I've run across a few people in my days that were exceptionally horrible. Not just bitchy or vindictive on occasion, but truly evil to the very core. I've often imagined that there was an island that I could send all of these miscreants to, where they'd be forced to choke down their own medicine 24/7. The first person (and I'm being generous by calling him a person), was my boss at a horrible job I had for about a year in 1992.
I worked for a company that sold hardware by mail. I had to fill orders, working ten hours a day in a warehouse that wasn't air-conditioned in summer or heated in winter. The floor was concrete and absolute murder on my feet, which were already tore-up and bloody from wearing Herman Munster-style safety shoes. The work was back-breaking and demoralizing.
My boss was a guy from the Middle East who was the definitive officious prick. He was the kind of guy who always looked like he'd just got a haircut. Oh yeah, and he also ironed his jeans. Add to that his bushy mustache, hardhat and general hairiness, and he looked like the leader of the Iranian Village People.
This guy was your basic asshole, elevated to banishment to the island for one incredible incident. One day, I noticed that he was clearly not up to his usual caliber of evil. I asked one of the other supervisors, "What's up with him today?"
The supervisor went on to tell me that, not only was this guy's wife in the hospital with a brain tumor, but she was being operated on that very day. This guy's wife was going under the knife and he thought it was more important to be at work than by her bedside. It still stymies me to think about the shear lack of humanity. Clearly an asshole act that I've never seen equaled.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Still Too Early.....
As the ridiculous presidential debates roll on, I'm still not able to pick a clear winner. For what it's worth, here are my current thoughts. I'm not considering any of the Republican candidates, because I'd really rather not have some idiot like Fred Thompson pick up where Bush left off, sending thousands to their deaths and shipping pallets of money half way around the world to a place that we've never even secured.
Hillary: Well, she may have a heap of understanding about all things presidential, but her inability to actually answer a question directly has me puzzled. She seems totally afraid to say much of anything. We KNOW she's a strong woman, so why hide the strength? She needs to do more than look handsome in a pantsuit.
Edwards: I liked Edwards as Kerry's running mate and even attended one of his rallys in lovely Racine, Wisconsin. The impression that I'm currently getting, though, is that he needs to turn down the smarmy, southern, car salesman thing that he's got going on. It makes me uncomfortable.
Obama: I believe what this guy says. He actually sounds like he's speaking his mind and not reciting talking points that made it past the focus groups. When people say that he doesn't have enough experience, I have to laugh. If ever there was a good reason to elect someone, that's it. We don't need another guy who's going to swing for the fence every at bat and strike out 9 times out of 10. We need a guy who sees the value in a good drag bunt, knowing he'll steal second and then make it to third on a wild pitch.
Biden: Joe's another seemingly honest talker, even taking the president to task in the Oval Office from time to time. I think he's a good guy who won't be noticed by enough people to make the final four. He's also one of the best "Hardball" guests ever.
Hillary: Well, she may have a heap of understanding about all things presidential, but her inability to actually answer a question directly has me puzzled. She seems totally afraid to say much of anything. We KNOW she's a strong woman, so why hide the strength? She needs to do more than look handsome in a pantsuit.
Edwards: I liked Edwards as Kerry's running mate and even attended one of his rallys in lovely Racine, Wisconsin. The impression that I'm currently getting, though, is that he needs to turn down the smarmy, southern, car salesman thing that he's got going on. It makes me uncomfortable.
Obama: I believe what this guy says. He actually sounds like he's speaking his mind and not reciting talking points that made it past the focus groups. When people say that he doesn't have enough experience, I have to laugh. If ever there was a good reason to elect someone, that's it. We don't need another guy who's going to swing for the fence every at bat and strike out 9 times out of 10. We need a guy who sees the value in a good drag bunt, knowing he'll steal second and then make it to third on a wild pitch.
Biden: Joe's another seemingly honest talker, even taking the president to task in the Oval Office from time to time. I think he's a good guy who won't be noticed by enough people to make the final four. He's also one of the best "Hardball" guests ever.
Happy Anniversary, Katrina!
Well, The Chimpster was at it again yesterday, the second anniversary of Hurricane Katrina. Instead of rolling up his sleeves to aid in the clean-up, he was zipping around Louisiana doing photo-ops in places that have been re-built. He could've picked up a shovel for five minutes or actually delivered some of the financial aid that's been promised, but no, better to "WOW" a bunch of gradeschoolers with his enormous head.
Proclaiming that New Orleans and LA were "Coming Back!", the preznit again ignored those still in need in favor of bulking up the propaganda video that's assuredly running in a continuous loop on Fox News, as we speak.
Proclaiming that New Orleans and LA were "Coming Back!", the preznit again ignored those still in need in favor of bulking up the propaganda video that's assuredly running in a continuous loop on Fox News, as we speak.
Monday, August 27, 2007
Praise The Lord (or non-denominational icon of your choosing)!
Well, today looks like it's gonna be one great freakin' day. I opened my newspaper to find that Gal-berto Dishonezt is resigning, years too late, in my opinion. This piece of shite wiped his ass with the _______________ (insert name of sacred document) more times than I can count. Good riddance. Our only hope is that we don't get someone worse. Given the cowboy chimp's track record of appointments, though, '08 might not be all roses and chocolate either.
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Drive-thru This
The wife sent me out earlier today to pick up some breakfast from a local fastfood place. The drive-thru was backed up, so I waited patiently and popped The Beatles' "Revolver" into my CD player. Looking at the line ahead of me, I notice the Nascar dad in front of the car in front of me. There's been a huge advancement in the line, but
Git-R-Done doesn't notice because he's reading the paper.
Because myself and the middle driver are willing to act like human beings, we give the guy a few minutes to notice what's going on before we move on to the polite "toot" honk. You know what Nascar dad does? He looks in his rearview mirror at us, looks forward to see the gap, then goes back to reading his paper. Eventually, the folks behind me get impatient and give their horns a few good blasts. Finally, Jethro relents and speeds up to the window, all the while shaking his head in disbelief. Stupid is as stupid does.
Git-R-Done doesn't notice because he's reading the paper.
Because myself and the middle driver are willing to act like human beings, we give the guy a few minutes to notice what's going on before we move on to the polite "toot" honk. You know what Nascar dad does? He looks in his rearview mirror at us, looks forward to see the gap, then goes back to reading his paper. Eventually, the folks behind me get impatient and give their horns a few good blasts. Finally, Jethro relents and speeds up to the window, all the while shaking his head in disbelief. Stupid is as stupid does.
Drawn And Quartered, Part 1
You might not know this about me, but there was a time back in the day that I was almost a syndicated cartoonist. That is to say, that my comic strip would've appeared in newspapers across the country. While I have found some success working as a newspaper columnist and contributing cartoonist, syndication has always been the brass ring that I could never quite get my hands on.
Back in the early '90's (remember, kids?), I had been working on an original comic strip that was about a young guy trying to figure things out. He lived with his mother, a woman who was oblivious to the fact that her advice often emotionally levelled her son, due to it's insulting nature. When he wasn't in school, the kid also had a series of dead-end jobs with horrible co-workers and bosses.
My work caught the attention of a comics editor at one of the big syndicates. He was quick to tell me how special I was to be getting his attention. He went on to say that there were only three major syndicates, though, at the time, there were at least a half dozen. He also told me that I was one person picked out of nearly 30,000 yearly submissions to recieve a development contract.
What's a development contract? Well, basically, it's comparable to the minor leagues in baseball. They throw just enough money at you to pay off a credit card or to buy a rusted out '83 Toyota Tercel. They also make you sign a contract which basically ties up your strip for one calendar year. If, after working with you on developing your strip for that year, they feel that you're ready to be syndicated nationally, they launch your strip. If that happens, kids, you could potentially be looking at a six-figure income within a couple short years. With each new newspaper that carries your strip, your paycheck gets a corresponding bump up by %50 of whatever the syndicate is making. Add on to that whatever might come in from merchandizing, and you can see how the income adds up quick.
So, I signed my contracts and prepared to give it my all, knowing this was probably my one real shot. I made every change my editor suggested, no matter how ludicrous.
Early on, I realized that no matter how hard I argued for my content not to be tampered with, my editor had some obscure reference or example to illustrate just how wrong I was in my opinion. I vowed to just keep my head down as the shrapnel whistled by my head. My eventual payday would more than make up for all the strife.
At the end of my development deal, after dodging my phonecalls for months, my editor finally fessed up and admitted that I was being released from my obligations. The strip hadn't matured enough, he said, and the market just wasn't right for launching a strip about Generation X's own Charlie Brown. Six months later, they launched a strip called "Zits," which is eerily similar to the strip I was doing. It turns out this whack-job of an editor would decide what kind of strip might sell. Then, he'd string a couple of guys like me along, pretending that he was cultivating our art. All the while, though, he was bastardizing the content to fit some stupid idea that he had in his own head. In the end, I hated what my strip had become. He had wrung all of the sarcasm out of my humor, drastically changed my characters and then brushed me off like a drop of coffee that had dripped on his stain-guarded Haggar slacks.
I wish I could have that year of my life back to do over. I'd cash that jackass's check and then send him a bunch of smudged ballpoint pen drawings on the back of Ho-Ho wrappers.
Back in the early '90's (remember, kids?), I had been working on an original comic strip that was about a young guy trying to figure things out. He lived with his mother, a woman who was oblivious to the fact that her advice often emotionally levelled her son, due to it's insulting nature. When he wasn't in school, the kid also had a series of dead-end jobs with horrible co-workers and bosses.
My work caught the attention of a comics editor at one of the big syndicates. He was quick to tell me how special I was to be getting his attention. He went on to say that there were only three major syndicates, though, at the time, there were at least a half dozen. He also told me that I was one person picked out of nearly 30,000 yearly submissions to recieve a development contract.
What's a development contract? Well, basically, it's comparable to the minor leagues in baseball. They throw just enough money at you to pay off a credit card or to buy a rusted out '83 Toyota Tercel. They also make you sign a contract which basically ties up your strip for one calendar year. If, after working with you on developing your strip for that year, they feel that you're ready to be syndicated nationally, they launch your strip. If that happens, kids, you could potentially be looking at a six-figure income within a couple short years. With each new newspaper that carries your strip, your paycheck gets a corresponding bump up by %50 of whatever the syndicate is making. Add on to that whatever might come in from merchandizing, and you can see how the income adds up quick.
So, I signed my contracts and prepared to give it my all, knowing this was probably my one real shot. I made every change my editor suggested, no matter how ludicrous.
Early on, I realized that no matter how hard I argued for my content not to be tampered with, my editor had some obscure reference or example to illustrate just how wrong I was in my opinion. I vowed to just keep my head down as the shrapnel whistled by my head. My eventual payday would more than make up for all the strife.
At the end of my development deal, after dodging my phonecalls for months, my editor finally fessed up and admitted that I was being released from my obligations. The strip hadn't matured enough, he said, and the market just wasn't right for launching a strip about Generation X's own Charlie Brown. Six months later, they launched a strip called "Zits," which is eerily similar to the strip I was doing. It turns out this whack-job of an editor would decide what kind of strip might sell. Then, he'd string a couple of guys like me along, pretending that he was cultivating our art. All the while, though, he was bastardizing the content to fit some stupid idea that he had in his own head. In the end, I hated what my strip had become. He had wrung all of the sarcasm out of my humor, drastically changed my characters and then brushed me off like a drop of coffee that had dripped on his stain-guarded Haggar slacks.
I wish I could have that year of my life back to do over. I'd cash that jackass's check and then send him a bunch of smudged ballpoint pen drawings on the back of Ho-Ho wrappers.
Kenosha Blues
One of the reasons I love living in Kenosha, Wisconsin is that during the summer, there's always something to do. Every thursday, the city puts on free concerts near the lake called "Peanut Butter & Jam." A couple of thursdays ago, the great Alligator recording artists Lil' Ed & The Blues Imperials brought their rockin' show to Kenosha.
My ten-year-old daughter was a little reluctant to go. I assured her that Lil' Ed wasn't the slow, mournful blues, but a party waiting to happen. It took only about five minutes of Lil Ed's powerhouse slide guitar antics before the kid was hooked. Hey, who wouldn't love to see a five-foot tall guy wearing a be-jeweled fez and playing a big red guitar that dwarfs him? It was like watching a kind of blues cartoon (in a good way).
Ed's show was so energectic and contagious, that during the 45-minute set, my daughter never once asked to go home or "Is this almost over?" She revelled in Ed's good-time atmosphere and seriously rocked out to the tunes. As for me, for a little while, I felt like maybe I wasn't such a bad dad after all.
My ten-year-old daughter was a little reluctant to go. I assured her that Lil' Ed wasn't the slow, mournful blues, but a party waiting to happen. It took only about five minutes of Lil Ed's powerhouse slide guitar antics before the kid was hooked. Hey, who wouldn't love to see a five-foot tall guy wearing a be-jeweled fez and playing a big red guitar that dwarfs him? It was like watching a kind of blues cartoon (in a good way).
Ed's show was so energectic and contagious, that during the 45-minute set, my daughter never once asked to go home or "Is this almost over?" She revelled in Ed's good-time atmosphere and seriously rocked out to the tunes. As for me, for a little while, I felt like maybe I wasn't such a bad dad after all.
Toxic People
I'm looking down the barrel of forty years old, and there's still so much about life that I struggle to figure out. There are a few major answers, however, that have revealed themselves in the past few years, one of them being the negative affect of toxic people.
My twin sister, the proverbial bad seed, who's lived the same forty years on Earth that I have, has always surrounded herself with a swirl of drama; being evicted from her tenth apartment, brushes with the law, lies, treachery, deceits too numerous to totally recount.
I realized, one day, after speaking with her on the phone, that my whole being had changed. My face was clenched in a harsh frown, my blood pressure was elevated and I literally felt sick to my stomach. One little phonecall from her and I was tied up in a knot of angst that had me feeling physically ill.
When I really looked at the sum total of our time spent together as brother and sister, I realized that any good times we'd had together were pre-Reagan era. For decades, I had allowed her to draw me into her swirl with confrontational bait. Enough was enough.
I vowed to stop taking the frantic phonecalls and reading the rambling letters dropped at my door. Life is far too short to be surrounded in such bullshit. I'd rather spend time playing with my kid or doing something else that actually makes me happy. Long-term exposure to toxic people like my sister can be a very stealthy thing. Some people might just brush it off and say "Oh, that's just how she is" or "I wish she would be a little nicer." As for me, the lesson that I've learned is that if you keep breathing the asbestos, sooner or later you're gonna get the cancer.
My twin sister, the proverbial bad seed, who's lived the same forty years on Earth that I have, has always surrounded herself with a swirl of drama; being evicted from her tenth apartment, brushes with the law, lies, treachery, deceits too numerous to totally recount.
I realized, one day, after speaking with her on the phone, that my whole being had changed. My face was clenched in a harsh frown, my blood pressure was elevated and I literally felt sick to my stomach. One little phonecall from her and I was tied up in a knot of angst that had me feeling physically ill.
When I really looked at the sum total of our time spent together as brother and sister, I realized that any good times we'd had together were pre-Reagan era. For decades, I had allowed her to draw me into her swirl with confrontational bait. Enough was enough.
I vowed to stop taking the frantic phonecalls and reading the rambling letters dropped at my door. Life is far too short to be surrounded in such bullshit. I'd rather spend time playing with my kid or doing something else that actually makes me happy. Long-term exposure to toxic people like my sister can be a very stealthy thing. Some people might just brush it off and say "Oh, that's just how she is" or "I wish she would be a little nicer." As for me, the lesson that I've learned is that if you keep breathing the asbestos, sooner or later you're gonna get the cancer.
The Left-hand Turn
What is it about the left turn that turns drivers into automotive retards? Sorry, bad choice of words. I apologize to the handicapped for comparing them to these idiots who can't seem to (as Queen Latifah might say) "get their turn on."
You've been behind them in the same lane, waiting for that magic little green arrow to appear. It makes us feel soooo wonderful, doesn't it? Love that little green arrow. It's like getting a green apple sucker when you're a kid, after your doctor just stuck you with a needle. It's a lovely little gift....except, that is, to the moron in front of you. Instead of yelling "YES!!", he's yawning. And, instead of stepping on the big pedal, he's doing about 5 MPH thru the intersection.
Oblivious to the fact that we all have places to get to, or that we're even there at all, this dipwad's pace means that at least three of us aren't getting thru the intersection. Isn't that thoughtful? You can ride this simp's bumper 'til the cows come home, but he's not going to notice. He's busy wondering if his disability check will arrive today or when the next season of "The Simpson's" will finally be out on DVD. I'm wondering how I always manage to be in the turn lane behind the guy in the 1986 Ford Tempo with plastic tarps where windows should be.
You've been behind them in the same lane, waiting for that magic little green arrow to appear. It makes us feel soooo wonderful, doesn't it? Love that little green arrow. It's like getting a green apple sucker when you're a kid, after your doctor just stuck you with a needle. It's a lovely little gift....except, that is, to the moron in front of you. Instead of yelling "YES!!", he's yawning. And, instead of stepping on the big pedal, he's doing about 5 MPH thru the intersection.
Oblivious to the fact that we all have places to get to, or that we're even there at all, this dipwad's pace means that at least three of us aren't getting thru the intersection. Isn't that thoughtful? You can ride this simp's bumper 'til the cows come home, but he's not going to notice. He's busy wondering if his disability check will arrive today or when the next season of "The Simpson's" will finally be out on DVD. I'm wondering how I always manage to be in the turn lane behind the guy in the 1986 Ford Tempo with plastic tarps where windows should be.
A Brush With Greatness, V1.0
Back in high school, I had a summer job as a starter at the public golf course in Waukegan, Illinois. While Waukegan was once a nice place to grow up in, it's now a crime-ridden haven for cash loan and cellphone stores. But, that's another post. We're here today to talk about celebs. Somehow or another, I've managed to run across quite a few in my time.
I remember working a charity tourney one weekend, which featured several prominant Chicago Bears. The only Bear that I clearly recall, though, is one Noah Jackson. Weighing in at roughly 400 pounds, this no-neck had his quadruple X, yellow Izod (It was 1984!) bursting at the seams.
I mention Mr. Jackson, not because of his exploits on the field, but for the way he was challenging the snackshop staff to keep up with his vacuum-like eating style. He ordered one cheese-burger (fries would only slow him down) and began chomping it down T-Rex style. Mid-bite, he ordered another. Just as he was throwing back the last drops of his beverage, number two arrived. This time, the follow-up was ordered immediately. Numbers three and four soon arrived, only to meet the same fate as the first two. Wiping his mouth on his shirtsleeve, he grunted "I'll be back," and headed out to the back nine. Impressive.
Every year when I see the hotdog eating contest from Coney Island, I think about Jackson and his superior eating ability. I can't remember any of his accomplishments on the field, but I'm certain that I'll never forget the sight of him laying waste to four pounds of rare hamburger in about fifteen minutes.
I remember working a charity tourney one weekend, which featured several prominant Chicago Bears. The only Bear that I clearly recall, though, is one Noah Jackson. Weighing in at roughly 400 pounds, this no-neck had his quadruple X, yellow Izod (It was 1984!) bursting at the seams.
I mention Mr. Jackson, not because of his exploits on the field, but for the way he was challenging the snackshop staff to keep up with his vacuum-like eating style. He ordered one cheese-burger (fries would only slow him down) and began chomping it down T-Rex style. Mid-bite, he ordered another. Just as he was throwing back the last drops of his beverage, number two arrived. This time, the follow-up was ordered immediately. Numbers three and four soon arrived, only to meet the same fate as the first two. Wiping his mouth on his shirtsleeve, he grunted "I'll be back," and headed out to the back nine. Impressive.
Every year when I see the hotdog eating contest from Coney Island, I think about Jackson and his superior eating ability. I can't remember any of his accomplishments on the field, but I'm certain that I'll never forget the sight of him laying waste to four pounds of rare hamburger in about fifteen minutes.
A Brief Introduction
The other morning I finally decided to get off my duff and start this thing. I awoke after my wife, who was uninterested in hearing about what I'd dreamt about the previous night. "See? This is why I need a blog." I guess maybe after fourteen years of recurring dreams about tornadoes, attack dogs and lockers that won't open, she'd had enough. Who can blame her, really? I'm such a child sometimes..
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