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Resolver

For the New Year, I will make the following resolutions. Please note that in no way am I to be held to my word on any of these.

  • I will attempt once again to give up carbonated sodas. They are vile, destructive, sweet, infinitely tasty, thirst-quenching beverages.

  • I will get my book published. I will also promise a reward of $100 and a homecooked meal to anyone who helps me get an agent or a publisher.

  • My life in 2006 will not include black tar heroin, crystal meth, or fried cheese.

  • I will attempt to begin working out. Barring this, I will attempt to begin watching the "Working Out TV Channel".

  • I will not have a baby with Britney Spears to help save her marriage.

  • I will once again return to writing the Fistful Of Sports column. The world needs good sarcasm, and the calling is there.

  • I will not point out that somehow Jude Law has managed to become famous and make 36 films in the past two years, and yet I rarely meet anyone who's seen even one of them.

  • I will try not to be so obscure in my pop-culture references. I will also seek to not be quite as manipulative as Jason Bateman in "It's Your Move".

  • I will try and pick one of the political parties to hate more than the other.

  • I will try to hold my profanity to a minimum, unless I am driving, at work, or at home.

  • I will learn to resist the urge to open SPAM emails with really funny subject lines. Just this past week I fell prey to "Hymen Destroyer," "Transcribe Parcenary Bulgary," and "We Want Yur Skin!". I'm a sucker for good rhythmic gibberish.

  • I will once again record an album with my band, The Caucasian Boys, proving once and for all that we are the only band that matters that never practices.

  • I will watch the new season of 24, and try to take note of the times that Jack Bauer might be off-camera and going to the bathroom. It bothers me that never happens. Just once, I'd like to see him storm up the hallway with the sports page under his arm, and take a hard left into the men's room while the timer clicks off. Then, after commercial, he comes out and we go back to the story. It would make me feel better, and I'm sure it would him, too.

  • I will make good on my promise to go back to school and finish my athletic management degree, so I can achieve my lifelong goal of becoming a professional wrestling referee.

  • I will never again eat the Burger King Omelet Sandwich for breakfast, which contains 8 eggs, 11 sausages, 2 pounds of bacon, 7 kinds of cheese, butter, chocolate, and cigarettes. It's just too much to even be thought of as a guilty pleasure. It's like porn for your mouth. As I ate it, I could hear my pulse pounding in my ears.

  • And finally, I will be glad that "Arrested Development" is cancelled while it's still the funniest show on television. I will be glad "Joey" is cancelled because it's not.

Happy New Year, everybody!

blogified by Reid @ 12/31/2005 08:22:00 PM  6 comments links to this post


Radio Radio

I hate radio commercials that say "Don't forget to..."

"Don't forget to ask for the weekly special! Don't forget to tell 'em Big Dave sent you! Don't forget our sale ends at midnight!"

Like I need somebody else putting stuff on my plate. I need somebody else filling out my to-do list. Tell 'em Big Dave sent you? What if I tell them that, and they give me a bag of pot? What if Big Dave is a pimp for gay prostitutes?

And another thing, why is there always a "tri-state area"? Even in Hawaii?

blogified by Reid @ 12/23/2005 03:56:00 PM  0 comments links to this post


The Dirty Stuff

Recently, I was challenged by a friend. She knows I'm a writer of funny stuff, and when I talked about writing in other genres, she expressed doubt at the concept of me writing anything romantic, erotic, or even vaguely bodice-rippery.

Well, not really doubt. It was more like a great belly-laugh that bellowed forth, and hung in the air for days.

Anyway, I've written some samples as an experiment. Fair warning, this is erotic lit, or at least I hope it is. If you're not interested in that kind of stuff, don't click on the link and read it. I'm purposefully not printing it here on this part of the blog so I don't offend anybody any more than I normally do.

Here is one of the grand experiments. All comments are especially welcome on this one. Please let me know if I can tell her to stop laughing yet. Gracias.

blogified by Reid @ 12/22/2005 08:13:00 PM  3 comments links to this post


Thank You, Drive Through

Waiting in the drive-through line at Jack In The Box, this preprinted sign was in the window.

"For your safety, walk-up guests wll not be served at the drive-through window. This includes guests on coasting devices and non-motorized vehicles that have been altered."

Does that seem a bit unnecessarily specific to anybody else? So I can't blow through the lane in a sailboat? I can't don roller blades and jam a mast up my ass and get a Jumbo Jack? I'm not permitted to catamaran the flying dutchman through the drive-through and grab a Deli Trio Panido?

I'm always interested in why certain things happen. Why did the central management of the Jack In The Box corporation Worldwide feel the need to have these signs written, drafted, typeset, proofed, corrected, printed, and shipped to every restaurant on the planet? Was there a major problem with guys on skateboards, scooters, wheelchairs, and Rascals clogging the lane?

By the way, I had plenty of time to take notes on the drive-through signage, since it took forever for them to reach me with my food. Jack In The Box's slogan is "We Don't Make It Until We've Noticed You Ordered it."

blogified by Reid @ 12/17/2005 03:42:00 PM  0 comments links to this post


Irrelevant Tangents

You know, considering it's supposed to be his birthday, Jesus doesn't have a lot to do with Christmas. There's no pictures of him sledding, or skiing. He wore sandals, so he wouldn't have even had stockings to put out for Santa. He never even saw a snowman, for crying out loud.

Outback restaurant now serves chicken fried steak, as if you're going to spend the cash to go to a really nice restaurant and order the deep fried questionable cut of meat. Going to Outback and ordering the chicken fried steak is like going to McDonald's and ordering...the chicken fried steak.

I love going to the zoo, because not only is it fun, it's also usually inexpensive which means you'll run into lots of trashy white folks there looking for a low-income outing. Nothing sets the scene for a relaxing day of fun like an 18 year-old Federline-looking baggy-pants punk with his hat on sideways blowing cigarette smoke on a monkey.

There's a girl I know, we'll just call her J. J is the kind of girl you look at, and you just know that she's got a separate hand sanitizer for their hand sanitizer.

Rob Thomas is the musical equivalent of Jack In The Box tacos. It sounds like a good idea, and you might enjoy yourself during, but right after it's over, you think to yourself "What the Hell was that? What did I just do?"

There are always movies where somebody has an accident, and can see into the future. What about the other senses? Where is the guy who can wake up, and hear a massive car crash down on Broadway street coming up at noon? The blind man who can smell tonight's steak dinner at six o'clock in the morning? The savant who can taste death in the air?

blogified by Reid @ 12/15/2005 03:32:00 PM  3 comments links to this post


Snip, Snip, Snip Again

This time of year always reminds me of what I did for myself, and for my family two years ago. I gave the gift that keeps on giving.

I had a vasectomy.

I was married for almost ten years when I had my daughter, and she's a beautiful, smart, incredibly challenging child. I'm a small family guy, and I felt like my life was complete with her. I always told my wife that we had our first child for her, and we wouldn't have the next one for me.

Three years I told that joke, and she never found it funny even once.

When we decided in 1998 to think about children, we decided not to decide about not having a child. Basically, we pulled the goalie and whatever happened, happened.

What happened was I teed up a shot from the blue line and scored on my first attempt, so we've been understandably paranoid ever since.

Anyway, I learned something I'd like to pass along to all prospective patients. Something financial to keep in mind.

When you buy the first vasectomy, the second one is free.

Yep. First one didn't take. Apparently my groin has the mutant healing powers of Wolverine, because my boys were stronger than ever after the first round of surgery. Fertile as the Nile Basin, I was still.

So to sum up, I spent not only Christmas, but also a week of spring camped out in front of a television with a bag of frozen peas sitting between my legs. I looked like one of Norman Rockwell's lesser known paintings, "Christmas With The Numbing Cold 'Pon My Crotch."

Anyway, I went through the process twice. And it was actually worse the second time, for some reason. And also, when I went back for my second time, it sure seemed like there were a lot more people on the other end of me than the first time. And it seemed as if several weren't even wearing scrubs or masks or anything.

Onlookers aside, the strangest part of having a vasectomy doesn't come until weeks later. That's when you need to bring them a sample for analysis.

Yeah, I'm just going to let that one set in for a while.

One morning, six weeks after your surgery, you wake up with a doctor's perscription to masturbate. You are a man on a mission, with a delivery to make. Enjoy the morning, fellas. Never again will you not only have the freedom, but for once in your life, you are fully sanctioned under the law.

That's the understandable part. What comes next is a bit strange. That's when you have to fill a cup full of your warm Johnny's and Suzi's, go to your car and put it in your cupholder, and drive it downtown to the lab where you will hand it over to a woman you've never met, and who will take it from you like you're old friends.

That's an uncomfortable moment, in part because you know they have to have heard all of the jokes before.

"Can you fill this for me?"

Uh...from here? No. But I'll be glad to bring it back later. How far away from you is considered polite before I bring it back? Is the waiting room okay, or should I go out in the hall, the restroom, the elevator, or the cross town bus? Would it be better if I waited until tonight to see what's on Cinemax?

blogified by Reid @ 12/13/2005 06:05:00 AM  2 comments links to this post


There's Something About Figgy

You know which Christmas carol really bothers me? "We Wish You A Merry Christmas". Think of it, it's the rudest, pushiest carol ever. Examine the second verse.
Now bring us some figgy pudding
Now bring us some figgy pudding
Now bring us some figgy pudding

Screw you, random carolers. Who are you to be making dietary demands of me? And to then threaten me, as heard in the third verse?

We won't go until we get some
We won't go until we get some
We won't go until we get some

Rather insistent, of course, not to mention cloying and needy. But the next line really ticks me off.
So bring it right here!

Get your lazy ass off the couch, and get thine own figgy pudding. Don't order me around, and then expect me to deliver. Don't make me break this yule log off and wear you out with it.

blogified by Reid @ 12/08/2005 03:06:00 AM  2 comments links to this post


Nutcracked

I'm a buffoon. A cretin. I freely admit it. I try to have a modicum of culture, but there are somethings that just don't register with me.

I just don't get the ballet.

I went to a junior college production of "The Nutcracker" this weekend. I try and get all of my culture in small doses, by the way. I'm also going to attend a high school one act play rendition of "Rent", and my Kiwanis Club version of "Glengarry Glenross."

Anyway, it was my first experience with ballet. I sort of knew the story from its many appearances in pop culture, so even without the appearances of the Carebears, I could sort of follow the story. Here are some of my notes from the performance.
  • Everybody's at a party, including two cats and two maids. The maids dance, apparently overcome with the ecstasy of cleaning.

  • Everyone drinks, and time stops. We can't go on until it starts again. Please let it start again.

  • Little boys dance in puffy pants. I can almost hear the therapy bills pile up for the kids' fathers.

  • The party is crashed by a stranger in black. Due to a merchandising tie-in, the stranger sings "Ring Of Fire".

  • The stranger brings out a giant present, with two life-size dolls coming out to perform. Unfortunately, neither one is a stripper.

  • Clara gets her Christmas present, a nutcracker. Which by the way, sucks as a gift. Even if it's anatomically correct.

  • The nutcracker takes on the mouse king. Since this is Texas, the battle takes place in a steel cage. A squad of soldiers chase a horde of mice around the stage. Strangely enough, the two cats are useless.

  • Intermission. I go to the concession stand for frito pie and nachos.

  • The Sugar Plum fairy dances. A side note in the program indicates the Sugar Plum Fairy is low-carb, and Atkins friendly.

  • A chorus of kid angels come to the stage. Angels who are children unnerve the Hell out of me. If Angels are the souls of the deceased, and the angels all appear to be children, there's a bit of unsavory backstory there that I don't want to know about.


At this point, I lost interest. Luckily, a woman behind me had appointed herself the designated ballet translator, speaking in a loud tone to her family for the entire last half hour of the show.

"Yeah, that's the Sugar Plum Fairy, She's dancing around to show something. I think she's hungry. And the guy with the spandex pants is her boyfriend. Although if it were really cold, I don't think he'd have that bulge. And now this is where all of the candy dances around. This is some old, funny looking candy. Why don't they have some dancin' Twizzlers, or some big orange guys dressed up like cheez balls?"

I figured at that point I should probably just take a nap, and wake up for the ovations.

blogified by Reid @ 12/07/2005 04:25:00 PM  1 comments links to this post


Jewel Denial

I had several other things I wanted to write about today, but I woke up consumed with something. Yesterday a song came on my car radio that I hadn't heard since it came out long ago.

Unfortunately, it was by Jewel.

For those of you who may not remember, Jewel was a pretty little former van-sleeping Alaskan singer whose trademark was writing the same kind of awful poetry normally embraced by creepy weird chicks with leghair who live in the dorms for all four years of college.

One if her songs came on, and I made the mistake of listening to it. Twice last night, I awoke in utter absolute feverish confusion, with her song in my mind.

My hands are small I know
But they're not yours they are my own
They're not yours they are my own
And I am never broken


What the Hell was she talking about?

Eh? "They're not yours they are my own"? Well, if it makes no sense, say it twice, that'll straighten everything up. Whose hands are you talking about? Was there a doubt as to which hands you were referring to at the end of your arms?

She goes on to refer to praying, and being God's eyes, hands, and mind. So they're God's hands?

No. They're still her hands. And she's pretty fervent about it, because she says the same thing eight times in the song.

"If I could tell the world just one thing
It would be that we're all OK
And not to worry 'cause worry is wasteful"


Apparently, Jewel was truly inspired by the philosophical musings of Bobby McFerrin.

This was Jewel's last popular song, except for "Intuition", which I believe was actually a love song written about a razor.

We're missing a golden opportunity here, we should translate her poetry, and drop it into Iraq. If we can get an Arabic version of lines like "poverty stole your golden shoes," they'll be so confused, we can control the country without loss of life.

blogified by Reid @ 12/06/2005 08:27:00 AM  3 comments links to this post


The War On X-Mas

I'm confused. Are the evil hated pagan liberal Nazi lesbian proctologists declaring war on "Christmas," or war on "X-Mas"? I just need to mark my scorecard accordingly.

I was wondering what the next thing that people would overreact to would be. It's nice to know it's at least holiday related, so I can hear Christmas carols while I watch people seethe.

Yes, some people say "Happy Holidays" instead of "Merry Christmas." And no, those people won't be allowed into heaven.

Come on, is this the worst thing we have to worry about? That one holiday is not specifically mentioned in favor of a blanket well wish?

It's especially hilarious to me when religious people get upset about things that have absolutely nothing to do with the religious aspects of their holiday.

Them: Well, some places don't even call them "Christmas trees" anymore!
Me: Well, so what? Jesus never had a Christmas tree, and it's his birthday. Show me Christmas trees in the bible, and we'll talk.


I'll admit it. I usually say "Happy Holidays" for a variety of reasons.

I say "Happy Holidays" because I'm lazy, and I don't want to have to remember to switch to the next holiday.

I say "Happy Holidays" because I don't really mean it, and I only want to tell you one big lie, and then you hand me my hamburger and I walk away.

I say "Happy Holidays" because I don't want to offend Christians because true Christians shouldn't get rip-roaring, knee-walking, commode-hugging drunk for New Years, and thus don't have much fun. Ergo I don't want to mention it specifically, and bring them down.

I say "Happy Holidays" because quite often, people who demand that you mention Christmas specifically are also screaming racists, and will be upset when I mention Kwanzaa.

I say "Happy Holidays" because those same people have the same reaction to Hanukkah.

I say "Happy Holidays" because Christmas is a religious holiday in the same way that the Super Bowl is a football game. It may have started that way, but now that's only a small part of the event.

I say "Happy Holidays" because there's no need to be specific. I'm not going to delve into the background of the guy handing me my Chick-Fil-A sandwich, and try and figure out if he's Christian, Jew, or Muslim. "Happy Holidays" covers all backgrounds. Hell, even atheists appreciate it, because they get the day off work.

From the bottom of my heart, I hope all of you have a good season, and a happy Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, New Year's, Pearl Harbor Day, Boxing Day, Sunday, Hand Washing Awareness Week, Britney Spears Birthday, Boston Tea Party Anniversary, and you're all invited to my pair of Frank Zappa parties, one for his birth, another for his death.

'Cause I don't want to, you know, offend anybody.

blogified by Reid @ 12/05/2005 03:11:00 PM  3 comments links to this post


F-Bombs Away

There is a brewing controversy in the radio industry about whether Sport Illustrated writer Rick Reilly said "the f-bomb" while a guest on ESPN Radio's Dan Patrick Show.

Who cares?

Really. Is there anyone who hasn't heard that word by now? Benedictine Monks who accidentally misthread their prayer beads have been known to utter it. So what's the big deal?

I'm not in favor of it being on TV all the time, that's not what I'm saying. I just think that letting a single four-letter word slip out on occasion is not going to corrupt a child, cause cancer, and let the terrorists win.

And it's a big word, folks. It's a big word because we make it a big word with our paranoia over it. I've always felt that word is the two extremes of society.

"Fuck you" is the single worst thing you can say to somebody. Once you reach that point in the argument, there's nowhere else to go. There's no comeback, no other name you can call someone. After that is said, you either back down or punch them in the face.

Now on the other hand, "fuck me" is probably the best thing you can ever say to anybody. And I hope there's not an explanation required.

blogified by Reid @ 12/01/2005 01:55:00 PM  0 comments links to this post