All right, Smirnoff Ice commercials.
I concede. You win. You’ve unabashedly created an advertising campaign that has handedly trivialized my entire conception of being young and having a good time. Watching your commercials makes being a divorced father who’s only satisfaction comes from watching three hour blocks of Law and Order reruns on VHS prior to going to bed at 7:00 pm on a weekday in preparation for my life as a substitute teacher look absolutely fucking wild. Don’t get me wrong. My idea of a good time isn’t quite sneaking onto a golf course with my friends to setup an impromtu slip 'n slide with excessive amounts of a particularly shitty and too sweet alcoholic beverage popularized by sorority girls leeching off dad’s wallet to live a comfortable life of being ceaselessly fucked by fraternity boys named Luke, Tyson or Austin. I’m just offended you think we’re in the same ballpark.
I mean jesus fucking christ, Smirnoff Ice. You make me never want to have fun. Ever again. From this day forward I’ll get the chills every time myself and all my friends with toned bodies who don’t look fucking ridiculous in fedoras sneak into abandoned pools to have one of our impromptu ‘fill this shit with old mattresses and sponges that god knows how we came upon so we can fucking JUMP in it’ party, on the grounds some asshole might show up with a case of Smirnoff Ice and trivialize the whole god damn thing.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Wednesday, July 08, 2009
Depressing Dispatch Girl
This is Jerry.
First off, I should be commended on this candid shot with my awful phone - Rhoads inspired me with some of his Mesa voyeurism. Back to the subject at hand, Jerry. Mother fucking Jerry. She is one of the more depressing/repugnant people whom I work with. I can't say I blame her. She confines herself full time to a stuffy 10x8 room inside the PTS office fielding calls from people looking to claim their cars that the bastards who pay me towed - people looking to claim their cars who assumably attend classes/work at ASU and thus are already being fucked in the ass for thousands of dollars for a degree/paycheck, so ... you can imagine how most of those conversations go down (See also: fucking miserable.).
Every so often Jerry slithers out from under her bridge to complain about something, such as the lack of billy goats to gobble up. Today it was her body figure. She announced to everyone in the conference room that she couldn't drink any of the free Amp energy drinks that had been given to PTS in lue of America's birthday. No one asked, she just told them. This prompted an obligatory, 'Why?', from my supervisor Henry, a dude that is clearly too nice to not be baited. Jerry went on to explain that she just started her new diet which would consist of exercise and not eating junk food. She went into needlessly hilarious detail about obtaining her figure through excessively eating hot fudge with peanut butter in context with her completely sedentary lifestyle. At this point it should be duly noted neither the water bottle or Subway cup from the photo above belonged to Jerry. She's not really into that sort of thing.
I tuned out pretty quick while intermittently reading my book. I know, I know. What could be better than listening to a miserable lady complain about her excessive body fat? Jerry didn't perpetuate gender stereotypes for too long before not all too ironically moving to the subject of suicide. According to Jerry she would opt to hang herself rather than shooting herself in the face on the grounds that leaving a mess behind would only make matters worse for the unlucky person who would stumble upon her body.
She then proceeded to saunter back to the dispatch office, and I'm sure, really think about that.
First off, I should be commended on this candid shot with my awful phone - Rhoads inspired me with some of his Mesa voyeurism. Back to the subject at hand, Jerry. Mother fucking Jerry. She is one of the more depressing/repugnant people whom I work with. I can't say I blame her. She confines herself full time to a stuffy 10x8 room inside the PTS office fielding calls from people looking to claim their cars that the bastards who pay me towed - people looking to claim their cars who assumably attend classes/work at ASU and thus are already being fucked in the ass for thousands of dollars for a degree/paycheck, so ... you can imagine how most of those conversations go down (See also: fucking miserable.).
Every so often Jerry slithers out from under her bridge to complain about something, such as the lack of billy goats to gobble up. Today it was her body figure. She announced to everyone in the conference room that she couldn't drink any of the free Amp energy drinks that had been given to PTS in lue of America's birthday. No one asked, she just told them. This prompted an obligatory, 'Why?', from my supervisor Henry, a dude that is clearly too nice to not be baited. Jerry went on to explain that she just started her new diet which would consist of exercise and not eating junk food. She went into needlessly hilarious detail about obtaining her figure through excessively eating hot fudge with peanut butter in context with her completely sedentary lifestyle. At this point it should be duly noted neither the water bottle or Subway cup from the photo above belonged to Jerry. She's not really into that sort of thing.
I tuned out pretty quick while intermittently reading my book. I know, I know. What could be better than listening to a miserable lady complain about her excessive body fat? Jerry didn't perpetuate gender stereotypes for too long before not all too ironically moving to the subject of suicide. According to Jerry she would opt to hang herself rather than shooting herself in the face on the grounds that leaving a mess behind would only make matters worse for the unlucky person who would stumble upon her body.
She then proceeded to saunter back to the dispatch office, and I'm sure, really think about that.
Monday, July 06, 2009
Baby with a hat on
More often than not I wake up on someone’s couch.
I’ve almost become a pro at it. An unhealthy portion of my young adult years have been fueled by Stella, Sierra Nevada, and an assortment of microbrews on tap. Thanks to this influx of alcohol, you’ve probably gotten your own chance to see me peacefully sleep on your own couch. If not I have no idea what the hell is wrong with you. You should probably buy me a drink sometime.
Some mornings are better than others on the couch. Typically, I spend the first minute I’m conscious regretting I don’t have the presence of mind to have planned ahead and brought a binge drinking travel kit – much like a little kid would bring a kit to a sleepover. Shit for contacts. A god damn tooth brush. Sometimes I improvise this complete kit using the materials on hand covertly. I spend a few more minutes contemplating how I will ultimately get back to my car in some cases, which usually translates I’m going to walk 3-5 miles in 100 degree weather with a hangover. Really not any of this is very glamorous. Sometimes I need a reward for destroying my spinal column on a shit couch from the 1970’s. Today I received that award.
While sleeping peacefully on Brian’s shit couch from the 1970’s (probably more 1990’s), Brian, Trevor, and fellow Silver Miner Alex took a trip to the Yucca taproom. This field trip was unbeknownst to me. Because it is exceedingly difficult to get uninterrupted sleep on a shit couch probably more from the 1990’s as opposed to say, a fucking bed, I awoke sometime in the early morning to Trevor on the phone with his lady friend, every indication that he was fully coherent and accountable for his actions, etc. I drifted off back to sleep. The next time I woke up I requested the slumbering Brian to provide a lift back to my truck stationed at the local Casey Moore’s. I sat in the living room and turned on the Michael Jackson movie recorded on the DVR. Finally I heard a door open and someone, who I believed was Brian, moving around. Another half hour passed. Still no Brian.
Around this time my brother walked through the front door and started grabbing all his shit for work. He walks towards the direction of his room and immediately reemerges in the hall saying, ‘You guys have to see something’. Audrey, who was also there at the time, walked down the length of the hall as I followed closely behind and finally poked our head into Chuck’s room. There, sleeping like a baby in regards to the fetal position and lack of any clothing whatsoever (besides a hat somehow), was Trevor. So more rather a baby with a hat on.
“He better wash my sheets”, my brother remarked on his way off to work. I checked in on Trevor one last time when Brian finally woke up to take us home only to find him in a much less subtle position.
I’ve almost become a pro at it. An unhealthy portion of my young adult years have been fueled by Stella, Sierra Nevada, and an assortment of microbrews on tap. Thanks to this influx of alcohol, you’ve probably gotten your own chance to see me peacefully sleep on your own couch. If not I have no idea what the hell is wrong with you. You should probably buy me a drink sometime.
Some mornings are better than others on the couch. Typically, I spend the first minute I’m conscious regretting I don’t have the presence of mind to have planned ahead and brought a binge drinking travel kit – much like a little kid would bring a kit to a sleepover. Shit for contacts. A god damn tooth brush. Sometimes I improvise this complete kit using the materials on hand covertly. I spend a few more minutes contemplating how I will ultimately get back to my car in some cases, which usually translates I’m going to walk 3-5 miles in 100 degree weather with a hangover. Really not any of this is very glamorous. Sometimes I need a reward for destroying my spinal column on a shit couch from the 1970’s. Today I received that award.
While sleeping peacefully on Brian’s shit couch from the 1970’s (probably more 1990’s), Brian, Trevor, and fellow Silver Miner Alex took a trip to the Yucca taproom. This field trip was unbeknownst to me. Because it is exceedingly difficult to get uninterrupted sleep on a shit couch probably more from the 1990’s as opposed to say, a fucking bed, I awoke sometime in the early morning to Trevor on the phone with his lady friend, every indication that he was fully coherent and accountable for his actions, etc. I drifted off back to sleep. The next time I woke up I requested the slumbering Brian to provide a lift back to my truck stationed at the local Casey Moore’s. I sat in the living room and turned on the Michael Jackson movie recorded on the DVR. Finally I heard a door open and someone, who I believed was Brian, moving around. Another half hour passed. Still no Brian.
Around this time my brother walked through the front door and started grabbing all his shit for work. He walks towards the direction of his room and immediately reemerges in the hall saying, ‘You guys have to see something’. Audrey, who was also there at the time, walked down the length of the hall as I followed closely behind and finally poked our head into Chuck’s room. There, sleeping like a baby in regards to the fetal position and lack of any clothing whatsoever (besides a hat somehow), was Trevor. So more rather a baby with a hat on.
“He better wash my sheets”, my brother remarked on his way off to work. I checked in on Trevor one last time when Brian finally woke up to take us home only to find him in a much less subtle position.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Self Checkout
I had to complain about this tonight so as to avoid the risk of not over exaggerating.
God forbid I wake up tomorrow and brush off the entire experience I had at the Walmart self checkout this evening as just mildly irritating. The time is ripe to delve into what I view more and more as a rhetorical question: Why the fuck are fucking people so fucking awful at fucking self checkout?
The woman in front of me must have been fresh off the boat from the 16th century, lost at sea for centuries only hundreds and hundreds of years later to find safe port outside of the Mesa Walmart where she could barter and trade her collective treasures from the voyage for bushels upon bushels of instant lunch Ramen packs that she can't find the fucking barcode on to scan. I swear to christ this lady had never seen a machine before. She stood in front of the machine with the 'START' button glaring back in her face while frantically trying to scan her assortment of unsatisfying cuisine. The Walmart employee running self checkout came over to assist this bitch literally four times over the duration of her 10-12 item purchase.
When this fucking idiot lady hit the home stretch of her purchase, I thought I'd be leaving Walmart in due time. But this fucking idiot lady saved the good fireworks for last -- to the tune of a plastic bag full of socks, as clearly when she'd be eating her soup this evening her feet would grow cold. She waved the bag in front of the scanner. No dice. I started an entire family and was about to see my kids off to college in the time it took her to register she could key in the item's PLU code instead. She keyed it in and failed. I just had my third grand kid. She keyed it in again and failed. I just retired and began working on my memoir. I'm positive what she was keying in rather was the price of her big bag of socks. At this point the Walmart employee running self checkout received her encore.
Using the self checkout immediately after her made me feel like a god damn genius.
God forbid I wake up tomorrow and brush off the entire experience I had at the Walmart self checkout this evening as just mildly irritating. The time is ripe to delve into what I view more and more as a rhetorical question: Why the fuck are fucking people so fucking awful at fucking self checkout?
The woman in front of me must have been fresh off the boat from the 16th century, lost at sea for centuries only hundreds and hundreds of years later to find safe port outside of the Mesa Walmart where she could barter and trade her collective treasures from the voyage for bushels upon bushels of instant lunch Ramen packs that she can't find the fucking barcode on to scan. I swear to christ this lady had never seen a machine before. She stood in front of the machine with the 'START' button glaring back in her face while frantically trying to scan her assortment of unsatisfying cuisine. The Walmart employee running self checkout came over to assist this bitch literally four times over the duration of her 10-12 item purchase.
When this fucking idiot lady hit the home stretch of her purchase, I thought I'd be leaving Walmart in due time. But this fucking idiot lady saved the good fireworks for last -- to the tune of a plastic bag full of socks, as clearly when she'd be eating her soup this evening her feet would grow cold. She waved the bag in front of the scanner. No dice. I started an entire family and was about to see my kids off to college in the time it took her to register she could key in the item's PLU code instead. She keyed it in and failed. I just had my third grand kid. She keyed it in again and failed. I just retired and began working on my memoir. I'm positive what she was keying in rather was the price of her big bag of socks. At this point the Walmart employee running self checkout received her encore.
Using the self checkout immediately after her made me feel like a god damn genius.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
I dream of Roseanne
Some people dream of fame.
Others, immense fortunes. Fast cars. Adventure. All sorts of shit. I dream about the cast from the sitcom 'Roseanne' reuniting in front of a studio audience to field questions. Sometime before I slapped my alarm clock to pacify its incessant mother fucking BEEP BEEP BEEP noise (I wish it had a radio, but buying a fancy alarm clock would be like buying a really nice pair of pants I hate to fucking wear every day), I vaguely remember a young girl being passed a microphone by a host undecipherable, and asking the following question: "Is it good to contract pneumonia for a girl of my age?", to which Roseanne would have supplied an answer had I the presence of mind to roll my wake up alarm ahead a few more minutes the night before. I'm imagining if she managed to get a word in edge wise, she probably would have replied with something to the effect of, "No." Then again, this all occurred in dream land where anything is possible. I think somewhere in the midst of my dream there were actual questions directed towards the cast, but Roseanne did not seem to be insulted. It's always refreshing to see starlets acknowledge the world does not completely revolve around them!
In other news, there is a vampire dunking on my arm now and forever.
I'm going to go ride bikes. XOXO.
Others, immense fortunes. Fast cars. Adventure. All sorts of shit. I dream about the cast from the sitcom 'Roseanne' reuniting in front of a studio audience to field questions. Sometime before I slapped my alarm clock to pacify its incessant mother fucking BEEP BEEP BEEP noise (I wish it had a radio, but buying a fancy alarm clock would be like buying a really nice pair of pants I hate to fucking wear every day), I vaguely remember a young girl being passed a microphone by a host undecipherable, and asking the following question: "Is it good to contract pneumonia for a girl of my age?", to which Roseanne would have supplied an answer had I the presence of mind to roll my wake up alarm ahead a few more minutes the night before. I'm imagining if she managed to get a word in edge wise, she probably would have replied with something to the effect of, "No." Then again, this all occurred in dream land where anything is possible. I think somewhere in the midst of my dream there were actual questions directed towards the cast, but Roseanne did not seem to be insulted. It's always refreshing to see starlets acknowledge the world does not completely revolve around them!
In other news, there is a vampire dunking on my arm now and forever.
I'm going to go ride bikes. XOXO.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Monday, June 15, 2009
Danny Glover
My job is a lot easier than yours.
Just trust me on this. I almost feel guilty for using the word ‘job’ for what I do, but regardless I pay my taxes all good like, so I think it qualifies as employment. I won’t go into how or why in explicit detail – this is just something you can either take or leave.
One example of how ridiculous my job can be is we’re responsible for scheduling ourselves weekly on a Google document page connected to my ASU account. Every weekend or so, I open the shit up and look at what’s going on each day the following week and make the ultimate ruling on how I want to make my money. This is a very small liberty I realize, as I’m sure many others out there are afforded something similar. Nevertheless, the bottom line is I don’t have anyone breathing down my neck telling me, “You have to work this day,” and on the other hand, “You can’t work this day,” which is to say the days I’m up in the air on in the coming week, I can conveniently leave myself off the schedule and change my mind if I’m so inclined. Today was unfortunately one of those days.
There’s a kid at work who has a stutter named Chris and he’ll make you realize just how truly terrible a person you are just by being Chris. Don’t get me wrong: dude’s speech impediment is not anything I can’t handle. Still, when you’re at work and actually working (a rare occasion in my line of employment), you can get a little stressed out because dude can’t spit out the fucking words at the same time your mind processes what he is clearly going to say. The rude thing to do, in my humble opinion, would be to finish his sentence for him. I try my best to treat him like any other dude I work with. Still … some days, man. I swear to christ.
Here’s an example of a daily conversation with Chris:
(I see Chris coming in the front door of the office.)
“Yo, Chris. What’s up?”
“H-hey, T-T-T-T-“
(Ty)
“T-T-“
(Fucking Ty)
“Ty.”
But back to the present. Today was unfortunately one of the days I wasn’t scheduled, by my own choosing, but stupidly chose to come in anyways for some extra money. The big task of the day delegated to myself and Chris was to move the video board – a 20k hulking piece of shit equipment (powered by the sun!) used to direct traffic. Upon acceptance of the task, my immediate thought was, “I’m gonna fuck this up somehow.”
Me and Chris set out and discover the hulking piece of shit equipment in front of parking structure 4 (Some argue the best parking structure ASU has to offer), and shit is on top of a curb in the dirt. I started to wonder how the fuck we’d be able to hitch the video board and move it. We had two options.
A. Make a wide ass turn and hope to god we didn’t get fucked by the median.
B. Back the hell off the curb and hope for the best.
To frame your mind around this, it was two idiots who’ve never hauled a trailer or anything in their lives. Something shitty had to happen. Well, Chris ended up backing the hell off the curb and we eventually were in the clear. As soon as we arrived to the location, Chris the genius opted not to take the easy route and make a wide turn into the entrance, choosing instead to drive a whole fuck of a lot more around a tiny barricaded parking lot. Unfortunately for Chris, his route involved a lot of backing up which resulted in the hulking piece of shit video board snapping off the hitch and one end of it smashing into the ground.
[At this point, the two idiots get out of the car to survey the damage.]
It takes about 20 minutes standing in the 108 degree weather to determine that two strapping men cannot physically do a god damn thing to fix this, hitch it up again. I started having thoughts like Danny Glover. Like, this was supposed to be my day off. I was this close to retirement. I’m getting too old for this.
Chris stood there and stuttered about a whole bunch of garbage I wasn’t even listening to, because I was waiting for the dude to own the moment and drive back to the office, tail between his legs, and say, “I sort of broke the hulking piece of shit 20k video board.” I wanted no part in the shit storm. I was riding shotgun, fuck that.
Chris seemed pretty nervous about going back, so he stuttered about it for a long time. I started to get irritated, realizing we were just fucking standing there. Chris and his speech impediment make me realize how terrible of a father I’ll be one day.
Chris comes rolling back with some dude Mark I always see at the office, whom the only thing I know about is used to want to be a cop. We don’t talk. Mark radios in a crew of two other mild mannered gentlemen. He then instructs Chris and one dude to stand on the side that’s pointing up, while me and sunglasses pathetically attempt to lift the downed side. Miraculously, this happens somehow. So long story short, we narrowly missed breaking a hulking piece of shit 20k equipment.
Supposed to be my day off, man.
Just trust me on this. I almost feel guilty for using the word ‘job’ for what I do, but regardless I pay my taxes all good like, so I think it qualifies as employment. I won’t go into how or why in explicit detail – this is just something you can either take or leave.
One example of how ridiculous my job can be is we’re responsible for scheduling ourselves weekly on a Google document page connected to my ASU account. Every weekend or so, I open the shit up and look at what’s going on each day the following week and make the ultimate ruling on how I want to make my money. This is a very small liberty I realize, as I’m sure many others out there are afforded something similar. Nevertheless, the bottom line is I don’t have anyone breathing down my neck telling me, “You have to work this day,” and on the other hand, “You can’t work this day,” which is to say the days I’m up in the air on in the coming week, I can conveniently leave myself off the schedule and change my mind if I’m so inclined. Today was unfortunately one of those days.
There’s a kid at work who has a stutter named Chris and he’ll make you realize just how truly terrible a person you are just by being Chris. Don’t get me wrong: dude’s speech impediment is not anything I can’t handle. Still, when you’re at work and actually working (a rare occasion in my line of employment), you can get a little stressed out because dude can’t spit out the fucking words at the same time your mind processes what he is clearly going to say. The rude thing to do, in my humble opinion, would be to finish his sentence for him. I try my best to treat him like any other dude I work with. Still … some days, man. I swear to christ.
Here’s an example of a daily conversation with Chris:
(I see Chris coming in the front door of the office.)
“Yo, Chris. What’s up?”
“H-hey, T-T-T-T-“
(Ty)
“T-T-“
(Fucking Ty)
“Ty.”
But back to the present. Today was unfortunately one of the days I wasn’t scheduled, by my own choosing, but stupidly chose to come in anyways for some extra money. The big task of the day delegated to myself and Chris was to move the video board – a 20k hulking piece of shit equipment (powered by the sun!) used to direct traffic. Upon acceptance of the task, my immediate thought was, “I’m gonna fuck this up somehow.”
Me and Chris set out and discover the hulking piece of shit equipment in front of parking structure 4 (Some argue the best parking structure ASU has to offer), and shit is on top of a curb in the dirt. I started to wonder how the fuck we’d be able to hitch the video board and move it. We had two options.
A. Make a wide ass turn and hope to god we didn’t get fucked by the median.
B. Back the hell off the curb and hope for the best.
To frame your mind around this, it was two idiots who’ve never hauled a trailer or anything in their lives. Something shitty had to happen. Well, Chris ended up backing the hell off the curb and we eventually were in the clear. As soon as we arrived to the location, Chris the genius opted not to take the easy route and make a wide turn into the entrance, choosing instead to drive a whole fuck of a lot more around a tiny barricaded parking lot. Unfortunately for Chris, his route involved a lot of backing up which resulted in the hulking piece of shit video board snapping off the hitch and one end of it smashing into the ground.
[At this point, the two idiots get out of the car to survey the damage.]
It takes about 20 minutes standing in the 108 degree weather to determine that two strapping men cannot physically do a god damn thing to fix this, hitch it up again. I started having thoughts like Danny Glover. Like, this was supposed to be my day off. I was this close to retirement. I’m getting too old for this.
Chris stood there and stuttered about a whole bunch of garbage I wasn’t even listening to, because I was waiting for the dude to own the moment and drive back to the office, tail between his legs, and say, “I sort of broke the hulking piece of shit 20k video board.” I wanted no part in the shit storm. I was riding shotgun, fuck that.
Chris seemed pretty nervous about going back, so he stuttered about it for a long time. I started to get irritated, realizing we were just fucking standing there. Chris and his speech impediment make me realize how terrible of a father I’ll be one day.
Chris comes rolling back with some dude Mark I always see at the office, whom the only thing I know about is used to want to be a cop. We don’t talk. Mark radios in a crew of two other mild mannered gentlemen. He then instructs Chris and one dude to stand on the side that’s pointing up, while me and sunglasses pathetically attempt to lift the downed side. Miraculously, this happens somehow. So long story short, we narrowly missed breaking a hulking piece of shit 20k equipment.
Supposed to be my day off, man.
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