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Viewing 1 - 9 out of 10 Blogs.
The NY Giants have started training camp. Their top defensive line pick, signed for $5m with incentives for the upcoming season reports- 
”Can we skip the laps today-what time is lunch?” The Giants are very excited- being able to bench press 525 lbs. with a reputation of stopping runs better than Immodium AD has them the favorite for the NFC East. Wait- that’s not an NFL lineman. It’s not even a man. Or yet. Maybe medically, not sure about legally. It’s--
Chastity Bono- fair haired child of good ol’ Sonny and Cher. Chastity was cute when they put her on camera. Paved the way for the Olsen twins- can’t act a lick, but some baby gaga talk with a smile and gleam in the eye and its ratings, people! I’m glad Sonny isn’t around to see this. Killed skiing in 1997 and diminished to a small role in politics while Cher grew, hung out with Gregg Allman and became a pretty good actress (I actually liked her in Silkwood) this surely would have been his lack-of-talent-demise. That and unavailabilty of rhinoplasty at the time. Cher’s part Indian, Sonny Italian- yet blonde hair? Where’s the DNA tests for the real parents? She looks like a Michael Jackson kid- there’s no way in holy fucking hell both Sonny and Cher 'Had You Babe".
“I’m no angel—maybe just a les-be-an”
I’ll buy this parental unit.
Fast forward to the accepting 2000's- where even Dick Cheney's daughter can be herself. Not reptressed by an egocentric conservative who thinks same sex couples should burn in hell with Obama's healthecare plan supporters.
Fuck, Cher. You look like you’re auditioning for the circus. Bad makeup and anorexia do not a career make. Think this had any impact on Chasity’s gender choice? Or the fact Chasity has 43 necks? I guess I see faint resemblance in the smile from Cher. But she’s no Sonny.
Chasity sitting on her mom’s bad wax likeness at Madame Tussaud’s.
I know it's genetic and not my buisness, but I can't help but feel sometimes that children of the stars aren't put through too many spotlights that it impacts them.
The Giants could use another lineman, Chaz.
Probably not you though.
Where's Cheney's girl?
I'll do her!
Tags: Chastity Bono Lesbians Cher Cheney
Although Billy Mays grates on my nerves, I’ll at least give him credit for staying off NFL games and most prime time. He knows where his low rent customers lay. Fucking Geico, on the other hand, is about to drive me over a ledge. A ledge that I would need insurance for afterwards, but not from them. The latest brainchild from Madison Avenue involves ‘Kash Eyes’.
Can someone tell me how adding contact lens holders and black dots on top of a pile of 5’s is supposed to make me want them as my insuarnce company? Just hand me a goddamn lighter so I can warm my hands because I’ve run out of oil to heat with.
Geico spent $497 million in advertising in ’06- more than Coke. Are they gonna get in the bailout line to support this stupidity? I’d rather stick sharp forks in my neck during the 15 minutes I could be saving money with them. Not everything they’ve done is horrendous. Just repetitive enough that a 10 IQ could remember the tag line. We have the Gecko-
Where the fuck is Survivorman when you need him? The Caveman
Either of which I would take over Kash Eyes. The car companies have just about vacated the ad premises. They are replaced by car insurance. I wonder how much money they could save us if they didn’t have ads on every 33 seconds.
Mission Impossible- Doggie Style Jim McPartland For anyone that thought this was kind of sexual commentary, go back to the Jenna Jamison flicks. There’s no innuendo here, just a passion I have for our 4 legged furry “I-love-you-no-matter-how-big-a- jerk-you’ve-been-today” best friends. Yes, folks. The dog. To this day, I have no idea why I’m as passionate about canines as I am. Former life? It does seem I like I occasionally want to put my head out a car window, tongue flaying in the wind. I know it’s not because I want to smell your butt. Something to be said for evolution. Here I am in Monroe, Ct. Recently, the Board of Zoning won a judicial case that said my favorite nonprofit, The SPCA of Ct., could only keep 29 dogs on his property. He usually has around 80. He can keep 15,243 cats, but only 29 dogs. I think cats poop too- but who I am to argue with judicial justice? The real crux of the problem is the noise from barking 80 dogs make and the neighbors whose property abuts to the SPCA’s. I understand why the neighbors feel this way- it does get pretty loud during the day, but it’s quiet at night AND when I was on the Board of Tax Assessment Appeals, I gave each of them a 25% discount on their taxes. That’s equivalent to $2000 per house per year. If $2000 a year can’t get you over some noise during the day, what can? So now within 1 year, Fred Acker- the Dog Saint who owns the SPCA- has to get his dog population from 80 down to 29. 50 dogs have to find homes (and all of them will because Fred is a no kill facility, the only kind I’ll work at). The huge problem is he’s not supposed to bring in any new dogs. As the bulk of Fred’s ‘children’ come from Puerto Rico or Southern Red States where they treat dogs like cattle- don’t spay and neuter them (none of them apparently watches ‘The Price is Right’), and- worse- torture them in the most sadistic, screwed up ways imaginable. Worse than anything at Abu Graib. The Buckster in a quieter moment My buddy Buck, a Chihuahua mix, was shot in the leg in South Carolina. He has buckshot in his leg forever, causing a limp (he never moans about it though, another good thing dogs have over some people). I hope this was not done intentionally, but based on my observations of the Deliverance people I’ve seen in those harbors of ‘genetically inbred hillbillies’, I have my doubts. Fred calls me Thursday. He says “There are 9 dogs coming out of Puerto Rico. Can you watch one (or more) them for a few days or weeks?” The town won’t count his dogs on the weekends, so as long as he has no more on Monday than he does on Friday (or the last time they counted) we can get away with this. So there’s me and a few others that go over there, but we can’t let anyone see what we’re doing. Fred had gone to pick up these dogs at 5 AM Thursday morning in Hartford on a flight from Puerto Rico. These dogs are a mess- nervous, scared shitless. The good thing is now that they’re here, they’re saved. The bad thing is Puerto Rico wanted to send more, but we don’t have enough people right now to foster one or more during the week. Before I continue, I should tell you about Fred. Fred gave up a life of luxury to devote his existence to saving lives. He lives at the house. Where all the dogs are. The barking ones. And yeah, the cats. Someone once said Fred’s biggest problem is he likes dogs more than people. That’s true. But the people that have not been responsible owners which cause these dogs to show up here do not deserved to be liked. Sometimes I think we need another Civil War to again prove the South lost, they’re not very bright, and slavery is over. So how could I say no? I knew my wife would bitch (I understand why and she’s pretty good after she gets it out of her system). The answer is if I had there’d be dead dogs somewhere and I can’t live with that. I hate to be blunt, but yes gang, they’d be dead. If you think that sodium pentobarbital is so great, you fuckin’ take it yourself. That’s why I couldn’t be a Vet- I could give it to a cancer patient, but not a dying dog. And a dog that’s healthy?? I’d give it to those Southern bastards first. 95% of the dogs we get are GREAT. No problems- so there are MILLIONS—count the zeros folks 0,000,000’s ---of great dogs that die way before their time because nobody wants them and they just keep having litters of 8 which, of course, leads to more dead dogs. You, if you’re Catholic, can’t be sterilized, but I think even the Church says it’s fine for Snoopy. So Fred had 6 of them at the Vet, takes 3 and has to leave them in his van so the town doesn’t know he’s taking in more dogs. I felt like Tom Cruise, with the music playing, tape disintegrating, sunglasses and phony nose. It was funny in a sad way. I go over, grab ‘Chocolate’, a 2 year old mix of ‘God knows what’ (again, mixing breeds = good; straight family trees in West Virginia = bad). Chocolate had obviously been abused because she’s so scared you may hit her, she cowers and drops to the floor. The good news is within 2 hours of ‘Sweetie, I wouldn’t hit you’, she starts to come out of her shell. Today (Saturday) I’m bringing her back to get her adopted this weekend. As I’m going to work there both days, it’ll be a no brainer because I had her for 3 days and she’s PERFECT. And to think she could be dead cause tears to well in my eyes. If you have any doubts about the horrificness of killing an animal like a dog (and don’t say ‘put to sleep’ if their healthy- that’s a cowards’ way of talking), I recommend you force yourself to sit through some of those HBO documentaries that film the process. I had to get drunk the time I did it and I couldn’t do it again without real nightmares. My neighbor recently gave me a framed saying. It’s a quote from Jon Gores. It says- ‘Old Age means realizing you will never own all the dogs you wanted to’. Thank God I’m young. And although I can really only own 2 now, I take sheer joy in seeing the rest go to good families that will take care of them. If there’s a Dog Heaven, I think that’s where I’d like to go. You in?? Chocolate got adopted that weekend. I’ve been fostering 1 to 2 per week and each has gone to a good home. People ask me if I get attached and if it’s hard to bring them back. The answer is yes, but my mission is to spin ‘inventory’ (FIFO). The more I foster. The more lives saved. I’d keep 80 myself, but the no one would keep me. It’s hard to send a dog to the grocery store. Relieving sexual tension is also out of the question.
Tags: Dogs Animals
Jim McPartland “I don’t want to work, I want to bang on the drum all day”- Todd Rundgren I hear this played during baseball and football games to get the crowd going. It should now be the mantra at AIG. American International Group is one of the companies the government has rescued. A few weeks ago, we lent them $85,000,000,000 to keep them afloat. We now own an 80% stake in the company. Yesterday, we agreed to lend another $37,500,000,000. That’s $117 BILLION in a month. I’m getting sick of the 0’s and this is starting to sound like something Dr. Evil would say in an Austin Powers flick. This all despite the fact their one of the biggest culprits selling high risk investments that included all the bundled bad mortgages money can buy. They let one CEO go this summer. With $18,000,000 in his pocket. After he got a $5m bonus in the 4th Q of last year when the company lost $5 BILLION. They held a London based Manager responsible for most of their troubles and fired him. Poor bastard. Oh, they gave him $14,000,000 for his trouble. So instead of clamoring in a board room in NYC to try and stop the bleeding, a party is thrown in California- for $440,000. $23,000 is spent on spa treatments and massages. How many of those came with ‘happy endings’ has not been reported.
A 2nd planned party for later this month has been put on hold. Morale at AIG is off with lots of feet stomping and temper tantrums being witnessed (“But it’s MY turn!! I wanna go!!! You said I could!!”). Several lawmakers have suggested we ask for our money back. Good luck. Every government regulation that’s developed is eagerly awaited by a group of lawyers’ ala ‘The Firm’ whose sole purpose in life is to find the loopholes that surely exist within the first 15 minutes- like a race to finish the NY Times Crossword Puzzle. After all, they make a hell of a lot more than the people who make the laws and are smarter in a satanic sort of way. May I ask how many of you have been to a resort like this recently? Had a massage with or without the H.E.? They’ve got to prosecute the honchos that are responsible for this mess, not just wave a naughty finger at them in senate hearings. 
Tags: Politics Greed News
Jim McPartland To be active in our upcoming election, I’m working for the DNC as part of the Jim Himes 4th Congressional US Senate race in CT. Himes is running against Christopher Shays, a long time fixture. A moderate by most standards, Shays still backs most of the Bush agenda and has supported the war. This is the year to dump these motherfuckers. It pays a little $, is good for networking, and ‘touching the Indians’ where they live is interesting. I’m more of a ‘stand outside the supermarket’ kind of activist and going door to door is not the ideal task for me. I personally find it intrusive when someone comes to my door, but I’ll do it for some money or soul saving from a political standpoint. I think most Jehovah Witnesses are motivated for the same reason. I may try to sway your vote if I sense an opportunity- they try to sway your eternal life and just try to get you there quicker by denying you blood transfusions should you need one. We’re currently blanketing Shelton; CT. Shelton is a lot like Monroe, where I live. It’s a bedroom community where, for whatever reason, the majority of voters are registered Independent- but vote Republican. If they say they’re undecided, I try to pry info as to why. Scary thing is most of the time the answer is “I haven’t been paying attention”. HAVEN’T BEEN PAYING ATTENTION??? Have you looked at the gas pump? Don’t you know someone who’s lost a child in Iraq or is scared shitless they’re going to? Have you seen ANY of Sarah Palin’s answers to easy questions (“Oh, I read everything- whatever comes across my desk”)?. She apparently was concerned that mentioning Guns ‘N Ammo would elicit too much lesbian Butch support and lose the Moose lobby. They’re all ‘concerned’ about the economy, but cannot conclude that the ‘greed’ on Wall St. McCain talks about are also his bestest BBQ’ing buddies and financial supporters. We know ages and are just polling unaffiliated voters. It’s weird when I go to a house with one UNAF that happens to be a 22 year old daughter. God knows what conservative father who answers the door thinks my real motives are. There have been two houses of note. One was a 67 year old school Italian woman, Margarita. Margarita had eyebrows stenciled in like Joe Pesci in JFK. I wanted to grab some turpentine, erase, and start over. It was hard to concentrate while conversing with her as her face would move, but those brows were planted like Jimmy Hoffa at the Meadowlands. She tells me in a very heavy accent “I’m da Democrat. I probably vote for de Black guy. But I not happ bout it. I no like Black.” Wow. We’ll take you vote, M. But your bigotry is appalling. At least she was honest. I’m telling you there are MANY more people that would vote for McCain rather than Barack for no other reason than race. We have not advanced as a culture as much as we think we have. I then knock on the door of the Andrews- Karen and Steve. It’s a 3500 sq ft house and has ‘Conservative-fuck-the-rest-of-ya-I-want-to-keep-my-ill-gained-Wall-St-prof its-to-myself’ written all over it. Surprisingly, a soft spoken late 30’s Karen comes to the door. I explain what I’m doing. She invites me in. The Cinemax After Dark shows start playing on the screen in my head. Like in the shows, I fast forward through the talk and head right for the slow mo’s with music. She invites me to sit. I can hear Steve in the kitchen making dinner. He comes out and asks if I want a beer. I respectfully decline. Softly, Karen explains that although she can’t stand McCain, she’s voting for him because he’s pro life. Nothing else matters. She says she’s a court appointed legal defense lawyer and her job in life is to ‘protect the lives of everyone and everything’. She’s so low key, I don’t have the heart to debate- and nothing I could say would change he mind anyway. My libido said if I pushed the envelope, I could get her to change by threatening to stop plowing her before she was satisfied (Steve filming, of course) but the Cinemax show had changed to The 700 Club and I’d lost all interest. I encourage you to get out and talk to people. Strangers. Just start a dialog. You don’t have to be pushy- just be quizzical. Most will talk, especially if you’re a female. Don’t be a fanatic- just calmly state you think Obama is the only choice given our current situation. You’ll be surprised at how persuasive you can be. There’s a ton of undecided’s out there and we can takes votes one at a time by rationally addressing whatever is most important to people. Except people like Karen. If Pro Life is the #1 issue for them, they’re priorities are screwy (like ‘moral values in ’04). Move on.
Tags: Politics Life Sex Obama
What’s Next- Hookers after Communion? Jim McPartland I spent the last few days in Wellfleet, MA. near the tip of Cape Cod. They operate under a different system than I’m used to. One of a slower, trusting pace. One where neighbors are really neighbors-giving the shirts off their back if you were cold- even if it’d make themselves chilly. No locked doors. Pristine beaches that look like the Caribbean. I’m seriously thinking of going back and just setting up shack there permanently. God knows it’d be a writer’s heaven--- surf--- breezes through the trees. Nary a honking horn or road rage artist in the bunch. Any takers to come with me?[i] The only downside is I didn’t pay any attention to the world (other than to hear Gustov was not as bad as predicted, thank God!). Maybe that’s not totally a downfall. Stephen Covey has always preached not to watch or read the news- if it’s important, you’ll hear about it- as it’s just filled with depressing stories, the kind that sell newspapers. Not for me, thanks. That being said, most of my ideas come from newspapers. I’ll read something I think weird, mull it over, and then voila- it spews like Linda Blair bile. Watch out- that doesn’t come out in the wash. I went Saturday through Tuesday not seeing a paper. It felt pretty good, but I thought ‘shit, I won’t have anything to write about come Wednesday’. Ye of little faith.[ii] Saved ‘em baby! I spent this morning whisking through them. Around 6, including the Boston Globe from Sunday. You know what? Despite not reading or watching practically any news, I knew everything sans the NOTW[iii]. I was kinda surprised but in the course of conversation during two days, I was brought up to speed by my cousins. I was driving my Uncle Paul to the Cape for a long overdue visit. While we were driving, he read me the Saturday NOTW. Titled “Godly or Gimmick” in the Religion section. Seems some Protestant Churches are marketing to potential members by giving ‘incentives’. They have started with $50 Gas cards to ‘attract new members and help attendance during vacation season’. A Pastor in North Dakota defended their strategy by saying it cost him “less than $200 to run the $50 gas promotion, less than a ¼ page ad in the paper”. So, Mr. ND Pastor, you got 4 ether new members or people shorting a vacation that particular Sunday with your Fortune 50 business plan? For even ONE MINUTE, did it dawn on you that maybe- just maybe- if you said something during the service that people could take with them- actually want to apply to their lives- you could sell tickets vs. creating a gimmick? And, just how would Jesus feel? I can see Him now, on a hillside. Saying “Apostles- go to Jerusalem- bring back the sick and dying- we need followers- tell them that I will provide them camels- as long as they’ve never seen Me speak- or they’re coming back from Nazareth visiting the temples”.[iv] A Director at the Center for Christian Ethics called this new promotion “misguided”. One of the few times I’d have to agree with the CCE. Although someone was quoted saying “there are worse things that people can do than get them to go to church”. That’s true to some degree, but not to the extent these guys are basically bribing folks. Another soon to be Baptist Pastor, current biz executive, said a gas card raffle in Snellville, GA., was “appealing to natural corruptions in unbelieving people…selfish motives is not Christianity”. This is one of the few times I’m on the same page as a Bible Belter. How about for one Sunday talking about something relevant, say loving your neighbor, vs. guilt by practicing contraception, supporting the Republicans and saying the Dems are going to hell for defending a women's right to choose (or even discussing politics), and gimme money?? I go to a cool church, Crossroads Community, where we don’t have to offer people any incentive other than you’ll enjoy our services because we’re friendly, there’s no pressure, play cool rock for music and our Pastor, Rich Joy, is totally ‘with it’. He actually cares about us- not in a heavy handed way. That’s what I go for. Why would he need to buy me gas? Find a church you like- any religion is better than none. Anything spiritual for that matter if you can’t buy into the God theory. But don’t do it because you’ll get more than internal satisfaction. God is not impressed with gas cards. And any sexual favors offered after communion to get you to stay until the end is not happening here either. I can’t necessarily say that about North Dakota or Georgia. What they decide to offer next remains to be seen.
[i] Warning- Mid Life Crisis. K- exception to the rule. [iv] Bible of Jim 14:87-2347.1
Tags: Strange Religion Current Events Bribes Jesus Bible
Jim McPartland funnyordie.com/jbmcpart I’ve been spending time searching for my soul recently. It’s not really lost and I’m pretty sure I can hear it yelling from the woods that are right behind me. But I’m not totally sure what it’s saying and I’m not convinced it even speaks English. Part of this search has involved an extended stay in Cape Cod, Ma. Wellfleet and the surrounding area specifically. It’s a beautiful place filled with artists that, similar to me, are more interested helping each other rather than trying to figure out ways to fuck their neighbors and co-workers. Many are gay, but I don’t care. I was kinda eyeballed at the gym this morning, and it did make me uncomfortable. I’ve been accused of being homophobic, but I don’t think so. Just because I can’t sit through Brokeback Mountain when Jake and Heath start digging each other does not make me dislike gays. I’m actually quite tolerant. I just don’t get ‘guy on guy. Girl on girl? TOTALLY different story. One of the many reasons I loved Lindsay Aimes ‘It’s Over’ was because of the line when she says she’d get her sister ‘involved’ if her ex-lover returned. I drove up to Provincetown Monday. It is the literal tip of the world on the Cape. The beach is breath taking and nary a soul was there. I told my cousin the town was super quiet. Its reputation for a gay community % right after San Francisco seemed unfounded during my brief visit. She told me the wild gay guys only come out at night- it rivals Mardi Gras- and the lesbians walking the dogs that I did see stay to themselves. I’ve taken up one of 8 chairs that sit outside the Wellfleet Spirit Shoppe on Main St. The group that hangs there is the equivalent of a combination of King of the Hill (Hank and Dale) and Petticoat Junction (Uncle Joe and an older version of Meredith Baxter pre-Berney). People hang outside, eat, read the papers, tell jokes. Really dirty ones. Filthy limericks too. Kinda loud. So loud, that I’m shocked the elderly people who stroll by (and the Cape is loaded with retirees) don’t call the police. I guess they aren’t listening but even me, with a fairly high tolerance for sick humor, has to turn my head and snicker on the other side of my mouth when I hear some of this stuff. Makes ‘Step Brothers’ look tame. My cousin Sarah helps run the packie. She’s a doll and is really nice to all the customers (and she could be a bitch because the place is super busy- open 14 hours a day/7 days a week. One does not go thirsty in Wellfleet). I’m sitting there when a mid 50’s woman comes in for a pack of cigarettes. ‘$7.09, please’, asks Sarah (fucking expensive here) ‘Can you sell them to me for $7?’ Sarah looks at her bemused ‘Do we look lie we’re in a market in Beirut? We don’t barter’ ‘I’ll give you $8 then’. ‘Fine and I’ll give you .91 in change’. ‘I can’t take the change.’ ‘What do mean you can’t take it?’ ‘I have numistimaticphobia.’ ‘What?’ I’m listening, but I have no clue what this lady just said she has. It sounds bad, like arthritis. ‘It’s the fear of change. I cannot deal with anything that’s not in bill form. Pennies make me sweat. Nickels cause hives. Dimes, acne. Quarters send me into cardiac arrest’. I could tell Sarah was now contemplating not selling her the cigs. She didn’t seem drunk, but she sure hadn’t taken her meds that morning. Sarah suggested ‘Here, we’ll take out the .09 cents from the penny tray and be done with it.’ ‘Fine, if you can do that for me. I can’t touch them. I also don’t want to feel like I owe you money. How about I just give you $8 for the pack?’ Sarah, now getting playful says ‘Ma’am, I cannot take your money. If you need .09, I’ll take it from the tray for you.’ “Fine, then I’ll leave the dollar in the tray.’ Sarah took the pennies. Phobia woman threw the dollar in the general direction of the tray without looking at it as it seems she start to have a panic attack. I know fear and change is scary. People avoid change like there’s no tomorrow. This woman took it to a literal level. The next time you fear change, take a deep breath, go with your instincts and rock and roll. And keep 9 cents in your pocket just in case.
Tags: Fear Comedy
Jim McPartland Funnyordie.com/jbmcpart I got up yesterday morning to a couple minor disasters. I say ‘minor’ because in the grand scheme of things, my little problems pale in comparison to tornado and earthquake victims. I suggest each one of us look at the glass as ½ full- if no one in your immediate family (or you, God forbid) are dying, you’re doing fine. Everything else can be fixed or will pass. Disaster #1 was via my 14 year old collie mix Samantha. I named her Samantha because I got her in ’95, at the same time Elizabeth Montgomery from Bewitched died. Sam tilts her head and raises her ears when she does not get what I’m saying—very similar to when Samantha Stevens used to go ‘Well--??’ Sam must have eaten more than her fair share of grass because her stomach was obviously upset. Why she didn’t ask me for some Pepto Bismol, I will never know. I’m walking around and catch a whiff of something—bad—more like death—as I snake around like a blood hound trying to find the exact location, it becomes stronger. Vomit inducing strong. Like how I’d imagine an autopsy on someone floating in a river for a month would smell. I don’t like it. Where’s that shit Jodie Foster put on her upper lip in Silence of the Lambs when you need it?? The odor has taken over the entire first floor. I then find her present. Wow. I’ll spare you the details how long it took me to clean—how many different cleaning products I used---how many times I gagged. I had to tell my wife to stay upstairs for a while. She made some nasty noise, but was very understanding (lucky for me it was not the 15% TTOTM). #2 was the central AC, which totally scared me. It shot up to 95 on Saturday and as much as I’d like to avoid $400/mo electric bills, I have to turn it on or no one will sleep at night. My wife reminds me that last year it froze up. The guy who quasi fixed it said the coils may be going and at some point it may die. I reminded my wife I have very short term memory about bad stuff and focus on the good- but, unfortunately, I did need to keep that one mind. So I go out to the unit—it’s not frozen, looks good. Sigh of relief. I then go into the cellar where the furnace is and see a large puddle of water surrounding the unit. Deep breath—count to 10—try not to cry/throw shit around. So now I have to put on my ‘Home Fix It Channel’ hat on. Problem is, the hat is WAY too small. I can hold a hammer but actually beating down on a nail without bending it or hitting me ala Homer Simpson is another story. I once met Bob Villa at a building material show in Orlando. His note to my wife hangs like a Chad on my fridge. It says ‘Get him on his tools’. That is, if I had any. I got a big extra dose of right brain functioning from my mother (who I’m not as smart as- she’s Ivy League). The downside is I got shorted on the left side, so my abstract thinking—complex math—and either fixing or putting shit together is laughable. Many a Christmas was almost ruined with ‘insert tab ‘A’ into ‘B’ and put ‘C’ in the freezer for 3 hours’. So I’m standing on the outskirts on the water. At least I know even with flip flop rubber soles on, I better shut off the AC or I’ll fry like the guys in Green Mile. I then get closer—the unit is stuck in a very tight corner and it’s a bitch to get at. I have to squeeze between a concrete column and the wall. There’s also no light in that corner and- no- of course having a drop light would just make a tad too much sense. I figure out it’s the condenser. The machine sounds like it’s running, but it’s so full that water is spewing out the top. I check the hose that goes outside to the drain thinking that may be clogged (although—if it is—I’ll need that Rotor Rooter snake gizmo—and – yeah, you guessed it—that’s been on my Depot shopping list since ’92) So I pace the floor for a while, kind of like Jim Carrey in Ace Ventura Pet Detective--- ‘Think—think— Finkel—Einhorn—Finkel—Einhorn--AC unit---‘. I pull the nozzle that connects the hose to the unit- water shoots up higher and faster than a Ron Jeremy scene. Through process of elimination, I’m getting closer. I had to leave for hockey refereeing, so I’m going to have to put this on the back burner. I put a pail under the unit, figuring when Mr. Jeremy is operational in an hour or so (actually, Ron may have some talent where he can ‘bounce’ back in 15 minutes), the ‘love juice’ will get caught. I ref 4 games, all the while playing different fix it scenarios in my head- the most likely of which is all the money and then some that I’m making being on the ice will be pissed away Monday when some bozo shows up at my house, hands me a $300 bill and an ‘estimate’ of $4000 to actually get my house cool. Fuck. When I get home, I think—maybe the nozzle is clogged—it’s really small and hard to tell. I think ‘OK, what do I have that can possibly clean it?’ Then—like a bolt of God lightening—or at least the imaginary light bulb above my head goes on. I have this cleaning kit I got from my last employer, who shall remain nameless because my boss and some of my co-workers were scum sucking assholes. I’ll take the Duster can—which is like WD 40 with a tiny straw and spray it into the mo’ fo’. When I do that, the crustiest remnants of Ron cum flying out. I cough, gag, look for a towel and sanitizer. If I ever have to do this again, I’ll put a condom on the goddamn thing. And—alas—walla—I reconnect it , say a quick prayer that the bucket is empty in the morning and go away. Empty bucket today. Moral of the story is I surprised myself. Instead of getting impatient and pissed off that the world is closing in on me, I actually kept calm—let it set in for a while—and then applied some fairly common sense (which is more an attribute of you Left sided brain guys) It’s pleasantly cool this morning in the house and I’m happy. Love you all (and I mean that—‘Not in an Eddie Haskell kind of way’ as Matt Dillon said to Bridgette Fonda at the end of Singles). 
Tags: Stupidity Self Denegration Women Fixing Things Frustration
I was heading back from Avon, CT on my way to Milford Saturday from a writers networking meeting. I was on my way to its annual Oyster Festival, an event that draws 40,000. Foghat was the free headliner. Bob ‘Jake’ McManus loved Foghat as a kid. I liked them too and it’s been years since I’ve heard much of their stuff. You knew Jake was cool (albeit slightly uneven like myself) when in 6th grade at the bus stop at 7 in the morning he’d be air guitaring and scream to Slow Ride. A few of the neighbors occasionally joined us, just not as the chorus. Mostly with the Police. And not Twonicus’ Police either. The real ones who told us to mute the tunes. My 1st mistake in the comedy of errors was staying to the left at the junction of the Merritt Parkway (Rt. 15) and I-91. Both can bring you to Milford. I was talking on the phone and if I thought about it, I’d have veered right and gone 15. I’ve read stuff that says when faced with a choice of right or left when getting in queues, left is better as most people choose right. That theory never works for me anywhere, be it the grocery store, bank, beer line. I always end up waiting longer and watch a mutant cruise by me in the other line to finish their business while I’m basically standing there with my dick in my hand. Right hand at that. Two hours later, I’m out with my one bag of chips, $20 or a lukewarm Bud Light. I was now on 91. On a Saturday, it’s normally not too bad. The intersection of 91 and I-95 in New Haven can be a bitch, regardless of the time of day. Toss in an accident = taost. I should have figured they’d all be going to Milford. They might have been going to Milford via 15, but I’ll never know. I probably should have gone to AM traffic or cough up enough money to have the GPS give reports but, alas, I’m too fucking stupid or cheap- probably both. About 5 miles outside of the 91/95 merge I see my 1st true warning sign that I may miss Foghat- Traffic Delay Ahead- 14 mile delay flashes. I’m like “Fuck! 14 miles could take 5 hours to get past!” My head races. It’s bumper to bumper. Even Michael Penn on my CD player cannot soothe me enough to get me through this. Think-- options-- get off and backtrack through New Haven to 15 towards Woodbridge? They do run concurrently. I know New Haven enough (I think); but that GPS that I left home- with or without traffic updates- would be useful. “Cheap, stupid fuck” my inner voice yells louder. There are 4 lanes waiting for the merge. I decide to get off State St. I have to almost cut people off to make the exit. I take a right, heading up State towards Yale. New Haven is like Bridgeport. There are certain streets that if you fit my profile you wouldn’t cruise down at night as the police know if you do it’s either drugs or BJs you’re in the market for. During the day, it’s usually not bad. Saturday was not usual. I go down about a ½ mile. About 50 feet from a green stoplight, I see this 20 year old kid come from my left, staggering out from some parked cars. I think, that’s kind of dangerous, buddy. I slow down so he can walk in front of my car to the other side. Problem is- he can’t walk. Dawn of the Dead swagger is a better description. He twists about 5 feet in front of me. I’m stopped. Our eyes meet. And I take a ‘Holy Shit’ breath. He IS Dawn of the Dead.  I'm the guy on the ground
Rabid foaming at the mouth. Pupils' totally dilated. Blacken teeth exposed. Legs bowed, arms contorted in the air. He starts screaming- “What the fuck, motherfucker—I’m going to fuckin’ kill ya!!!” Starts flipping me the bird with both of his arthritic looking ashen hands. There’s a guy trimming bushes at a church to my right. I have the windows rolled up, so I can’t quite hear what he’s saying but, seeing he’s at church, I figure he’s an apostle. He’s yelling something at the Walking Dead. I’m happy because gas powered hedge clippers are handy tools when fighting zombies. He turned out to be more like a Jew in the crowd before Pilate. Dead Boy takes a couple swivel strides towards the curb. I inch up slowly. I was going to roll down the window and politely tell him he’s gonna get hit by a car, but as I do that he comes charging towards my passenger door, bangs with all his might on the window and continues his ‘I’m going to eat you’ diatribe. Bush Man is now closer to the sidewalk, but he’s left the trimmers. Big help he’s going to be. He’s yelling at Dead Boy, but there’s so much racket, I’m not sure who’s saying what to whom. I decide my best move is to slowly drive away. If Dead Boy latches on to the hood, I can always pull a Starsky and Hutch. He instead decides to kick my door. Now I’m getting pissed and even though I’m without artillery, I have to deal with this. I pull up through the stop light- maybe 500 feet. I really just want to see if his decomposing foot made a mark or if it’s now attached to my car- in which case I’ll have to go to a car wash and pay the extra ‘scraping’ fee. As soon as I get out and head to the other side of the car, Dead Head starts running full force at me- screaming all kinds of demented, intelligible zombie shit. Unfortunately now I know I’m dealing with the REMAKE of Dawn of the Dead where they could run. Bush Guy is still yelling at him, but has made no attempt to catch him coming towards me. Hedge clippers or not, two of us are more likely to saw off his dead bobble-head than one. Now he’s within 20 feet of me. What to do? Like a fastball out of Billy Wagner’s hand, I have about .02334 of a second to decide- 1) Either stand my ground and take him on, the upside of which is he’s dead so all I have to do is either trip and pounce or just land one clean shot somewhere near his head to blast out his fucked up brains. If he isn’t dead, though, and he has, say, a knife I have yet to see- this might get a little too dangerous and I can end up dead. Walking in traffic. At noon. Yeech, not pretty. 2) Run. If I chose option 2, Michael J. Fox would laugh at me because he didn’t do that in the Back to the Future(s). The next thing I know, I’m scurrying around a car at the stop light, like LaDainian Tomlinson. Fortunately, Zombie Kid is no Lawrence Taylor and he can’t catch me. Finally, Bush Man comes over and corrals him, dragging his quasi rigor mortised frame with him.  Get the Fuck off me, Dead guy!
Now I call the police. I have no idea how long that’ll take as we are in New Haven and they have bigger zombie herds to battle. Bush Man has Morgue Kid over by a car back where he started, but he’s still twirling away like an off balance spinning top and I think he may come back for round two. Option 1 will be my only choice then- even with deadly bites or .99 steak knives at risk. Dead Boy gets into a car that’s been sitting there watching this whole debacle. Maybe this was a joke that’s already put on YouTube by some demented Yalie wanna be film student. I doubt it. After they’re gone- and instead of talking to me- Bush Man goes back to his grounds’ keeping responsibilities, as if Zombie Boy was a dream. I’m waiting for police. A woman with a 2 year old pulls up. Poor kid is crying. She says “I saw what happened- he did the same thing to me and scared my kid to tears.” Now I wish I had gone option 1 and put this motherfucker in the hospital. The police show, take my side of what happened. Bush Man comes over when I tell police he saw this mess. As he draws closer, the strong smell of vodka hits me like a bad yesterday’s hangover. Holy fuck, this guy’s drunk- trimming hedges at a church- and is taking on zombies too. He multi tasks better than I do! Then he breaks the case wide open. “That’s my son.” I almost screamed in pain from my jaw hitting the pavement. I could hardly control myself with “You almost let me get in a fight with your Autopsy Table Child and did nothing?” Then I smelled him again and knew how apples don’t fall far from trees. The cop says Dead Boy will get a bunch of misdemeanors- if they catch him. I said I just wanted women with children in cars to be safe at this intersection. Now that he’s moved on, who knows what Romero movie antics he’ll be up to. I’m not sure of the moral of this story. I usually like to draw things together like they do in Davey and Goliath, but I’m not sure about this. Inadvertent bad decisions? Standing your ground vs. being a smart wuss? I don’t know. All is do know is I did not get bitten, am not dead, and am not in the New Haven Register Police Blotter for sending a druggie to the hospital. I’m staying to the right for the next couple weeks to see if that changes anything
Tags: Fight Drugs Football Real Life Zombies
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