Moving is generally a horrible experience. I have personally moved more times than I wish to recall. Rustling through forgotten boxes and papers is emotionally draining. My most gut-wrenching moves were ones that took me far away from my kids. Every card or drawing found, brings back a flood of memories. You really can’t hold back the tears. Every move I undertake, I seem to have less and less stuff. My aim is to get my moves down to just one car load. Maybe there’s just something intriguing about having absolutely nothing to show for your life.
For my last move, I’m hoping to have only the clothes that I’m buried in.
If you don’t stop playing CoD by 10:30, we’re aren’t having sex.
It’s not Saturday.
If I don’t finish grading these 75 essays, you’re not getting sex this weekend.
Wife: Oh boy, it’s my birthday-no sex.
Husband: Oh boy, it’s my birthday-sex time!
Insert any holiday in 6 and 7. Wife: I want another kid. Husband: I can hold out.
Wife: Ok, I’m horny, let’s have sex. Husband: But Hitler is on.
Monotonous and meaningless meetings are forbidden, along with anything that could even be considered a meeting. Talking about the job at the water cooler? Verboten! If you want to drone on and on in front of people for an eternity, do it somewhere else bub.
Next on the chopping block-annual performance reviews. Most companies now use the painful and convoluted performance review to eliminate any chance of getting a raise. If applying for a job at DeathBecomesMe Corp., know that you may or may not get a yearly raise. If that's not good enough for you, sod off.
*Any instances of Microsoft SharePoint will be napalmed into fucking oblivion. If you love SharePoint, go waste your life away somewhere else.
So, there you have it. DeathBecomesMe Corp.: "We Won't Make You Want to Commit Suicide."
Many of you may have watched the eleven train-train wreck of the GOP debate last night on CNN. I watched it until the end, and was nauseas. Never has it been so apparent that none of the candidates are mentally capable to hold any public office-let alone be President. The constant bickering, lying and name calling-not to mention the countless, “This President…,” and “Secretary Clinton did…,” bullshit, makes you want to move out of the country. Enough. We have Donald Trump’s plan to deport eleven million illegals. That’s fucking brilliant. He also wants to build his Trump-wall between the US and Mexico. But he’ll be, “Great at the military.” All of them want to expand the massive US military industrial complex. Not taking into account we already spend more than the next ten countries combined. These idiots should be wearing Nascar Tyvek jumpsuits plastered with the logos of defense contractors.
Admittedly, Rand Paul has some less hawkish ideas and agrees the various wars we’ve fought recently are all a mistake. But he does come out with crazy shit sometimes and can be discounted. Marvel at the absolutely ridiculous Mike Huckabee, who wants the US to return to Puritan days. He will of course reverse the marriage equality law and make abortions illegal when he’s President.
Gasp as Ted Cruz spouts right-wing Christian diarrhea out of his gaping maw. Of course, he will, wait for it, get rid of Obamacare! And yes, defund Planned Parenthood, which costs at least fifty-trillion dollars per year. Let’s see who’s next, oh yes, Ben Carson. Ben is the Seventh Day Adventist brain surgeon who believes that the earth is 6,000 years old. Need I say more?
And then there’s Scott Walker, the governor Wisconsin who said something along the lines of, “Did I give up when the people tried to recall me?” You’ve got to be shitting me. If everyone in the state you govern wants you dead, you’re definitely qualified to run the whole country.
So there you have the gist of a most horrific night of TV. What were some of your favorite stomach-turning moments?
I went to visit The Old Man last Saturday at the local Gestapo-run rest home for retired Nazis. Most people probably cringe at the thought of visiting a place with a large group of the half-dead. I suppose that there’s something eerily comforting about the smell of death and lunchtime mashed potatoes.
I wheeled The Old Man from the dining room to a small community room. It had a little LCD TV hanging on the wall and a couple of chairs with one of those hospital-type TV tray on wheels that you can raise or lower. Sitting on one of the chairs was a lone pink balloon. I just found it funny that this pink balloon was sitting on the chair for some reason.
The room had a few windows in it. One was cracked open enough to let a nice cool breeze in to wind through the stale air of the building. The room had a view of the back courtyard. There were power lines off in the distance and the yard was surrounded by a chain-link fence. The fence and the power lines made it resemble a German WWII POW camp. We imagined an SS guard holding an MP40 patrolling the grounds with a large German Shepherd.
The Old Man recounted the stories of his youth that we’ve all heard thousands of times in the past few years. It’s really alright, I don’t mind. He doesn’t have Alzheimer’s or anything. He’s just old. How many people do you know in their 30s who tell you the same story every time that they see you?
The memory lane monotony was broken up by a girl starting to vacuum the room. She was young and relatively pretty. She had on hospital scrubs and a flowery print shirt. Now The Old Man is never one to not hit on women-no matter what age or whatever the circumstance. The Old Man watched her vacuum intently. I imagined her using the Oreck like a stripper pole. The Old Man taking out a wad of singles and stuffing some into the elastic waistband of the green scrubs, Girls, Girls, Girls blasting in the background.
After the vacuuming chick was done, I got The Old Man some coffee and brought him back to his room. I helped him to his creaky old bed and he sat back with a thud. I spoke to his disheveled roommate without bottom teeth. He expressed a desire that his son would visit him. He trailed off in a unintelligible murmur when I asked where his son lived.
As I made my way through the halls of mumbling wheelchair-bound old people upon leaving the facility, I was swept by an overwhelming sense of dread. Most of us will end up at a place like this. It’s alright I guess. They keep it at a warm temperature. They fill you with food. It’s easy to drift away-fast asleep in your bed.
Cheers to The Old Man. Ogler of vacuuming nurse strippers.
|Buddy the dog after he killed Santa for his cookies and stole his hat|
Genre-wise, I would call TPE more of a traditional rock album with just a little smattering of Industrial elements. Unfortunately, most of the tracks sound alike. It really reminds me of some of the songs on Marilyn's ex-cohort Tim Skold's Anomie. The more traditional rock tunes that is. I seem to have an affliction to plain old boring guitar, bass, drums and a singer lately. There has to be something extra mixed in there to separate from the past 50 years of rock n roll. Replay value: 3.(Amount of replays before one gets sick of it).
This album leans far toward the Industrial Rock spectrum. Replay value: probably unlimited.
|1||Eat You Alive (feat. Frank Delle)||Emigrate||3:33|
|2||Get Down (feat. Peaches)||Emigrate||4:32|
|3||Rock City (feat. Lemmy Kilmister)||Emigrate||3:28|
|4||Hypothetical (feat. Marilyn Manson)||Emigrate||3:50|
|6||Born On My Own||Emigrate||4:40|
|9||Happy Times (feat. Margaux Bossieux)||Emigrate||3:36|
|11||Silent So Long (feat. Jonathan Davis)||Emigrate||5:17|
The Old Man
Sayings like, "Boy, aren't you a tall drink of water." I can only assume this means something like, wow, it's refreshing that you're pretty and not a short ugly troll. Or The Old Man using, "Broad" when referring to a woman. Mostly, preceded by "Dumb."
The Old Man is also a master at hitting on waitresses in restaurants. It seems that in the past, women were more susceptible to getting ogled by men. Now, you're just as likely to get maced. For example, this is a standard occurrence:
Waitress: "Hi, my name is Kim. I'll be taking care of you today, how are you doing?"
The Old Man: "Better now!" Our eyes commence to rolling.
Now, The Old Man has a long history of forgetting people's names. He would come up with inventive names to cover for it. The most famous of these names is, Joe Matarotz. No one knows for sure if Joe is an actual person or not. Maybe The Old Man knew him
Nameless guy in a store/restaurant/bar: "Hey, Al, how are you holding up?"
The Old Man: Hey, Joe Matarotz, how ya doin'?"
Unfortunately, Sammy thinks this is hilarious and uses the name of Joe Matarotz in every occurrence he can.
The Old Man has spent years speaking broken German to us. As I recall, dad's grandfather spoke German to him. The Old Woman would attest to The Old Man's German heritage. Mom would always say, "He's a
So, there you have it. The Old Man is definitely one of a kind. I'm sorry I can't be there, and I wish The Old Man a Happy Birthday.
2. Are all of your clothes khaki-colored?
3. Even though you are a man, do you ever pee sitting down on the toilet and just cry?
4. Do you have to swipe a badge-like thing to get into your office building?
5. Even though you are an Atheist, do you ever wish that god would just kill you in your sleep?
6. Does it take multiple sleeping pills to turn of your brain at night?
7. You're bored most of the time.
8. Everyone you talk to sounds like they're on the 'The Delicious Dish' skit from SNL.
9. You feel like Neo at the end of the first Matrix.
10. Obviously, there's something severely wrong with happy people.
If you agree with most of these, your life is a wanton cesspool of despair and the mundane.