Much like ValuHo, hard work (and running like Hell from the cops) pays off. It's now time to reveal the newest La Raza commercial! It's their annual hail sale and it's the perfect time to save on that new Chevy you've always wanted...



I'm not sure that they'll be able to make it to "La Raza Dodge," but I'm definitely rooting for them.

Labels: all those funny voices, audio, spoof commercials

Some time back, long before I started this blog thingy, Collin pointed me toward 665, which was maintained by a pretty funny individual. Among other things, this guy would perpetrate chat pranks on folks via instant message and in chat rooms and then post the results. Always trying my best to skew results, I set up a fake (and feminine) AOL screenname and laid in wait for Mr. 665 online, basically to see if I could out-chat-prank the master-chat-pranker.

Overall, it didn't work. The guy actually came to enjoy chatting with my alter ego. While I do have chat logs filled with witty banter, it's nothing I can really make sense of to post. The screenname remains active to this day and, because I'm thorough, I set up a profile for the screenname which I never deleted. The account receives a lot of the same "yo, buy viagra" or "Enlarge your member" emails...Sometimes, though, an actual person will stumble across the profile and try and contact "darkbookgrrl..." What follows are emails that were exchanged between grrl and one such AOLer...I'm thinking he's pretty damn lonely and pretty damn desperate. I'm hoping that I'll never have to find out firsthand...

Sunday, February 22, 2004...First Contact...


Saturday, March 6, 2004...My pointed reply...


Saturday, March 6, 2004...He's Quick To Respond...


Monday, March 8, 2004...Let's Talk About "Me"...


Wednesday, March 10, 2004...He IS desperate...


Monday, March 15, 2004...I Offer More Lies...


Tuesday, March 16, 2004...OK, back off, Sparky...


Thursday, March 18, 2004...Ask and ye shall receive...



I figured this was good enough to scare him off. A few days passed and I assumed he just didn't want to hook up with a "big, comfortable woman." Unfortunately, like clockwork, he eventually responds...

Saturday, March 27, 2004...Note his size concerns...


Monday, March 29, 2004...I just keep getting weirder and weirder...



I'm just hoping that my last missive flips that switch in his brain that says "run while you can." If not, I guess I'll just keep everyone updated on the status. Overall, this has been slightly more fun than disturbing...Let's hope it doesn't cross that line.

Labels: chat pranks

I'm not a Catholic, but I play one on TV.

OK, so I don't. I was, however, accidentally Catholic for a while. It all happened when I accepted communion at my Aunt and Uncle's (Catholic) wedding, mostly because it seemed like the thing to do. (Everybody else lined up for a snack and I didn't want to be left out.) Later that day, when I admitted my transgression, I was informed that "taking communion means you're Catholic now." I was shocked! I asked about a possible 'statute of limitations' on my newly acquired condition, when would something like that wear off? "4 years" I was told. I don't know if I was just being jerked around, but at the time, I was a bit concerned. I was 10 or 11 years old. I'd be Catholic until....Dang...15...I even attended mass (once). What a workout that turned out to be...

Fast-Forward to 2002.
Andy, who had worked at the Agency for a short while, was all set to marry his fiancee, Andrea, in September...They're both from Pennsylvania, but had planned a Colorado wedding since Andy WAS working here. They were, in fact, planning on LIVING here, but Andy eventually got the axe in the only round of layoffs we've ever had. After a fruitless employment search, he moved back to Pennsylvania. Planning for their blessed event was so far along already that the Colorado wedding couldn't be canceled. The show, as they say, must go on.

The wedding was held in a beautiful stone chapel in Cascade, which is in the mountains outside of Colorado Springs. There was a string quartet playing wonderful music, the day was beautiful, the ceremony was beautiful. Everyone genuflected and transubstatiated and responded and stuff exactly when they were supposed to during the Catholic ceremony. Everyone, that is, except for me. I had been selected, due to a cancellation, to perform a reading at the wedding. "Pinch hitting," as it were. (I'm told that responsorials and readings are quite common at Catholic weddings). My particular job this day was to perform a tight little number that had to do with Jesus and marriage and such. I was pretty well prepared, I even knew my cue to take the podium. When the ceremony started, however, I couldn't help but notice that everyone who went up in front of the church made a little bow toward the image of the crucified Jesus on the back wall. I was told that THIS, indeed, was genuflecting. Everyone was doing it, I figured I should as well. When it was my turn, I rose from my pew-seat, walked toward the front and attempted to 'genuflect.'

I failed.

My show of respect for our saviour ended up coming off as more of a 'hey, howareya' point and nod. I may as well have given our living God a wink, a smile and a thumbs up.

"Hang in there, buddy..."

Overall, this was bad, I'm fully aware of this. Luckily for me, it wasn't AS bad as what the best man had done during the rehearsal the day prior...

Brent, Andy's best man, is a pretty funny guy. He and Andy are rockers from way back and can be found headbanging and quoting metal lyrics as often as not. Brent is personable and as instantly likeable as Andy. Collin and I got a pretty good insight into his personality during a trip up to Denver to eat at the Hard Rock Cafe a few days before the wedding. Music is the order of the day for both of them, it's never TOO far from the top of their minds...

The rehearsal was held at the chapel the day before the ceremony...The Priest ran through all of the pertinent details with us, we got to practice all of our cues and kneelings and such. (In retrospect, I really should've asked for a genuflection coach. Maybe next time). After the rehearsal, Andy and the Priest headed to the grotto for a confession session and most everyone else headed outside to chat. Brent and I were at the front of the chapel, chatting about whatever, when he noticed the microphone on the podium. "Think it's on?" he asked. "Nah." I replied. Armed with my assurance that the mic was nowhere near live, Brent leaned toward it and shrieked

"FOR THOSE ABOUT TO ROCK!"

Contrary to my earlier assumption, the mic WAS, in fact, on. Brent's spontaneous homage to the Devil's music echoed loud and proud through the little chapel, reverberating majestically off of every individual stone in the walls...Brent jerked back from the microphone, white as a sheet...He quickly looked around and ran up the stairs, out of the chapel, like a frightened rabbit. I was left standing all alone, next to the microphone, with AC/DC lyrics still echoing in the distance. I, too, ran. I wasn't gonna take the fall for such blasphemy, even if I did think it was one of the most awesome things ever.

Postscript: Some friends of ours baptized their little Catholic baby here a few months ago and we were invited. We didn't quite realize that we'd be sitting through an entire mass for that, but it turned out as such...I'm not sure why, but I was compelled to once again join the line for communion, just to see what would happen. Apparently, much like a dog sensing fear, the priest in this case could sense my non-catholicness. He initially balked at handing over my wafer, but acquiesced when it became obvious that everyone was watching...I'm 'back in the fold' as it were.

At least for 4 more very special years...

Labels: indignities, lame stories, me roots, religion

no se es mucha de vacaciones para mí en el sentido tradicional, sino que ha sido el dormir agradable adentro y comiendo qué sé no debo. Mi esposa y yo estamos en el proceso de comprar una casa y se es emocionante eso. Las cosas a esperar después de que consiga detrás a partir de vacaciones son... Una historia sobre cuánto odio pescar, historia de A sobre mi amigo Andy y el mejor hombre en su boda, un contenido más audio, más diversión equivalente del porno y mucho más. Todo este y calidad también del hijo del queso, el blog que usted sabe

Labels: get outta town, poor usage of foreign language

ok, so I haven't taken the family truckster to Wally World, but I am on vacation (it's Spring Break, dammit!) and this means I probably won't be posting much, if at all, for the week. I may drop a little snippet here and there if I have the time, but you can likely only expect a full post when I return from vacation on Monday, March 29, 2004. Thanks for dropping by!

Labels: get outta town

When I was 21 years of age, I drove my little gray '89 Geo Metro into the ass-end of a gargantuan beige '78 GMC Suburban. Details as to WHY, for the purpose of this story, are unimportant. I WILL say that the Suburban survived with minimal cosmetic damage, while my Metro was bashed up real good. While the "Gray Turd" was being repaired (by three Koreans and one Alabamanian, which was real fun to watch, by the way) I had little choice other than to "bum rides" from people.

No, I DON'T ride the bus, thankyouverymuch.

I was fortunate enough to have help from my family through most of my ordeal. The other times I was in need of transportational help, I usually called upon my friend Ryan. Ryan is a short little fella with a big head and a limp, both of which he acquired via a car accident when he was quite young. You'd think that his experience would be enough to scare him into being a careful driver, but, you'd be wrong. Ryan drove like a crazy person even on his BEST days. He was, however, nice enough to provide me with transportation. Beggars can't be choosers, I guess...

During this, the period of my discontent, I was working at both the radio station and the screen printing house. The station had recently hired, and summarily fired, a disc jockey named Mike Shaver. Mike was a young man with a resonate baritone voice, a spastic personality and a taste for whatever he could get his filthy little mitts on, just so long as it appeared to be female. In truth, I may be giving him too much credit. He was really...well...slimy. Anyway, he had just recently been dismissed and the rumors were circulating. So, too, were phone calls from females that he had, apparently, had contact with. One such female persisted in calling me while I was on the air. It was pretty clear that she wasn't necessarily a Rhodes Scholar, but she was a nice enough person. Over the course of a couple weeks, we chatted about a lot of things. I found out that she lived out east of town in Calhan or Ramah or something...I learned that she had a son...I learned that she had a bit of a crush on Mike Shaver and she was pretty disappointed when he was fired. She was also quite sad to learn that he had gone back home to whatever hole he crawled out of in the first place. Over the course of time, I forgot that she had known Mike and came to expect her phone calls. I may have even looked forward to them, it could get quite boring at the station sometimes, especially after midnight. After repeated attempts on her part to set up a meeting between her and I, I finally relented and agreed to meet her in the food court of the Chapel Hills Mall next to the Orange Julius on a Saturday.

She suggested that we could see a movie. "Whatever," I thought. I'd have to get Ryan to drive me. Saturday came. Noggin-Boy picked me up in his dingy little Ford Escort and we made our way to the Chapel Hills Mall. When we arrived, we parked in front of the Sears store that anchors the southwest corner of the complex, walked in, found a seat in front of the Orange Julius and waited. I watched every single girl that walked near our table that day. She hadn't really described herself in detail, so she COULD have been ANYONE, I had no basis for comparison. There were some females that passed by that I thought COULD be her...There were some that passed by that I HOPED would be her...And then there was one that I HOPED TO GOD WASN'T her...

Of course, it was her.

She came with her Son and her Mother in tow. She was dressed in a style that can only be explained as "trailer park yard sale." She had this one goofy-ass eye that would wander off for no apparent reason. She had these little foamy spittle pockets that would form in the corners of her mouth, giving her the appearance of a rabid dog with acne. She was a "real winner" as Ryan would descibe later. And, this day, she was to be my "Mystery Date."

"Are you Derek?" she spurted as she approached.
"Yeah" I offered, smiling bravely in the face of certain doom.
"This is my Mom" she said, through her foamy speech-barrier.
"Pleased to meet..." I started. "Mom" stopped me with the following exclamation:
"If you're gonna see a movie with MY DAUGHTER, you'd better just sit on your hands the whole way through!"

And hello to you as well. Things were off to a great start, I thought. I couldn't exactly say to her at this point that, it would be OK. I had NO INTENTION of touching her daughter EVER, not even in the dark. Instead, I just smiled, met the little wobbly-headed son and suggested that we go and buy our movie tickets. I probably forgot to introduce Ryan. He didn't care. He was scared to death. He just wanted to go home, and so did I. Instead, we made our way over to the theatre...Ryan, myself and spittle-chick.

Googly-eye reminded me on the way over to the theatre that her Mother had driven her to the mall all the way from podunk shit hickville and that she'd just be hanging around the mall, waiting for the movie to be over. Once we chose a movie, she said, she'd go let her Mom know about what time to be around to take her home. A fine plan, I thought. There was a large crowd gathered in front of the movie theatre that day waiting to purchase tickets. I chose, at random, the movie Mortal Kombat, which was set to start in 10 minutes or so. She agreed to my choice and ran off to give her Maternal Unit a pickup time. Once I figured she had completely lost sight of Ryan and I, I turned to him and said:

"We could just run right now."
Shocked, yet relieved, he looked up and replied "You wanna?"

I did, indeed, wanna. We booked it toward the nearest exit door and left the mall. The early afternoon greeted us with warm, sweet sunlight and a brief sense of complete and total freedom...My glee quickly turned to horror, however, when I realized that we had just exited the Mall at the extreme NORTHEAST corner. The car may as well have been across town, it was so far from where we were. We certainly had some travelin' to do. I immediately took off at a dead run around the mall. Ryan, limp and all, bravely attempted to keep up...Eventually, he dug the keys out of his pocket and threw them at me. "YOU GO AHEAD! PICK ME UP WHEN YOU GET THE CAR! DON'T LEAVE ME!" he shouted, as he hobbled to a stop. I caught the keys in stride and ran like frickin' Hell. I kept my head on a swivel, on the lookout for Ma Spittle and Spittle boy. Finally, I made it all the way to the Escort and it seemed that I hadn't been spotted! I jumped in, fired it up and hauled ass back toward Ryan. He jumped inside and we got the Hell out of Dodge, as it were.

I know, I know. "How heartless. How cruel" you say. Hey, I FELT BAD. A little. But I did feel bad. I know all about how sad rejection is, I've faced it more times than I can count. Still, I wasn't about to subject myself to two hours in a dark room with a total frickin' drool monster with an effed-up eye and I certainly didn't want to lead her, or anyone else, on. I'll admit, I didn't face adversity head on that day, but it was for the best. I'm not sure I want to look straight into that kind of adversity ever again.

Adversity called me at the radio station a week or so after my great escape to offer me a nugget of wisdom, probably along the lines of "you're an asshole," but, hey, I've heard it all before. I should've asked her if she enjoyed the movie, but even I'm not THAT evil. To this day, I still haven't seen the film "Mortal Kombat." and I probably never will.

I never had any intention of seeing it in the first place.

Labels: indignities, lame stories, me roots, radio stories, tales of triumph

My birthday is coming up soon, in fact it will be my 30th birthday. I'm approaching this birthday with a bit of trepidation, not because I'm getting older or anything, I don't give a fat rat's ass about things like that...It's because my 30th birthday marks a very somber milestone in my family. It will mean that we've all spent one full year without the magic of Rita in our lives.

Over all, I've never been much of a pet person. I have a strong dislike for dogs that stems from having been attacked by canines more than once. In addition, I generally have allergic reactions to pet dander and don't enjoy cleaning up after an animal. I had a goldfish when I was...4, maybe...I had some hamsters in elementary school. That was pretty much it. I never liked cats much as I was allergic to them, too. I was certain I'd never have a pet, I didn't feel the need for one.

Rita changed all that. Rita picked us to be her family. Rita showed up on our porch one evening when I was 19. Rita wouldn't leave. Rita, eventually, became my best friend.

We didn't always call her Rita, in fact, early on we mostly called her 'Cat.' Since she didn't seem to have any desire to leave our front porch, we decided that she'd eventually have to eat, so we fed her. 'Cat' eventually was allowed to live in the garage. She soon moved from the garage to the utility room and, after a week or so, when it was discerned that I wasn't having any allergic reactions to her, she was allowed to live in the actual house with the rest of us. 'Cat' was a beautiful gray and white striped animal with wonderful green eyes. She resembled a cartoon cat on a show called "Animaniacs" that was named Rita. I hated the character, I thought she was annoying, but 'Cat' looked enough like Rita that we called her, obviously, Rita. She fit in to our family immediately.

Well, maybe not "immediately." She WAS prone to fits of erratic behavior early on, but that soon faded. My father was convinced that Rita was actually his brother, Jim, reincarnated. Jim had died the year prior from liver cancer, among other ailments. If Rita could help my Dad cope with the loss of his brother, so be it. Besides, she acted as if she knew us right from the beginning. She was affectionate and talkative and recognized all of us and our vehicles individually when we'd arrive back at home. She memorized all of our work schedules and would be ready to run up to the car door and greet when we were due to appear at home day after day. I enjoyed very much how Rita would trot along beside me toward the door, chatting all the way as if she were telling me how her day went. It seemed that she always had quite a bit to tell me about her day.

Rita was an outdoor cat and a very adept hunter. One of my favorite pastimes when we all lived in the house on Hackberry was to watch my friend stalking whatever manner of prey had wandered into our backyard. Whether it were a bird, a chipmunk or whatever, it was never a match for Rita's cunning and stealth. In addition to her homicidal tendencies, she was really quite thoughtful. On special days such as anniversaries or birthdays, she would invariably have a fresh kill to give as a present waiting on the doorstep. Like clockwork, she remembered everyone. She also loved Summertime because she could spend more time outside AND she could choose exactly when she would go out and when she would come in. This was because, years prior, either myself or my sister had broken the screen out of the screen door. During summer, we would simply raise the glass portion of the screen door to get airflow. With no screen, Rita was free to leap in and out of the house at her leisure, moving from one wonderful warm-weather adventure to the next.

Of course, when the weather got cooler, we would have to lower the glass. One afternoon, after having done this, I was lying on the couch watching television. I caught motion outside from the corner of my eye. it was Rita, bounding up the front walk toward the screen door. I surmised that, by the way she was truckin' along, she had NO CLUE that we had closed up her leapin' hole. I couldn't get to the door fast enough to open it, but I WAS there just in time to see little Rita leap, soar majestically through the air and impact the glass part of the door square and hard. The whole door shook. Poor Rita fell backward, landing on her feet as cats are accustomed to, sat back and stared at the door with a murderous glare. As I opened the door, she saw me and sprang back to her feet, never one to be caught in an undignified position. I told her "Sorry, you can't do that again until May." She pretended not to hear me as she wandered off. She certainly wasn't going to admit defeat and she SURELY wasn't going to come in until she was damn good and ready. I loved that about her.

A couple of years later, my parents purchased a townhome. I moved with them, not quite yet adult enough to be back on my own. Rita, of course, moved with us as well. Rita never dealt with change very well and she HATED riding in any vehicle whatsoever. She cried the whole way to her new home and spent her first 3 days there hunkered back in my closet, angrily mewing at everyone who passed by. She seemed to be chastising us for taking her away from HER house. She ultimately mellowed enough to check out the rest of the place and soon enough she was right back to acting as if she owned it. My Mother was deathly afraid to let her outside at this new place, thinking that she'd become confused and return to the wrong home or, God forbid, not return at all. Rita, being an outdoor cat, and not accustomed to being told "no" consistently requested to be let out. We all toed the company line and refused until one day, when my Mom was a little distracted. Rita waited until she wasn't looking and darted outside to experience sweet freedom once more. Of course, my Mom panicked. Rita, seeing as she was more than just a pet, returned to the right home in a reasonable amount of time. We were her family. She knew where home was, no matter what.

Ultimately, I moved out of my parents' home. When I did, I missed Rita, but I got to see her often enough. Rita got a good amount of attention living with my parents anyway, in fact my Dad was unemployed (by his own choice) for a good stretch of time and that seemed to spoil her a bit. She certainly got used to having someone around to play with her, feed her and let her out whenever she wanted. At one point, when my parents went on a cruise, My wife and I were charged with looking in on Rita to see how she was doing. One particular night, We were over watching TV and I decided that I was going to read the newspaper. After a section or two, Rita got up from where she had been sitting and walked over to me. She mewed, I gave her a pat on her head and rubbed her ears. She mewed again and I mewed back. I told her I was reading the paper, I'd play later. She then set about destroying the newspaper.

I'm serious about this. She literally grabbed the newspaper with both paws and chewed what she could get to into pieces. I was totally shocked, yet utterly amused at the same time. I'm not sure she appreciated me laughing at her, but she got what she wanted. We played the pen game for a while and then played chase.

late in 2002, Rita's behavior and appearance changed significantly. She got a little slower and clumsier and she grew quite thin. She definitely was not herself anymore. My parents took her to the vet and she got some medicine. She got a little better, then she got a little worse. She fought a brave fight and never really seemed to want to admit that she wasn't feeling well. She'd try and play, but she simply didn't have the stamina. She couldn't take the stairs very well anymore, which prevented her from sleeping upstairs with Mom and Dad. She spent a lot of her time downstairs, in the dark. Ultimately, she spent a lot of her time laying on my Father's chest, close to his heart, for as many hours as he would let her. In March of 2003, my wife and I were getting ready to drive to Kansas to visit some friends. We stayed at my parents' house the night before our departure and I decided that I'd better let Rita know that I loved her, as I didn't know if I'd have the opportunity to do so again. I sat with her for a while and chatted with her. She chattered right back like the good little girl she was. I told her as I got up to leave that I loved her very much and I was going to miss her. She looked at me for a few moments and then turned away. It was almost as if she didn't want to admit that she wasn't going to be there when I came back.

While I was out of town, on my birthday, I was later told, Rita came out of the bedroom upstairs looking for my Mother. She stumbled and fell a few times, but ultimately made it to my Mother's lap. It was obvious that something was very, very wrong and so my parents took Rita to see the vet again. She had been in and out of the vet's office a lot recently and she had been on a lot of medication. unfortunately, none of it worked like it was supposed to. The vet ran some tests and finally diagnosed my friend with cancer of the liver, the same ailment that had done my uncle in so many years prior. She was too jaundiced at that point to be cured, and so my parents were suddenly faced with very hard decision. They soon decided that they would have to put their third child to sleep.

Rita got to lay next to my father's heart one last time before they took her away. Both my Mother and Father were heartbroken. When my wife and I returned from Kansas a couple days later, There was a message on our phone asking me to call my Dad. I called and asked what was up and he said "we had to...on your birthday, we had to..." and he started to cry. I knew that Rita was gone. I cried too. We both cried together. There was nothing more to do but cry. Rita was a very good girl and an important part of our family, but she had to go away. I still miss her terribly.

My parents go looking at cats every sunday, to see if they can find another that will be as perfect an addition to our family as Rita was. After a year of searching, they've come up empty handed. I'm convinced that, while their search will go on, they won't find what they're looking for. As for me, I don't want another pet. After all, I never had a pet, I had a very good friend who's, unfortunately, no longer around. I do look forward, however, to the time when we'll be reunited. I don't know quite what happens after we die, but I certainly hope that wherever I end up, She'll see me coming. She'll run up to whatever vehicle I arrive in and she'll trot in along side me on the way in, filling me in on what she's been up to since she got there.

I know she'll have some wonderful stories to tell me.

Labels: Cat Pictures, me roots, sad stories

Well, friends, hard work (and recent police sting operations) really do pay off! The ValuHo franchise has expanded, and it's my great pleasure to announce the all-new ValuBrothel! True to form, I have a shiny new commercial for ValuBrothel right here:



I hear that the fine folks at ValuBrothel are going to be featured as the cover story of an upcoming issue of "Modern Pimp" magazine. I'll surely post more information as events warrant...

Labels: all those funny voices, audio, spoof commercials

Green beer freaks me out. Well, food coloring in general freaks me out. I AM wearing green today. If anyone pinches me, they'll be pulling back a stump.

Labels: cartoons n' stuff, holidays, random drawings

In an earlier entry, I asserted that my Mom tends to panic. My sister reminded me recently that she's also been a bit self-destructive over the years. The two incidents that best support THIS assertion shall be related to you, dear reader, right about now...

My Mother will tell you, without hesitation, that she is "smarter by herself." It would seem that she tends to become distracted when others are in her company. This fact leads her to do certain things that implore others (such as my Dad) to ask questions like "What would you do if we weren't here to help you?" The answer is simple...She'd do just fine. She's much smarter when she's alone. She says so. It must be a fact. The two incidents I am prepared to type about happened, of course, while others were around. If my Mother had been alone, these things probably wouldn't have happened. At the very least, she probably wouldn't have admitted anything to anyone if they did.

One winter morning when I was 9 years old, I woke up feeling ill. I convinced my Mom that I couldn't go to school and she called in sick for me. My Dad was either off that day, or he didn't have to go to work until later on. Either way, they were both home with me. Sometime that morning, they had to go somewhere, I cannot quite remember where. I went with them for reasons I can't really remember at this time. Hell, I can't even remember the destination. Those details have become lost to history for reasons that should become obvious as you read further. I DO remember that we had to get some gas in our 1969 Dodge Coronet. We stopped at a gas station on Main Street in Security. Both Mom and Dad got out of the car, Dad went off somewhere, maybe to pre-pay, and Mom went to pump the gas. She quickly discovered that she wasn't quite close enough to the pump for the nozzle to reach, so she decided to pull up a bit. Not wanting to climb all the way back in and shut the door, she just hopped halfway into the drivers seat, started the car and hit the gas. She then began screaming and flailing around like a crazy person. I panicked, I didn't know what the Hell was going on...My Dad heard her screeching and came running. He gathered her up, tossed her in the passenger seat, got in the car and drove off.

"What's going on!?" I asked? "Your Mother ran over her foot...We've got to get to the hospital" my Dad replied. I was really very concerned, I had never witnessed behavior like the kind that my Mother was exhibiting. she was flailing about in the passenger seat, flopping like a fish on a dock, screaming, yelling, moaning, screaming, wailing....The pain MUST have been excruciating because she simply WOULDN'T CEASE emitting noise with the exception of two-and-a-half very peaceful seconds during which she lapsed into unconsciousness.

I felt quite relieved when she blacked out. It was calm. It was quiet. I'll have to admit that I wanted VERY MUCH for her to remain unconscious for the remainder of our trip to the hospital. Sadly, for me, this was not the case. She quickly came to and picked up right where she had left off, flailing, moaning and flailing some more. I slumped into the back seat of the Dodge, soundly defeated. Soon enough, though, we reached the emergency room.

After she had received some sedative medicine, I'm told, she attempted to explain to the doctor what had happened. It's reported that the conversation went something like this:

Doctor: "How'd you do this to yourself?"

Mom: " I needed to pull the car up and when I did, my foot got caught between the car and the gas pump island."

Doctor: "Yes, but HOW'D YOU DO IT?"

Mom: You know how, if you just want to move the car real quick, you jump in and let your foot dangle out?"

(pause)

Doctor: "No...No, I don't."

My Mom WILL STILL try and defend her formula for super-short-distance driving even today, regardless of who she's arguing with. Apparently, it was worth all the pain and the considerable length of time she had to spend on crutches. This tale, however, is not the most colorful example of my Mother's lack of regard for her own well-being. Once upon a time, my Mom broke her nose playing hockey.

At least that's the story we, as a family, give people. This lovely little incident happened at the Rustic Hills Mall in Colorado Springs, a shopping mall that was lost to progress some years back. When I was younger, it boasted a number of shops including Dave Cook Sporting Goods, a Hardware and Garden Store, Furr's Cafeteria, KarmelKorn and a Video Game Arcade called Nickelodeon. When I was younger, as a family, we dined at Furr's on quite a regular basis. When it was clear that it would be a Furr's kind of evening, I would consistently lobby for the Rustic Hills location. While it certainly wasn't the closest, it HAD AN ARCADE, DAMMIT, and I loved to play them video games. I'm still not sure why, in the 80s, arcades were so dark. At least Nickelodeon was dark. So was Quarter Zone. And the Space Center was too. I guess it helped players to see the screens better. If that WERE the logic behind extremely dim lighting, the philosophy didn't do Jack-Shit for bubble dome hockey, as my parents discovered one fateful evening following indulgence on the fine fare at Furr's...

We had all gone to the arcade to play some Mat Mania or a little Paperboy. Of course, I was elated...I grabbed whatever money my Dad offered me, got my tokens and ran off. Some time later, when my token supply was exhausted, I went to track my parents and my sister down. I found my Dad, but Mom wasn't around. When I inquired as to her whereabouts, Dad explained calmly "she's in the bathroom...She busted her nose." It seems that, during a heated bubble dome hockey match between Mom and Dad, the little tiny puck got lodged behind the little tiny net at her end of the little tiny rink. Ever helpful, my Mother exclaimed "I GOT IT" and, indeed, went to get it. Unfortunately for her, and her nose, she forgot that the puck was, as it always is, protected by a thick plexiglass dome, which she unwittingly drove her face into at full speed. This action "busted" her nose and severely damaged her pride. THIS incident, she won't defend at all. Probably because she can't. There's not much to say, really, other than that she did, indeed, break her nose playing hockey.

She certainly wouldn't have done THAT if she were by herself. Bubble dome hockey is a TWO-PLAYER game.

Labels: indignities, lame stories, me roots, stuff mom's done

I clipped this from the Sunday, March 14, 2004 edition of the Colorado Springs Gazette...Note the snotty tone of the article...I thought it was quite humorous.

Labels: 'round town

I've written some already about the time I spent living in Denver and going to school. There are times, I will admit, that I would like to forget the entire year or so I spent as a resident of the Mile High City. Unfortunately, I cannot. It's probably for the best, as we should all learn from our experiences. In keeping with this theme, our lesson today is entitled "How to delay being shot while in traffic by utilizing foodstuffs as a defense mechanism." We begin....now.

If you're a regular reader (and you two know who you are) you're already aware that I was forced to be in the company of my 'roommate' Jay for a lot of the time I spent in Denver. In addition, you're already aware that he was a complete and total PAIN IN MY ASS. Most of the bad things that happened to me while I was in Denver can be traced back to him. I really should've punched him in the throat when I had the chance. Maybe someday I'll get that opportunity again. I'll surely pounce on it if it presents itself. Anyway...

Jay had a bad habit of throwing trash out of the car window, regardless of which car or which window. If we were in a car that had a window, Jay would find SOMETHING to throw at SOMEONE. I shall now impart a tale dealing with the ramifications of indiscriminately firing leaky hot sauce packets out of a car window while said car is motoring down an interstate highway...In Denver...In the Summertime.

When I was younger, my favorite place in the whole world to eat was Taco Bell. I could, and would, indulge in their faux-mexican fare every single day. This was during a very magical time known as "The Early Nineties." At that time, Taco Bell boasted a 59¢, 79¢ and 99¢ menu. You could get in and out of there for 3-5 bucks and be absolutely stuffed to boot. It's at a Taco Bell that our story begins.

It was a lovely summer day in the Denver Metro Area. Jay and I had decided that it might be good to fill up on some food before heading toward home. I pulled my '76 Olds off the road and toward a Taco Bell. We ordered, pulled forward to the window, paid for, and accepted, our big bag of crap. The attendant then inquired if we would like any sauce with our order. My stock answer to this query is "no." Jay, on the other hand, screams out the phrase "LOTS OF HOT SAUCE!" The window minion hands me a considerable 'grip' of hot sauce packets and we're on our way.

For the next several minutes, I've certainly got enough to keep me busy what with the trying to eat while negotiating afternoon interstate traffic in denver. Eventually I finish off all of the pieces of my gastronomical puzzle and am able to place both hands back on the wheel and my full attention back on the road. I then glance over at Jay who has also finished eating. It's at this time I come to the realization that the quantity of hot sauce I was handed at the drive-thru was to be used for more than simply spicing up fast food. Jay has started tearing the corners off of the leftover packets and is letting them fly from out of the passenger-side window, back toward traffic.

"What're you doing?" I ask.

"Hitting windshields with sauce." Jay replies.

"Cut it out." I say.

I guess I can say that, without Jay, I never would have learned from a representative of the Colorado State patrol that the driver of any vehicle is ultimately responsible for the behavior of his or her passenger. It seems a bit unfair when you have to travel with a complete retard every day, but thems the breaks. I didn't really want to be pulled over and issued a ticket for Mr. Asshole's erratic and antisocial behavior, but I also didn't know how far along he was with Operation Salsa Liberation. I would find out soon enough, however, exactly how far along he was. Also, I would learn, that being pulled over was the least of my impending worries.

In Denver, people drive like maniacs. I'm sure people drive like maniacs everywhere. What I'm getting at is that, at any given time, it wouldn't be surprising to see someone driving very fast and appearing very agitated. This is why I didn't really see the gold Mercedes coming up fast on my left as a threat of any kind. At least not until the driver succeeded in acquiring my undivided attention.

As I said, the vehicle was a gold Mercedes. It proceeds to roar up on the left side of my Oldsmobile and begins riding even. My window, of course, is down and I can hear honking and shouting emanating from the Mercedes. I eventually determine that the noise is meant for me. I look over and see a young Asian male driving and a young Asian female riding in the passenger seat. both are glaring and shouting in my direction. As I focus my gaze in their direction, the driver points a very shiny 9mm handgun at me.

I mentioned previously that it was a very nice Summer day. During our earlier stop at Taco Bell, I had purchased myself an EXTRA LARGE Mountain Dew. I hadn't had opportunity yet to drain much from it, and it was resting majestically in a large cupholder that I had hanging on my door. I will have to admit that I panicked a bit when I saw the firearm trained on my cranium. So much so, that I commenced with an adrenaline-driven pre-emptive strike toward my would-be attacker with the only weapon I had at my disposal. My extra large Mountain Dew.

I let the cup full of chilled soda goodness fly with a left-handed sidearm through my window and into theirs, striking the female occupying the passenger seat square in the side of her noggin. Upon impact, the cup and lid separated, sending a torrent of Mountain Dew and ice in all directions. She was soaked. He was soaked. The interior was soaked. I had, in fact, scored a direct hit.

The second or two that follow the impact are burned into my memory like some sort of slow-motion sequence from an action film. In this short bit of time, my expression turns from one of fear and surprise to one of elation. I cannot help but grin from ear to ear and display my utter satisfaction with what I have just witnessed. The look of absolute surprise and shame on her face quickly turns to murderous rage as she snatches the gun out of the driver's hand, aims at my head and pulls the trigger 8 or 9 times.

CLICK! CLICKCLICKCLICKCLICKCLICK! CLICK!

She would've emptied the entire clip in my direction if the gun had been loaded. Ironically, it was not. This fact prompted her to then turn her unstatiated rage back toward the driver, handing him a sound (and justified) pistol-whipping. (Apparently it was HER turn to dress slutty and HIS turn to load the gun. Who knew!?) It was at this time that I saw fit to laugh heartily and punch my accelerator, letting the Olds' V8 spirit me away to relative safety. I say 'relative' since the person most responsible for my near-demise was still SITTING RIGHT NEXT TO ME in shocked amazement of what he'd just seen.

We drove the rest of the way home that day in relative silence. I was mostly contemplating the fact that it would only be a matter if time before he tried to get me killed again. he probably thought mostly about things like pretty lights, colors and food.

Postscript: Things did eventually catch up to Jay, in a strange karmaic fashion. He's never been able to hold a job above that of "gas station cashier" for more than a week. He also stuck one of his fingers in an arc welder some time ago and blew it off. Given this, I'm convinced of two things:
1. If I had been anywhere near said arc welder, he surely would've found a way to have the arc welder sneak up on me, grab my finger and blow it to bits. Also:
2. No matter what happens to him, it's not enough. I still want to punch him in the throat. Hard. Even if he ends up in a wheelchair, I'd like very much to hit him. If he were incapacitated, that would just make my job (hitting him) easier. Less moving around and all, you know.

I don't eat at Taco Bell much at all anymore.

Labels: indignities, lame stories, me roots, tales of triumph

haiku (hi-koo)
n. pl. haiku, also haikus

1. A Japanese lyric verse form having three unrhymed lines of five, seven,
and five syllables, traditionally invoking an aspect of nature or the seasons.
2. A poem written in this form.


I've always been fond of the concept of haiku. It's like poetry, but not. It's so simple, with so few rules. I assume that traditional Japanese Haiku PROBABLY doesn't contain curse words, but since I don't speak or read Japanese well at all, I'd never know. Either way, I wanted to give haiku a whack (hoping it doesn't whack back) by haikuing my day. I think this was Wednesday. Anyway, here you go:

Email Arrives Now
"Let's Get Free Movie Tickets!"
Goddamn Fucking Spam!

Thanks For Finishing.
The Ad Is As Wrong As Shit.
Please To Do Over.

Inside Studio,
Camera. Microphone. Me.
Dammit! Stupid light!

Lunchtime! Frozen Meal
Claims To Be Mexican, But
I Sure Have My Doubts.

Scott Brings Chips And Dip
Grab A Few! Try The Dip! MMM!
Aww Shit, My Chip Broke.

Damn Todd Bertuzzi.
Hate Todd Fucking Bertuzzi.
Ban Him Forever!

Spalding Gray Is Gone.
Headphones On, Monologue On.
Why'd You Do It, Spud?

Get Up, Move Around.
Go Across The Parking Lot.
Come Back, Sit Back Down.

Yay, Five Fifty-One!
Let's Get The Hell Out Of Here.
No More Work Today.

(postscript: in elementary school they taught us to count syllables by clapping while sounding out a word...Imagine a 29 year old man sitting at his desk at work, mouthing words and clapping. A wee bit pathetic, I know.)

Labels: haiku, stagnation

Admittedly, this here audio thingy will be nothing new to the bulk of my 'fanbase' (by that, of course, I mean the three people in the room with me) but it IS an entry and it IS worth sharing with the masses (that's you) when the masses ever get around to finding this site....What it is, is "Eschenbach Ford," a spoof commercial I made before I even had the inkling to create this blog that was born of twofold inspiration:
1. In doing it, I got to make fun of Joel Eschenbach AND feature him in the spot at the same time and
2. I got to do a spoof ad that sounded like a car ad, but that was a little more honest about how badly car dealers want to screw you over. And they do...They're like crack addicts except for how the "crack" in this scenario is your money and your emotional pain. Anyhow, here that is:

.

Hope you enjoy! More and newer content is in the works (as they say). Of course, I usually don't care what THEY say...Still, it's as they say...Thanks for stopping by...

Labels: all those funny voices, audio, spoof commercials

Every now and then, I really need to take the time to type out thoughts on things that are happening in the news that I feel strongly about. As most, if not all, of you know, The NHL hockey game between the Avalanche and the Canucks earlier in the week became an appalling spectacle of what is wrong with the sport of hockey. Fortunately, there WERE many bright spots. The Avalanche bounced back from a bad loss in Calgary the night before to hand the Canucks a sound trouncing on the scoreboard. There were fights in which Peter Worrell handed pain and humiliation to Brad May and Steve Moore Decimated Matt Cooke. David Aebischer even held his temper in check through obvious taunting from May and also while being challenged to a fight by Vancouver goaltender Johan Hedberg. Unfortunately, the incident in the 3rd period involving Todd Bertuzzi and Steve Moore is what's etched permanently in my memory and the collective memories of anyone who witnessed it. It truly was one of the most disgusting events in all of sports. It crossed the line.

Summary for those who don't know: Bertuzzi, coward that he is, came from behind on Moore, Tugged his jersey trying to goad him into a fight. When Moore refused to acknowledge Bertuzzi, Bertuzzi struck Moore with a blindside roundhouse. This caused Moore to lose consciousness. Bertuzzi then drove Moore, face-first into the ice. Moore lay motionless in a pool of blood for several minutes and was carried from the ice via stretcher. Ultimately, Moore was diagnosed with fractured vertebrae in his neck, deep facial cuts, a closed head injury and a concussion. He will be hospitalized indefinitely in Vancouver General Hospital and is under close observation. The Vancouver Police have begun an investigation into whether or not they should file assault charges on Bertuzzi, which they SHOULD. See, they set the precedence for this by filing assault charges on Marty McSorley some years back for his slash on then-Vancouver Canuck Donald Brashear. Anything less would expose them for the hypocritical sycophants that they really are.

The NHL today leveled their punishment on Bertuzzi, suspending him for the remainder of the season, including the playoffs. He will also be required to apply for reinstatement for 2004-2005. I can only say that this discipline meets my MINIMUM REQUIREMENTS for punishment. It's not just that I'm an Avalanche fan that I feel this way. I fear that if this situation is not dealt with severely by the league, it won't send the right message. I fear that, since Bertuzzi IS a marquee player, if he is NOT banned for life that an incident like this may happen again, somewhere down the road if a team feels they have nothing to lose. DEAL WITH IT SEVERELY! SEND A MESSAGE! MAKE IT CLEAR THAT THIS BEHAVIOR IS NOT TOLERATED FROM ANY PLAYER, ESPECIALLY AN ALL-STAR! The possibility of a longer ban is there, but I'm sure the probability is not. We'll see if the NHL, like the Vancouver Police, can step up and deliver when it matters most.

Frankly, this is not an isolated incident in the career of Todd Bertuzzi. It's an 'end result' of a pattern of behavior in my opinion.

Bertuzzi is a big fella, there's no denying that. He's so big that his teammates affectionately call him "Shrek." He's an imposing figure who's fast and strong on his skates. He also seems to have a deep-seated bloodlust. A need to injure opposing teams players. He's gone after Adam Foote in the past. He's gone after and injured St. Louis' Al Macinnis. He's consistently hit players from behind, from the blindside or when they are in prone positions. For being one of the league's biggest players, he's also the leagues biggest coward. And now, unfortunately, he can add Steve Moore to his list. He collected the 'bounty.' And he damn near killed Steve Moore.

Bertuzzi offered a tearful, yet questionable, apology to the media yesterday. In this statement, he apologizes to Moore saying that he "never intended to hurt him." You'll have to pardon me when I say that this statement is absolute bullshit. He MOST CERTAINLY intended to injure Steve Moore. There's video that displays Bertuzzi's intent to injure from many different angles. If you attack a man from
behind, I can't think that you have any OTHER intention than to injure. Also, he made a statement to the effect that "this is not the way I play hockey." I beg to differ, Sparky. It certainly IS the way you play. You're a dirty, dirty player, Todd Bertuzzi. On top of that, you're a hypocritical asshole and I, for one, hope you NEVER play hockey again.

Another aspect of this incident is that the US media, who couldn't give a fat rat's ass about hockey under normal circumstances, have been on top of THIS story with a horrid, macabre fervor. Denouncing violence in sports and acting as if hockey is nothing but a goon sideshow is irresponsible journalism. Hockey has a code of conduct among warriors. An honorable tradition that has stood the test of time. Unfortunately, it only receives widespread attention when some idiot breaks the code. Thanks, Todd. You're a real help to the future of the game. Again, hope you never set foot on the ice again. Also, Darren Pang, Analyst for ESPN...Man...Learn to shut up about how much you love yourself for ONE SECOND to comprehend the events that you're 'analyzing.' You're a disgrace to hockey, little man. Your comments about this incident on SportsCenter earlier in the week only helped to display your depth of ignorance about the game. Perhaps you should have paid more attention to it during your brief career.

Yesterday, after fielding the same questions about this from countless co-workers, up to and including the owner of the company, I announced that I was officially tired of talking about the incident. After having had to speak of it with 3 different people again, I had to reinforce my earlier assertion that I was, Indeed, tired of talking about the incident. I'm now tired of typing about it. I hope and pray that Steve Moore makes a full recovery. I hope that Todd Bertuzzi truly IS sorry for what he's done. The hit gave MY WIFE nightmares so I'd hate to think just how horrified Steve Moore's family felt watching everything transpire. I also hope that the NHL and the Vancouver Police prove me wrong and show that they have what it takes to to what needs to be done. Hockey is a great sport. We can't let a few cancerous individuals ruin it for future generations.

Go hockey. Go Steve. Go Avs. Yes...GO AVS!

Labels: hockey stuff, misguided rantings, sports

I'm not a big fan of telemarketing. I don't appreciate being contacted at my home at any time of the day with super-fantastic offers. I am not the type of consumer who buys on impulse or feels compelled to act fast when pressured. Obviously, this wouldn't lend well to my being persuaded much at all by a phone call during dinner or (God forbid) an Avs game where some loser on the other end is reading directly from a script and informing me how much better off I'd be if I had whatever product or service they're trying to send my way. All this makes it hard for me to believe that I was once that loser on the other end. I was, briefly, a telemarketer.

It does, however, explain why it's the only job I've been fired from. Not for lack of trying, mind you. I quit the job I had previous to the telemarketing before they could fire me. That's another story for another time, though. I also tried, later in my life, to get fired from the screenprinting place after I started at the Gazette through a tactic called "not showing up." Surprisingly, it didn't work, and I eventually had to quit.

But I digress...

I ended up as a telemarketer because I was attending a tech school where, in addition to attending class full-time, I had to work full time so I could pay rent for an apartment because there were no dorms. As I said, I was without a job and was going to take whatever came along. I saw the notice 'telemarketers wanted! good pay' on the wall at school. I called the number and spoke to a man named Tom. Tom said that they were indeed hiring and asked if I could read something for him so he could get a feel for how my voice sounded on the phone.

Read something..."Read what?" I thought.

Lucky for me, someone had left a snacky bag next to the payphone I was on. I read the nutrition information to Tom convincingly enough to earn an interview. I attended my interview and was hired on the spot, mostly because Time Life Libraries of Denver would hire anybody. I attended a training class and learned the fine art of how to sell to the unsellable, how to stay on the phone when the person on the other end obviously doesn't want to talk with you and how to use 'command language' to close a sale. Sickeningly enough, I was actually excited about having this job because I liked the 'mysteries of the unknown' series of books and, of course, Time-Life puts together some of the most kick-ass music compilations on the planet. Either way, because I needed money to pay rent and maybe buy some 2 for 1 soda at King Soopers, I was going to be a telemarketer.

I was good and ready to be the scum of the earth.

The promise of big money and no whammies were presented, as they always are, to us rookies in the training class as thoroughly attainable goals. "Why, just last week, one of the phones earned over $2000!" we were enthusiastically told. "that could be YOU!" My spongy little brain immediately filled with the visions of products I would most certainly be purchasing once I hit the phones and utilized my newfound 'command language' to sell music and books to the unwashed masses. We were also told about many people, just like us, who came to work for Time-Life while they were attending school and found that they could make SO MUCH CASH, that they abandoned whatever it was they were earning their degree in to suckle at the teat of filthy lucre. On top of that, we were told, Tom (whom I'd spoken with on the phone) had abandoned a radio career to be a telemarketer. He had also earned an unheard of sum of $5000 during his previous week of work! What a phone supervisory stud! abandoning the fame of radio for the riches of sales! rah rah rah!

Hey, I was young. I needed the money.

Telemarketers are almost constantly monitored. This is especially true when you're a rookie scum-of-the-earth. My phone sensei, or whatever the fuck she was, let me know that she'd be listening most of the night and she'd have "constructive criticism for me as the evening progressed." Armed with this knowledge, and a final admonition to "not sound so much like a DJ," I was handed a stack of leads, given a desk and shown the green light. Wholly prepared to alienate large groups of consumers, I made my first call. Shockingly enough, the person on the other end of the line didn't want to talk to me. Like a good little minion of Satan, I followed my script, performed all of my twists and turns and didn't let this person go until I had exhausted every technique in my arsenal. Once I heard enough negative responses to satisfy company policy, I let my victim go, less a brain cell or three. Miss Scum-Team Leader, who had monitored the entire call, approached me and said, "good job, you did everything right, she was just a tough sell." I responded with "she didn't really want to talk to me." Mentor-lady looked at me as if I had spontaneously sprouted a second head. "Well, yeah. Nobody WANTS to talk to us. But you keep doing what you did and you'll sell these people eventually. Just talk normal, will ya?"

It was at that moment, I had never felt slimier in my whole life.

I realized eventually that I was expected to be annoying to be effective. The 'techniques' I was trained to use were meant mainly to frustrate the people on the other end of the phone into thinking that the only way they were going to escape me and my wonderful products would be to buy something...Anything... "What if they hang up on me?" I inquired. "Well, you can't help that, but IF YOU USE ALL YOUR TECHNIQUES CORRECTLY AND DON'T DEVIATE FROM THE SCRIPTS that shouldn't happen" I was told.

Ah, so it'd be MY FAULT if I couldn't sell and MY FAULT if I got hung up on. I'd better jot that down. Apparently, these scripts were written by advanced beings and were COMPLETELY PEERLESS! Any lack of success could only be attributed to my own flawed execution. Things were INDEED getting deep.

I didn't make my first sale for a number of days. It was clear that I wouldn't be earning those fat commissions anytime soon, nor would I be buying new VCRs and things. In fact, paying rent might soon become a concern. Anyway, when one made a sale, one rang any one of many little bells positioned around the sales floor. After the ringing, you would acquire a little dot next to your name on a toteboard at the front of the room. There were individuals who were ringing those goddamned bells all night long. There were individuals who could make their dots run off the edge of the Stupid board. I was not one of those individuals. In fact, If I had anything, it would generally be a vast, blank area next to my name at the end of my shift. Maybe one or two dots. Most I ever had was 7, but I cheated to get that. It was obvious that I wasn't a telemarketing legend in the making. It was also obvious that I would probably be looking for a new job soon. Little did I know HOW soon...

I went to work on a Thursday afternoon after class. It was a cold day and I wasn't feeling all that well. I had to circle the block a few times to find a parking space and, ultimately, I was heading up to the 23rd floor to chat all night on the phone with people whom, if they didn't think I truly was Satan, probably assumed I was talking to them from some level in Hell and treated me accordingly. I shouldn't really impune them, though, I hated me, too. I grabbed my stack of leads, sat at my desk, called my first victim and introduced myself.

"Hello"

"Hi, my name is (insert whatever fake name I was using here) from Time Life Libraries in Denver. How are you this (insert time of day in whatever time zone I was calling)?

"Fine, I..."

"I would like to tell you about THE MYSTERIES OF THE UNKNOWN SERIES from Time-Life...Are you familiar with these books, ma'am?"

"Look, we're about to have dinner and I don't have time to talk with you right now."

I then uttered what apparently is the absolute WORST PHRASE in the Telemarketing kingdom...ABSOLUTE BLASPHEMY! I SHIT YOU NOT when I tell you that the next words to spew from my filthy lie-hole were:

"I apologize, ma'am. You have a nice evening." I then disconnected the call.

Before I could even grab another lead and dial my phone, I was unceremoniously yanked from my chair and brought back to the office where my immediate supervisor sat, seething. She had, of course, heard the entire conversation.

"WHY DIDN'T YOU TRY TO SELL THAT PERSON?" she exclaimed. "She didn't want to talk with me, they were about to have dinner" I responded. "I don't care about that! What about your scripts! HAVE YOU FORGOTTEN EVERYTHING WE TAUGHT YOU?" she bellowed. Apparently I HAD forgotten. at the same time, I remembered what it was like to be human. I remembered what it was like to have a nice meal with my family. In my moment of non-slime, I acted accordingly. "Well, we're gonna have to re-evaluate your performance here. I can't have your kind of attitude on the floor, bringing everyone else down" she said. "First off, where do you see yourself in 5 years with this company?"

There are many times in my life that I've thought things without saying them. Many times, I've put on a happy face and told people what they want to hear, all the while seething internally. I'm actually pretty good at it, it's a skill that has saved my ass in many situations.

This, ironically enough, was not that kind of situation.

I quickly emitted a very pronounced "PFFT" noise. I said "5 YEARS!? 5 YEARS!? Are you kidding? 5 years from now, I'm back in Colorado Springs making good use of my degree! I'm not going to stay here for 1, maybe 2 years TOPS! 5 YEARS!?" I then stared at my 'mentor' with the kind of apoplectic gaze that is generally reserved for people who have just committed horrible, unspeakable evil (like farting in church). "Look, lady, I hate it here. I'll do my best while I'm on the floor, but if you think I like this job, you're insane. I NEED the job, but I don't want it. 5 years? Feh."

My wee outburst was followed by that awkward kind of silence when you REALLY KNOW that NO MATTER WHAT happens next, it isn't going to benefit you.

"Well then. I'm going to just have to let you go" my sensei stammered.
"But I need the job" I said.
"No, I'm letting you go" she said.
"You don't understand, I need the job" I replied.
"No, you have to go."

So go I did. I was home in time to watch some good TV for the first time in a very long time. I was given my final paycheck the next day. I felt very free. I didn't have to talk with anyone anymore about things they didn't want to hear about. I didn't have to be called names just because I wanted to pay my rent.

I also couldn't pay my rent. Not without a job, at least. I had to 'hit the bricks' as it were. I did learn some very valuable lessons while I was on the other end of the phone. not the least of which is this little wisdom nugget:

Telemarketers are assholes. They can't help it. It's company policy.

Labels: indignities, lame stories, office supply aggression

I learned how to use Macromedia director 10 years ago when I was at DIT studying graphic design. I had already done animation on a Commodore Amiga using DeluxePaint 3 during high school. In fact, I should try and find a way to post that finished product, as lame as it is...Anyway, I messed around with flash one day at work. I don't do web design, only print, and I was in a hurry. So that's why these are as lame as they are.

Clicky, watch and try to enjoy...

first effort, mostly happy with the sound

because I'm weird. And I had a skull image lying around.

simple, but eloquent. Also, my first crack at credits.

I'm not proud of these, I just found them lying around. Enjoy the table scraps!

Labels: cartoons n' stuff, flash movies

There are times in one's existence when the repercussions of our actions are felt far beyond the scope that they were initially intended. Sometimes, this ripple effect brings joy. Sometimes, searing pain. And sometimes, some very very magical times, they bring horrible emotional pain and boundless joy at the same time. The tale that follows is one that encompasses the latter...

When I was at the tail end of my employment at the Gazette, I was in a state of utter disharmony. I was working upwards of 16 hours per day. It seemed, at times, that my very existence consisted of ramming my head into a virtual brick wall over and over. There were times that I would be faced with a daunting workload, personnel problems and, as if this weren't enough, a day filled with pointless meetings with other members of middle management. Invariably, these meetings would center around the problem of improving productivity. "Cancel the fucking meetings" was always my solution, though I never presented it formally. Anyway, all of this contributed to my lax attitude toward drinking on the job.

It's not as if I issued an official memo stating that it was suddenly acceptable to work while inebriated. I simply drank while I worked. Pretty much every day. Sometimes I would be so bold as to mix up wonderful pina coladas at home, cart them into work in a thermos and drink them at my desk from a tiki-themed mug replete with a little umbrella. So there was that. Eventually, I was offered a job at the ad agency I'm at now and I took it. I did work out my two weeks notice at the Gazette and on my last evening of official work, myself and my worker bees went to the Loop in Manitou for Mexican Food and Mexican Drinks.

For anyone not familiar with The Loop, they're famous for serving a margarita that is as big as your damn head. I'm serious, the thing is huge. They also don't skimp on the tequila, which makes this fishbowl full of liquory goodness quite the potent libation. I love these things. I had one that night. It gave me a happy buzz. We ate and drank and had some fun and then we went back to work.

Collin, whom I've mentioned before and who's blog is linked on the left, had been working on an ad for a tax service. It was up on his screen after we arrived back at the Gazette. Collin was nowhere around at the time. The ad had a header that read "Early Bird Tuition Special." I changed the 'B' in Bird to a 'T' expecting that Collin would come back to his computer, see the change, laugh, fix it and everyone would laugh like in a closing scene from the TV show C*H*I*P*S except without Erik Estrada and without any freeze-frame. Sadly, this was not the case.

Unbeknownst to me, Collin had already 'proofed' this ad out prior to my now infamous modification. What this means, is that a printout of the ad had already gone to the account rep to be looked over. Things get worse. Collin had done SUCH A GOOD JOB on the initial ad that it came back WITH NO CHANGES! Ha ha! Fine work, Collin! The ad was then flushed through the system to the composing room with the evil little change intact. The ad ran in the paper the next morning. The ad looked exactly like this:

Everyone had a good laugh...Morning radio shows were all over the quirky misspelling. The tax firm's phones were ringing off the hook, never before did they receive more publicity. Even the account rep couldn't stop laughing about it while talking to the client. It seemed that the ad had brought joy into everyone's life...Everyone, that is, except for Collin.

At the Gazette, there is a system called Ad Manager®. Ad Manager® tracks ads for publication and makes paginating the paper a breeze. It also tracks who works on what ads through a log-in system. According to the log-in record for the ad, nobody had touched it with one exception. That exception being Collin.. According to Ad Manager, nary a soul could be blamed but him. Not a one. It HAD to be all Collin's fault. (I'd have stuck up for him, but I was conveniently long gone. I had started at the ad agency. The Gazette was in my past. Or so I thought).

I literally had no stinking clue that any of this had transpired. The Gazette diligently cut off my free subscription to the paper the very day that I left their employ so I didn't have the occasion to peruse the ads the day that followed. I did, however, receive a call that evening...

me: Hello

Collin: did you change a letter in one of my ads?

me: what? noooo, I wouldn't have done that.

Collin: please tell me you did, they want to fire me! Did you put the word 'turd' in one of my ads?

me: noooo, I...Wait, yes. Yes I did. You didn't catch that?

Collin: CATCH WHAT!? WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TRYING TO DO TO ME, MAN!?

me: I'm...um...Sorry...

Collin: Talk to Rob.

Rob: did you do this?

me: yes. Do not fire Collin. Fire me.

Rob: I'm so disappointed in you.

me: ha HA! ha ha ha! Just don't fire Collin, please.

(click)

I later learned that the gaff WAS caught in the composing area by a girl named Monica. She sealed her own fate by letting it pass through to the final run while exclaiming: "I'm tired of fixing the art department's mistakes! Let's see how they like this one..." She was suspended for that transgression. She ultimately quit over it. The saddest part of this whole thing was that, even though I had done all of the drinking on the job and the hating of the meetings and things like that, I still liked the Gazette and I wanted to make a clean break. There are always stories about people who 'leave their mark' so to speak with one last parting shot at a company. I didn't want to be that person. I wanted to leave with integrity. I didn't want to burn any bridges. I failed. But I got some good publicity for the tax people in the process.
I even heard that the ad made it on the Tonight Show with Jay Leno.

It truly is one of my proudest achievements. Seriously.

Labels: collin crap, indignities, lame stories, office supply aggression, tales of triumph

As of Friday, I'm officially on the list at Daveart.com. This means that my goalie mask is being worked on. It's only a matter of time now! (hooray!) I'll certainly post pictures of the final product once it makes it back home.

Labels: hockey stuff, sports, tales of triumph

More with the audio content and big time fun! Well, fun for me at least. The following is kind of the culmination of a conversation I had roughly 9 years ago with John, whom I work with at the radio station. The station was giving away a very old Ford at the time. The car was actually NOT in great shape, and Johnny made fun of it a lot. He mentioned that it looked like it came from "La Raza Ford." He then said something about backlot, ballpeen hammer and hail sale.

This stuck with me until this last week when I finally sat down, wrote out and recorded the damn thing. I now present the official La Raza Ford commercial.



if it's offensive to you, I guess I'm sorry. I didn't mean it to be offensive, just funny. How fine IS that line between crude and funny anyway?...

Labels: all those funny voices, audio, spoof commercials

I know this is random, but it's kind of unnerving to me when my email program tells me it's "Gathering Children."

Labels: spooky shit, stagnation

Before we start today, I should mention that I am neither an expert nor an afficionado when it comes to the subject of pornography. I have, however, patronized enough video rental establishments in my lifetime that I have seen the covers of many porn titles available to rent. One of the things I find both funny, and sad at the same time, is that for nearly every recent 'legitimate' film release, there will invariably be a "porno equivalent." (example: the Addams Family movie was redone as 'the Maddams Family' and so on.) I offer for your amusement today, what I figure some of the porn-title equivalents of recent feature films will be...If these aren't currently available at your local mom and pop video outlet, give them time. Maybe a week, tops. Anyway, away we go:

"Under the Tuscan Sun" becomes "Under the Tuscan SON"

synopsis: Michael Jackson escapes to Tuscany, buys a villa, finds some boys and hi-jinks ensue.

"Cold Mountain" becomes "Cold MOUNTIN'"

synopsis: A female scientist thaws a caveman from a block of ice, seventies music ensues and he gets all...well...caveman on her.

"Whale Rider" becomes...well "Whale Rider"

synopsis: Adventures of a modern day Don Juan with a taste for larger women. Hey, shut up, the whole POST is offensive...

"Finding Nemo" becomes "HIDING Nemo"

synopsis: a tale of body-part pet names, fornication and frolic. No fish in this one. Maybe for the sequel.

"Dirty, Pretty Things" becomes, well...ok... "Dirty, Pretty Things"

synopsis: homeless humpin'.
Hey, now...Don't kill the messenger.

"Girl With The Pearl Earring" becomes, obviously "Girl With the Pearl NECKLACE"

synopsis: ZZ Top's first foray into pornographic media, they do the soundtrack. Unfortunately, they also do some of the humpin'. Things fall out of beards. It's a mess.

"Big Fish" becomes "Big Fishy"

synopsis: The Pornographic film equivalent of the Bloodhound Gang's immortal classic "You're Pretty When I'm Drunk." If you haven't heard it, hear it. Then re-read this, it'll be MUCH funnier.

"Les Triplettes of Belleville" becomes "The Triplets of Buttville"

synopsis: Three horny french ladies and their vacation back-door exploits. There are subtitles, but all the grunts and groans are in English.

"Brother Bear" becomes "Brother BARE"

synopsis: Set in Arkansas, a magical, yet horrifying tale of streaking gone terribly wrong. Also: 70s guitar music and shenanigans. And goings-on. And Stuff.

"Pirates of the Caribbean" becomes "BUTT Pirates of the Caribbean"

synopsis: The quest for the ass pearl! If the ass pearl were hidden in someone's piewagon, that is.

That's all I could come up with on short notice. Some of these may already exist. If they do, I'm sure Tony's seen them. We'll have to solicit a review or two sometime in the future.

Labels: porn equivalency, spoof posters

I've never been real 'handy' or mechanically-inclined. In fact, most everything I've ever built has turned out just south of 'suck.' I made a nice checkerboard table in shop class in junior high. It leans to one side. It resides in my sister's house, I disavow any knowledge of it's existence outside of this entry. It is dead to me.

Despite my lack of fabrication prowess, I WAS a part of the gifted and talented program at my elementary school. I try not to mention this fact to people because there's always an uncomfortable silence and I then feel compelled to say something uber-smart, which just doesn't happen all that often so there you go. I was placed in the 'program' when I was in first grade. It was a group that met after school once a week and also went on various field trips that the other, presumably less-gifted, kids did not get to go on. The group was also not segregated according to grade-level which meant I had to fraternize with kids that were much older than me. Fraternization has never been one of my skills. Suffice to say it was kind of weird.

We did the typical build-something-to-help-an-egg-survive-a-fall projects and did crosswords and played games and, I guess, learned from each other and grew intellectually and such. I didn't get a whole lot out of it except for missing some TV on Wednesday afternoons and finding out which kids could solve my rubik's cube. One of the projects that we were privileged enough to take part in, however, truly interested me. We were going to learn about propulsion and shit through MODEL ROCKETRY!

I love model rockets. Frankly, I love anything that I can buy at K-Mart that requires an engine and safety instructions. Where I live isn't terribly far away from Penrose, CO which is the home of the Estes Rocket company. Estes manufactures some damn fine model rockets. Seems a shame to live so close to something that is so attainable and have never experienced the joy of shooting a plastic tube thousands of feet into the air. Well, maybe hundreds. Either way, I had not been allowed to have a model rocket up until that point in my life.

I had friends that had model rockets. They would take them to fields, or playgrounds on the weekends, fire them high in the air and watch them deploy their parachutes, floating gracefully back to terra firma. I wanted to be them. I wanted to have a cool-ass model rocket. And finally, it looked like my dream was going to come true. Mom was taking me to K-Mart to get my very own model rocket.

Or was it ALCO? shit, I can't remember. Either way, I got one.

The rocket is powered by an 'engine,' which is basically a class 'C' firework. The engine is activated by an ignitor, which is a little filament that gets connected via wires to a little plastic box with a little metal key and a button. The box was powered by a lantern battery, you know, the big boxy batteries with little spring-coil connectors. You would turn the little key to 'arm' the rocket, then press the button to deliver a charge to the ignitor, which ignites the 'engine' and sends the rocket flying into the wild blue yonder. As the engine burns out, it sets off a little charge that pops the cap off of your rocket, exposing your precision-folded parachute. The parachute unfurls to aid your rocket's return to earth. It all sounds fantastic.

Like I said earlier. I'm not all that 'handy.' Plus, I was like...10.

I set to the task of assembling all the parts in the garage. I was a little bit flummoxed by the launch-box apparatus, especially so, since I had to assemble the WHOLE DAMN THING. I strayed a bit from the diagram and was literally just tossing the remaining parts into the plastic box toward the end. When I was done, my launch box looked good and though I had doubts as to it's functionality, I still decided to set up and give the ol' rocket a test-fire. After punching the button a few times, it was obvious I'd have to find someone more gifted than myself to assemble the launch box. I unhooked the battery from the box, pulled the rocket off it's launch-pole and went to gather up the parts. After the rocket, the first thing I went to pick up was the battery.

I already had the rocket in my hand. The ignitor was in the engine. The coils of the battery were exposed. Apparently, I had some sort of split-second moment of total mental incapacity. I lowered the rocket toward the battery and touched the ignitor to the battery coil. Right then and there, the ignitor drew every bit of available juice from the battery and forced it into the little rocket engine. The engine ignited and the rocked SCREAMED out of my hand and toward my head. It all happened so fast...

I fell backward and curled into a sort of fetal position, mostly from the total crushing fear that I was suddenly TOTALLY AND ABSOLUTELY BLIND! I CAN'T SEE! OH GOD, I CAN'T SEE! I remember holding my face, rolling around on the garage floor and screaming while the rocket made laps around the front yard, ricocheting off of every object it could. Of course, this drew my Mom out of the house to see exactly what in the Hell was going on. Eventually the rocket died and came to rest over by the lilac bushes. Eventually I stopped rolling around and discovered that I could still see. Eventually Mom saw that the rocket had left a black burn mark on the driver's side of her 1979 Pontiac Grand Prix. Eventually, I had some 'splainin' to do.

Ultimately, despite my unsuccessful test flight, I would get to shoot my rocket off in a legitimate fashion. I had to use someone else's launch box, but hey, you do what you have to. Just as it had in my dreams, my craft flew magnificently, soaring into the afternoon sky like a...well, like a rocket. As I watched, the charge for parachute deployment went off, but I witnessed no parachute deployment. What I DID see was my rocket dipping sharply and heading for earth. rapidly. Right before impact, seemingly for no other reason than to add insult to injury, it burst into flames. This conflagration ruined the cardboard midsection of the rocket. Apparently, my "precision" technique of wadding the parachute up and stuffing it into the rocket didn't quite hold up. 'Another fine and gifted piece of work,' I thought to myself. The next day, I replaced the original cardboard tube with a modified toilet paper roll tube. That also burst into flames during re-entry. Indeed, the fact that the parachute was quite 'melty' didn't help much either. I've never really had the inkling to try my hand at model rocketry since. I just didn't have the heart to.

After all, I'm not a rocket scientist.

Labels: indignities, lame stories

I love recording and producing "spoof" commercials. No, I really mean "love." I love it like...Well, like a T-Rex would love ripping apart the flesh of a brontasaurus and eating it and only coming up for air once or twice, face all bloody and small, ineffectual hands all bloody and...

heh...Um...Anyway, It's a nice break in my day and I get a kick out of doing the different voices. So anyhow, I was chatting with a friend of mine the other day about how she had been looking at placing a personal ad online and was shocked that they'd charge so much for it. Somehow it got around to being a "cheap date" or something. Seriously, by now, I can't remember. Either way, at some point in the conversation, the term "ValuHo" popped into my mind. This is only funny to me because our largest client here at the ad agency has a used car franchise called "ValuCar." Since I started working here, I've attached the term "Valu" to just about everything in my mind including ValuPet, ValuMonkey, etc... Anyway, because I am nothing more than a "one-trick pony," I wanted very much to do a ValuHo commercial...So here it is...



3 females here at the agency are responsible for the 'female' voices (go figure) and I'm the male voices. Enjoy!

Labels: all those funny voices, audio, spoof commercials

I play hockey. I'm a goalie. I've never played at a higher level than recreational leagues here in town, but I enjoy playing and I take it as seriously as I can. It's great exercise and It's a fun challenge. Everyone should try it at least once.

I've been playing hockey for over 8 years now. Not an amazingly long time if set against the entire history of the world, but I try to improve every time out and I think that, from time to time, I play pretty good. I've also got very nice equipment, and it matches. A far cry from the mismatched, used and outdated equipment I started with. I know I sound like an old man, talking about the great depression or walking uphill in the snow without shoes to school 20 miles each way, but 8 years can really be a large gap when it comes to the sporting goods industry...I was injured a lot early on, sometimes due to my shitty old equipment, so having nice stuff is important to me.

I'm often asked why I don't have one of those cool airbrushed masks like the pro goalies have. I'm often asked "Why don't you just paint stuff on your mask? Aren't you an artist or something?" ...It's really not easy, and I don't want it to look like an elementary school art project. Yes, I am a professional artist, but I'm not an airbrush artist. Plus, I don't have the facility to paint a mask. So there.

My Mom has told me repeatedly that she'd be happy to paint my mask for me. She once painted the words "S.S. Popeye" and a small anchor on the side of a bicycle I received for my birthday when I was 9. I've told her this doesn't qualify her to paint my mask, but she won't listen...

It's not that I wouldn't like to have a cool airbrushed mask that features some of my own cartoons...Logically, that idea has resided in my mind for the entire 8+ years of my limited playing career...I've talked to many airbrush artists, some of whom I've had the pleasure of working with, and I've designed and redesigned a mask for myself a thousand times. Maybe I have a fear of commitment, but it's hard for me to settle on only a few drawings because I'm constantly drawing. (also why I'll probably never get a tattoo). I'll literally fill sheet after sheet of paper just doodling, sometimes 10 sheets per day. It can be a daunting task to whittle that kind of turnout down to just a few choice images.

In addition, there's the cost of the mask, I'd want a nice mask, with a cat's eye cage, I prefer chrome and I'd have to be able to send it away to be painted, so I wouldn't be able to sell my current mask to raise money for the new one. I'd have to actually SAVE.

I found a way around that. It's called "Christmas." My wife and my Mom collaborated to purchase me a shiny new Simmons 991 pro cat's eye mask. I received this for Christmas LAST YEAR (Christmas 02). I then had some motivation to narrow down the design and get the damn thing painted... I researched different mask painters via the internet and finally settled on David Gunnarsson, who resides in Sweden and makes his living painting masks for Swedish Elite League goalies and some NHL goalies including Johan Hedberg (yes, he did the Moose, if you're familiar with it). I like his style and figured he'd do the best job recreating my cartoons. If you're keeping score, at this point, I've got two pieces of the puzzle. Now comes the hard part...

Piecing the design together was frustrating. There are holes, straps and odd curves on a goalie helmet...You may see a great design in your head, but when it comes time to see if it'll fit on the helmet, you realize that pertinent details of your magical design will be covered. Being that I make my living as a digital artist, I made digital mockups for my mask to see what would fit where. I finally decided IN DECEMBER of 2003 (yes, I'm slow) to just thumb through the stacks and stacks of doodles, pick 4 cartoons I liked best, clean them up MAKE THEM FIT and LIVE WITH THE RESULT...I did this. It was then time to discern if I had enough money to pay Mr. Gunnarsson for his hard work. Work that he had no idea he was going to do.

I had been saving money toward this goal and was pretty far along. With a little Christmas help from my family, I had enough money (I estimated) to get the project done. Now I just had to let a guy who was thousands of miles away ACROSS AN OCEAN and who didn't speak any english that HE WAS MY FIRST CHOICE TO PAINT MY MASK! Slap me five!

Luckily, Mr. Gunnarsson has a North American representative who can speak the English Language. I received a price quote, booked my painting and shipped my mask off to Sweden (being the impatient geek-boy that I am, I used the tracking number to determine that DAVID GUNNARSSON himself signed for my mask upon receipt. Wheeeee heee heee). Now I have to sit and wait. I know he has my mask. He also has the masks of countless other goalies from around the world. Right now, I'm just a number. A place in line. I'll post more when I know that my mask is being worked on, which I wish it were, because I'm really friggin' excited about getting it back...I'm gonna be the coolest. I'm still gonna lose, but I'm gonna look good doin' it, dammit.

And that, evidentially, is all that matters to me. And, no. I don't still have the S.S. Popeye bike.

Postscript: as of the last update on David's website, my name is STILL not on his list. It's been about 6 or 7 weeks and I'm becoming quite impatient. I guess I could call, but I don't speak the language. Also, I finally won a game. A 4-0 shutout win against the 'Blue Dawgs." WE AREN'T THE WORST TEAM EVER, EM-EFFERS! yeah!

Labels: cartoons n' stuff, hockey stuff, lame stories, random drawings, sports