i hear voices...

     I would not say that I have multiple personalities. Multiple personalities are, most times, a bad thing. I am going to say that I do have a lot of voices in my head. These voices sometimes lead me into trouble, but not like the neighbors’ dog telling me to go kill someone, which would be very bad. Just sayin’ I ain’t no serial killer…

     All great comedians have a bunch of voices in their heads. I am not saying I am a great comedian, but I do have a lot of voices in my head. I will not bore you with all of the voices, just a small sampling of my favorites.

     In the morning there is Mr. Bedhead voice. This voice loves to think that you can shower, shave, get dressed, make coffee, feed the dog, start the car, and let the dog out, load the truck and leave in about 3.8 minutes. This voice tells me it is quite ok to hit the snooze again. And again….and again…and again…

      As I am driving to the gas station to load up on caffeine and nicotine, ( the ines food group) because Mr. Bedhead voice was quite wrong about many things including the coffee, the GD could you take that turn ANY slower voice of Mr. Road Rage tries his hand at controlling my grey matter. Amazingly, he is not very active at this time of the day and as I have aged he has become less and less talkative.

      Upon entering the gas station, the voice of damn I am hungry, Mr. Stomach alarm starts to bather incessantly about how long ago he was fed. “Daaaaaamn! Those gas station hot dogs left over from yesterday look MIGHTY tasty. No wonder I was tagged as “the fatty.” Mr. Sensibility voice takes over and quells the banter. I get the business of obtaining the ines and roll on.

      The day is filled with all the voices. Windshield time gives them all an audience. I do, however, control the mute button. But if I cannot find the remote, that is a problem. It is usually stuck between the seats of the truck and buried by stale french-fries and McDouble wrappers.

      The overly cautious Mr. That Could Be a Problem voice loves to talk. When I do get his input it is okay some of the time, but other times he is just plain ridonlkulous. Shut up, we are not going to drive off the Mackinaw Bridge and plummet to our death. Not to mention that the bridge in question is hours away. Geez and golly, focus on something else.

     Yeah, there are a few voices. Some do not talk much, but others love to ramble on and on and on. The Mr. Paranoid (a hold over form my youth, who may or may not have drug problem) voice still believes that the 911 thing was a conspiracy, and that JFK and Mo Jo are hanging with Elvis. He also thinks that they covered up the millennium computer glitch and we are stuck in The Matrix. He could be right, but I really doubt that. Or is he?

     Interestingly enough, he does believe that we landed on the Moon. He seems to talk a lot more when there is a lull in the mundane reality of the everyday grind. He also loves to lob bombs and cause a scene. He is trouble. But he is really easy to control. (That is why they call it dope). Mr. Sensible is always right there refuting his smack. Or is he?

      Mr. Sports Watching voice is by far the most vocal of all the voices, as anyone that has watched a Lions or Redwings, or any sporting event with me can attest to. He loves to come up with insulting names for opposing team’s players. And in the case of the Lions, many of the Lions players.

     The Mr. Obnoxious in a mixed company crowd voice loves to get his drink on. He loves to drunk dial and drunken text. Even when my phone is in the holster, or pocket he has been know to complete this devious accomplishment. He is not much fun the day after, because he does not like hangovers. He is very chauvinistic. He really loves to play the devil’s advocate. However, after a few he does not seem to know when to shut up. He is usually the reason for people either liking me or absolutely hating me when they first meet me. He also seems to think the f-bomb is the world’s greatest word.

     Not to be confused with Mr. Just Sayin’ who is very similar to Mr. O and Mr. SW, but with more subtle overtones…yeah right…he is always right there with those other two, and is hard to differentiate. They are the trifecta of trouble.

     Then there is Mr. Positive spin. He is my favorite voice. He loves to see the glass half full. And he loves to wear those rose colored glasses. How else could I have remained a Lions fan after all these years? Why else do I keep on writing blogs? Everything is better when you look at the bright side. You have to let the voices talk, but know when to shut them up. It is a work in progress. I will never be perfect. But at least I know they are there. Now, so do you… Just sayin’ I ain’t no serial killer…See there is a bright side. Scary, huh kids….

Just another day in paradise

Hold my beer and watch this.

    It is time. Yup. As they say there is no time like the present. The present is now. Well it was now but now, it is in the past. You can’t go back though. Unless you have a magic DVR.

     At this point it is still the past, but as long as your friends do not text you with updates, watching a game on DVR is like it is in the present. Before I got my magic DVR, I did not understand why my friend Rich wanted to always play Hockeyball longer and watch the game from the DVR. I understand now. However, now is also in the past. And now…Well it just keeps moving along, unlike this blog...

     The sweet voodoo of FF and RWD, and the magic pause button; I never miss a minute of the action running to grab a daddy pop! However, my favorite button of all is the live button. Damn you live button!!! Yeah, gotta be careful when you are watching a DVR’d game that is still recording, because hitting the live button and skipping thru the final two periods, only to find that your team lost is a major bummer. Finding they lost IS much worse than finding that they won, but still is a bummer. Now what are you gonna do for the next two hours? If they lost hold my beer and watch this…

     As you all know, I like my WINGS!! And I like to listen to sports radio during my frequent drives. I like a few guys that are on the air. I hate Jim Rome. If you like pompous, opinionated self-promoting ego-maniacs, then he is your guy. I only listen to “Romie” as he calls himself when I am trapped in the truck, or someone else’s trunk, cannot find some chicken bones to jam into my eardrums, or I am feeling like arguing with the radio. If you pass me and you can read my lips, between noon and three, STFU,JR would be the most likely thing you would read.

     I guess I could always listen to the CD. With a six-disc changer, you would think that I would be able to listen to music and not be forced to listen to JR. However, since I bought my truck 23 payments ago, I have not changed my discs. Lazy? Maybe. But let’s not worry about trivial details.

     Hold my beer and watch this. The battle cry of many a Darwin award winner. The lamentable last line for many a Dumas. (It’s pronounced doomaas) Unfortunately a thing that can make a great idea even greater can also make it turn south in a hurry. I like beer. I like some sports. I do not like some other sports. I do not like some beers. Unfortunately beer and sports do not mix well all the time. It is time for that to change my friends!!!

     The fact that I listen to sports radio means that not only do I have to put up with the Rush Limbaugh of the sports radio world, but I have to listen to stuff about many sports I could do without. But this is not about the ones I like it is about the ones I do not like and how they could be better.

    Start of with golf. My third most hated sport. First rule change, make Eldrick be the caddy for worst player on the course. He would have to wear a ridiculous outfit. Wait a minute, golf attire, while it has changed a bit since the turn of the 20th century, is still lame.

     We would also be allowed to throw water balloons at him and any other golfers for that matter. Or shoot him with a paintball gun. He would have wear a beer bong hat, and drink at every tee. Wild, starving, man-eating animals would also be loosed on the course for a little more pizzazz. May be that went a bit far. Jus’ sayin’

     My second most hated sport is Pro basketball. Pro basketball, not college hoops. Just pro…Since #23 was allowed to take 15 steps with the ball, and King James has been allowed to NEVER foul out, and that stupid thug from the wizards brought guns to the locker room, it has become a lameass shame. What was he thinking?

     To make it better, if you foul out, the other team gets to kick you in the junk. Hard. Or shoot you with paintball guns. Also the fourth quarter should be played like a drinking game, if you miss a shot you take one. That will liven up the fifteen minutes that it takes to finish the last 3 seconds of a typical close game. When you get a technical foul, you take three shots of tequila then you get tasered

     But the sport I like the least is NASCAR. Watching people drive fast in a circle. Whoopee!!! The viewership is down, sponsorship is down. Huh? Go figure. It is a stupid thing to waste an afternoon on, and guess what? The dullards of the world are starting to get a clue. Oh and it is loud and did I mention boring?

     Someone said that they encourage bumping into each other. Really? Actually aggressive driving was what they said, but they did not care much if a couple of drivers traded paint. It adds to the excitement. If you do that on the expressway, you get a ticket. How exciting is that. Yeah, people just love a train wreck. 90% of the traffic jams in Grand Rapids are caused by people gawking. The other 10 percent…who cares…

     Last weekend one of the jackass drivers caused an accident with another. I do not remember the names. I think it was JA #1 and JA#2…He could have killed someone! No shit? Really Rome, Ya think? Seriously?

     NASCAR came down hard on the driver. He is on probation for the next three races. Not suspended, just probated. WOW! Next step is double secret probation. After that, they make him drive with BOZO shoes. While the BOZO shoes would make the sport more interesting, I may have just made that up. Maybe…I think that Gary Buttman er I mean Bettman from the NHL consulted on this, but I can’t quote my sources...

     To make this ridiculous “sport” better. Have them drink one beer for every 10 laps. Another idea is have them drive the last 10 laps in reverse. While drinking a beer... Or make the course in a Wal-Mart parking lot. They way some people drive in parking lots; you would think they are NASCAR drivers in training. Have the course a figure eight. I had a race car track when I was young and it could be a figure eight, and talk about exciting!!! Then again I also thought PONG was pretty cool. And those cassette drive computers, AWESOME!

     There are many more ways to make the sporting world a better place, but since I am not in charge, or king of the sporting world, I will just suffer through, holding my beer, and watching this…

Just another day in paradise

Ice…man!

     HOLY CRAP!! The sun is out. Yup, I said it! The sun is out. Is it spring yet? Close. So close. I tried my Speedo on today. (I know you are fighting the visual). It still fits. That’s the nice thing about a Speedo; it does not care if your gut hangs over it. (Fighting visual again) Seriously, I do not have a Speedo. I gave up on that a long time ago. Long, baggy shorts are the key when you have a few or more extra pounds.
     I have heard it said that alcohol is just empty calories and to combat that fact I have almost always added ice to my drinks. I am not sure what this really does to combat the empty calorie deal, but it lulls me into a false sense of security. And it gets rid of the glacier of ice in the ice maker in our refrigerator. Is this Proof of global warming? Maybe, maybe not.
     It is getting close to spring. The days are getting longer, or more correctly the sun takes longer to cross the earth, so there is more day light. The last few days it has meant more sunlight. I will commence “workin’ on my sunburn ev’ry single day” (from A Letter To My Friends 1998 Bruce Johnson: Prince Pauper Hero Fool) I think my cigarette hand is a shade darker than it was yesterday. This would probably be great if I were a hand model. I guess I could be a hand model for Working Man Magazine maybe, but not for Speedo swimsuits.
     More sunlight means it is time to wash the truck. More sunlight on the truck means it looks dirtier. It cost $7.00 to wash it. Holy Crap! (I was informed that Holy Crap is a bad phrase a couple days ago by a little kid on a jobsite, hence it only makes sense that I would pepper it into my blog.) It seems all these coin operated carwashes require a deposit of $2.00 to start. So, I put five dollars in quarters in the slot and, of course, run out of time. The low coin buzzer goes off with like .2 nanoseconds of time left. HOLY CRAP!! Then I have to deposit $2.00 MORE TO FINISH RINSING THE TRUCK. At least it is warm enough that the wash does not become an ice coating like that chocolate stuff you put on ice-cream.
     So with all the snow and stuff we have had, since it is winter and there is a lack of proper insulation in my attic and ventilation in my soffit, on my roof, I have some hellaious ice dams. HOLY CRAP!! These babies are glacial size. They are global killers. If they fall off the roof, it will cause the polar axis to shift. Jus sayin’ HOLY CRAP!! They are huge! I am sure have a frozen Ice man up there; I can see his stone axe poking thru the melting ice cap. I do not yet have the ladder set up to make the climbing expedition to check out more of this frozen Neanderthal. There is still too much ice. As a hockey fan I KNOW ice is slippery. And I know that a fall from the roof is not as bad as the sudden stop at the end of the fall. 
    The sun is out again today!!! HOLY CRAP!! After all these days of sun, the glacier on my roof is receding. Yet further proof of global warming, or more correctly global climate change. If you do not get the empirical evidence that the GLOBAL TEMERATURE is changing then you are really not paying attention. It has been changing since before the ice age and the glaciers receded to produce the natural wonders of the continents and the glorious Great Lakes. Actually, the global climate is in constant flux, as anyone that regularly watches the History Channel can attest.
     However, we increased the acceleration by overpopulating the planet at an alarming rate and burning a ton of fossil fuels to satisfy the populace of SUV drivers. Not just the SUV drivers are at fault, but everyone on this planet of consumers of fossil fuels is at fault. However those of you, with a AYSO sticker or my child is an honor student…blah, blah, blah…those people, well, they are even more to blame. Seriously, if the bus stop is less than a stone throw from your house, why do you need to drive junior and sissy to the GD bus stop, leave the SUV running and burn more gas, causing more pollution and exacerbating an already tenuous situation?
     HOLY CRAP!! Sober up people! The climate is changing. It has been changing FOREVER! We are helping to accelerate the process. The mean temperature of the planets’ oceans and land masses is changing. It is not just an “Inconvenient Truth.” In a few days you can ask the Iceman that is being thawed out on the glacier on my roof. I just do not know why he is wearing a Speedo.

Just another day in paradise

Fpqz…

     I was driving a couple days ago and I saw a vanity license plate that said UBERJOY. I am not sure that driving some non-descript late model jalopy with a plywood rear spoiler would be uberjoy. Now if the car replaced the ten-speed, the bus, or walking I may be swayed. Maybe. I believe I heard the Uberstrains of ABBA coming though the speakers.

     I see lots and lots of vanity plates. I can rarely figure out what they say as if it is in some kind hieroglyphic inside joke. I can understand the easy ones like “goblue” and the green and white one that says “goblow”. I also understand the ones that are names, like “:BOB”, or “MISSY G”. I saw one that said “CUL8R” I decided to tailgate him until I figured it out. At first I thought it said cul hater. I really hoped I was not a cul, whatever that was. I didn’t back off until he waved an Uzi at me. OMFG I am a cul and he REALLY hates culs. Then it hit me like a Dancing Queen! He does not hate culs; it means C U LATER.I figured out what it said after tailgating the guy for about 15 miles However, for a guy with a CUL8R vanity plate my slowassgrampadriving kept up with him. For 15 miles!!!

     I really do not know why people want to have vanity plates. If you are going to drive a lot, the chances that you will do something extremely stupid and get caught increase exponentially if you have a vanity plate. If your plate says WDO 158, it would be much more difficult for the dull-normal average operator of a motor vehicle to remember how to dial 911, and then remember the plate number. Your chances of getting off scot-free, after a bone-head driving debacle are much better when your plate does not say “MR SUN”, CATH8TR”, or “ABBALVR”

     It is no secret that there are many illiterate and/or blind drivers out there or why would there be so many people in the ditch and occupying the same space. It, as I have said before, is a physical law that two object cannot occupy the same space at the same time. When that occurs the two vehicles become mangled, or at least dented. Having an easy way for someone to remember that “DR ASS” just ran you into a telephone pole is definitely not the best idea. Surviving driving is a challenge. Taking a road trip with the kids is even more so.

     When my daughter was very young we drove to Florida. The trip should have taken about 30 hours of driving. It took about 600 hours in a van with two kids, my wife and my dog. Since my daughter was young, she could not read. Or at least not very well.

     We could not play the alphabet game. Little kids hate to lose and if they cannot read, then the alphabet game is an automatic loss. Then the weeping and gnashing of teeth begins. THAT IS NOT FUN FOR ANYONE. When you are on the road for more than 2 hours in this type of situation you start looking for a hotel. A hotel with a restaurant and a BAR! For some reason kids make a lot more sense when they have food in their tummies and I have a three drink buzz.

     We stayed in a lot of hotels on that trip. When you have kids it is best to get hotel rooms with a pool. There are two big reasons. One reason is it gives you something for the kids to do that is not an additional cost, and two, it gives you leverage to get them to behave while driving to the next hotel. Do not tell me as a parent you have not used the line, “if you don’t stop doing _______you will not get to _____. It works a tad better than STFU or I will kill you, unless you are a poster parent for SCAN. (Suspected Child Abuse and Neglect)

     I was not married to my wife long before this trip. I did not really know the ways of kids. I had spent time with my nephews, but that is easy, load them up with stuff that they cannot have at home and then send them back. Unfortunately, this messes with your karma bank and we all know what goes around, comes around.

      Years ago Steve Martin had a routine where he said something to the effect of “whenever you are around kids, talk wrong.” As a new dad, I was all about doing just that thing. Not just cussing like a drunken sailor, but all kinds of mischievous and diabolical mispronunciations and the ilk. Not all on purpose, but sometimes, yeah totally. Some day I will tell the story of the blue trolley. That one really bit me on the ass. I digress.

     Since my daughter was illiterate, we would speak in code. Just like vanity plates. Somewhere on the road I picked the letters FPQZ. It could mean anything. Libby had no ideas that b-e-d spelled bed, or for that matter any other combination of letters. Her being unable to read or spell was very liberating for me and was all kinds of fun. Well, fun for me. There were lots of fpqz’s on that trip.

     One day while on the road when my patience was wearing as thin as an onion skin, from the dog jumping on the kids and the kids whining about the dog and every other MF-ING thing, I dropped the f –bomb. Not that f -bomb, the other one. “GDammit, Libby, if you don’t knock it off, there will be no FPQZ for you!” Big mistake. If I thought the noise level from the whinnyass kids and dog was bad, the wailing from my daughter sounding like a banshee from hell was MUCH WORSE. “But I WANNA go in the POOL!!” At that point I realized maybe Steve Martin was wrong. Maybe. To this day pool = FPQZ. It is an iconic phrase form the traveling days.

     I will probably never have a vanity plate. I drive too many miles and just do not care if I am cool while I am driving. My truck has the phone number and company name. I have too many things going on in the cockpit to worry about who is laughing or getting pissed at me as well as how easy they can report “FUNBUNZ”. However, if I did decide to have a vanity plate, my plate would say FPQZ. It can mean anything you want it to, but if you were to ask my daughter she would say it means pool.

Just another day in paradise

Yes Virginia…

     Yes, Virginia there is a Santa Clause. Well, until you are about six. And, yes Virginia toilets do explode. Not just when you toss one in an empty dumpster. They explode quite nicely when the cold hard steel meets avocado porcelain, the sound is almost musical. It is like the ppffsttinkle of a florescent tube, although trashing those tubes is ecologically irresponsible. The sound of an exploding toilet is louder and more resonating. Other sounds “that I really like are the sound of a switch blade and a motor bike”
http://www.eltonography.com/songs/saturday_nights_alright_for_fighting.html
     Digression, my worst enemy. This story is not about a toilet exploding in a dumpster. This is another kind of explosion. This is also not about farting or explosive diarrhea.
     It seems that many of my blogs involve toilets and bathrooms. I guess it is because we all use them. Some of us use trees and some of us also use laundry sinks. I do not know of any guy that has not at least thought of using the slop sink, instead of walking all the way up the stairs and using the toilet. It all goes to the same place. And as regular readers know from previous blogs, it eventually finds its way back to your tap water.
     Relax, I mean to take a piss. Dropping a deuce in your own laundry sink would be wrong. It may be funny in someone else’s slop sink, but probably not. Even I know that. It would be very self-defeating as well, from a clean up standpoint. And I do not really think that you would be able to do the secondary function of dropping a deuce, reading, while precariously perched on the edge of a concrete or plastic sink. The repercussions of a missit would also be disastrous. Sharting is one thing, dropping in your own deuce, while not only humiliating is also an odorfaux-paux. Definitely a hold my beer and watch this idea.
     That is why they invented toilet seats, so dumbasses would not fall on their own defecation. I know that anyone that has used a public toilet may thinks that seats are just urine waterfalls, kind of like those decorative ones you buy at the big box store. Sober up people! Lift the lid before you piss. Or at least plant your ass if you’re gonna pee like a girl.
     I do not know why so many bad things happen in and around the privy, but since at least half of my jobs involve a bathroom remodel, and many handyman jobs involve a toilet, it seems I never run out of a story that revolves around the can. Didn’t Elvis die on the can or is that just an urban myth? Better call the Ghostbusters…I mean Mythbusters.
    So the other day, one of my co-workers was using the can on the main floor. Maybe it was because I was using the slop sink to clean a mud pan, maybe not. Knowing the guy I was working with, he would probably not entertain the idea of using the slop sink in a customer’s house, so the point is moot. However, I recently had a customer tell me that one of the reasons he told his dad that a basement bathroom was a good idea was then he would no longer have to use the slop sink. True…True. I rest my case.
    I had recently finished sweating in the shower valve, and run the pressure test. All quiet on the running water front. No leaks, no problems. ALL GOOD!!! So as I was washing out my mud pan, I can hear this water running. It is odd how long I listened. It seemed like a few hours, but in reality was only a few seconds before I realized that this was one REALLY loud drain. Like NIAGARA FALLS loud. Something was not right. It should not sound like water running over a waterfall. Nor should it should it sound like rain on a tin roof.
     I looked across the basement to see a cascade of water flowing from the ceiling like Hover Dam in Life After People. I admit that I panicked just a wee bit. My first thought was that one of my sweat joints had burst. My second thought was to check it out. Actually, my first thought was the f-bomb. I ran up the basement steps. I took them three at a time. Okay, only two at a time, but I was moving like a speeding bullet. Well, really like an overweight, middle-aged man. As I was running, so were my moobs. (Man-boobs). They were bobbing up and down like a Jell-o in an earthquake. There is something that is just not right about jiggling moobs. Damn you fatty…
    I then ran up the stairs to the second floor. And saw….nothing…Nothing wrong up here…No shooting geyser of water. No burst sweat joint. No issues, no problems. Where was that water coming from? Still breathing like a bull-moose in mating season, I ran, no walked back down the stairs. I had had enough moob excitement for one day. I did not need to chafe my nipples anymore than I already had.
     I hit the landing only to find my co-worker standing in the hall holding the ball and stem from the toilet. “Dude,” he said, “the toilet exploded” “NO SHIT!” I replied. “Yeah, the fill valve simply cracked in two.” When that happened, water shot out like Mount St. Helens erupting. Thank God for planned obsolescence. I never would have gotten in my stair steppers in for the day.
     As my breathing returned to normal and I was having a victory smoke, I replayed the events in my head. I am an idiot. Instead of running up two flights of stairs, and risking coronary failure I should have walked over thru the deluge and turned the water off at the main. But I just had my hair done, and did not want to look like a drowned rat, so that was simply not an option.
     My advice other than staying in shape, in case you do have to traverse two flights of stairs at full speed, is to open the tank of your toilet(s) and check to see if you see an ancient ball and rod float in your tank. Hopefully you do not. if you do either call a plumber to swap it out for a non-antique fill valve or throw the toilet into the nearest dumpster. You, too, will like the sound as it shatters into bits. And also hopefully you do not have any WTF is that blue stuff. http://bruceejohnsonjadip.blogspot.com/2009/12/wtf-is-that-blue-stuff.html in your tank. If you do don’t call me and good luck.
    Yes, Virginia, toilets do explode. I know this to be true. I have witnessed it first hand. Not really, but close to first hand. And the aftermath is not pretty.

Just another day in paradise