I worked as a casino bartender for over two years. In that time, I kept a journal recording first how much money I made each day, and then ridiculous shit (in this case literally) I would see everyday.
There are many kinds of casino people, with very different character traits. These categories will be explained in a later entry, but for now I want to get right down to one of the most disgusting habits that some casino goers possess: Soiling themselves.
I cannot tell you how many otherwise normal looking people have defiled themselves at the casino during my tenure there. On any given night, there is probably at least a handful of people sitting in some sort of their own human waste, for sometimes half a day, and counting. These are some of the most disgusting people a casino has to offer. They are, for the most part, old people. I chalk this up to three things: A) Old people have less bladder control B) Old people have less a concept of time and space C) Old people fought in WWII D) Old people could give a shit about you (pun VERY intended) and finally, E) Old people are old. OK, so that is more than three things, but I'm getting older, and can't be held accountable for my actions. Are you my grandson?
See what I did there? It happens all the time: Old people forgiveness. They make you wanna change their diaper, wrap them up in a blanket, and put them down for a nap. That said, if you have a grandparent that goes to the casino, then they, or their bridge partner, have almost certainly defacated in their pantalloons while there.
Now, it isn't ALWAYS an old person that does the deed. I can often be a "normal" person. Maybe not you childhood Little League coach, but probably that other dad that called himself a coach, when really he did nothing for the team but eat the snacks that the moms brought. Yep, that guy is a pants pooper.
It takes a lot for a normal person to piss, let alone shit, in their own pants, and then willingly sit in it for hours at a time. The main "reason" for this habit has to do with their addiction to gambling, and their game of choice- Slot machines. Since slot machines are supposed to pay out every once-in-awhile, the idea is that the more time and money you put into a machine, the more likely it is you will hit that jackpot. This is as ridiculous as assuming you will bang a super-model, just because you've always wanted to. Regardless, people are afraid of losing sight of their coveted machine, for fear that another loser will "steal" their jackpot. As a result, neither hunger, sleep deprivation, nor full bladder and bowels can make them leave their seats.
For this particular kind of casino person, soiling themsevles is so much a regular occurance, that they have developed strategies to elude casino officials of their revolting behavor, as that shit doesn't fly around here (Again with the puns, this is too easy).
Some of their tactics include, but are not limited to (as we are learning more everyday):
The "Wasn't Me"- This is when a person that is without a doubt sitting on a warm poo patty, just plays it cool. When a security guard walks by, they won't make eye contact, but if provoked, will blame it on a neighbor, much like they would a fart.
The "Mr. Bucket"- This is when a person will leave their slot machine (never too far though) to either piss in, or collect turds out of their drawers, and deposit them in now otherwise obsolete coin buckets. They will then leave the bucket in the corner, as if it is a treasure to be hidden for a lucky employee to find.
The "Innocent Bystander"- This is when a male, will stand in front of a covered garbage can (again, not too far from his machine) place his penis in the can, while with both hands he plays with his phone, or looks through his wallet, as he empties his bladder.
The "Turd Trot" (My personal favorite)- This is when a person will walk around the casino (Or once, even before entering the casino floor, which I don't understand, as they aren't even on a slot machine yet), and shake turds out of the bottom of their pant legs, every few steps. You never expect to step in poo when walking around in a lavish casino, but it has happened, and will again.
Next time you're at a casino, stay away from the slots, and be wary of old people, because that fart smell isn't going away until they do. I hope I caught you on your lunch break.
12.09.2010
Something Borrowed
Two very good friends of mine (Joe and Cherelle) are tying the knot this upcoming May, and it made me think about the whole being a groomsman thing, and more specifically, renting a tuxedo.
Almost every man that gets married, rents a tuxedo to wear during their nuptials. This makes sense, as most men do not own their own tuxedos, and even if they did, you would have to be very optimistic to think that you will still fit in it for enough years to make it worth buying one for your wedding. So, we rent them. The thing I thought was funny about the whole experience, is that on this, the most important day of your life (I hope), you aren't even wearing your own clothes! In fact, you are wearing a tuxedo that belongs to a complete stranger, who has in turn loaned it out to countless other strangers before you.
With that in mind, one can only wonder what things must have happened to the men that have worn that tuxedo before you:
At least one young man has lost his virginity after prom, wearing that tuxedo. At least one man has lost his virginity after his wedding, wearing that tuxedo (sucker). At least one man has sweat his balls off dancing to "Rock me Amadeus" at a wedding he barely got invited to, wearing that tuxedo. At least one man, a BEST man, has embarrassed himself in front of everyone that knows him by drunkenly admitting in his speech that he slept with the bride before the groom did, wearing that tuxedo. It is safe to assume also, that someone has vomited on that tuxedo; urinated in that tuxedo; ejaculated in, or on that tuxedo; bled on that tuxedo (the aforementioned "best" man). At the very least, a couple dozen, to over a hundred men (depending on the age of the garment) have carried around their sweaty balls, in front of their sweaty asses, in that tuxedo.
One could look at this as an awful, awful thing. Or, you can trust in the integrity of modern day dry-cleaning chemicals, and be happy for what IS still in that tuxedo: Good vibes.
The vast majority of men that have worn those threads have had the time of their lives doing so. You don't rent a tuxedo to go to a funeral, and the people that wear tuxedos for every damn occasion usually own their own. No, the men that rented the tuxedo you're wearing, while freely giving up your life of bachelorhood, have been the tail chasing, open bar perching, social smoking, mistake making American men that you have always been one of yourself.
So if you find yourself standing at the alter as your bride-to-be is taking the most life changing steps toward you, and you think to yourself for just a second, "I wish I were in someone else's shoes right now", remember...you are.
Almost every man that gets married, rents a tuxedo to wear during their nuptials. This makes sense, as most men do not own their own tuxedos, and even if they did, you would have to be very optimistic to think that you will still fit in it for enough years to make it worth buying one for your wedding. So, we rent them. The thing I thought was funny about the whole experience, is that on this, the most important day of your life (I hope), you aren't even wearing your own clothes! In fact, you are wearing a tuxedo that belongs to a complete stranger, who has in turn loaned it out to countless other strangers before you.
With that in mind, one can only wonder what things must have happened to the men that have worn that tuxedo before you:
At least one young man has lost his virginity after prom, wearing that tuxedo. At least one man has lost his virginity after his wedding, wearing that tuxedo (sucker). At least one man has sweat his balls off dancing to "Rock me Amadeus" at a wedding he barely got invited to, wearing that tuxedo. At least one man, a BEST man, has embarrassed himself in front of everyone that knows him by drunkenly admitting in his speech that he slept with the bride before the groom did, wearing that tuxedo. It is safe to assume also, that someone has vomited on that tuxedo; urinated in that tuxedo; ejaculated in, or on that tuxedo; bled on that tuxedo (the aforementioned "best" man). At the very least, a couple dozen, to over a hundred men (depending on the age of the garment) have carried around their sweaty balls, in front of their sweaty asses, in that tuxedo.
One could look at this as an awful, awful thing. Or, you can trust in the integrity of modern day dry-cleaning chemicals, and be happy for what IS still in that tuxedo: Good vibes.
The vast majority of men that have worn those threads have had the time of their lives doing so. You don't rent a tuxedo to go to a funeral, and the people that wear tuxedos for every damn occasion usually own their own. No, the men that rented the tuxedo you're wearing, while freely giving up your life of bachelorhood, have been the tail chasing, open bar perching, social smoking, mistake making American men that you have always been one of yourself.
So if you find yourself standing at the alter as your bride-to-be is taking the most life changing steps toward you, and you think to yourself for just a second, "I wish I were in someone else's shoes right now", remember...you are.
11.30.2010
Sex Act or Cocktail? The Quiz
This is something I've thought about for awhile. There are so many disgusting sex acts, and tasty cocktails that have similar names. So, can you guess which are which?
Leave comments with answers, or just google them. By the way, if you ace this thing, you areeither a drunk, pervert, or both a good friend of mine.
Cheers!
Mexican Avalanche Jack Rose Alaskan Fire Dragon
Strawberry Shortcake French Connection Napolean's Cap
Egg Drop Soup Honey Smacks Brass Monkey
Peacock Breeze Bloody Aztec Golden Cadillac
Red Raisin Rusty Pumpkin Salty Walrus
One-Balled Dictator Pink Squirrel
I wish I had thought ahead to be like, "Haha, they're all sex acts", but they aren't :(
Leave comments with answers, or just google them. By the way, if you ace this thing, you are
Cheers!
Mexican Avalanche Jack Rose Alaskan Fire Dragon
Strawberry Shortcake French Connection Napolean's Cap
Alabama Hotpocket Arabian Sandstorm Hayride
Corpse Reviver Amish Plow Dirty Mother
Chocolate Soldier Beverly Hills Twister Cosby SweaterEgg Drop Soup Honey Smacks Brass Monkey
Peacock Breeze Bloody Aztec Golden Cadillac
Red Raisin Rusty Pumpkin Salty Walrus
One-Balled Dictator Pink Squirrel
I wish I had thought ahead to be like, "Haha, they're all sex acts", but they aren't :(
11.27.2010
"Knock Three Times" if you don't know me.
An interesting thing occurred to me the other day when the doorbell rang, and pandemonium ensued: If someone knocks at your door, or rings the bell, it means they are uninvited.
I'll elaborate. There was a time in our lives, when you would go over to a friend's house, knock on the door, and then ask for what you wanted (Usually to hangout or borrow something). In fact, most of the time the door bell, or even house phone rang, We would get excited. Who could it be, a friend looking for fun? The fact was, it could be anyone, welcomed or not. The solicitor could still call or knock on your door, but you would still run to the phone or door to see who it was. Now, at least in my household, this is so not the case.
When the phone rings at my house, I don't even bother to look at the caller ID; I know it isn't for me, and more than likely my parents aren't even interested in whoever is calling. When the doorbell rings, a few things happen: The four family dogs go crazy. They bark uncontrollably, and run between windows frantically. All the while, at least a few family members will cower away, or feign ignorance that someone is even at the door. The remaining members of the family will try to herd the dogs away from the door, while suspiciously asking eachother who the hell could be out there, and what the hell they could possible want.
My family hasn't become more reclusive through the years, there is a simple reason for the change- Cell phones. If you are invited to someone's house now, you will follow strict protocol: Text in advance to tell them when you are coming over; having arrived, call them to let them know you are there (unless given previous instructions to "just walk in"), have the door opened for you, or be given aforementioned "just walk in" instructions.
The point is that noone that is welcome comes unannounced anymore. Why would they? It is so easy to communicate now, that it is far more adventagious to call or text ahead, so that noone is taken unawares, and you don't waste a trip to someone's house when they aren't home, or are busy masturbating.
With our friends calling ahead of time, there is hardly any news that can come to your front door unannounced that is good news (excluding deliveries, which are so easy to track you could schedule your entire day around when they are due to arrive). No, they are likely selling something; asking you to sign something, vote for something, join something, pray for something; or they are a disgruntled neighbor coming to complain about how shitty of a neighbor you no doubt are. Whatever the case, the sound that once triggered an endorphone rush, now triggers me to peek out the window as ask myself: "Who the fuck is out there, and what do they want?"
I'll elaborate. There was a time in our lives, when you would go over to a friend's house, knock on the door, and then ask for what you wanted (Usually to hangout or borrow something). In fact, most of the time the door bell, or even house phone rang, We would get excited. Who could it be, a friend looking for fun? The fact was, it could be anyone, welcomed or not. The solicitor could still call or knock on your door, but you would still run to the phone or door to see who it was. Now, at least in my household, this is so not the case.
When the phone rings at my house, I don't even bother to look at the caller ID; I know it isn't for me, and more than likely my parents aren't even interested in whoever is calling. When the doorbell rings, a few things happen: The four family dogs go crazy. They bark uncontrollably, and run between windows frantically. All the while, at least a few family members will cower away, or feign ignorance that someone is even at the door. The remaining members of the family will try to herd the dogs away from the door, while suspiciously asking eachother who the hell could be out there, and what the hell they could possible want.
My family hasn't become more reclusive through the years, there is a simple reason for the change- Cell phones. If you are invited to someone's house now, you will follow strict protocol: Text in advance to tell them when you are coming over; having arrived, call them to let them know you are there (unless given previous instructions to "just walk in"), have the door opened for you, or be given aforementioned "just walk in" instructions.
The point is that noone that is welcome comes unannounced anymore. Why would they? It is so easy to communicate now, that it is far more adventagious to call or text ahead, so that noone is taken unawares, and you don't waste a trip to someone's house when they aren't home, or are busy masturbating.
With our friends calling ahead of time, there is hardly any news that can come to your front door unannounced that is good news (excluding deliveries, which are so easy to track you could schedule your entire day around when they are due to arrive). No, they are likely selling something; asking you to sign something, vote for something, join something, pray for something; or they are a disgruntled neighbor coming to complain about how shitty of a neighbor you no doubt are. Whatever the case, the sound that once triggered an endorphone rush, now triggers me to peek out the window as ask myself: "Who the fuck is out there, and what do they want?"
11.23.2010
Sh*t My Girlfriend Says When Sleep-Talking
My lovely, beautiful, and perfect girlfriend Jessica, sleep talks.
There is no rhymn or reason to what she says, or when she says it. It can be funny and ridiculous, or angry and ridiculous. Either way, it is always ridiculous.
The scariest part is that she can hold entire conversations, upright, eyes open, but asleep. These are especially frustrating because I assume that like most people walking around and talking to me with their eyes open, she is awake. Sometimes she isn't and it can get pretty confusing, especially when I am tying my tie for dinner and she "wakes up" from a nap asking when the other people are coming over to deliver the bikes. Here I thought she was in the other room doing her hair or something, and it turns out she is wandering around in a dream-like trance.
If I ask her questions, she answers, sometimes even intelligibly. But, if I tell her I think she is talking in her sleep, she gets enraged. I can understand if she gets mad after politely asking me to get her something to eat, I respond by saying "You must be asleep, because you're dreaming", but most of the time I'm right.
When officially awake, Jessica laughs at what she said, and apologizes.
I've only recently decided to start writing these conversations down, and the following are two recent conversations worth remembering...
Nov. 6th, 2010- Staying at a hotel downtown for Jessica's 24th Birthday, I rouse the passed-out-drunk Jessica long enough to convince her to brush her teeth. While she is in the bathroom brushing her teeth, I fill some water glasses in the other room.
There is no rhymn or reason to what she says, or when she says it. It can be funny and ridiculous, or angry and ridiculous. Either way, it is always ridiculous.
The scariest part is that she can hold entire conversations, upright, eyes open, but asleep. These are especially frustrating because I assume that like most people walking around and talking to me with their eyes open, she is awake. Sometimes she isn't and it can get pretty confusing, especially when I am tying my tie for dinner and she "wakes up" from a nap asking when the other people are coming over to deliver the bikes. Here I thought she was in the other room doing her hair or something, and it turns out she is wandering around in a dream-like trance.
If I ask her questions, she answers, sometimes even intelligibly. But, if I tell her I think she is talking in her sleep, she gets enraged. I can understand if she gets mad after politely asking me to get her something to eat, I respond by saying "You must be asleep, because you're dreaming", but most of the time I'm right.
When officially awake, Jessica laughs at what she said, and apologizes.
I've only recently decided to start writing these conversations down, and the following are two recent conversations worth remembering...
Nov. 6th, 2010- Staying at a hotel downtown for Jessica's 24th Birthday, I rouse the passed-out-drunk Jessica long enough to convince her to brush her teeth. While she is in the bathroom brushing her teeth, I fill some water glasses in the other room.
JESSICA
(Bursting out of the bathroom, toothbrush in mouth, eyes squinted in rage) Are you pooing in my water glass?!
SAM
(Astonished, because he was doing no such thing, honestly)
Ummm, no. What are you talking about?
JESSICA
(Unconvinced, now with a full-on scowl)
I heard droplets!!!
SAM
(???)
---
JESSICA
It sounded like you were pooing in my water glass!
SAM
What are you talking about?
JESSICA
(Toothpaste all over her mouth, in a low, gutteral voice, eyes squinted more)
POOOOOOOO......
(Jessica disappears back into the bathroom. Sam is left in a state of utter bewilderment).
Nov. 20th, 2010- Jessica fell asleep while we were watching A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving. Sam tries to rouse her off the couch.
SAM
Jessica, do you wanna get up and brush your teeth?
(In hind-sight, the mention of tooth-brushing might be a trigger)
JESSICA
(Eyes closed, and not moving)
Yes, how can I do that with you on me?
SAM
(Not on her)
I'm not on you.
-
It's OK, we don't need to.
JESSICA
We just need someone to teach that class?
SAM
What class?
JESSICA
(Without the slightest bit of hesitation)
264 B.
SAM
Uhhhh, we just need you to be conscious.
JESSICA
I just want you to brush your teeth.
SAM
Jessica, I'm gonna carry you to bed if you don't wake-up.
JESSICA
It's peanuts or sex.
(At this point I carried her to her bed, then started writing this all down. She had one more thing to say though)
JESSICA
It's a good thing the boss isn't here until tomorrow.
(You said it)
I wish I had thought of using this as an excuse to say whatever the hell I wanted when "asleep", but this isn't the kind of thing you just start doing, especially if your significant other actually suffers from the affliction. So, I recommend you start doing this sort of thing early-on in a relationship. See for how long, and how ridiculous you can make it. I hope that Jessica confesses to me on our 50th anniversary that she was full of shit this entire time, and she knew EXACTLY what she was saying all along. All I would be able to say is: "Damn you're good."
11.19.2010
Friending the Dead
In my short time on earth, and even shorter time on the internet, I have seen more people pass away than I thought I would by now. The biggest difference between now, and ten years ago, is the liklihood that when I lose a friend now, it does not necessarily mean that I lose a facebook friend.
What happens to your facebook account when you die?
When an old friend of mine from childhood passed away in a motorcycle accident, his facebook page was bombarded with wall posts and even private messages. These wall posts were from friends and family, saying goodbye, or sharing a fond memory of the deceased. I found it interesting that his facebook page became even more relevant after he had passed away.
After somone holding a facebook account passes away, his account won't change unless action is taken by his friends or family, as facebook does not of yet delete accounts of the departed. If a close friend, or family member dies, you can report it at the following link, where his/her page will either become a memorial page, or be deleted, depending on your wishes. Hopefully you don't act alone in the decision making.
http://www.facebook.com/help/contact.php?show_form=deceased
A memorial page acts like a normal facebook page, but with important differences: You can no longer sign into it, contact information and status updates are removed, the profile is closed to anyone that was not the person's friend at the time of their death, their page cannot be found through searches, and you cannot accept a pending friend request from the person (Oh, noooow you wanna be friends?). The rest of the deceased's profile information is kept intact, along with their wall, and photos (Though I don't know if you can continue to tag them).
In a way, their facebook page becomes something of a cyber-grave, for you to visit. The advantage to this modern grave is that instead of standing outside, talking to a cold piece of rock, you can browse through old photos, leave public wall posts, or send private messages to the lost. It is a much more inviting, if less personal experience. Of course, these messages go unanswered, as they pile up in the inbox, but the thought that somehow your lost loved one is getting the message, is comforting.
Yes, you can report someone as being dead, even if they are not. So far, it doesn't look like there is much to be done about it should someone pull this morbid prank on you (cyber haunt them?).
As most facebook users are still relatively young, there are not as many of these memorial pages as there will be in the years to come. Should facebook survive as is for the next few decades, we will see a great deal of these phantom facebook pages. For the now, facebook has the money and the space to maintain a "no delete" policy regarding these pages, but this may not always be the case.
Facebook has grown to unimagined size since its creation in 2004, and holds an immense amount of importance to its 500 millions users. So much so in fact, that it seems almost necessary to include your facebook password, and instructions regarding your account, in your will: "Should I come to an untimely death, please sign into my account, remove the following 'friends', and change my status to- 'Bought the farm. I'll see ya when I see ya'- and change my relationship status to- 'its really fucking complicated'- thanks!" Certainly, noone could imagine facebook would become this important when it was created. Sure, you left instructions for your facebook account, but what should we do with your dog?
How many facebook phantoms are you friends with? Lets just hope they never send you an event invitation, especially to a "barbecue"...
What happens to your facebook account when you die?
When an old friend of mine from childhood passed away in a motorcycle accident, his facebook page was bombarded with wall posts and even private messages. These wall posts were from friends and family, saying goodbye, or sharing a fond memory of the deceased. I found it interesting that his facebook page became even more relevant after he had passed away.
After somone holding a facebook account passes away, his account won't change unless action is taken by his friends or family, as facebook does not of yet delete accounts of the departed. If a close friend, or family member dies, you can report it at the following link, where his/her page will either become a memorial page, or be deleted, depending on your wishes. Hopefully you don't act alone in the decision making.
http://www.facebook.com/help/contact.php?show_form=deceased
A memorial page acts like a normal facebook page, but with important differences: You can no longer sign into it, contact information and status updates are removed, the profile is closed to anyone that was not the person's friend at the time of their death, their page cannot be found through searches, and you cannot accept a pending friend request from the person (Oh, noooow you wanna be friends?). The rest of the deceased's profile information is kept intact, along with their wall, and photos (Though I don't know if you can continue to tag them).
In a way, their facebook page becomes something of a cyber-grave, for you to visit. The advantage to this modern grave is that instead of standing outside, talking to a cold piece of rock, you can browse through old photos, leave public wall posts, or send private messages to the lost. It is a much more inviting, if less personal experience. Of course, these messages go unanswered, as they pile up in the inbox, but the thought that somehow your lost loved one is getting the message, is comforting.
Yes, you can report someone as being dead, even if they are not. So far, it doesn't look like there is much to be done about it should someone pull this morbid prank on you (cyber haunt them?).
As most facebook users are still relatively young, there are not as many of these memorial pages as there will be in the years to come. Should facebook survive as is for the next few decades, we will see a great deal of these phantom facebook pages. For the now, facebook has the money and the space to maintain a "no delete" policy regarding these pages, but this may not always be the case.
Facebook has grown to unimagined size since its creation in 2004, and holds an immense amount of importance to its 500 millions users. So much so in fact, that it seems almost necessary to include your facebook password, and instructions regarding your account, in your will: "Should I come to an untimely death, please sign into my account, remove the following 'friends', and change my status to- 'Bought the farm. I'll see ya when I see ya'- and change my relationship status to- 'its really fucking complicated'- thanks!" Certainly, noone could imagine facebook would become this important when it was created. Sure, you left instructions for your facebook account, but what should we do with your dog?
How many facebook phantoms are you friends with? Lets just hope they never send you an event invitation, especially to a "barbecue"...
11.12.2010
Horoscope I
Aries- Today you will eat 3 meals, not including Taco Bell's delicious Fourth Meal.
Taurus- Drink all day, then make that important decision you've been putting off for so long.
Gemini- You're right, it's the only way...
Cancer- I know what she said, but she wasn't on birth control...
Leo- You'll run into an old friend from your past. Maybe the friend you ratted on that spent the last twelve years carving your name into his flesh with a sharpened toothbrush. Maybe he made parole, and knows where you live. Maybe, just maybe...
Virgo- Have you gained weight?
Libra-Today, take the world by the horns, and be all that you ever wanted to be. No more excuses. Beethoven was deaf when he wrote the 9th symphany. Right?
Scorpio-Your son is stealing your cigarettes. No, the younger one.
Sagittarius- Stop thinking about and do it. Those photos can make you a lot of money on the internet. Besides, she was always a bitch anyway.
Capricorn- You shouldn't put that in your mouth, not for a second.
Aquarius-Today is a good day to put that dog down.
Picses- "Today seems like a good day, to burn a bridge or two..."
Taurus- Drink all day, then make that important decision you've been putting off for so long.
Gemini- You're right, it's the only way...
Cancer- I know what she said, but she wasn't on birth control...
Leo- You'll run into an old friend from your past. Maybe the friend you ratted on that spent the last twelve years carving your name into his flesh with a sharpened toothbrush. Maybe he made parole, and knows where you live. Maybe, just maybe...
Virgo- Have you gained weight?
Libra-Today, take the world by the horns, and be all that you ever wanted to be. No more excuses. Beethoven was deaf when he wrote the 9th symphany. Right?
Scorpio-Your son is stealing your cigarettes. No, the younger one.
Sagittarius- Stop thinking about and do it. Those photos can make you a lot of money on the internet. Besides, she was always a bitch anyway.
Capricorn- You shouldn't put that in your mouth, not for a second.
Aquarius-Today is a good day to put that dog down.
Picses- "Today seems like a good day, to burn a bridge or two..."
Names to be Enjoyed
After 25 years of service with the United States Postal Service, my father retired. Throughout those 25 years however, he had been compiling a lengthy list of noteworthy names he had seen in the mail. The following list had been cut down from over 400 names. Read them out loud if you can, and feel free to comment about your favorite. Pay special attention to the "Wang" section, you won't regret it. Believe me, I understand all the cultural reasoning behind some of these names, but that does not make them any less funny to a WASP like me. If you find this list to be inappropriate, and deeply offensive, please feel free to curse my name 'til the day you die. For the rest of you red-blooded Americans, enjoy!
Oscar Asmann
Prikh Aroo
Sabu Baddik
Myrtle Balwinder
Hassan Bangas
Jim Beam
Billy Beaver
Belinda Belcher
Bugslaw Bitz
Baby Blimpy
Grandfather Bolloni
Seymour Boynk
Beverly Brabender
Shittah Brahmbatt
Resdidudo Brine
Elmer Butz
Muhammed Calhoun
Chauncey Cheeks
Chi Ching
Ricky Christ
Pepe Colon
Rusty Dedik
Nita Dedmann
Danny Deeselhead
Donald Dick
Dipak Diharia
Dick Dipper
Canary Dong
Darious Doody
Innocent Dou Dou
Cleophus Duckman
Luther Dumpmann
Master DuPee
Timmy Eichman
Muffy Einstein
Ashoo Eshoo
Dr. Fang
Grandma Fang
Franz Fatt
Jean Claude Feggot
Constance Flemm
Mom Flesch
Frederick Flickfinger
Ma Fudge
Dotty Fusz
Helmut Giggy
Zero Glug
Meezo Gnat
Bong Goo
Yung Joo Goo
Gay Grubb
Poonmanh Gupta
Tiffany Gutt
Boo Hagg
Clarabelle Head
Po Ho
Sweengen Ho
Johnny Hobo
Yu Hu
Ben Huh
Yoyo Hwang
Randolph Twisleton Inch
Porntip Itchit
Yahkahm Swee Jee
Agamemnon Jones
Suk Yung Joo
Esmerelda Kaka
Hee Suk Kao
Tusk Kashabubu
Toto Khathakanthapixay
Dusty Kielbasa
Phineas Kill
Candy Kiss
Yoko Koko
Romeo Kola
Calypso Kow
Yung Kow
Mother Krautwurst
Yum Kum
Grandmother Lidlikir
Lisa Lipps
Sugar Lippschitz
Nguyen (pronounced “win”) Phuc Long
Les Luck
Mama Lyvengood
Sebastian Magoo
B.J. Midjett
Lucky Mold
Butterfly Moose
Federated Mut
Skwat Nanayayarara
Prunella Nork
Yumi Ogg
Grandfather Organ
Cochise Orony
Constance Oynky
Anil Oyuk
Romeo Pantaloon
Apu Patel
Ashit Patel
Atit Patel
Bipi Patel
Hardik Patel
Heman Patel
Maniak Patel
Perv Patel
Punkash Patel
Rahmandeep Patel
Rick Patel
Sweety Patel
Luigi Patooie
Pinky Peach
Alpo Pecker
Sgt. Nick Penas
Elvis Pickle
Pastor Pie
Armando Pigg
Papa Pisano
Olga Piskup
Maximillian Pisz
Poppy Poindexter
Senorita Poisson
Kook Poo
Shirley Poon
Urbano Pounce
Senor Presto
Osgood Seeman
Dungo Shanks
Grandfather Shanks
Honey Shankz
Joe Slaw
Daddy Smoot
Melbo Snapps
Dung Song
Cleopatra Staines
Junior Stompanotto
Kudlip Stump
Joe Sucato
Muhammed Sullami
Zdzylywz Swetlik
Johnny Taco
Adolph Thong
Bobo Tickle
Sandy Tidi
Ting Ting
Pastor Tingle
Skyler Tinkle
Hildegarde Toole
Yoyo Tung
Mi Wang
Mo Wang
No Wang
Rong Wang
Suk Mo Wang
Washmee Wawa
Wolfgang Weener
Dr. Winkenferfel
Mi Woo Woo
Holly Wood
Harry Wunder
Milton Wurm
Oldoc Yac
Yaha Yaya
Yehudi Yerboodi
Wilfredo Zilch
Oscar Asmann
Prikh Aroo
Sabu Baddik
Myrtle Balwinder
Hassan Bangas
Jim Beam
Billy Beaver
Belinda Belcher
Bugslaw Bitz
Baby Blimpy
Grandfather Bolloni
Seymour Boynk
Beverly Brabender
Shittah Brahmbatt
Resdidudo Brine
Elmer Butz
Muhammed Calhoun
Chauncey Cheeks
Chi Ching
Ricky Christ
Pepe Colon
Rusty Dedik
Nita Dedmann
Danny Deeselhead
Donald Dick
Dipak Diharia
Dick Dipper
Canary Dong
Darious Doody
Innocent Dou Dou
Cleophus Duckman
Luther Dumpmann
Master DuPee
Timmy Eichman
Muffy Einstein
Ashoo Eshoo
Dr. Fang
Grandma Fang
Franz Fatt
Jean Claude Feggot
Constance Flemm
Mom Flesch
Frederick Flickfinger
Ma Fudge
Dotty Fusz
Helmut Giggy
Zero Glug
Meezo Gnat
Bong Goo
Yung Joo Goo
Gay Grubb
Poonmanh Gupta
Tiffany Gutt
Boo Hagg
Clarabelle Head
Po Ho
Sweengen Ho
Johnny Hobo
Yu Hu
Ben Huh
Yoyo Hwang
Randolph Twisleton Inch
Porntip Itchit
Yahkahm Swee Jee
Agamemnon Jones
Suk Yung Joo
Esmerelda Kaka
Hee Suk Kao
Tusk Kashabubu
Toto Khathakanthapixay
Dusty Kielbasa
Phineas Kill
Candy Kiss
Yoko Koko
Romeo Kola
Calypso Kow
Yung Kow
Mother Krautwurst
Yum Kum
Grandmother Lidlikir
Lisa Lipps
Sugar Lippschitz
Nguyen (pronounced “win”) Phuc Long
Les Luck
Mama Lyvengood
Sebastian Magoo
B.J. Midjett
Lucky Mold
Butterfly Moose
Federated Mut
Skwat Nanayayarara
Prunella Nork
Yumi Ogg
Grandfather Organ
Cochise Orony
Constance Oynky
Anil Oyuk
Romeo Pantaloon
Apu Patel
Ashit Patel
Atit Patel
Bipi Patel
Hardik Patel
Heman Patel
Maniak Patel
Perv Patel
Punkash Patel
Rahmandeep Patel
Rick Patel
Sweety Patel
Luigi Patooie
Pinky Peach
Alpo Pecker
Sgt. Nick Penas
Elvis Pickle
Pastor Pie
Armando Pigg
Papa Pisano
Olga Piskup
Maximillian Pisz
Poppy Poindexter
Senorita Poisson
Kook Poo
Shirley Poon
Urbano Pounce
Senor Presto
Osgood Seeman
Dungo Shanks
Grandfather Shanks
Honey Shankz
Joe Slaw
Daddy Smoot
Melbo Snapps
Dung Song
Cleopatra Staines
Junior Stompanotto
Kudlip Stump
Joe Sucato
Muhammed Sullami
Zdzylywz Swetlik
Johnny Taco
Adolph Thong
Bobo Tickle
Sandy Tidi
Ting Ting
Pastor Tingle
Skyler Tinkle
Hildegarde Toole
Yoyo Tung
Mi Wang
Mo Wang
No Wang
Rong Wang
Suk Mo Wang
Washmee Wawa
Wolfgang Weener
Dr. Winkenferfel
Mi Woo Woo
Holly Wood
Harry Wunder
Milton Wurm
Oldoc Yac
Yaha Yaya
Yehudi Yerboodi
Wilfredo Zilch
A New Approach to my Resume'
SAM WROBEL
Local 861
(630) 364-9680
Email: SA-Wrobel@wiu.edu
PERSONAL SKILLS and PROFESSIONAL PROFILE
• Extremely flexible. Can not only touch toes, but place entire palms to floor.
• A motivated, goal oriented, individual capable of working well under pressures of up to 1500 PSI
• An energetic ambitious individual, with the ability to remain conscious for over eleven hours a day.
Proficient in Microsoft Windows, Word, Excel, PowerPoint, Wii Tennis, and Morse code.
EDUCTION
Semester and a half–Hunter S. Thompson Community College- Sum Cum Loudly– May 2009
Devil’s Knee, CO– Overall GPA: Twelve
MEMBERSHIPS and ACTIVITIES
• Alchemy Club- Vice President (September 2008)
• Alfalfa Sega Ortega fraternity
• Students for Amateur Pornography (Secretary 2008)
WORK EXPERIENCE (seasonal and part time)
Grave Robber (Spring 2005)
•Robbed such high profile graves: Abraham Lincoln, Al Capone, Jack Lemmon.
Internship: Irish Republican Army (Summer 2005)
•Food taster.
Magician’s Apprentice (Fall 2005)
•Carried water from well to fountain, subsequently cast spell on broom to do said task.
Drug Mule- Rodriguez Drug cartel. Tijuana, Mexico. (Spring 2006)
•Moved quality, uncut, product across U.S./Mexican border, in an efficient, undetected manner.
Horse Fixer (Spring 2006)
•Provided adequate reason for assurance betting in professional horse racing circuit.
Ivory Dealer (Summer 2006)
•Dealt African Elephant Ivory, conducting with big game hunters and buyers.
Director of Marketing- South Bronx Abortion Clinic (Fall 2007)
•Headed the Marketing department, lead various AD campaigns, with varying success.
Importer of Exotic Animals- Detroit, MI (Winter 2007)
•Provided exotic, often endangered, species for household pets. Specialized in Two-toed Sloth.
Relief Pitcher- Chicago Cubs (Spring 2008)
•Appeared in 28 games with consistent ERA of 7.58
REFERENCES:
Juan Diego “Diablo Niño” Rodriguez- Rodriquez Drug Cartel
Cell phone (burner): (918) 567-846$
Carlos Zambrano- Chicago Cubs
Contact in Person- 1060 W. Addison, Chicago, IL.
Local 861
(630) 364-9680
Email: SA-Wrobel@wiu.edu
PERSONAL SKILLS and PROFESSIONAL PROFILE
• Extremely flexible. Can not only touch toes, but place entire palms to floor.
• A motivated, goal oriented, individual capable of working well under pressures of up to 1500 PSI
• An energetic ambitious individual, with the ability to remain conscious for over eleven hours a day.
Proficient in Microsoft Windows, Word, Excel, PowerPoint, Wii Tennis, and Morse code.
EDUCTION
Semester and a half–Hunter S. Thompson Community College- Sum Cum Loudly– May 2009
Devil’s Knee, CO– Overall GPA: Twelve
MEMBERSHIPS and ACTIVITIES
• Alchemy Club- Vice President (September 2008)
• Alfalfa Sega Ortega fraternity
• Students for Amateur Pornography (Secretary 2008)
WORK EXPERIENCE (seasonal and part time)
Grave Robber (Spring 2005)
•Robbed such high profile graves: Abraham Lincoln, Al Capone, Jack Lemmon.
Internship: Irish Republican Army (Summer 2005)
•Food taster.
Magician’s Apprentice (Fall 2005)
•Carried water from well to fountain, subsequently cast spell on broom to do said task.
Drug Mule- Rodriguez Drug cartel. Tijuana, Mexico. (Spring 2006)
•Moved quality, uncut, product across U.S./Mexican border, in an efficient, undetected manner.
Horse Fixer (Spring 2006)
•Provided adequate reason for assurance betting in professional horse racing circuit.
Ivory Dealer (Summer 2006)
•Dealt African Elephant Ivory, conducting with big game hunters and buyers.
Director of Marketing- South Bronx Abortion Clinic (Fall 2007)
•Headed the Marketing department, lead various AD campaigns, with varying success.
Importer of Exotic Animals- Detroit, MI (Winter 2007)
•Provided exotic, often endangered, species for household pets. Specialized in Two-toed Sloth.
Relief Pitcher- Chicago Cubs (Spring 2008)
•Appeared in 28 games with consistent ERA of 7.58
REFERENCES:
Juan Diego “Diablo Niño” Rodriguez- Rodriquez Drug Cartel
Cell phone (burner): (918) 567-846$
Carlos Zambrano- Chicago Cubs
Contact in Person- 1060 W. Addison, Chicago, IL.
Deep Thoughts on the Maury Show
As it is the only thing on a television, without a remote, mounted to a wall, in the employee break room, I have recently become well-versed in the Maury Povich show. I have made the program the subject if a few of my statuses, but the things I have to say can only be sufficiently expressed through a note. And so, these are my deep thoughts on the Maury show...
The Maury show has been on the air since 1991. There was a time, I can remember, when common themes included transvestite prostitutes, midget drug dealers, or even a good old-fashioned homo coming out of the closet episode. Lately however, It seems like the producers got wise to the ever devolving population's lust for primal entertainment. This is achieved best when "The Results Are In!".
With the DNA,and lie-detector test episodes, the audience experiences the classic components to a great story:
Protagonist (usually a mother searching for a dead-beat father, or someone accused of infidelity)
Antagonist (the dead beat baby daddy, or the cheating cheater)
Conflict (pre-results shit talk that escalates tooooooo...)
Climax (THE RESULTS!)
After the results are in, these things must happen:
If the man tested is not the father, he must double first pump in the air and shout "I told you, you lying slut!" while she runs offstage crying into her hands, as Maury followers with cameras and comfort. If the man IS the father, he must stand up shaking his head repeating "the kid ain't mine, the kid ain't mine. Look at the picture, it don't even look like me" (guests on the Maury show have only a basic understanding of DNA and genetics. And no, your 1 year old baby daughter wouldn't look like your 38 year old cracked-out ass) while she jumps in his face with a stearnly pointed finger and shouts "I told you, I told you!". And. The. Crowd. Goes. Wild.
(With lie-detector infidelity tests, replace these phrases with a heart felt hug, "I didn't do nothing!", and "@$% you, you lying piece of @#$%!", in that order.)
I must admit, like a good car accident, or animals mating at the zoo, you just cannot turn away when the results are in. The revealing of these DNA and Lie-detector results really command your attention in a way that "Talented Children" or "Geek-to-Chic Makeovers" themes cannot possibly. No one cares about 4 year old kid that can play Mozart, when THE RESULTS ARE IN! No one cares how an ugly person could transform into a slightly less ugly person, when we can find out if Darnell is the father of his 19 year old step daughter Moniqk's three children,or if it is any of the other six guys in the room, one of whom WANTS to be the father!!! (breath) Now, THAT is entertainment.
I'm not one to judge. But, here I go...
Seriously? You had unprotected sex with six guys within the same time period for them all to be potential candidates to have fathered your baby?
Seriously? After your first, or even second teenage pregnancy with your sister's husband you still think condoms aren't worthwhile. I mean, I know its not as effective as pulling out (which we all know to be 300% effective) but its still up there.
Seriously? You find the need to get to the bottom of all this on the Maury show?
Yes, seriously. Whether seeking their well-deserved 15 minutes of fame*, or just a free DNA test, these guests are serious. I have to believe the decision to solve these problems in an embarrassing fashion on TV can only be arrived upon by the intoxicated allure of visiting Stamford, Connecticut, where I bet you wouldn't have guessed its filmed.
Its the Maury show, and its on WGN. Always.
*Next time you watch the Maury show, notice the clothes they are wearing. Understand that if given the opportunity to go on television, most people will pick out their favorite outfit. These are their favorite outfits.
The Maury show has been on the air since 1991. There was a time, I can remember, when common themes included transvestite prostitutes, midget drug dealers, or even a good old-fashioned homo coming out of the closet episode. Lately however, It seems like the producers got wise to the ever devolving population's lust for primal entertainment. This is achieved best when "The Results Are In!".
With the DNA,and lie-detector test episodes, the audience experiences the classic components to a great story:
Protagonist (usually a mother searching for a dead-beat father, or someone accused of infidelity)
Antagonist (the dead beat baby daddy, or the cheating cheater)
Conflict (pre-results shit talk that escalates tooooooo...)
Climax (THE RESULTS!)
After the results are in, these things must happen:
If the man tested is not the father, he must double first pump in the air and shout "I told you, you lying slut!" while she runs offstage crying into her hands, as Maury followers with cameras and comfort. If the man IS the father, he must stand up shaking his head repeating "the kid ain't mine, the kid ain't mine. Look at the picture, it don't even look like me" (guests on the Maury show have only a basic understanding of DNA and genetics. And no, your 1 year old baby daughter wouldn't look like your 38 year old cracked-out ass) while she jumps in his face with a stearnly pointed finger and shouts "I told you, I told you!". And. The. Crowd. Goes. Wild.
(With lie-detector infidelity tests, replace these phrases with a heart felt hug, "I didn't do nothing!", and "@$% you, you lying piece of @#$%!", in that order.)
I must admit, like a good car accident, or animals mating at the zoo, you just cannot turn away when the results are in. The revealing of these DNA and Lie-detector results really command your attention in a way that "Talented Children" or "Geek-to-Chic Makeovers" themes cannot possibly. No one cares about 4 year old kid that can play Mozart, when THE RESULTS ARE IN! No one cares how an ugly person could transform into a slightly less ugly person, when we can find out if Darnell is the father of his 19 year old step daughter Moniqk's three children,or if it is any of the other six guys in the room, one of whom WANTS to be the father!!! (breath) Now, THAT is entertainment.
I'm not one to judge. But, here I go...
Seriously? You had unprotected sex with six guys within the same time period for them all to be potential candidates to have fathered your baby?
Seriously? After your first, or even second teenage pregnancy with your sister's husband you still think condoms aren't worthwhile. I mean, I know its not as effective as pulling out (which we all know to be 300% effective) but its still up there.
Seriously? You find the need to get to the bottom of all this on the Maury show?
Yes, seriously. Whether seeking their well-deserved 15 minutes of fame*, or just a free DNA test, these guests are serious. I have to believe the decision to solve these problems in an embarrassing fashion on TV can only be arrived upon by the intoxicated allure of visiting Stamford, Connecticut, where I bet you wouldn't have guessed its filmed.
Its the Maury show, and its on WGN. Always.
*Next time you watch the Maury show, notice the clothes they are wearing. Understand that if given the opportunity to go on television, most people will pick out their favorite outfit. These are their favorite outfits.
11.05.2010
Furth i Wald
One year ago today, while traveling Europe, Jessica and I had one of the craziest, interesting experiences of our lives...
We had been making our way around first the U.K., and now the continent, almost entirely by train, for three weeks now. The whole process was pretty much understood by now. The next destination was to be Prague, Czech Republic. The timeless city was a long anticipated leg of the journey, and we were looking very much forward to celebrating Jessica's 23rd birthday there.
We left Munich, Germany on a connecting train in Nuremberg. With a few hours to relax before boarding a train to Prague, we took our time to peruse the shops and send a few e-mails home from the Internet cafe'. Here, we made a critical mistake. Despite experience reading the European train schedules, we misread this one. We found ourselves racing Home Alone 2 style through the station, hefting our 40 lbs. packs on our backs. As we approached the track, we saw it was empty. The train had left a mere minute before we arrived.
At this point, we were more frustrated than anything else, but thought that a look at the schedule would show another train leaving later that afternoon. It did not. Now, we were mortified. A worst-case scenario would have us spend the night in Nuremberg, then take a train the next day. This, we thought, was a last resort. We had reservations at a hostel that we would lose if we did not arrive on-time.
In no hurry now, we dragged our feet to the information booth, where we admitted to the attendant the mistake we had made. This is a good place for me to say something about German efficiency: It's crazy. When you see how lazy and useless the French train personnel are, and compare it to Germans with the same job, it is no surprise that the French were defeated in only a month in 1940.
Anyway, these hyper-efficient Germans typed away at their computers frantically, but without any sign of emotion. In a few short minutes they came up with a seemingly impossible route for us to arrive in Prague that night. The plan was this: A train would leave Nuremberg shortly, for the border town of Furth i Wald. From there we had only 4 minutes to get off our train, and find another, heading for Plzen, Czech Republic. Once there, we would have 6 minutes to find yet another train to take us finally to Prague, arriving around 11pm. From our previous experience with catching trains, we knew that it would be very easy for us to miss a train with only 4 and 6 minutes to find it. If we did miss one of these trains, we would be stranded not in a big, German city like Nuremberg, with room at the inn, but in tiny towns like Furth i Wald. We decided to roll the dice.
Our train made its way steadily eastward toward our fate. As we looked out the window, the sun set, and I checked the time to make sure our train was on schedule. As it turned out, it was not. No, this German train was a full five minutes behind schedule (so much for that myth). Paralyzed with the fear of missing our connecting train, we watched out the window as each stop got smaller, and darker. To make matters worse, we had already exchanged our Euro for Monopoly money looking Czech crowns. If we were to be stranded at one of these stops; made up only of a sign, a lamp, and a bench; we would be as fucked as possible, I deduced. I tried to push the thought out of my mind as we approached the penultimate stop. I began glancing at my watch every few seconds, and noticed that the train was nearly empty. Only a handful of passengers remained, presumably residents of Furth i Wald. As the train lurched to its final stop, we dashed off in the hopes that our train to Plzen was also behind schedule. Looking around the few tracks hopelessly, we saw nothing that resembled a train.
It was at this moment, that a little man got our attention and said, "Praha?" (the Czech for Prague). We answered "Yes" in English, as he turned and pointed his finger up one of the tracks. We then noticed that the handful of passengers were making their way to a lone boxcar, almost unnoticeable, about a hundred yards ahead of us. The man smiled, and too made his may toward the little car, us following quizzically.
This little boxcar was actually an engine car, with a few wooden benches in a small cabin in back. We asked the official looking man if this was the "train" to Plzen, and he said (also in English) that it was. Utter relief flooded over us both, as we took our seats on what had to be a de-commissioned Soviet troop transport. We relaxed long enough to thank God we had made this train, before we were interrupted by the conductor yelling something in Czech. The other passengers dug out their passports, so we did too. He gave the Czech, and German passports a good going over, before returning them. When he came to us, he took one look at the eagle and shield that represented an American passport and said in a thick eastern European accent, "Oh, Americans", and he gestured for us to put our passports away with a look of disinterest. All across Europe we had been afraid of being targeted as American tourists, but here it seemed our American passports served as VIP cards. This was a good feeling.
Our lifeboat-sized train shook and rattled its way into Plzen (home to the original Pilsner beer, Pilsner Urqell
It was nearing 11pm Czech time, as we made our way on foot to the address of our hostel. We were relieved to be in the city, but would not be completely at peace until we were at our hostel. The address we arrived at seemed like an apartment building, without a front desk. We wandered up and down the stairs hoping to find something resembling a hostel, while the motion lights kept turning off when we stopped to consider our options (a Czech means of saving electricity). Back out on the street, we were about to head toward the address of another hostel, where we hoped there was a bed for us, when we noticed the name "Hostel" on one of the apartment buzzer buttons. We pressed it, and waited for a response.
A man responded to the buzz with a greeting in Czech, and we asked (Always in English) if this was the hostel we were looking for. The man spoke to us in English, and told us not only that it was, but that he had been waiting for us, and would be downstairs to explain everything in a moment. Praise Yahweh!
The man was our age, and told us that he ran the hostel with his sister. He explained that the he used the term "hostel" loosely, and we would be very pleased with our accommodations. He walked us another quarter of a mile down the road to where we would be staying. We were dumbfounded. For a mere 47 dollars American/night, we had a two floor condo. It had a full kitchen, hardwood floors, leather couches, satellite TV, a dining area, washer/dryer; and a spiral staircase leading to a loft with a giant feather bed, and marble bathroom. The bathroom was a treasure itself. It had a large jacuzzi bath, and a baday. We thanked him endlessly, before he left for the night. As soon as the door shut behind him, we danced around and screamed like fools.
We would buy three bottles of Champagne from a small shop next door, and drink them in a candlelit jacuzzi bath, as I puffed on a Cohiba. My head was swimming. Just hours before I thought I would be spending the night on a bench in Furth i Wald, cold, and afraid. Instead, we were experiencing every kind of luxury in our downtown Prague condo. We agreed that it all felt like a dream, and with renewed vigor, carried on in jubilation long into the night.
We had been making our way around first the U.K., and now the continent, almost entirely by train, for three weeks now. The whole process was pretty much understood by now. The next destination was to be Prague, Czech Republic. The timeless city was a long anticipated leg of the journey, and we were looking very much forward to celebrating Jessica's 23rd birthday there.
We left Munich, Germany on a connecting train in Nuremberg. With a few hours to relax before boarding a train to Prague, we took our time to peruse the shops and send a few e-mails home from the Internet cafe'. Here, we made a critical mistake. Despite experience reading the European train schedules, we misread this one. We found ourselves racing Home Alone 2 style through the station, hefting our 40 lbs. packs on our backs. As we approached the track, we saw it was empty. The train had left a mere minute before we arrived.
At this point, we were more frustrated than anything else, but thought that a look at the schedule would show another train leaving later that afternoon. It did not. Now, we were mortified. A worst-case scenario would have us spend the night in Nuremberg, then take a train the next day. This, we thought, was a last resort. We had reservations at a hostel that we would lose if we did not arrive on-time.
In no hurry now, we dragged our feet to the information booth, where we admitted to the attendant the mistake we had made. This is a good place for me to say something about German efficiency: It's crazy. When you see how lazy and useless the French train personnel are, and compare it to Germans with the same job, it is no surprise that the French were defeated in only a month in 1940.
Anyway, these hyper-efficient Germans typed away at their computers frantically, but without any sign of emotion. In a few short minutes they came up with a seemingly impossible route for us to arrive in Prague that night. The plan was this: A train would leave Nuremberg shortly, for the border town of Furth i Wald. From there we had only 4 minutes to get off our train, and find another, heading for Plzen, Czech Republic. Once there, we would have 6 minutes to find yet another train to take us finally to Prague, arriving around 11pm. From our previous experience with catching trains, we knew that it would be very easy for us to miss a train with only 4 and 6 minutes to find it. If we did miss one of these trains, we would be stranded not in a big, German city like Nuremberg, with room at the inn, but in tiny towns like Furth i Wald. We decided to roll the dice.
Our train made its way steadily eastward toward our fate. As we looked out the window, the sun set, and I checked the time to make sure our train was on schedule. As it turned out, it was not. No, this German train was a full five minutes behind schedule (so much for that myth). Paralyzed with the fear of missing our connecting train, we watched out the window as each stop got smaller, and darker. To make matters worse, we had already exchanged our Euro for Monopoly money looking Czech crowns. If we were to be stranded at one of these stops; made up only of a sign, a lamp, and a bench; we would be as fucked as possible, I deduced. I tried to push the thought out of my mind as we approached the penultimate stop. I began glancing at my watch every few seconds, and noticed that the train was nearly empty. Only a handful of passengers remained, presumably residents of Furth i Wald. As the train lurched to its final stop, we dashed off in the hopes that our train to Plzen was also behind schedule. Looking around the few tracks hopelessly, we saw nothing that resembled a train.
It was at this moment, that a little man got our attention and said, "Praha?" (the Czech for Prague). We answered "Yes" in English, as he turned and pointed his finger up one of the tracks. We then noticed that the handful of passengers were making their way to a lone boxcar, almost unnoticeable, about a hundred yards ahead of us. The man smiled, and too made his may toward the little car, us following quizzically.
This little boxcar was actually an engine car, with a few wooden benches in a small cabin in back. We asked the official looking man if this was the "train" to Plzen, and he said (also in English) that it was. Utter relief flooded over us both, as we took our seats on what had to be a de-commissioned Soviet troop transport. We relaxed long enough to thank God we had made this train, before we were interrupted by the conductor yelling something in Czech. The other passengers dug out their passports, so we did too. He gave the Czech, and German passports a good going over, before returning them. When he came to us, he took one look at the eagle and shield that represented an American passport and said in a thick eastern European accent, "Oh, Americans", and he gestured for us to put our passports away with a look of disinterest. All across Europe we had been afraid of being targeted as American tourists, but here it seemed our American passports served as VIP cards. This was a good feeling.
Our lifeboat-sized train shook and rattled its way into Plzen (home to the original Pilsner beer, Pilsner Urqell
It was nearing 11pm Czech time, as we made our way on foot to the address of our hostel. We were relieved to be in the city, but would not be completely at peace until we were at our hostel. The address we arrived at seemed like an apartment building, without a front desk. We wandered up and down the stairs hoping to find something resembling a hostel, while the motion lights kept turning off when we stopped to consider our options (a Czech means of saving electricity). Back out on the street, we were about to head toward the address of another hostel, where we hoped there was a bed for us, when we noticed the name "Hostel" on one of the apartment buzzer buttons. We pressed it, and waited for a response.
A man responded to the buzz with a greeting in Czech, and we asked (Always in English) if this was the hostel we were looking for. The man spoke to us in English, and told us not only that it was, but that he had been waiting for us, and would be downstairs to explain everything in a moment. Praise Yahweh!
The man was our age, and told us that he ran the hostel with his sister. He explained that the he used the term "hostel" loosely, and we would be very pleased with our accommodations. He walked us another quarter of a mile down the road to where we would be staying. We were dumbfounded. For a mere 47 dollars American/night, we had a two floor condo. It had a full kitchen, hardwood floors, leather couches, satellite TV, a dining area, washer/dryer; and a spiral staircase leading to a loft with a giant feather bed, and marble bathroom. The bathroom was a treasure itself. It had a large jacuzzi bath, and a baday. We thanked him endlessly, before he left for the night. As soon as the door shut behind him, we danced around and screamed like fools.
We would buy three bottles of Champagne from a small shop next door, and drink them in a candlelit jacuzzi bath, as I puffed on a Cohiba. My head was swimming. Just hours before I thought I would be spending the night on a bench in Furth i Wald, cold, and afraid. Instead, we were experiencing every kind of luxury in our downtown Prague condo. We agreed that it all felt like a dream, and with renewed vigor, carried on in jubilation long into the night.
11.03.2010
A Life of Drinking Part 1: Hangover Prevention/Cures
If you know me, you know I love good drink. You've also probably enjoyed one or twenty with me on more than one occasion. In, I'll admit, a short life, I have had to opportunity to drink myself under the following things: The table, the bed, bleachers, and an SUV. I have yet to drink myself under six feet of soil, but as Doc Holliday says in Tombstone: "I have not yet begun to defile myself."
I wish to impart on you not only accounts of my life of drinking, but also the lessons I have learned along the way. It is important I feel, therefore, to start with the hangover prevention and cures I have tested and refined for over a decade, with bottles and bottles of quantitative research.
Prevention:
-You've heard it before, drink a lot of water. If you are going to use only one hangover prevention method, let it be this one. This isn't as important with beer drinking, but increases with the strength of the beverage you're consuming. In general, you can not drink too much water. (Unless you're one of those freshman fraternity pledges that died from doing exactly that)
-Take Chaser (TM) pills or at the very least a multi-vitamin before a night of heavy drinking. It will take only a second, and you can throw it in with the rest of your handful of barbiturates.
-Avoid cheap, sugary, or brown liquor; especially cheap AND sugary AND brown liquor. SO, at one end of the scale you have straight, expensive vodka, and at the other you have bottom-shelf spiced rum. Now, this theory is negated when you drink an entire bottle of the former, compared to a shot of the latter. In equal amounts however, they are not created equal.
-Avoid mixing drinks. This doesn't mean you can't have a well-mixed cocktail. This refers to drinking vodka, beer, Champagne, and red-wine in the same outing, for example (hey, It was a wedding). Again, in moderation this is not a problem. And in contrast to the above rule, you are better off having a beer and a glass of Champagne than half a bottle of vodka. These are just guidelines.
-Before you go to bed, or more likely, before you think you're going to pass out, take another multi-vitamin with another big glass of water. Yes, the water will encourage you to get up to piss in the middle of the night, but this allows you to gauge your hangover while in its infancy, and allow you time to medicate and sleep for a few more hours. Also good to take before bed: Ibuprofen (my favorite, legal, painkiller, and I've had 'em all), potassium, Acai berry, and B complex.
Cure:
So, despite your best efforts, you awake with an earth-shattering hangover? It serves you right; you should have never been on that dance floor. However, if you feel you deserve relief...
-Drink water. Hmmmmm.... The most alkaline water you can find is best, but before you go dropping two AAA batteries in a glass of water, I'll just tell you to buy Fiji. Yes, Fiji is the best for a hangover, but it would have been nice to get rid of some of those worthless AAAs.
-Medicate. Take all of the aforementioned supplements again. Whatever your body doesn't use, you'll just piss out. If you wanna be really green, just keep drinking your pee (not a hangover cure, or recommended, but we gotta start somewhere). Combining steps 1 & 2, I find that Pedialyte (TM) flavored waters is dynamite in battling a hangover. It contains all the nutrients we insist on only for babies, hydrates you, and comes in mango flavor.
-Sleep! As if you needed to read this to be talked into dragging your lazy-ass back to bed. If you can sleep, do it. Your daughter will have other dance recitals, Daddy has a grown-up headache.
-If you have the chance, sit in a sauna. Better still, get a deep-tissue massage (happy ending optional) Again, treating a hangover seems almost more fun than what you did to earn it, but remember that you'll be feeling like (insert funny simile here).
-Take a hot shower, with glycerin soup if you have it. I don't.
-Eat. Not as soon as you wake-up, but after at least a few of the above steps are complete. Bananas and hard-boiled eggs are my breakfast of choice, but watermelon and fruit in general is great. For your second meal, eat something fatty like a cheeseburger (Mmmmm cheeseburger), or spicy like Chili. Or both, hell I'm not your doctor.
-Hair of the dog? This step, if acted upon too early, or with too must enthusiasm, really only delays the inevitable. If done in moderation near the supper hour, it works well to finish up the ultimate hangover cure. I find myself following this step not because I still have a hangover, but because it is almost sun-down, and time to begin drinking again.
I hope these methods are useful to you in all of your reveling. This is the most in-depth approach to defeating a hangover I follow. I have rarely needed 'The Works', but then, I'm neither woman, nor Native-American. No, I'm a real American man.
I wish to impart on you not only accounts of my life of drinking, but also the lessons I have learned along the way. It is important I feel, therefore, to start with the hangover prevention and cures I have tested and refined for over a decade, with bottles and bottles of quantitative research.
Prevention:
-You've heard it before, drink a lot of water. If you are going to use only one hangover prevention method, let it be this one. This isn't as important with beer drinking, but increases with the strength of the beverage you're consuming. In general, you can not drink too much water. (Unless you're one of those freshman fraternity pledges that died from doing exactly that)
-Take Chaser (TM) pills or at the very least a multi-vitamin before a night of heavy drinking. It will take only a second, and you can throw it in with the rest of your handful of barbiturates.
-Avoid cheap, sugary, or brown liquor; especially cheap AND sugary AND brown liquor. SO, at one end of the scale you have straight, expensive vodka, and at the other you have bottom-shelf spiced rum. Now, this theory is negated when you drink an entire bottle of the former, compared to a shot of the latter. In equal amounts however, they are not created equal.
-Avoid mixing drinks. This doesn't mean you can't have a well-mixed cocktail. This refers to drinking vodka, beer, Champagne, and red-wine in the same outing, for example (hey, It was a wedding). Again, in moderation this is not a problem. And in contrast to the above rule, you are better off having a beer and a glass of Champagne than half a bottle of vodka. These are just guidelines.
-Before you go to bed, or more likely, before you think you're going to pass out, take another multi-vitamin with another big glass of water. Yes, the water will encourage you to get up to piss in the middle of the night, but this allows you to gauge your hangover while in its infancy, and allow you time to medicate and sleep for a few more hours. Also good to take before bed: Ibuprofen (my favorite, legal, painkiller, and I've had 'em all), potassium, Acai berry, and B complex.
Cure:
So, despite your best efforts, you awake with an earth-shattering hangover? It serves you right; you should have never been on that dance floor. However, if you feel you deserve relief...
-Drink water. Hmmmmm.... The most alkaline water you can find is best, but before you go dropping two AAA batteries in a glass of water, I'll just tell you to buy Fiji. Yes, Fiji is the best for a hangover, but it would have been nice to get rid of some of those worthless AAAs.
-Medicate. Take all of the aforementioned supplements again. Whatever your body doesn't use, you'll just piss out. If you wanna be really green, just keep drinking your pee (not a hangover cure, or recommended, but we gotta start somewhere). Combining steps 1 & 2, I find that Pedialyte (TM) flavored waters is dynamite in battling a hangover. It contains all the nutrients we insist on only for babies, hydrates you, and comes in mango flavor.
-Sleep! As if you needed to read this to be talked into dragging your lazy-ass back to bed. If you can sleep, do it. Your daughter will have other dance recitals, Daddy has a grown-up headache.
-If you have the chance, sit in a sauna. Better still, get a deep-tissue massage (happy ending optional) Again, treating a hangover seems almost more fun than what you did to earn it, but remember that you'll be feeling like (insert funny simile here).
-Take a hot shower, with glycerin soup if you have it. I don't.
-Eat. Not as soon as you wake-up, but after at least a few of the above steps are complete. Bananas and hard-boiled eggs are my breakfast of choice, but watermelon and fruit in general is great. For your second meal, eat something fatty like a cheeseburger (Mmmmm cheeseburger), or spicy like Chili. Or both, hell I'm not your doctor.
-Hair of the dog? This step, if acted upon too early, or with too must enthusiasm, really only delays the inevitable. If done in moderation near the supper hour, it works well to finish up the ultimate hangover cure. I find myself following this step not because I still have a hangover, but because it is almost sun-down, and time to begin drinking again.
I hope these methods are useful to you in all of your reveling. This is the most in-depth approach to defeating a hangover I follow. I have rarely needed 'The Works', but then, I'm neither woman, nor Native-American. No, I'm a real American man.
11.01.2010
The Horrible Luck of the Dread Pirate Roberts
Halloween. I went as the Dread Pirate Roberts, a character from the movie The Princess Bride. Though my costume was impeccable, it turns out that while wearing it I have atrocious luck (Except at beerpong, as it turns out).
Jessica (my Princess Buttercup) and I took a train downtown to attend a party. While in a cab from Union Station, a few simple things happened that when grouped together produced an otherwise impossible outcome.
Though the driver knew where he was going, and I had no reason to, I took out my Droid 2 smartphone to watch our cab chug along to our destination on the GPS feature.
A simple glitch in the phone occurred, causing an icon to stay on the screen while running other applications. The only way I knew of solving this problem, was to restart the phone. SO, I powered it down. Distracted, I would not power it back on.
When we reached our destination, we hopped out of the cab. Jessica said, "I always check in the back of a cab to make sure I didn't leave anything." She did, not seeing anything. I did too, with the same result. The all-black seat, in the 8pm darkness would well disguise my all-black, turned-off, Droid 2.
When we noticed my phone was missing, the cab was long-gone. As a force of habit, Jessica almost always takes note of the cab number. ALMOST always. In fact, we weren't even certain of the cab's company, or even color. Red?
Unable to call it, or call the cab company, I was S.O.L. (And as I write this, still am). I've called the cab companies I suspected might have my phone, but with no such luck. I would later that little baby Jesus that I had insurance, something I never before paid for until I got the Droid 2 months ago.
The party portion of the evening was swell. Aforementioned beerpong success, compliments on the costume, good guacamole, and a decent level of intoxication all contributed. When we left in a hurry to catch the last train out of Union, more trouble would come.
Getting in another cab, we were sweating over the clock, as it quickly approached the time of departure. When we pulled in front of the station with not a minute to spare, it did not surprise me that I left behind my sister's fencing foil that was the focal point of my costume. I was however already contemplating suicide over the lose of the Droid, and this only made me believe even more that I should not live long enough to produce offspring. I mean, who leaves the two most valuable possessions on their person, in not one, but two different Chicago cabs? Surely the night could not get worse.
Surely it did. While on the train and beyond livid with myself I uttered these words: "I just hope that the train gets stopped, and we lose power, because then I will be certain that this is a dream." Minutes later the conductor came into the car with bad news: There was a fatal accident involving a freight train in Wood dale. Our train would stop in Bensenville, and then go no further until the accident was cleared. We could wait it out (what the Chicago Tribune later told me was a 70 minute wait), or try to arrange transportation from Bensenville. We rolled the dice with Bensenville, as I had to be at work in the morning.
As we stood in the cold night on the platform of the Bensenville train station, it occurred to us that we really had no way to get home. All of our friends and family were drunk at parties, or passed out. The two cab companies I called either wouldn't go to Bensenville, or would take 45 minutes to get there. Again, I was S.O.L. In this situation however, so was Jessica. I suppose the Universe realized this right before we heard Jessica's name being called from the other side of the platform. It was her friend from high school Connie Kramer, standing with her fiance' Tommy.
The Universe saw fit to rescue Jessica, with myself only riding the coat-tails of a life spent being wonderful to everyone she met. We were able to hitch a ride with Connie's father who drove us directly to my truck, parked at the Hanover Park train station. We wished them health and happiness, forever indebted to them.
When I got home, I discovered that my sister had eaten my take-out Thai food that was waiting to nurture me back to sanity.
This is one Halloween costume that won't be recycled.
Jessica (my Princess Buttercup) and I took a train downtown to attend a party. While in a cab from Union Station, a few simple things happened that when grouped together produced an otherwise impossible outcome.
Though the driver knew where he was going, and I had no reason to, I took out my Droid 2 smartphone to watch our cab chug along to our destination on the GPS feature.
A simple glitch in the phone occurred, causing an icon to stay on the screen while running other applications. The only way I knew of solving this problem, was to restart the phone. SO, I powered it down. Distracted, I would not power it back on.
When we reached our destination, we hopped out of the cab. Jessica said, "I always check in the back of a cab to make sure I didn't leave anything." She did, not seeing anything. I did too, with the same result. The all-black seat, in the 8pm darkness would well disguise my all-black, turned-off, Droid 2.
When we noticed my phone was missing, the cab was long-gone. As a force of habit, Jessica almost always takes note of the cab number. ALMOST always. In fact, we weren't even certain of the cab's company, or even color. Red?
Unable to call it, or call the cab company, I was S.O.L. (And as I write this, still am). I've called the cab companies I suspected might have my phone, but with no such luck. I would later that little baby Jesus that I had insurance, something I never before paid for until I got the Droid 2 months ago.
The party portion of the evening was swell. Aforementioned beerpong success, compliments on the costume, good guacamole, and a decent level of intoxication all contributed. When we left in a hurry to catch the last train out of Union, more trouble would come.
Getting in another cab, we were sweating over the clock, as it quickly approached the time of departure. When we pulled in front of the station with not a minute to spare, it did not surprise me that I left behind my sister's fencing foil that was the focal point of my costume. I was however already contemplating suicide over the lose of the Droid, and this only made me believe even more that I should not live long enough to produce offspring. I mean, who leaves the two most valuable possessions on their person, in not one, but two different Chicago cabs? Surely the night could not get worse.
Surely it did. While on the train and beyond livid with myself I uttered these words: "I just hope that the train gets stopped, and we lose power, because then I will be certain that this is a dream." Minutes later the conductor came into the car with bad news: There was a fatal accident involving a freight train in Wood dale. Our train would stop in Bensenville, and then go no further until the accident was cleared. We could wait it out (what the Chicago Tribune later told me was a 70 minute wait), or try to arrange transportation from Bensenville. We rolled the dice with Bensenville, as I had to be at work in the morning.
As we stood in the cold night on the platform of the Bensenville train station, it occurred to us that we really had no way to get home. All of our friends and family were drunk at parties, or passed out. The two cab companies I called either wouldn't go to Bensenville, or would take 45 minutes to get there. Again, I was S.O.L. In this situation however, so was Jessica. I suppose the Universe realized this right before we heard Jessica's name being called from the other side of the platform. It was her friend from high school Connie Kramer, standing with her fiance' Tommy.
The Universe saw fit to rescue Jessica, with myself only riding the coat-tails of a life spent being wonderful to everyone she met. We were able to hitch a ride with Connie's father who drove us directly to my truck, parked at the Hanover Park train station. We wished them health and happiness, forever indebted to them.
When I got home, I discovered that my sister had eaten my take-out Thai food that was waiting to nurture me back to sanity.
This is one Halloween costume that won't be recycled.
10.22.2010
Kidds Kant Spelle
As you might know, I have been trying to immerse myself in the realm of education as much as I can lately. One of the things that I have observed while tutoring and subbing, is that KIDS CAN NOT SPELL!
With the growing abundance of technology, and with it a lessening of the necessity to be able to spell correctly, kids can no longer spell.In fact, when corrected, many can grow hostile, or say things like, "Who cares?" or "Sorry Mr. Spelling police man". So why the seemingly sudden devolution of the language I love? Technology.
When the English language was in its infant years, just emerging as a written language, there were no right or wrong ways to spell words. If one could write a word so that it could be effectively sounded out orally, it expressed the meaning it was supposed to (i.e. "Cat" v. "Kat"). The message would be received, and there was no need for a universal spelling of the word. This was fine when the English vocabulary was so limited, that there were few words that sounded the same, with different meanings. This was fine when there were few people that actually knew how to, or had any use of, writing in general.
"Then his cosin ascried and cried full loud: 'Thou has killed cold-dede the king of all knightes." (King Arthur's Death, the Alliterative Morte Arthure).
As the language entered its pre-pubescence, writing became more available to regular people, and was seen much more. In this time, Shakespeare, Donne, and the likes graced their manuscripts with not only brilliance, but inconsistent spellings. Indeed, Shakespeare did not even spell even his name consistently. True, Shakespeare's more common spellings helped shape the eventually "permanent" spellings of words, but at the time no one cared how anything was spelled. Shakespeare wasn't trying to shape the written word. Truthfully, in this day and age when writers can spend a career toying with the meanings and spellings of words (e.g. Nietzsche) it is amazing how much genius Shakespeare was able to convey without universal spellings.
"When my love sweares that she is made of truth,
I do beleeve her, though I know she lyes,
That she might thinke me some untuterd youth,
Unlearned in the worlds false subtilties."
(Shakespeare, Sonnet 138).
As English reached adolescence, people like Noah Webster printed dictionaries with decided spellings and definitions for the language, growing rapidly in both size and complexity. For the next 200 years, people began to embrace spelling for the first time. It became important to express one's thoughts with assurance that they would be understood, and also seen as a sign of a good education. People's handwriting was not only in cursive, but readable, elegant, and fluid (ever wonder your Grandma has such nice penmanship?) Of course, it had to be. Even the advent of the typewriter didn't kill spelling. Everything you wrote was proofread to the brink of insanity, as one typo on an otherwise perfect document meant it had to be typed up again, from scratch.
As radio, and later television become better, and more affordable, they began to replace reading as a favorite past-time. Children no longer had to scour through pages of novels looking for adventure, it was right in front of them, with bright flashing pictures. It is unfortunate too, as not only the book version of a story is almost always better than the movie, but because they would have been exposed to words. They would have been exposed to new words, and most importantly, the correct spellings of words. The more you see a particular word, the easier it is to spell it. Sadly, many of us that have grown-up with television hardly ever pick up a book unless forced to. In fact, the shelves of public libraries are giving up more and more space to DVDs, instead of books.
Somewhere in the last 20 years or so, spelling has again failed to be viewed by most people as important. As technology nurses us all with spell-checks, (this document was spell- checked) and we find the need to communicate faster and faster with more and more people, phrases like "Idk y, but I wan2 fuk u @wrk l8r" and "GoIn' Ouuuttttie wit Da DZ Gurlllllieeeez!!!!" are not only commonplace on the Internet and in text messages, but we UNDERSTAND them! Sound like Shakespeare? Not quite, but the idea is the same: Sound it out. Does it sound like a phrase you can decode and understand? If so, then the message has been communicated, and the end may justify the means.
I detest that "Lite" is growing in popularity as a spelling, especially in advertising (a market that is aiding in the slow death of spelling like mercury to a baby) but, it is reality that I must face.
As I labor over correct spelling and punctuation in the text messages I send, I cannot help but admit that when I'm driving (yes, driving) and trying to express a simple thought to a loved one, I too find myself typing a quick, "Luv U 2 bye". Is it inevitable that our language will devolve from universal spellings to universal inconsistent spellings? How long before we see this kind of spelling not only in texts, but on legal documents and job applications?
It is for all of the above mentioned reasons that I plead with you in the words of McLovin: "Read a fuckin' book!" And if I correct some misspelling of yours in a text, don't take it personally, It's not you I'm after, but the future of a good friend of mine that I met when I first uttered "Ba-ba".
With the growing abundance of technology, and with it a lessening of the necessity to be able to spell correctly, kids can no longer spell.In fact, when corrected, many can grow hostile, or say things like, "Who cares?" or "Sorry Mr. Spelling police man". So why the seemingly sudden devolution of the language I love? Technology.
When the English language was in its infant years, just emerging as a written language, there were no right or wrong ways to spell words. If one could write a word so that it could be effectively sounded out orally, it expressed the meaning it was supposed to (i.e. "Cat" v. "Kat"). The message would be received, and there was no need for a universal spelling of the word. This was fine when the English vocabulary was so limited, that there were few words that sounded the same, with different meanings. This was fine when there were few people that actually knew how to, or had any use of, writing in general.
"Then his cosin ascried and cried full loud: 'Thou has killed cold-dede the king of all knightes." (King Arthur's Death, the Alliterative Morte Arthure).
As the language entered its pre-pubescence, writing became more available to regular people, and was seen much more. In this time, Shakespeare, Donne, and the likes graced their manuscripts with not only brilliance, but inconsistent spellings. Indeed, Shakespeare did not even spell even his name consistently. True, Shakespeare's more common spellings helped shape the eventually "permanent" spellings of words, but at the time no one cared how anything was spelled. Shakespeare wasn't trying to shape the written word. Truthfully, in this day and age when writers can spend a career toying with the meanings and spellings of words (e.g. Nietzsche) it is amazing how much genius Shakespeare was able to convey without universal spellings.
"When my love sweares that she is made of truth,
I do beleeve her, though I know she lyes,
That she might thinke me some untuterd youth,
Unlearned in the worlds false subtilties."
(Shakespeare, Sonnet 138).
As English reached adolescence, people like Noah Webster printed dictionaries with decided spellings and definitions for the language, growing rapidly in both size and complexity. For the next 200 years, people began to embrace spelling for the first time. It became important to express one's thoughts with assurance that they would be understood, and also seen as a sign of a good education. People's handwriting was not only in cursive, but readable, elegant, and fluid (ever wonder your Grandma has such nice penmanship?) Of course, it had to be. Even the advent of the typewriter didn't kill spelling. Everything you wrote was proofread to the brink of insanity, as one typo on an otherwise perfect document meant it had to be typed up again, from scratch.
As radio, and later television become better, and more affordable, they began to replace reading as a favorite past-time. Children no longer had to scour through pages of novels looking for adventure, it was right in front of them, with bright flashing pictures. It is unfortunate too, as not only the book version of a story is almost always better than the movie, but because they would have been exposed to words. They would have been exposed to new words, and most importantly, the correct spellings of words. The more you see a particular word, the easier it is to spell it. Sadly, many of us that have grown-up with television hardly ever pick up a book unless forced to. In fact, the shelves of public libraries are giving up more and more space to DVDs, instead of books.
Somewhere in the last 20 years or so, spelling has again failed to be viewed by most people as important. As technology nurses us all with spell-checks, (this document was spell- checked) and we find the need to communicate faster and faster with more and more people, phrases like "Idk y, but I wan2 fuk u @wrk l8r" and "GoIn' Ouuuttttie wit Da DZ Gurlllllieeeez!!!!" are not only commonplace on the Internet and in text messages, but we UNDERSTAND them! Sound like Shakespeare? Not quite, but the idea is the same: Sound it out. Does it sound like a phrase you can decode and understand? If so, then the message has been communicated, and the end may justify the means.
I detest that "Lite" is growing in popularity as a spelling, especially in advertising (a market that is aiding in the slow death of spelling like mercury to a baby) but, it is reality that I must face.
As I labor over correct spelling and punctuation in the text messages I send, I cannot help but admit that when I'm driving (yes, driving) and trying to express a simple thought to a loved one, I too find myself typing a quick, "Luv U 2 bye". Is it inevitable that our language will devolve from universal spellings to universal inconsistent spellings? How long before we see this kind of spelling not only in texts, but on legal documents and job applications?
It is for all of the above mentioned reasons that I plead with you in the words of McLovin: "Read a fuckin' book!" And if I correct some misspelling of yours in a text, don't take it personally, It's not you I'm after, but the future of a good friend of mine that I met when I first uttered "Ba-ba".
10.18.2010
Observing the Human Adolescent
Last week, I was working on completing required observation hours for my graduate course in education. I went with some classmates to a North-West suburban school. Though I was there to observe the teachers, I found it hard to ignore the students. This is what I observed about the Human Adolescent:
The social order has not changed. Students still fit into only a few categories of teen. Indeed, the more the Human Adolescent thinks they are an individual, the less they are:
"Dude, I'm not gonna to go to the dance, it's gonna be lame as balls. I'm not gonna go just because everyone else is going." No, but this student will NOT go because everyone else is going. He is the classic teenager's definition of a rebel, a stand alone, yet blind to the reality that just about every thought he has, someone has had before him. He's so novel.
The H.A. is all about touching. Any kind will do. They hug hello to every girl they know, and go through elaborately orchestrated hand shakes with their "bros" before anything else happens. In a decent-sized group, this whole ritual can take up to 5 minutes, or roughly an entire passing period between classes. If given the opportunity to "hang out" (with the only source of entertainment being their own angst), they will carry on with guys punching, tackling, wrestling, and slapping each other. Once their Alpha-maleness gains the attention of some female H.A., the male will grab her, and carry her around while she screams half-hearted protests. If the female decides instead to avoid him, the male will give chase until capturing her, then continuing on with said touching. If a female truly wants nothing to do with a particular male, she will approach a much-desired male to enlist his "protection". This male then has open permission to prove his ability to "protect" her from what is presumably a beta-male, or less (though males lower than betas are rarely allowed near the Alpha females to begin with). Successfully "protecting" the female, this Alpha-male will then be rewarded with her attention, including more, and often escalated touching.
In the cafeteria, they still serve Kemp's Milk, and chicken patties. Now engulfed in these creatures, the same urges surface again. Chin up, chest out, you feel cooler than you ever did in your life. "I'm a mother-fucking (sometimes literally) adult. I buy alcohol, tobacco, and firearms on the reg, and if so inclined, I vote. I'm a respected fuckin' member of society, and I have you little shits all figured out."
Walking through the masses of H.A.'s, you see the Alpha-male, and wish he would challenge you. Because, how dare he not give you the opportunity to emasculate him in front of his peers, and demonstrate how fuckin' cool, and over this petty shit you are. How dare he.
The social order has not changed. Students still fit into only a few categories of teen. Indeed, the more the Human Adolescent thinks they are an individual, the less they are:
"Dude, I'm not gonna to go to the dance, it's gonna be lame as balls. I'm not gonna go just because everyone else is going." No, but this student will NOT go because everyone else is going. He is the classic teenager's definition of a rebel, a stand alone, yet blind to the reality that just about every thought he has, someone has had before him. He's so novel.
The H.A. is all about touching. Any kind will do. They hug hello to every girl they know, and go through elaborately orchestrated hand shakes with their "bros" before anything else happens. In a decent-sized group, this whole ritual can take up to 5 minutes, or roughly an entire passing period between classes. If given the opportunity to "hang out" (with the only source of entertainment being their own angst), they will carry on with guys punching, tackling, wrestling, and slapping each other. Once their Alpha-maleness gains the attention of some female H.A., the male will grab her, and carry her around while she screams half-hearted protests. If the female decides instead to avoid him, the male will give chase until capturing her, then continuing on with said touching. If a female truly wants nothing to do with a particular male, she will approach a much-desired male to enlist his "protection". This male then has open permission to prove his ability to "protect" her from what is presumably a beta-male, or less (though males lower than betas are rarely allowed near the Alpha females to begin with). Successfully "protecting" the female, this Alpha-male will then be rewarded with her attention, including more, and often escalated touching.
In the cafeteria, they still serve Kemp's Milk, and chicken patties. Now engulfed in these creatures, the same urges surface again. Chin up, chest out, you feel cooler than you ever did in your life. "I'm a mother-fucking (sometimes literally) adult. I buy alcohol, tobacco, and firearms on the reg, and if so inclined, I vote. I'm a respected fuckin' member of society, and I have you little shits all figured out."
Walking through the masses of H.A.'s, you see the Alpha-male, and wish he would challenge you. Because, how dare he not give you the opportunity to emasculate him in front of his peers, and demonstrate how fuckin' cool, and over this petty shit you are. How dare he.
10.15.2010
Laser Womb
So, I guess I have a blog now.
Let me just start with a disclaimer regarding my pretentiousness:
I don't have any illusions of grandeur by thinking that this will be the "Cat's Pajama's" of a blog (though maybe that would have been a good name for it).
I just have a lot of thoughts, and have it on good authority that at least four or twelve people might be interested in them. With that said, if you don't like my blog, then kindly go fuck yourself!
Anyway, I thought that I would launch this blog into the outer reaches of your personal space, by starting with explaining both the name of the blog, and my pseudonym.
I was going to name this "Male Pattern Boldness", which is just a phrase that I thought I made-up, and thought it would pertain to many of my themes. As it turns out, however, I was not the first person to think of that phrase, and as evidence there is a guy on this same blog using that name...about sewing. Male patterns, I guess. Hmph.
The Camel News Hour, as my Dad tells me, was an actual mini news hour back in the glory days of television, when cigarettes could not only be advertised on the telly, but could sponsor an entire news show, complete with chain-smoking anchors. (sigh)...A bygone era when Men were men, and ladies were cooking (I'm not a misogynist, someone that hates women. I just happen to find jokes about it to be very funny.) Maybe this will be a topic sometime...
Mr. A. Elbows is an anagram (jumbled up letters of my name). I went to a website http://wordsmith.org/anagram/ that lets you find anagrams. Needless to say, I spent the entire morning searching everyone I know's name. Some of my favorites, from my name, are the following:
Able Mr. Sow, Brawl 'em so, Bar me slow, Slam Bros we, Law robs me (hehe), Able worms, Marble sow, Smear blow, Moral webs, A.M. Bowlers, and perhaps my favorite, Laser womb.
I recommend you try this.
Expect more soon,
Sam
Let me just start with a disclaimer regarding my pretentiousness:
I don't have any illusions of grandeur by thinking that this will be the "Cat's Pajama's" of a blog (though maybe that would have been a good name for it).
I just have a lot of thoughts, and have it on good authority that at least four or twelve people might be interested in them. With that said, if you don't like my blog, then kindly go fuck yourself!
Anyway, I thought that I would launch this blog into the outer reaches of your personal space, by starting with explaining both the name of the blog, and my pseudonym.
I was going to name this "Male Pattern Boldness", which is just a phrase that I thought I made-up, and thought it would pertain to many of my themes. As it turns out, however, I was not the first person to think of that phrase, and as evidence there is a guy on this same blog using that name...about sewing. Male patterns, I guess. Hmph.
The Camel News Hour, as my Dad tells me, was an actual mini news hour back in the glory days of television, when cigarettes could not only be advertised on the telly, but could sponsor an entire news show, complete with chain-smoking anchors. (sigh)...A bygone era when Men were men, and ladies were cooking (I'm not a misogynist, someone that hates women. I just happen to find jokes about it to be very funny.) Maybe this will be a topic sometime...
Mr. A. Elbows is an anagram (jumbled up letters of my name). I went to a website http://wordsmith.org/anagram/ that lets you find anagrams. Needless to say, I spent the entire morning searching everyone I know's name. Some of my favorites, from my name, are the following:
Able Mr. Sow, Brawl 'em so, Bar me slow, Slam Bros we, Law robs me (hehe), Able worms, Marble sow, Smear blow, Moral webs, A.M. Bowlers, and perhaps my favorite, Laser womb.
I recommend you try this.
Expect more soon,
Sam
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