The 4th Day of Spring

Yes, yes, spring is here. Oh how I look forward to being serenaded by Mr. Softee at one in the morning. Who picks these songs anyway? Pop Goes the Weasel and Turkey in the Straw were not meant to be looped while traveling at 1 MPH down a residential street. They were meant to be played once in a while in a barn way out in the country to invoke the spirit of a hoedown. Now they invoke are rage and a frantic search for something large and potentially explosive to throw.

And you know its spring when sneezing causes broken collar bones and whiplash. Only in during spring could a chiropractor benefit from hay fever.

But at least the weather is nice. It will be a few months before we again see scenes like this:

This is a shot of my front door the morning of the Presidents Day blizzard. Apparently outside ran out of room, so it decided to shove snow under my door, past the towels that are supposed to keep out cold. Thank god the towels weren’t meant to keep out burglars…

Anyways… So yeah the weather is good. You know, if nature wasn’t so fickle and it wouldn’t throw the entire ecosystem out of whack causing a horrible cataclysm that would kill us all very slowly… or at least cause a case of the sniffles…, year round 50°-60° days would be very pleasant. Think about it for a bit, no need to make a decision right now. When your ready, come back and I’ll see what I can do. In the mean time, have a lousy poem by me (you’ll see more as this venture continues):

Spring is springing.
Beckoned by birds, bees
And Ice-cream trucks singing,
Sitting in trees.

The flowers are blooming,
Allergies are on the rise.
More Zyrtec we’re consuming,
You can see it in our eyes.

Shoes in adobe cover,
And children in the street.
The cold weather is over,
Let’s complain about the heat.

So have fun while you can
Before this season is done.
In but three months span…
Summer is come.

Random Crap

Taxi cabs get paid by the minute, right? I mean we all hear “the meter’s running,” right? So why do taxi’s speed all over the place? Can’t be for the tip… A freaked fare can’t be all that happy.

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And now, a quote (probably paraphrased)
“What we have to do is give them sleeping pills. When they’re all asleep, we move them into Montana. That way when they wake up, they’ll run up into Canada.”
-Robert Rothstein (Star Search Comedy Finalist) on Illegal Mexican Immigration:

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And now…
Often in my computer class, I find myself bored beyond words. Today we were learning Power Point. Because I was forced to to so, I made a power point presentation. That’ll learn them to make me do something…

Here it is – 3 Days In a Shoebox, the PPS!

Desert Storm II, Electric Boogaloo

When war in the Middle East breaks out, you know it’s time to look at your trading card collection. Really, is there a better way to comment on the latest current events than using Topps © 1991 Desert Storm trading Cards? I think not!

He was so young way back when. Colin Powell – 4 Star general, Secretary of State, snappy dresser and all around nice guy. In this scene, Powell is seen standing in front of a very surprised looking map of the Middle East. He’s either complaining about a burnt out light bulb, or pointing to where Saddam and his followers will not be going… both literally and figuratively. You see he’s both pointing to Kuwait and upwards indicating heav… aw screw it.

Here, we see a French Mirage Fighter. Aptly named, since seeing one now would surely be a figment of the imagination. Luckily we’re not in need of French military help, which also turns back into sand when you get too close.

Above, a scud missile. Pointed at a 45° angle downwards, this was part of the early Iraqi stratagy to “get ‘em from below.” This plan was later scrapped. “A hit within one-half mile of the target is considered acceptable.”back of the card

The scud is a missile capable of delivering chemical and biological agents. It’s also what we call dog shit (pardon my freedom), which is basically the effectiveness of one of these things today.

Ah, the Patriot Missile…The Patriot Missile… It’s ours… Enough said. This is why the scuds don’t really matter.

That’s the spirit boys. To the left is a picture of Saddam’s forces giving up during the shindig on 1991. No wonder why the French don’t want to help us, they’re admire Iraqi tactics too much.

Finally, here we see Saddam himself setting the oil field ablaze…
Wait, no… wrong card set. Oh well.

And that, as they say is that…

Good luck to all our troops out there, kick some ass.

My Anti-Drug is Mass Transit.

I had said before that taking public transit is a good way to have a revelation. Well, I didn’t realize how true this was…

The other day, on but one round trip, one could have made a solid case against the legalization of drugs…

The morning began like any other- me getting up, getting dressed, looking out the window and dreading getting on the bus. Simple enough, right?

So I’m waiting on my corner, when I see this white and purple blob walking down the street. As it came closer, I could tell it was a person once… two arms, two legs, one head, etc, etc. Though what it was at that point I don’t know; it was clad in a white T-shirt and apron, purple leggings, slippers – one bunny and one regular, and orange gloves. As it (now classified as a she) walked past, I could hear in a high pitched voice: “need change, spare change, rent used to get high, got to get high on rent…” and so on. her eyes were so wide and dilated, NASA could use them to replace the Hubble… cause you know all she’s seeing is stars.

Then I get on the bus – an unusually empty bus – maybe 5 people other than me. One of these people was all alone in the back having a good ole time for himself. Every few minutes or so, he make a sucking noise then laugh hysterically while pointing at the ceiling. Personally, I don’t find the bus’s roof all that funny, but hey to each there own. I glanced to see what this fool looked like, and not to my surprise he was the stereotypical bum: long beard, torn khaki pants, bandaged hands, brown bag of unknown origins, high-end Mp3 player, and Air-Jesus style sandals.

Sigh…

After classes, ’twas time to head home. So again I get on the bus. This time I had the fortune of sitting next to two burnouts making plans for that night. They were arguing over who’s car is smaller and more airtight. After that, they were relaying stories; one of which went like this, which I shall sum up: She and some fiends had gotten really baked in the park one night. After she got home, she realized that her cell-phone was missing. Sooo, off they return to the spot they got spotty; and, guess what – no phone. Back and forth they went in their altered states searching for this “lost” phone. Well, to make a boring story short… it was in her hand the whole time. I’ll say that again – THE PHONE SHE THOUGHT SHE LOST WAS IN HER HAND THE WHOLE TIME. Ok, now for all you in the cheap seats – THE PHONE SHE THOUGHT SHE LOST WAS IN HER HAND THE WHOLE TIME.

The persecution rests, your honor.

See here’s the thing, these people (at least the last grouping cause they’re not in walking comas yet) will tell you that pot, acid, banana peels, and whatever is just what the world needs. If everyone was high, there would be no war… peace would rule the land.

We as a people already lose our glasses on top of our heads, spill coffee in out laps while looking at our watches and lose our keys in the front door… sober! The last thing we need is substances that make us misplace our fingers.

Sure there’d be no war, but that would only be because we’d all get FA’s in geography class.

Note: I still don’t know what my stance is on the subject, but this sure as hell pushes me in a direction.

Why I Left in the First Place…

If you don’t know me, I am a Christian… more specifically a recovering Catholic. I think I stopped going to church about three years ago.

However, as of late I’ve been feeling empty, so for Lent I decided to start going back to mass. I mean, I may not see eye to eye with all the Catholic doctrine, but I still feel that mass puts me closer to my faith than trying to fly solo. Plus I feel a tad guilty, as I have become one of those twice a year Christians (Easter and Christmas) that I used to criticize. I’m enough of a hypocrite as it is without being one in the eyes of God.

So, I go to mass. – a Catholic one since I still remember where the Amens and Halleluiahs come in – and I realize the reason why I stopped going to begin with:

Other parishioners!

Now picture if you will:

In front of me, there is a mother with two kids. One of those kids is equipped with a Nebulizer (a gurgling device that administers vaporized asthma medication to the patient and anyone around the patient at the time) and a Gameboy (a beeping device that administers a migraine to anyone not playing with it at the time). Now you would think the other child would be grabbing for the Gameboy. But no! he’s crying for the prescription medical device.

To the right of me, there are two senior citizens arguing over where to go after mass for lunch. However, the catch is they must not have replaced their hearing aid batteries, so they are very, very loud. It was a hard fought battle, but IHOP won in the end.

To the left of me is the aisle, inhabited mainly by speedy toddlers followed by their not so speedy parents, all in a conga line to the bathroom.

Behind me are highschoolers standing in the entrance. They seemed to be aspiring bouncers, as they (all be it involuntarily) made it difficult to get in for those all those who were 30-45 minutes late.

All that was missing from the mass was a Russian Orthodox dancing bear…

And what does the pastor think of all this? Well, he addressed this once about three years ago (coincidence?) saying that children will be children and that they don’t know any better. Ok, shouldn’t their parents? And what about the pancake people in the back row, or the eat and runners that come just for the Eucharist?

But don’t think the conservative priests have it any better. I recall once, again about three years ago, when the priest stopped in the middle of his homily about forgiveness to chew out a pair of brats yakking in the back pew. Not only did they realize they where being told to “pipe down” (exact words) by the priest, but they didn’t even notice the entire congregation glaring at them.

What’s the point? Showing up and munching on an unleavened cracker are half the battle. Please be courteous to the few who actually like going to mass. Leave the children at home, the only saving they want to know about is Superman and Lois; figure out a menu ahead of time, though I recommend the diner on the other side of town; and if it takes you so god damn long to get to mass, pick a parish that’s close!

When Lent is over, I have full faith that I’ll not be attending services regularly for a while… at least not until they rearm the nuns.

Though I can’t be too much of a heathen if that’s what’s going to mass.