard wheel from a frozen pizza with sauce and cheese, it is still better than going without.

     On night in the not too distant past before I had the magic DVR, I was on a bachelor night sabbatical. My wife had gone to visit her mom, aunt Ferne, and her cousin Ryan, so I was on my own. The first thought that came into my head was the WINGS are on!! My next thought was food. I checked the cupboard for some chunky Clam Chowder, but was rebuffed. And then it hit me like a wedge of deep dish pie. I NEED a pizza. The WINGS start in 20 minutes. Pizza stat!

      I did what any guy would do. I checked the freezer. No time to go pick one up. I could have it delivered but funds were scarce. I was dreadfully low on cabbage. Bummer dude! I opened the freezer and found 40 pounds of chicken breast. (It must have been on sale, so load up the tiny freezer with chicken. Ya gotta love a sale; why else would there be 40 pounds of chicken breast with rib meat?)

I also found 20 something bags of assorted frozen veggies, a couple Ziploc’s with freezer burned Eggo’s, For some reason Norman, the spell checker knew what Ziploc’s were but not Eggo’s…well, he knows know! Some items were not describable, because they had so many layers of freezer burn that they looked like baby glacier. I think there was a Petoskey Stone buried in one of those masses. Either that or those masses were the spawn of the hellish icemaker that does not understand when it has pushed up the shut off bar, it is time to stop making f-ing ice cubes.

    Not one single GD frozen pizza. WTF!!! Bummer dude. WINGS starting in ten minutes. I did what anyone would do; I looked for a phone book. Gotta call in the Calvary. Damn the electric bill, the fatty needs his pizza!!! Nine minutes to puck drop. For some reason I do not know where my wife hides the phone books. I know where the phone is. It seems a bit reasonable that the phone book would be near the phone. Nope. Eight minute to puck drop. Think, Bruce, think!! What is the number for information? If I were hip I would know it is 411 but I am so far from hip, I am a discarded prosthetic leg. 6 minutes to puck drop. Seriously. Bad news.

     I decided to try to order on the interweb. I have heard such things can be done. I fired up the lappy, only to find that the interweb was down. "Houston, we have a problem." Damn, I have no time for this foolishness, puck drop in three minutes.

I go to the hub of the interweb, a mass of cobwebs and dustbunnies, wires and antennas, blinking lights and quite desperation. Unplug all the gadgets, and reboot the system. Two minutes to puck drop. While it is rebooting, I fire up the big screen, and hear, “Puck drop is next.” I run up the stairs, and still f-ing waiting…..

     Time stands still when you need something to do what is supposed to do, and it refuses. It stares blankly back at you. It defies logic. It just plain pisses me off!! As I hear Mickey and Ken start to call the game I notice finally a flashing monitor icon. Signal!!

     I will kill two birds with one stone, so I grab the laptop and unplug it. Bummer dude. The screen goes blank. Black as a moonless night. No, strike that, blacker. The battery has been dead for a bout two weeks and in my hungry state I forgot this fact.

I plug the miserable machine into the one plug in the basement that you can easily get to and then the television goes blank. In my hunger haste I knocked the plug for the power strip out of the wall outlet. Low blood pizza will kill you. Seriously.

     Finally, I have power to the TV, the lappy and I am surfing for a pizza place. I find a Hungry Howie’s, not far from home. I order on line. I sit back and relax. I watch the first period and the first intermission. Still no f-ing pizza.

     I start the second period in low blood pizza delirium. Near the halfway point of the game, my stomach howling like a banshee, I fumble with the cell phone. The touch screen doesn’t acknowledge my touch. I think it tells me, “I only work on human touch.” Finally, I find the land line and I resort to 411ing and calling the pizza place. No record of my order. The words sound distant and far away. You gotta be absof-inglutly kidding me. No record of my order. I order again. On the phone. I talk to a person. It will be 45 minutes. I watch the rest of the game. The WINGS lose. I am starving by the time the pizza arrives.

I once ordered pizza on line. It got lost in cyberspace. There will not be a second time.

Just another day in paradise

the fashion police

     I do not claim to be a man of fashion. I am not the fashion police. I do not plan my wardrobe. I do not shop for clothes. I buy clothes when I need them. I have flannel, jeans, Hawaiian shirts, tie-dye, and t-shirts. I do love hats as well. Oh and I have one suit jacket that my wife abhors. I really like it. It is not very attractive to a lot of people, but it fits. Or at least it did last time I wore it. It does not see the light of day very often. I have about 4 ties, two pair of dress pants, and three dress shirts. And if I run out of underwear between washings I am not afraid to go commando.
     I do not have to get all Granimal to pick an “outfit.” All colors go with white. And black. And t-shirts. And flannel. But who really cares. I do not obsess or get OCD when I have to go out. I do not care what I look like. I cannot see myself. I do however know what I am wearing, and know what it looks like. I do have some fashion sense; however I have picked what I like to wear, because it is easy on my eyes when I look in the mirror. And we all know it’s all about me….
     I know some people may question my wardrobe. But there is no fashion police department, so I do not have to worry what I wear. I do, however, reserve the right to comment on what other people wear.
    Here are some random thoughts. Things that make me go WTF are you thinking? First of all, I am sure that many people do not have a mirror in their house or do not look in the mirror before they leave the toasty confines of their abode. If they do happen to have a mirror it is a mirror that lies to them like in Snow White.
     Maybe they have some kind of a funhouse mirror that is very flattering no matter what they wear. It is one of those reasons or they are vampires. Because if they looked in the mirror, they would probably not make the choices they make. Or they could be like me, and not give a damn. Or maybe I have one of those fun house mirrors, and I do not know it. Nah, that is impossible.
     If you are overweight, then do not wear clingy clothes, for instance stretch pants. Stretch pants look stupid on most people, but if the seams are straining like an anchor rode in a storm, struggling to hold a boat from smashing into the sea wall, I would hazard a guess that the pants do not work for you. Make another choice. Spandex is not an option. Horizontal stripes are also on the prohibited list.
     If you are really skinny, do not wear clingy clothes as well. No one wants to count your ribs. Or see your knobby knees looking like a drumstick on an overcooked turkey nearly poking thru the cloth. Try to avoid vertical stripes as well. This is just common sense; you do not want to look like a walking prison cell, albeit a very narrow one.
     All in all, the tight fitting spandex look is goofy at best and totally stupid at least. If you really want to walk around naked, then do it, because if I can see every fold, rib and muscle then I am usually close to puking, and that fashion f- up is the reason. Unless you are at the gym, in an 80’s hair band or alone in your house, you should not wear spandex. Even then you should exercise caution, because you probably look stupid at best and well let’s just end it at that.
     No one should wear jeans that cost more than $100.00. If that is not a ridiculous amount of money for jeans I do not know what is. Just sayin’ if a pair of jeans cost that much they better be the only reason you get laid. Or they should have a built in alarm clock. Maybe they can make toast and tea as well. At least they should look like they were not used, or picked up from a second hand store.
     However if you have the money to spend and want to waste it, be my guest. Just so you know I will not be impressed. I may laugh at your stupidity, though. Last pair of jeans I bought cost $17.00. Yeah, I am cheap. But I do not expect the jeans to get me laid, make toast or wake me up in the morning. I expect them to keep me safe from debris and hold my wallet. Not that there is any cash in my wallet, or credit cards, but I do have an operators license for the State of Michigan and a voters registration card.
     I do not know what possesses someone to even think about wearing Capri pants. God awful. When I was a kid we called them flood pants. Well, flood pants were not really Capri pants, but they are cut form the same cloth, so to speak. A big no-no. Either wear shorts or pants, do not try to wear both, or some bastardization of the two.
     I hate turtlenecks as well. They do not look bad on the right person, but that person is not me. I do not like the tightness around my neck. Maybe it is my paranoia. Maybe it is that funhouse mirror that came with the antique dresser set we bought.

Just another day in paradise

The captain

    When my father was alive he had a Chrysler New Yorker. My father was a guy that grew up in Brooklyn, it was apropos. I often wondered why it took so long for a car to be named after the Big Apple, but then after seeing all the traffic, I can understand the hesitation. In a big city you can catch a cab, more easily than drive the few blocks to the next destination. And do not get me started on the parking. However, a car called the Los Angeles, would be stupid and probably very green, given the amount of smog in LA.

    All digression aside, the New Yorker was a fine car, with all the bells and whistles afforded from its era. I believe it did not have leather seats, but fine velour. Complete with numerous cigarette burns. It even had a lighter and an abundance of ashtrays which also had lighters. Every smoker in the car could light up and smoke. Ashtrays in a car now are mainly a place to keep change. And fewer cars have lighters, but they have a plethora of lighter shaped “convenience outlets", because, heaven forbid that your cell phone is not charged so you cannot keep abreast of all the tweets and texts. Also, Sheila can give you her particular brand of misinformation even if you forgot to plug her in.

     The New Yorker also had the captain. Not the greatest captain in all of sports history, Steve Yzerman, nor the second greatest captain, Nick Lidstrom. The New Yorker’s captain was a computer voice that my mother gave the moniker of “The Captain.”

    The Captain kept track of all kinds of things that the average driver of such a car might not have forefront in their mind. For example, he would say “The door is ajar.” in his Max Headroomesque voice. ( http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Max_Headroom ). Actually, it is not a jar, it is a door, my mother would remind The Captain, and soon anyone that rode in the car would as well.

     For the elite non-driver types (holders of Operator licenses as in the state of Michigan) of the world, this little voice probably helped them to navigate thru the often confusing world of operating a car. Or it was someone’s idea of what this voice could be. That someone had to think this was a good idea. I do not know who would agree that a computer voice command, ordering you around, would make the driving experience more enjoyable. I would suspect that is the same person that suffered from all kinds of other social inadequacies. (People even more nerdish than me….I know they are out there, just like the truth). Probably the same people that brought us Sheila. 

     Unlike Sheila, The Captain had no mute, so if you wanted to drown him out, you had to crank the stereo. However, the stereo was never balanced and faded correctly. In this car it was more like the “MONO” My father did not understand the intricacies of the burgeoning stereophonic era. The speakers were always left balanced and faded full rear. ("back and to the left") Basically one speaker of the four was usable to him. But then again, AM radio and talk shows did not need stereo. And The Captain had his own speaker, he did not TALK thru the “MONO”

     If your seat belt was not on The Captain, would insist that you, “Please, Fasten your seatbelt.” Yup, it was a car in command. It like to tell you what, where, when, and more what. When we were all in the car, my mother would then implore my father, “Ed, put on your seatbelt.” He would usually reply that a GD  car was not going to tell him what to do. Eventually he just left the seatbelt fastened and sat in front of it.

     The Captain would comment on the fuel range and say, “XX miles to empty” and “fuel is low.” That would mean that my father would have to take the car and put gas in the tank, because my mother did not have a clue as to how to fill up the tank. She had to learn after my father died, or find a full-serve gas station, which is even rarer than a cigarette lighter for lighting smokie treats in a newer car. Sometimes she would say to The Captain, that he could go fill up himself. But, she always seemed to answer back. I think that it was a game to her.

     I inherited The Captain, a few months after my father died. My mother did not like the memories attached to the car. I parked it in my side yard for a while. We drove it occasionally. Eventually, I traded it and some cash for a new electrical service in the house in Cedar. For some reason there were about ten sets of keys for this car, and it took me two trips to the new owners house to hand them off. I said goodbye to The Captain.

     The other day as I was leaving my car I thought about The Captain. My truck now has some bells that remind me that the lights are on. There is a different sound for keys in the ignition. I do not know which sound is which. I really do not care. Until I lock my keys in the car, then I may care a little more. Like at the Easttown Post Office. For some reason I ignored the bell that said the keys were in the ignition. I pushed the lock down manually, instead of hitting the button. Then I shut the door. And then I realized what that dinging meant. Uh-oh....The Captain would have sounded the alarm.

     I looked to the other door. Please be unlocked! Please! Please! Please! be unlocked. If it was not magic, it was something else. The door was unlocked. The Captain would not have let me get that close to catastrophic lockout. But alsa, The Captain is no more. Maybe it was the ghost of The Captain that kept me from simply hitting the catastophy button, as i do 99.99% of the time. If it was not The Captain, maybe it was the ghost of my father...

Just another day in paradise

Close....enough

     The world is small, but not small enough. The world is close. I can reach many things without leaving the seat in front of the computer. Virtual reality and cyberspace are REALLY big, but still very close. Cable television makes distant places seem very close. I have seen close to one million sharks on television since I started watching the history channel a few years back. And really close up. I love shark week. It should be a national holiday. You can play along at home during shark week by drinking everytime they show a close up of a shark. Better have some Advil and water near by the bed, you will get REALLY drunk and may need the hangover rememdy.

     We have become a world of close counts. It used to be just in horseshoes and hand grenades. That and Lawn Jarts and bocce ball. Well, I guess in atomic warfare as well. And of course close enough for Rock-N- Roll. Actually, in a lot of things close is good enough. In a world of close calls I guess that should be okay.

     The Colts came close to winning a Superbowl. (Go SAINTS) the WHO came close to looking like they were still alive. The Mighty REDWINGS came close to repeating as Stanley Cup Champions. The Lions came close in more games than two. Matt Millen was ohhhh so close to building a winner, before he got fired.

     It seems that a penny short is okay. I have news for you, a nickel short is not close enough. Thanks Jackass for taking all the pennies, so I have to break a dollar.

Close is okay.

    No it is not. Close is not okay. Coming close to avoiding jail is not the same as going to jail. Coming close to avoiding an accident is not the same as a near miss. Being close to be able to pay most of your bills is not a good thing. Getting your taxes in after, but close, to April 15th is not acceptable.

     Nearly catching the beer bottle before the floor is not good. Abusing alcohol is bad at any time. Sacrifice your foot, head, arm, any body part or the guy next to you, but do not let that bottle hit the ground. Avoid party fouls. If you drop a can and it is un-opened, put it back in the cooler towards the front and watch the excitement when the next guy grabs a beer. A neat kind of beer roulette, for grins and giggles. This is not a party foul, if you get to laugh at someone else.

     Just last Saturday, I was driving thru the parking lot in Meijer, getting ready to purchase some consumables for the big holiday that is Superbowl Sunday. It seems I did not have enough of the important things, like chips, taco sauce, munchies, and booze. I had to park about 7 kilometers from the front doors. (I do not know how far it was in miles, but I did the math by converting the number of steps and multiplying by 3.28.Thank God for Chisanbop) In this case close would be nice. (Seriously, you REALLY think I did any math?)

     I walked to the doors, and was nearly exhausted from trekking thru the parking lot, where the close to 1,000,000 idiot drivers coming close to running me over was commonplace. I think at one point I started to jog. (Take that Fat Bruce). Seriously, I did not jog; I didn’t want my cigarette to go out. I think I managed to smoke close to half a pack before I crossed the frozen tundra of Lambeau Field, er I mean, the Meijer parking lot.

     If you want to talk about close, the entire store was close to full. Oddly, it was more men than women, and it seemed everyone there was ready to party like it was 1999. Or close to it. Close to a million beer cans and booze bottles were in the close to thousands of grocery carts. It was very close to nuts to butts. My Tourette’s Syndrome was close to making its presence known.

     When I finally made my way to the check out lines, and got close to being checked out, the guy CLOSE..,.D the check out line. Oh, so close. As I looked around at the close to ten thousand people all deciding to exit the store at the exact same moment as I decided to and I knew there were only two solutions. “One”, I could ditch the groceries and run like Forrest Gump. (Amazingly, Norman the spell checker, knew this name, and corrected me.) Or, “b” I could get to the self check-out. There was only one small problem; I had over the 12 item limit. Such a dilemma. I opted to do the latter, and justified my decision by re-counting my items. If I considered all the two-fer’s, I was close to 12 items. Close counts.

     On the way out of the melee that is Meijer, I hiked back to the truck. I watched in amazement at the close to tens of thousands of Meijer lemmings all setting their carts close to the cart coral. And by close I mean ALL OVER THE f-ing PARKING LOT. I came close to hitting a few carts. And a few people. Close, but not close enough. Close.....ENOUGH....

Just another day in paradise