32 Ounces Kills

As a fellow bird, one might think that I know all about birds. This simply isn’t true. In fact it’s quite ignorant. It’s like saying that all black people know each other or all white people like caviar. Just because you belong to a certain group or type doesn’t relieve you from being a total dumbass, (or something philosophical like that).

 

Case in point, I was shocked to find out that if a bird, regardless of their stature, religious significance, or pop culture reference can not handle drinking 32 ounces of liquid. Now I don’t mean they can’t handle it like, “Joe threw up in your backseat. I guess he can’t handle his liquor.” No, I mean can’t handle it like if he/she does they’ll die.

 

That’s a dead bird folks.

 

That’s harsh!

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

 

 

—Riddle Me Rooster—

 

A while ago CLT felt angry and threatened to end my life unless I made the riddles easy and not off-the-wall-there’s-no-way-I’ll-ever-guess-that-it’s-not-even-really-a-riddle-man. So last week I dared to defy him and now I’m dead, but oh well…

The answer to last weeks riddle was “Falling down the stairs in a suit of (modern, i.e. cheap) armor, with a twelve pack of beer”.

Everyone who answered wins the opportunity to be a pallbearer at my funeral.

 

 

Tonight’s riddle:

 

What’s a cat that drinks lemonade?

 

Submit you’re answer as a comment for the chance to win fabulous make-believe prizes and come back next Sunday for the answer. Good luck!

Two Kinds of People

I’m sure you’ve been made subject to, or even used the phrase yourself, “There are two kinds of people in this world”. Which by the way, is high on my list of favorite cliches. Probably right under “Ugly as Homemade Soap” and if you’ve ever seen/used homemade soap you know exactly how true that cliche is.

The reason I’m such a fan of the “Two Kinds” bit is the vast and complex opposing philosophies of the statement. It seems so simple, so small, so inclusive, definitive of grouping us together, connecting us by an extremely small difference. “You either like the potato salad or you don’t”. It’s 50/50, one or the other, in or out, yea or nay, none of this or that or circumstantial, extenuating reasons, nothin’.

It’s very comforting to be on one of only two sides when looking at a population of 6 billion people, (or whatever the count is this second). The flip side of this harmonious, new found peace is the harsh reality of knowing that the two sides is an ever changing, infinite combination of non-stop variables. Further examination lets our logical brains realize that I can like spicy food AND Barry Manilow, that I can enjoy bull riding AND tear up watching a chick-flick. Plus we find that our new ally, whom shared our passion for fruit filled pastries, to the point that they’d give their life along side our own fighting those opposed to fruitfilled pastries is a huge fan of polka music! Now how can they be our comrade?

So, where does that leave us? Everywhere and nowhere, but I have made it a goal to try and come up with a “Two Kinds” that could be applied universally across the board. Something that could divide us for the final battle, when ever that day may arrive, so that we could find those with whom we could see eye to eye with. What I came up with was this: “There are two kinds of people on this earth. Those who like whole milk and those who like skim milk”.

Now I know you’re already attacking this statement, punching holes through it like a paper bag in the shower, but just stop a second and think about it. Let the milk be merely a metaphor of your choosing while also allowing the characteristics of the person who would choose one from the other come into play. Skim milk is not like whole milk, in fact the only thing they have in common is the word “milk” in the title. The contrast is greater than all other opposites imaginable.

Skim is watery, thin, relatively tasteless, struggles holding onto the color white and is sought after for it’s “healthiness”, “goodness” and “purity”. Whole is heavy, thick, rich, used for cooking, baking, etc. and is fatty, dangerous and looked upon as “excessive”, “unnecessary” and “risky”. People who choose skim are uptight, nervous, preoccupied, judgemental, obsessive, shallow and materialistic. People who choose whole are loose, lazy, lackadaisical, smelly, slow, absent minded, unconcerned and reckless. I’m sure you can find exceptions to the rule, but who couldn’t out of 7 billion people? That’s like trying to get wet in the middle of the ocean, but my point is that the road of skimmers and wholers is a divided one. A road that doesn’t cross, mingle or connect with each other. Parallel roads that start from the unknown and stretch into infinity. So the next time you meet someone new or want to take your current relationship with a friend or lover to the next level, instead of looking through their medicine cabinet or rifling through their panty drawer, open up the fridge and see what kind of milk they’re packing. If it’s soy then please ask them to get back on their spaceship and return to whatever planet they came from.

Egg On,

Ramblin’ Rooster

Anonymous Celebrity

I seem to enjoy the small things in life. Sometimes the joy is derived from something I can not actually witness or receive, so I can only enjoy it from imagining what it must be like. Confused? Me too. Let’s try to clear up the fog, shall we?

In my youth, I have to admit, I took pleasure in making a spectacle of myself from time to time. Whether it was freaking out in a fake fit of anger at a stop light, sitting naked in a park or yelling undecipherable seemingly vulgar fragmented sentences in a restaurant, it seemed I couldn’t help myself, like it was some kind of subconscious, hereditary, involuntary response to breathing.  I just liked “making a scene”, but not for the attention because ironically the adrenaline rush from having strangers looking at me made me uncomfortable.

I’m sure the reasoning behind the actions were as different as the actions themselves, but the one thing that always came to be true, assured me that the “Anonymous Celebrity” factor was indeed a constant element to my behavior.

“Anonymous Celebrity”. The greatest guiltless pleasure ever conceived.

Here’s how it works:

1. An act of strange, unorthodox, inappropriate, untimely, bizarre, or insane behavior takes place

2. This behavior is witnessed by at least one stranger

3. This behavior is so odd in nature, that it is unforgettable to the person who is witness to it

4. The witness goes about their day and later, when in contact with a co-worker, friend, lover, family member, etc. tells them of this behavior they observed

And there you have “Anonymous Celebrity”. The joy of being the star in a stranger’s story. A protagonist in the recounting of someones day and the best part is you get to use your imagination to reap the benefits of it. Also, if you conduct your behavior in a public place with several witnesses, your fame grows. Now you can star in four, five, eight, twenty or six hundred of these people’s “stories”. Depending on your imagination level you can even have different versions of their recollections in your head. “I bet the old lady was appalled and told her husband how horrified she was.” “That guy by the pop machine looked like he just swallowed a piece of glass.” “The red head was totally digging me!” The possibilities are endless and your only limitation is the time you’re willing to sacrifice swimming around in your head.

Another side to the wonderful world of “Anonymous Celebrity” is the background photograph appearance. I marvel in the delight of thinking of all the people in the world that come home from their vacation, take out the pictures to either look at or arrange in an album only to notice me in the background. Even if they don’t notice me, I’m still in the shot! I can’t even begin to put a number together of “memory keepsake” pictures I’ve been a part of, but I sure hope it’s a lot. My ultimate goal is to be in a photograph that makes it under a refrigerator magnet. Some people would tell you that a picture frame is the ultimate goal, but I think you couldn’t ask for more than a “fridge photo op”. Framed pictures just don’t get noticed or receive the traffic that an average refrigerator sees.

Finally what makes “Anonymous Celebrity” so amazing is that it’s for everyone. You don’t have to be a certain type of person, have a certain look, no experience is required, your background is immaterial, your financial status is irrelevant, it’s a true equal opportunity.

In conclusion, I quote William Shakespeare who sums it up best with, “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players…” For it is people that give us the greatest entertainment day in and day out. The people we hate, love, mistrust, envy, misunderstand, judge, forget and dismiss. They are the ones who supply all of us with a lifetime of free, original, improvisational theatre to which we need only open are eyes to enjoy.

If you ever want to see something funny, the next time you go to a movie, see it when it first comes out or is still popular and try to attend a showing with a full house. Sit in the middle of the front row and half way through the movie sink down in your seat, turn around and just barely peer over the back rest and take a mental photo of all the strangers zoned out in movieland. It’s quite a picture.

Egg on,

Ramblin’ Rooster

Deciding on when to be nice

I don’t know about you, but I find being nice to strangers is potentially a very awkward situation. There seems to always be this uncomfortable silence when doing something nice for someone. As if people are so accustom to the majority of society ignoring them that they don’t know how to react to someone being friendly.

Case in point and by far the most difficult one for me to figure out is the door hold. It occurs when you’re either going in or coming out of a door and someone is behind you and you decide to hold the door for them. The problem I run into is trying to decide as to what distance is an acceptable measurement to dictate whether to hold or not hold the door. If you choose to not hold the door, then it seems you are a selfish person who hates humanity, or too busy to spare a few measly seconds to offer up a random act of kindness, (as so many bumper stickers demand me to do). If you choose to hold the door open for someone and they are too far away, then suddenly this gesture of niceness becomes a burden upon them. They usually half run or speed walk to catch the door and you can always tell they’re a little aggravated that you made them pick up the pace.

Another problem seems to be the actual procedure for holding the door. If you’re a man, do always let the woman enter first? Do you enter before, if the person is also a man? If you’re a woman do these same rules apply? Is stepping inside and then preventing it from closing still count as the classic chivalrous act of standing on the outside holding it open as though you were a door man? Does activating the handicap automatic door opener for someone equal opening the door by hand? It’s all so confusing.

It doesn’t stop at doors either. What about the passing of strangers while walking. Do you say hello? Is a nod equivalent to a “good morning” or “good evening”? Is waving too much?  Does your environment factor anything into the equation, like not saying hello to a stranger on an elevator is acceptable but inexcusable when walking your dog in your neighborhood? And is the tight faced, plastic surgery, forced smile even worth bothering with? What sign or signal could that possibly send to anyone other than, “man, they sure hate smiling”.

On the subject of spoken etiquette, how long do you have to say hello, good morning and good night to co-workers? I’ve worked with these people for fifteen years, which means on average you’re saying hello, good morning and good night 254 times a year per person. Over a fifteen year time span that’s 3810 hello, good morning and good nights and if you say it to 20 people at your office that 76, 200 hello, good morning and good nights. Is it really necessary? If I didn’t tell you good night, would you think less of me? Sometimes the wife and I don’t say good night to each other and no one in my house ever says hello or good morning and we still love each other.

I guess deciding on when to be nice is a judgment call to be made by each one of us. It depends on our own insecurities, energy levels, mood and sensitivity. Do you get mad if the person you let cut in traffic doesn’t thank you with a wave? Then maybe letting people cut in front of you isn’t “your thing”. Perhaps you were born to be the angry, road rag, bad finger person. Like all acts of charity and kindness, if given in the spirit of reward they are meaningless. Insincere decency is an all around loser and a total waste. You didn’t care in the first place and it will be received in the same way. If you have it in you to be nice to strangers, then by all means warm the earth with your human sunshine, but if not then let it snow. Because everyone should be who they are, all the time and accepting of others for who they are.

Cut and dry, be nice or don’t be nice. Just be real.

Egg On,

Ramblin’ Rooster

New Year’s Day Family Disaster

A friend of mine told me I need to add something about myself to my blog. A personal touch to give myself that tinge of humanity that brings us all together. So in honor of my friend, I give you a true story from my life.

First off, so you know, I’m married with three kids, ages 12, 11 and 10. The wife and I both have kids from previous marriages and Christmas/New Year’s the kids go back and forth between “the other” parents. Last year all the kids were off and away and the wife and I picked them up on New Year’s Day.

We decided to go out to dinner to a popular and semi-fancy Mexican restaurant. The wait was minimal, the kids were in a good mood, the wife and I happy to see our kids again, so it seemed like it was shaping up to be a nice little evening.

In hind sight, the trouble began with the waiter bringing all the kids monster sized beverages. Every place and every time we’ve ever gone out to eat, the kids always get the kiddie sized drink, whether they like it or not, but for some reason tonight the waiter decided to bring them the 44 ouncers. Go figure. Well sure enough, five minutes later the middle aged kid knocked over her drink turning the table into an instant soda pop lake. “No big deal” the waiter said, as he brought out towels and napkins and guess what? That’s right, a new 44 ounce drink! This time it takes her two minutes to replenish the soda pop table reservoir. Needless to say, she went the rest of the meal without a drink. Come and get me child services!

Next, the kids finished eating and the oldest child was handing his empty chicken basket to the waiter trying to clear the table of our plates. It was one of those, “you got it, I think you got it, oh you don’t have it?” things. As I’m sure you can guess the basket, along with a large ramekin of ranch dressing goes crashing to the floor. The ramekin flips up sending a wave of ranch dressing all over the family and there small baby next to us. Ranch is all over her purse, the baby bag, the man’s pant leg, the chairs and of course all over the floor. Four managers rush to their table, nervously wiping down the area, each one apologizing at the same time to the family. They offer to pay for the meal, the dry cleaning, coupons for free meals, free desert, anything they can think of.

Finally, I’m still working on my gigantic fajita platter, on which sits a couple of jalapeno peppers. Now the kids no longer have food, thus have nothing to do, thus are instantly bored. The eldest boy offers to pay the youngest girl one dollar to eat the jalapeno. The wife thinks it’d be funny, so she offers another dollar for her to eat it. What 10 year old can resist two dollars? So she proceeds to eat it and just like the classic, college, raunchy, shock comedy movie, she starts off saying, “It wasn’t so bad. It wasn’t so hot.” Then the heat washes over her. She starts downing every body’s drink trying to put out the fire. She starts grabbing fistfuls of bread, woofing it down, at times rubbing it on her tongue trying to dull the pain. The waiter asks us what’s wrong and after hearing the story brings out a glass of milk. She downs it like a shot of whiskey. A few seconds pass, then she says, “I don’t feel so well.” The wife replies, “Do you need to go to the bathroom? Are you going to be sick?” “No, I’ll be OK.” she responds. A few more seconds pass and then the eruption of vomit comes spewing out all over the table.

I try to catch it in the an empty glass, but like trying to dodge a bullet I was pretty slow in trying to catch it. So the dinner, bread, milky vomit with jalapeno chunks flows over the sticky, ranch stained table and my wife has a minor stroke. She jumps up, saturated in embarrassment and tells me she’s leaving. Her and the kids take off as though they’re pulling a dine and dash, while I get to sit at the table, alone, waiting to pay at a table that looks like an elephant defecated a Volkswagen full of dead monkeys on it.

Now that’s how a family parties on New Year’s Day!

Egg On,

Ramblin’ Rooster

Hey Sissy Boy, Write Tough!

I’ll be the first one to admit it. I’m a victim of the modern era, subject to the the comforts of the digital age, a slave to instant gratification. So as you can imagine after four posts, I was a nervous wreck about not having any comments or feed back. What’s a blogger to do? Wait and be patient? I don’t think so.

So I asked a friend of mine to read my posts and offer his critique/criticism. Now you don’t know this friend, so I tell you  what you need to know to understand where I’m coming from. He pretty much hates people and dealing with them, hates reading and has a severe case of attention deficit disorder, or as he describes it, “I’ve got the attention span of a dachshund on meth.” So logically he seemed like the perfect candidate to review my work.

I asked him to check it out, he said OK, I waited around a few days and nothing. I finally asked if he’d read it yet and he said that he had. Thanks for letting me know. Did he think I wanted him just to read it and go about his life? “What did you think?” I asked. “It was fine.” he replied. Another point, this guy has never said anything nice about anything in all the time I’ve known him. He’s the kind of guy who if you ask, “Do you think I’m a loser?” after your girlfriend leaves you and your get fired from your job and you’re totally depressed will answer, “Yes.” just to cheer you up.

Naturally I was taken back by his response. Completely shocked I pried into his answer. “For real?” “You don’t have anything else to say?” “At all?” just some of the brilliant questions I threw at him trying to trick him into giving me his true opinion. “Well, I guess I’d say they were a little too long and a little soft and fluffy, but then again so are you.” Now that’s more like it. That’s the kind of thing I’m use to hearing.

Light and fluffy. Light and fluffy? What the heck is light and fluffy? So of course I had to ask. “I don’t know, just light and fluffy.” he responded. Point number three, he’s the kind of guy that has probably never answered a direct question in his life. You know the type, “Where do you want to eat?” “I don’t care.” “How ’bout Johnny’s Steak House?” “No.” Alright…

My next line of questioning was too explore the opposite of light and fluffy. Which I guess would be tough and macho. “What do you want me to do, write all tough and macho?” “Yeah try that.” “OK… how’s that suppose to go?” Which really is an interesting question.

How does one write tough? Do you constantly quote and reference macho stereotypes? Write about non-mainstream sports like professional chainsaw racing or beer mud diving? Do you write about young girls in an explicit and demeaning matter, citing perverse and imaginary positions and exploits? Or far worse, do you give your views on war and who should be killed, how it should be done and when to do it?

Truth is, I have no idea. So I’d love to hear from somebody. Anybody. Tell me how to write tough or better yet tell me how you’ve come to rely and look forward to me bathing you in the light and fluffy magic that pours from my fingertips.

Egg On,

Ramblin’ Rooster

Pick Up Your Suitcase Wussy!

The office building I work at is surround by hotels. There’s at least six that I know of for sure, maybe more. Every direction you look is a hotel, there’s a lot of hotels is what I’m overstating here. Again, it’s a haven for hotels. So sufficed to say I see a lot of travelers, coming and going, checking in and checking out, living the hotel life.

In these masses of people a few stand out more than others. Those would consist of the ones who have suitcases with wheels on them. I notice them because they drive me crazy, they look ridiculous and most of the time are only walking ten to twenty feet to their car.

I’m not talking about the suitcases that are huge and really do benefit from having wheels because they would be awkward or hard to carry. Nor am I talking about small, old, skeleton thin or weak looking people that appear as though carrying more than five pounds would be a struggle that could cost them their lives.

I’m talking about the able bodies, healthy looking folks that are wheeling a suitcase that’s smaller than an average purse or laptop brief case. It’s so small that it actually struggles to roll properly and the owner actually slow themselves down trying to roll this tiny bag around the parking lot. I’ve even seen them walking out of the lobby carrying it and once they get outside, (still holding it mind you) pull the handle out and bend over, (BEND OVER!) to set it down to start rolling it.

It’s so incredible silly, because as I stated earlier they’re only traveling a short distance. In the time it takes to stop and prepare the tiny bag, they could have been in their car driving away. Instead they want to go out of their way to make their life easier. Which I guess is not uncommon for us humans.

Like a panhandler will spend all day wandering the streets, working on their sympathy inducing, heart string pulling sob story that will get you to crack open your wallet, a person really wonders, as an observer, why would someone go to so much trouble for so little reward?

You could argue they use the wheels simply because this feature is offered on the model they bought. Well the speedometer on my car says 140 mph, but I know I never have or will be driving 140 mph. Just because it’s there, doesn’t mean you have to use it. Especially if it doesn’t make any sense to do so.

So do me a favor and pick up your wallet sized suitcase and stop being so lazy.

Egg On,

Ramblin’ Rooster

Itchy Face Syndrome

One of the great things in life is the unavoidable, uncontrollable, dark comedy that plagues each of our lives. For me, the itchy face seems to be the most common and most often running gag in my life. It never fails, that if I place myself in the worst possible situation, my face starts to itch.

I’m talking a real itch, not just some fly by night, shooing a fly, gentle breeze itch. We’re talking hemorrhoidal, poison ivy, gold bond medicated powder itch. I know, I know, you’re thinking it’s a mental thing or that I need to see a dermatologist. Just wait, let’s get into it a bit.

A good example… I moved furniture for about three years before making a career change. Everyday, all day long I moved furniture. Whether it was to someones house, around the warehouse or setting up the showroom floor. In all the time I moved furniture, never did I get the itch face, but if I moved even a chair for someone, in private society, the itching happened.

Now to clarify, the situation has to be bad, like moving a reclining sofa down a flight of stairs, or hoisting a heavy box over my head while teetering on a ladder. The scene has to be dire and it helps if there’s at least an 90% chance of bodily harm of property damage. That’s when the face itches.

To discredit those who might write this off as a mental to physical manifestation that, let’s just say, stems from a deep subconscious hate for moving furniture and that doing it for friends or family brings back a bad feeling that makes me itch, it doesn’t just happen when I move furniture. Besides, I liked moving furniture. Better than shoveling manure…

The other occurrence is when I’m working on something or doing something that involves filthy hands. Again, it usually helps if the substance on my hands is of the utmost vile and disgusting substance, preferably harmful to inhale orto come in contact with sensitive skin, (the eyes, nostrils, ears, lips, etc.). Here’s a short list of my favorites, gasoline, varnish and finish, paint, industrial grease, scum and muck from piping and plumbing, silt from gutters and the most popular, feces.

Before you start gagging and making vulgar assumptions, the feces comes from walking two dogs, (because I’m a firm believer in picking up your dog’s business) and back in the days of changing babies diapers. But, yeah, feces never fails in triggering the itchy face.

It can be annoying and is definitely a nuisance, but ultimately it’s good for a laugh. I always like to think someone’s enjoying my discomfort, otherwise it’d all be for not and what fun would that be? So the next time you lift something heavy or stick your hand in something gross, try not to think of the itchy face.

Egg On,
Ramblin’ Rooster

Farting in General

I’m not a fan of fart humor. When I’m watching a movie or television show that shifts into fart jokes or uses farting as an interlude, I yawn and patiently wait for it to be over. However, I do think the world of farting and farting etiquette is worthy of a blog, because like most of my posts, I like to deal with the function, reaction and the way society perceives an action/behavior/object/etc. That is what I find interesting.

I grew up with grandparents who let the farts fly. If they had gas, they just pushed it out, no big deal. They never excused themselves or acknowledged that it happened. As a child I remember riding in the car with my mother, who on occasion would inexplicably say, “I’m sorry” or “Excuse me” or both. I never heard them, but looking back I wonder if she was squeezing them out and waiting for the smell detection to offer her apology or not. My father used to be into running and would stretch before and after his jog. He was like a fart factory, exploring new sounds, duration, and rhythm. If an award was ever to be handed out for most original farting, it would be on the mantle in my dad’s house. I don’t recall him being embarrassed like my mother was. Since the grandparents I referenced earlier were his parents, I’m guessing he was brought up to think farting didn’t exist either.

My brother had a friend in grammar school who used to call farts, a squawba. His story went that he was sitting on a piano bench and farted, the sound it made was squaw-ba. As kids we thought that was pretty funny and use to throw the word around quite a bit.

The other side of the coin is my wife. She hates farting, thinks it gross and perhaps an abomination dreamed up by the devil himself to ruin a good time in church. She makes her kids go into the bathroom if they need to fart. I am allowed to fart whenever and wherever I choose, but every time I do, I have to excuse myself and usually received an “OMG…” look or she reacts as though it’s our first date and a farted while sitting on her lap.

Once, while out shopping with the wife after dinner, I was having major gas pains and could no longer keep them in. Being with the wife, I couldn’t possibly do it in the store, IN PUBLIC! So I told her I was going to go “look at something over there”. I perused the aisles making sure the coast was clear. I got to a corner and bent down to further the charade of “casual shopper”. When I did, the fart came out, and because of the holding it in, bending and position of my hole, the sound was anything but quite. I looked up and a strange woman was in front of me with a look of disgust that I have yet to ever see duplicated by any human, (long lost cousin of my wife maybe?). I must admit, I was embarrassed and had to jump from aisle to aisle to avoid seeing her again while in the store.

I don’t really care about any of it and don’t spend much time thinking about fart etiquette. Where I choose to waste my mental energy on the subject of farting is in the real world. I think of things like:

-While at the movie theatre, “I wonder how many people have pinched a nasty, little, chocolate and popcorn fart in this cushion?”

-Inside a major/large department store, “I wonder how many people are farting simultaneously in the store right now?”

-Standing in a crowded elevator, “I wonder what these people would do if I let out the dragon breath?”

-”I wonder how many people have blown a job interview by ripping one?”

-”I wonder how many people have farted during sex?”

-”I wonder if Santa has had a lot of children put the warmth of the green blanket on his thigh at the mall?”

You know, stuff like that.

Of course there is the weird world of self smell tolerance, that we have yet to discuss, wherein nasty smells that you yourself create are not bothersome to you, but the slightest whiff of some stranger’s stench is unbearable, but I think that’s a universal truth that doesn’t warrant elaboration.

I just think farting is a natural function of life. I know I feel better if I let my gas out. I don’t think it should be used as entertainment and I do think exercising general manners of conduit should always be in applied.

In conclusion, ( I couldn’t decide which one to use)…

It just seems to me that by talking and discussing farting in general, we might finally clear the air.

or

It just seems to me that by talking and discussing farting in general, we might all draw a breath of fresh air.

 

Egg On,

Ramblin’ Rooster

Get Out of My Space Motorcycle!

I’m not a motorcycle enthusiast. Meaning I don’t ride or have ever ridden a motorcycle. I have some hours logged on a scooter in my youth, but I’m sure that doesn’t count. So let’s forget I even mentioned the whole scooter thing.

It’s fair to say that I probably harbor a little jealousy for those who live free and ride the hog, (even the weekend posers). There’s a small part of me that sees them passing me on the highway and wishes I was the reckless, carefree individual roaring down the road. Alas, I am not though. So does this rant stem from envy? Who knows, you tell me.

I don’t think motorcycles should be allowed to park in parking stalls. Period. Ever. I don’t mean that it should be discouraged or looked down upon or something weak or silly like that. I’m saying it should be against the law for a motorcycle to park in a parking stall. First offense, major fine. Second offense, jail time. Third offense, forced to watch monster truck crush bike.

There’s nothing more frustrating than thinking you see an open spot across the parking lot, working your way around to get to it, only to find that a motorcycle is using the 9′ x 18′ space with it’s puny dimensions. Isn’t it blatantly obvious that this space was not designed for you? A blind canary could tell you that.

Doesn’t it go against the anti-establishment of the whole bikers lifestyle anyway to conform to parking stripes? I thought the whole movement of being a biker was to slough off the rules and do whatever you felt. How could you give into paint? Park your motorcycle on the sidewalk, or in the grass, or by the door or in the hallway, I couldn’t care less, just get that bike out of my parking stall.

Bikers get to be cool all the time while driving, or rather riding, so why can’t they continue being cool when parking? You know it would piss off just about every car and pickup driver there is. It’d be just another thing for them to see that they themselves couldn’t do or would be too scared to try. To me that’s the whole reason to ride a motorcycle… to be cool. That and giving the bird to “the Man”.

If you’re a biker and reading this makes you angry or causes you to be hateful, I urge you to let it go and tune in tomorrow when I attack the overly cautious SUV drivers. It should make everything OK.

Egg On,

Ramblin’ Rooster

The SUV and the Drivers Who Must Die

I’ve driven my fair share of automobiles, new and used. Compact cars, gigantic cars, cheap cars, expensive cars, pickup trucks, moving trucks, and you guessed it, SUV’s. So I feel like I’ve had a good feel for the parameters of the driving experience.

One thing I’ve learned, not only from experience, but also from watching COPS is that automobiles can withstand a lot of damage. Just like the truck commercials and even a current SUV commercial states, the ads themselves will always show their vehicle driving over boulders, threw rivers, across deserts and knee high mud. They handle these terrains with out blinking a headlight. It’s what they were made for.

So imagine the shock and surprise of being behind one of the amazing SUV’s in local, everyday traffic and almost coming to complete stop, waiting for the might SUV to gentle drive over railroad tracks, valley gutter (dip), or speed bump. I literally feel my blood start to boil when I’m forced to bear witness to this ridiculous behavior.

I’m not usually one to fall victim to road rage, but when I see an SUV’s owner driving their might “fortress on wheels” like granny on a scooter Sunday morning, I can’t help the visions of outrageous violence flashing in my head, turning my eyes blood red. “Are you kidding me?!?!” I often exclaim. “It’s an SUV for Pete’s sake!” I might scream aloud to myself.

It doesn’t stop there either. Apparently 76% of SUV owners were originally previous owner’s of a European compact car, because parking has now mimicked the results of a drunken toddler behind the wheel. I’ve actual missed entire movies or had the gallon of milk I just bought spoil while sitting, rotting and wasting my life away in a parking lot as I’m trapped behind the SUV driver trying to “line up”, ”straighten out” or attempt to get into a parking stall.

Forget the fact that you, as a car driver, can’t see around them in traffic or day to day entrance maneuvers, but have mercy on my soul when I finally yank the wheel to meet them head on, in a simple right lane-left lane residential street pass. I know the SUV is big, but I think you can get closer to the curb than 13 feet. The center of the road is not for traffic.

I’m not sure if it’s really the SUV’s fault or if the world just produces a low caliber of drivers. If you take the test and fail, you can go back the next day and take it again. Point is, the test isn’t designed to keep the roads safe. It’s not designed to make an elite group of people privileged enough to be a licensed driver. It’s just a formality, because handing out licenses at the county fair would be too presumptuous.

Egg On,

Ramblin’ Rooster

Bathroom Etiquette

I’m a rooster, not a hen so I don’t know if this applies to both sides or not. All you ladies, if you feel left out just try having a laugh at the stupid men and their behavior. You’re only being left out due to lack of experience on my part.

I have a fear of public bathrooms. It’s not some kind of weird phobia or a condition developed out of a traumatic experience I suffered. It stems solely from strangers. As mother use to say, “Beware of strangers”.

Because that’s exactly what you get in a public bathroom, strangers. Just as in life there are many different personality types that use public bathrooms. There’s the shy, quiet type who wish they were in a private bathroom all alone, (that’s the category I fall under). Then there’s the “I couldn’t care less about being private, in fact I’m quite proud of the noises and smells my body makes.” These are the people that come into the bathroom with reading material or talk on the phone. We’re in a PUBLIC bathroom for crying in the night. I’ve never been one who needs reading material, but if you are and you’re at home and want to skim threw a view chapters of ‘War and Peace’ while hanging out, be my guest. I would just think you’d want to keep that as a closed door thing. Of course there is also the the middle types, the ones who seem oblivious to the weird vibes or awkward tension that fills the room. They’re called office managers.

Now the type that really gets my goat, the ones that are desperately seeking to get smacked around, who really need to be taught a little bathroom etiquette are the ones who want to talk. I’m describing those who wish to try to engage in actual conversations. A simple ”hello” or maybe a arbitrary comment about the weather would be OK, (still too much and way too creepy for me, but they’re just one of those overly friendly, salesman personality types). The ones who qualify for being placed in front of the firing squad are the ones who just won’t shut up, regardless of you ignoring them or not. They ask you questions, they tell you stories, they describe and provide detail of the act they’re performing, anything and everything that enters their mind.

Maybe this, like so many other human behaviors is not something that you become over night. Perhaps there are signs or warnings of those who are heading down the dark and destructive path. I think one of those signs might be those who sing softly at the urinal. That has to be a sign of future overbearing, inopportunely conversationalist. We should probably have a class or seminar that we could send people to that show the early signs of “Urinal Talker” and perhaps even rehabilitate a few of the addicts as well. Lord knows the government has wasted money on more ridiculous endeavors.

I only go to the bathroom for one reason and one reason only. It’s not to make new friends or have a debate over the ‘78 Cowboys. Just let me do my thing and get out of there. If you want to be my new friend or help you out with a dilemma or whatever, let’s do it outside. I won’t take that long, so just be patient, relax and please be quiet in the bathroom. The noise makes it crawl back up.

Egg On,

Ramblin’ Rooster

Lazy Napkin/Paper Towel Stockers Are Destroying the Earth

Laziness, there’s just no other excuse. Well, perhaps stupidity, but these could be the only reasons why the napkin/paper towel stocker is destroying the earth!

I’m talking about those individuals who place so many napkins or paper towels in the holder/dispenser that getting one out is impossible. Napkins from restaurants, of the fast-food variety, seem to always have about six thousand more napkins in the dispenser than the recommended, designed quantity calls for, so when you go to pull one out, it tears and shreds and you pull out a scrap that’s too small to wipe the mouth of a Barbie doll. So you keep trying and trying and eventually have a table full of napkin scraps that would make Smokey the Bear very nervous. “Only you can prevent restaurant fires!” What do these employees think? “If I put ten thousand napkins inside this dispenser, I’ll never have to stock it again. They’ll procreate and make new napkins!” The paper towel dispenser is the bathroom is the same way. “I never want to have to return to this room, so I’m going to put our entire supply of paper towels into the holder.” It really is sad, the waste it produces, the time it costs and depending on the location of the wall mounted paper towel holder, (i.e. reaching up to get a paper towel, thus water running down your wrists and dampening your cuffs) the trouble it causes.

I’ve never understood a poor work ethic and maybe that’s my problem right there. I’ve had a lot of “less than ideal” jobs in my life and I wasn’t thrilled to be doing them, but I always did my best. Always. Sometimes it may have come from boredom, while other times it was just because that’s who I am. I’m sure everyone has that relative who’s been quoted as saying, “The only job worth doing is a job done right”.

Isn’t that the point of work? To do your job and to do it well? There are those professions that if it’s done right, no one notices. A bridge that holds traffic and doesn’t collapse, a hamburger that doesn’t kill you with a bacterial infection, a pair of pants that don’t rip after wearing them for years, these are just a few things that pooped into my mind. Even so, working is about one of only three things, money, helping people, or improvement. It’s not about praise, being cool, or having your day-in/day-out takes showered with compliments.

Let’s start with money, it seems pretty obvious and is what the overwhelming majority of all us go to work for. I also like to think that those who would try to argue that celebrities work for praise could be silenced by two facts. 1. They only like good press 2. I’m sure they’d still be doing it for the money even if people didn’t worship them and paid no attention to them at all.

Then there are those that work at helping people. You could include certain doctors, pro bono lawyers, volunteer workers, teachers, police, firefighters, EMTs, people like that, folks who like people, working with the under privileged/sick/injured, trying to promote and improve the health and well being of man.

Improvement would be all the things we do that are essentially free, like yard work, house/car maintenance, etc. You wouldn’t wash your car with dirt filled water would you? You want the things you do to look nice, to be reward with a feeling of accomplishment, not a sense of, “Boy, I really did a half assed job at that, I’m so proud!”

So what happened? Where did the napkin/paper towel stocker go wrong? Why must they work hard at being idiots? Why can’t they stop the compulsion of over stuffing the container of its capacity?

I’m sorry to say, I don’t have an answer. I will leave this message though, “Please stop. You’re not earning your money, helping anyone or improving the world.”

Egg On,

Ramblin’ Rooster

Online Auctions, Worse Than Heroin

There’s a certain online auction site that is very popular. I’m sure you know the one to which I’m referring too, so sorry **** no free advertisement here. Even though this whole blog is an advertisement, since we all know what I am talking about… oh well, I STILL WON’T SAY YOUR NAME!

Anyway, I think a quote from my friend, Jack McCallistersums it up best, but to achieve the true meaning and depth, let us relive the moment in scripted form.

Ramblin’ Rooster: “Boy, that (online auction) is crazy. I felt like I was gambling.”

Jack McCallister: “(online auction) is evil.”

RR: “How is it evil?”

JM: “It totally sucks you in and takes all your money.”

RR: “But I just bid on a few comics.”

JM: “It starts with a few a comics and ends with your wife threatening divorce as you’re driving to Dallas to pick up your new car.”

Just in case you’re the curious type, Dallas is around 1200 miles from where we live. I don’t know if that improves the story for you or not, but there it is all the same.

And that’s it in a nut shell. You go to (online auction), thinking you’ll just look around, check it out and nine hours later, the sun has come up and your twitchy little finger sweats as you hover over the mouse button, refreshing the clock, trying to “snipe” your item in the last ten seconds of bidding. You lose track of the original item you were even after and have now focused everything on not seeing that annoying “You’ve Been Outbid” text pop up. “I just bid $100 for something valued at $20! Who would be so stupid as to bid on it?!” It’s more of grammatical gambling than product shopping. You just want to see “Winner!”.

That’s how they get you. You find something you like, let’s say a Ramblin’ Rooster T-Shirt, for $1. “Ramblin’ Rooster T-Shirt for $1? I’d take a Ramblin’ Rooster T-Shirt for $1.” So you bid. “Congratulations, you’re the highest bidder!” Wow, that feels pretty good you tell yourself. Everything is wonderful and you’re happy, thinking about the awesome Ramblin’ Rooster T-Shirt you’re about to get for a measly dollar. Then you get outbid. So you raise your bid, thinking to yourself, “OK, $3.20, but that’s as high as I’m going to go”. It doesn’t last. As soon as it gets to $3.80, you think, “Well, what’s $4 compared to $3.20?” and so on and so on.

Cue entrance of the shoulder Devil laughing and twisting his mustache as he prods you with his pitch fork, whispering with his hot breath into your ear, “Bid again, there’s only one minute left. Bid $5.38, that’ll win for sure. No? Try $10″.

I wonder how long before there are meetings, help groups and rehabilitation facilities dedicated solely for (online auction) addictions. Maybe they already exist. If anyone knows of one, please let me know.

By the way, this post will be placed for bid tomorrow. Starting bid $0.99 with free shipping.

Egg On,

Ramblin’ Rooster

I’m the Only One Who Doesn’t Know I’m Going Bald

There are a lot of fat and ugly people in the world. I think most of them work in my building. I guess that means I could be fat and ugly too. I’m not too fat, maybe a few pounds, but I’m working on it, (getting fatter mind you).

The whole beauty thing is pretty much pointless to debate. The subject is just too ambiguous and objective. Just like the saying, “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder” that’s a fact you can’t argue with. So no matter how beautiful I think I am or how ugly I feel, there will always be someone there to tell me the opposite, right? Tell me I’m beautiful… please?

How did the world get so involved with beauty? Surely everyone knows by now, that it’s a losing bet to put your money on beauty. It doesn’t last and in the broad spectrum of life and love it really doesn’t matter. The most beautiful person on the outside who’d kick puppies or drown kitties turns out to be quite ugly in the end.

“Beauty is on the inside.” “That’s just what ugly people say…” I wish I could remember what movie that’s from, because sadly, like most all Americanisms, the general public is so desensitized and numb from scandal and betrayal we just don’t care about right or wrong anymore. We as a society have been so strung out on “extreme” this and that or the latest, fabricated, reality non-sense that we’ve adjusted and accustomed ourselves to needing shock and awe just to get out of bed in the morning.

So it’s really no surprised that when it comes to “being deep” or “getting to the heart of the matter” that majority rules and as always, is completely void of reason, compassion or common sense. Yet, one could refer to me as a hypocrite, because I’m teetering on the threshold of vanity denial.

I’ve always been a pseudo hippie. Not into the “free love”, “tie-dye scene” or “patchoulioil baths”, but rather just mellow and wanna-be earthy. I always thought people who did unnecessary cosmetic alterations on themselves were “mindless robots” or “soulless zombies” wasting there money, lives and spirit. But am I becoming what I’ve always hated? Like a punk rocker buying a mini-van?!

Balding seems to be a topic of discussion brought up frequently among men who are leaving their teens and rocketing towards middle age. I was of the mind that if my hair fell out that I wouldn’t care. Now that the nightmare is becoming a daymare, I’ve found a new bond with hair that I never knew existed. I still refuse to apply “product” or wear “a piece”, so the only alternative left is denial and that’s where I’m at.

The debate over who you get your “hair genes” from is completely moot for me. Both of my grandfathers were bald. My mother and father are thinning. My brother is in trouble. My uncle is bald, bald. I have watched my widow’s peak get higher and higher over the years. It’s now starting to cross inwards towards the center of my head, creating a small little island of hair on top. I can feel a big difference between the top of my head and the back of my head, (in thickness/density). I’m trying to grow my hair out “one last time” and the top isn’t growing very much at all, while the back seems fine and dandy, so in essence I’m growing a natural mullet… The point is, the evidence is overwhelming, undeniable and literally staring me in the face, (if I’m looking into a mirror). Yet somehow I still have a small part of me that tries to convince myself, “You’re not going to be bald. It’s cool. Every thing’s gonna be hairy and fine.”

It’s sad and silly, but I do believe in the end I’ll come to terms with it, just like everything else in this crazy world.

In the mean time I’ve been experimenting with the comb-over and shopping around for colorful, designer pony tail holders.

Next blog: Why do balding men attempt the comb-over or grow pony tails? Don’t they know they’re bald? Losers…

Egg On,

Ramblin’ Rooster

Why is Cheating Allowed for Spelling?

My favorite book is the dictionary. I know, I know, I’m a dork, but I really can’t help it. The dictionary is a fascinating book. It’s a series of references that lead you through the book like a literal labyrinth. Look up one word, it tells you to see another word. Or you look up a word and the definition uses words you don’t know or aren’t quite sure what they mean so you go find those words. It’s linguistic solitaire. You’re right, maybe I should get out more.

Also, I find it interesting to read the true meaning of words. Definitions that are lost by the ignorance of today and constant misuse. Not to mention it’s fun finding words that are no longer used, things you might hear when watching a movie from the ’40s. Or words you just flat out have never heard, ever in your life.

I guess this does sound frightfully dull, but the truth of the matter is that words are very powerful. String together the right ones and you can cause a lot of damage in the conversation world. We’ve all had moments where, after the fact, we think of something we wished we would have said, but didn’t because the words didn’t come at the right time. That’s another oddity, people who can’t express themselves or their feelings. Not that the “greeting card” industry isn’t thankful, but still it’s sad to think of a person who has a brain and a heart, who’d like to share an inner thought or emotion, but can’t because it’s trapped.

The worst is when someone says something to you, most assuredly a task or errand/favor to do, and they verbalize their request, you repeat it to them, using their own words and the correct you followed by something along the lines of, “…you know what I mean.” No, actually I don’t, that’s why communication is so important. Has ‘Three’s Company’ taught us nothing about the follies of misunderstanding from miscommunication?

Having wasted your time with all of that, the real bizarre twist of the dictionary is that essentially it is the answer book to our language, yet everyone accepts it and treats it as a harmless book. Whether you’re taking a math quiz or completing a “love test” in a fashion magazine, the general rule of thumb is that looking up the answer is bad, (at least without trying to figure it out on your own first). My whole life, if I ever asked my parents or a teacher how to spell something, they immediately blurted out, “Look it up in the dictionary.” The dictionary is a wide spread, household accepted form of cheating that everyone condones. How’s that for awesome. Imagine if infidelity has the same graces… watch out now!

I sure hope I didn’t misspell anything…

Egg On,

Ramblin’ Rooster

Honking Noise on CD/Radio Freaks Me Out

It never fails, I fall for it every time I hear “traffic noises” mixed into a song I’m listening to while driving. It doesn’t matter if I’ve heard the song a thousand times or if I recorded it “back when the band was together, man”. There’s just some sounds that shouldn’t be allowed to be heard on a song. They include, but are not limited too: Honking, Sirens, Doppler Whoosh of a Speeding/Passing Car, Engine Starting/Revving, Heavy Trucks/Industrial Equipment, Low Rumbling, and Babies Crying, (yes I know, what would a baby be doing in the middle of the road? It’s not a confusing sound, I just hate crying babies).

You’d think with the world as disclaimer/sue happy as it is, there’d be a warning label forced upon CD’s that stated something like, “Warning! Track 8 has traffic noises associated with the song. Be aware that they are not real and please don’t drop your coffee and swerve into oncoming lanes and kill a bus full of crippled, homeless, nuns.” Hmmm, perhaps I just found my calling.

Why am I so naive or stupid to fall for this? It’s just a sound like any other. Maybe it’s because I don’t hear a lot of honking or sirens in my day to day driving. When I do, I’m usually able to witness it first hand or I am directly involved in a potentially violent, soon to be six o’clock news, road rage incident. My point being is that I usually don’t have sounds sneak up on me or come shooting out of nowhere while I’m driving. Most of the time, the interior of my car is like a piano bar or lizard lounge, reminiscent smells from the ’70s, cheap food and toothless women wearing wigs they found outside in the parking lot, i.e. it’s a pretty mellow scene. I don’t need to be cruising along, content and then “on the look out” for a piercing foreign sound approaching my shangri-la.

Who are the musicians that want this stuff on their albums? I wonder if they sit around the studio and say to the engineer, “Hey, throw some honking in there. That’ll freak ‘em out!” or “This song is so beautiful, but it’s missing something… I know, a helicopter. Perfect!” I don’t remember the legends of classical music ever needing strange noises in their work. What’s that? They didn’t have cars and stuff back then? Yeah, OK, good point.

All I’m saying is, that instead of “Judas Priest made my kid commit suicide”, the next big law suit is gonna be “Radiohead made me crash my car!”

Be sure and call me if you need me to testify on your behalf.

Egg On,

Ramblin’ Rooster

Songs With Singing Need Lyrics

Since yesterday’s blog was about music, I thought I’d go ahead and follow today with a little bit of spill over/continuation. We won’t be revisiting yesterday’s blog, so if you didn’t read it, you don’t have to go back and read it first to understand today’s. (Although I’m not excusing you from reading yesterday’s blog, mind you!)

The only real correlation is that music is still the topic. So let’s begin, shall we? Great!

I like music. No, I love music, all kinds of music. I don’t think that anyone who truly appreciates music can answer the boring and tired question of, “What’s your favorite kind of music?” Someone who really appreciates music would have to answer either, “I don’t have one” or “I like all kinds of music”. I don’t care what kind of music you think you like or hate, if you can’t find one song from each genre, you haven’t heard enough songs.

Most of the time music is used to compliment your mood or situation. If you’re sad or feeling sorry for yourself, one doesn’t usually reach for speed metal, whereas if you’re cleaning your house you’re not likely to put on, “I cry myself to sleep”. I don’t know about you, but I have a lot of different moods and like the many flavors that life has to offer. I can’t eat pancakes every day for my entire life. To quote Mike McCormick’s mother, “…that’s why they made chocolate AND vanilla”.

I also like to hear things I have never heard and things that are like nothing I have ever heard before. As an American, usually anything foreign fills the bill on this one. Traditional music from other countries can be very hard for the “everyday listener” I know, but to me it’s always a wonderful treat to get to hear it. Even if it’s not true, it makes me feel cool and worldly when I hear ’60s Korean pop music or something that is “exotic”. It’s like an inside joke or a secret that you carry with you all day, all week, all month, etc. So I think I have a pretty good tolerance for music styles. I don’t judge singers for the vocal training or technique, just the soul they put behind it. Now I don’t mean it has to be gospel quality soul, just enough soul that you know they’re heart is 100% into it.

There is a time and a place, through creative perfection, that the lack of words being used while singing a melody seems fitting, but most of the time I hate it. I hate it because it sounds like the writer gave up on the establishment of the words. Is it that they couldn’t think of what to say, so they half-assed it, as though “La La De Da” would be fine and dandy? I guess one could argue that those are words, but then that would be all I needed to punch you clean in the mouth.

All I’m saying is that it isn’t that hard to write words. I hear songs all the time with horrible rhymes, lines and lyrics all the time. Sometimes it doesn’t even bother me. I don’t even mind when you can’t understand a single word the singer is singing, just as long as you know he/she is saying something.

Bottom line? I feel ripped off. I can’t write my blog: “Do Da De Do, Skeetely dum, Beetly boo, dosey de la ta de do, do rum be do” and get away with it. Or can I?

Tomorrows blog? Do Da De Do, Skeetely dum, Beetly boo, dosey de la ta de do, do rum be do.

Egg On,

Ramblin’ Rooster

How To Identify a Moron

How to identify a moron? This might seem like an easy thing to do, but sometimes it’s similar to the dating experience. I person might start out pleasant and apparently in tune to their faculties, but after a while, “the leopard shows it’s spots”. I think some people can’t hide their faults or short comings, those people you get an instant vibe from. The moment you meet them you just know, “Nope.” If you were in possession of a forehead sized rubber stamp, you’d ink their face, “REJECT”.

To me, a telltale sign is if any person uses the phrase, “I KNOW ALL ABOUT yada-yada-yada”. This is beyond a red flag. This is a flag on fire, next to a highly flammable, open top, chemical tank, sitting upon a vacuum sealed glass case containing the world’s deadliest airborne virus. Get away fast!

First of all, the arrogance alone is overwhelming. Who could ever think they know “all about” something? They could be extremely knowledgeable, even a master of expert of such thing, but to think you couldn’t learn something new is a fate worse than dying. Never turn off your brain. Never turn away from learning. In fact, it’s when you think you can’t go any further with your mind that the real break threw happens. This usually comes from looking at it from a totally different perspective. Where do new perspectives come from? Other people are the easiest and fastest way.

Secondly, 90% of the time, the statement is a complete fabrication of the truth and the person who utters such nonsense doesn’t know everything about anything and very little in between. What inspires them to say such a binding and absolute death sentence? Ego. Those who lack physical beauty, personality, talent or charm most often go after the rewards of being smart. It’s no where near the shallow gratification of the others and can be rendered null and void in certain company. Some people couldn’t care less about intelligence, while others are put off by it because by demonstrating the slightest sign of brain power triggers the insecurity inside them, painfully reminding them of their own lack of mental ability. So be careful if you do choose this avenue as your flare to stand out from others and never say “I know all about…”

Thirdly, the phrase is meaningless. The conversation usually goes, “Do you know anything about blah-blah-blah?” “I know all about blah-blah-blah.” OK, great. The only reason the question was asked, was to find out if the REAL question was even worth asking. No cares if you know everything about it, they just want to know if you can help with the one problem they have encountered.

Finally, the opposing argument is that it’s just a figure of speech, a splash of sarcasm to brighten the day. If such is the case, then it’s even more annoying than before and I would reply that “@#$% OFF!” is also, just a phrase.

Egg On,

Ramblin’ Rooster

My Final Concert

Tonight I went to a rock concert, just got back in fact. I guess you could call it a rock concert, don’t know what else to call it. I think it will be the last one I’ll ever go to. Weird thing is, I had a pretty good time, but I got that feeling like, “I’m too old” and “I don’t really belong here”.

I’m in no way a connoisseur of shows or concerts. I’ve only been to a handful in my life and none of them featured legendary performers. So my views are limited and my experience leaves me little to draw from. Here’s a short list of the highlights from tonight’s gala. Again, a quick disclaimer. I’m sure there are millions, (literally) of you out there that have way more exciting and adventurous concert going stories than mine, but alas, this is my blog and this is not about, “I had the craziest time ever at a show”. If you’d like to leave me comments about some awesome, insane, ludicrous concert moments, I’d love to hear them.

1. “Doors open at 7″. It’s probably just me, but I like to know when the show starts. I hate standing around waiting for it to begin. I’m not interested in getting to the front row, I just want to get there a few minutes before the show starts and get into the music. “It’s all about the music, man!”

2. “No mention of an opening band on ticket”. I’m not real big on finding out the life stories of musicians I listen to, or the displaying of their posters/photographs. I also didn’t “research” the events of the show, (didn’t think I needed to). The opening band came out and it took me three songs to firmly decide that this was in fact an opening band and not the band I had paid to see. They weren’t very good, (at least to me) and I felt bored and disappointed that I was wasting my time with them.

3. “The REAL show finally starts”. Never fails, the crowd always congests for the main act. The crowd becomes thick, the bodies start to sweat, the bumping, kicking and pushing starts and for me it’s all I can do to remain calm. I’m somewhat against the “human contact” thing, especially strangers, sweaty ones in particular. The band I saw was very good though.

4. “The marijuana train pulls out of the station”. I don’t smoke pot, nor do I condemn it, but being surrounded by non-stop clouds does get a little tiresome after awhile. How much pot does one really have to smoke to ensure that nothing from this night will be retained? I’d guess nine pounds.

5. “Girl in front of me vomits”. We already have a very limited amount of space here and this girl decides to crouch down and vomit on the floor. Great.

6. “Couple start dancing through the vomit”. Nuff said…

7. “Fight breaks out”. A concert just wouldn’t be a concert unless a fight broke out. Nothing says peace, love and rockin’ out like tempers flying, testosterone rising and fists swinging.

8. “Concert is over. Hearing loss begins”. I love the gift of sound and hearing is a real, favorite hobby of mine. When I got out of the show, my ears were killing me. I felt like I was under water or just had a bomb go off beside my head. Then the headache sank in. I don’t support, “…turning it to eleven.”

BONUS – Here’s a tip: Never wear flip flops to a rock concert.

So I guess all in all its just depressing. I’ve become an old, crabby man and my life isn’t even half over.

On a lighter note, next weekend I’m going to Sunnyville Nursing Home to relax and play some dominos. Come out and join me if you’re in the area.

Egg On,

Ramblin’ Rooster

Talk Show Hosts Need A Good Ass Kickin’

You have to realize there was a time in the world where people didn’t worship and idolize celebrities. A place where real people, average people, everyday real people could be role models. You have to remember. Please tell your kids to tell their kids, so that we never forget. 

In a small way, I think the “late night talk show” has destroyed the honor of celebrity in America. I can’t tell you how many of my favorite actors or musicians have fallen in my eyes and in my admiration after seeing them on one of these shows. You see an actor you like in movies, let’s say. You’re entertained by the character they play, so when they’re on ‘Late Night with Joe Blow’ you tune in kind of excited to see your star. I mean, you are a fan. Then he/she starts to talk and suddenly your smile turns upside down when you realize they’re a total schmuck, or a loony tune, or a psycho,  or a religious freak. Now it sucks, because it’s hard to go back to watch their movies knowing that they’re a worthless human who doesn’t deserve the luck they’ve received. It’s like seeing grandma naked, you just can’t get it out of your mind no matter how hard you try.

I really don’t know how the “talk show” came about. To me, the idea on paper sounds horrible. “Hey, let’s have a show where we have actors come on and sit in a chair and talk to somebody who sits behind a desk. The actor could use his/her appearancefor shameless advertising and the host could ask prearranged, preapproved questions that no one in the audience can relate to.” Brilliant.

“Hey Betty, tell us about your horse ranch in Montana.” I’ve never even been to Montana, you know? Plus, I couldn’t care less about the $500,000 thoroughbred you just bought. You just spent more money on a horse you ride once a year, than I’ll make my whole life. Hey wait, this is fascinating. Please Betty, tell me more. Tell me about your summer home in Paris, or the nine closets of designer shoes you have, all of which cost more than my car. Tell me where you get your hair done, or a hilarious inside joke with another rich, jetsetter friend that’s about as funny as the amount of money you get paid to read lines. My favorite though, is when Betty tells us how hard it is to be her. How a man tried to take her picture when she came out of the spa, or a fan asked for an autograph in the bathroom. Hey, Betty, I have panhandlers ask me for money at least once a week and I’m not rich nor that put out by it. Deal with it. They’re called humans and they’re everywhere. Have another drink to wash down the rest of those pills.

A desk? Give me a break. You’re not at work. You’re not the boss. Most hosts cower to the popular, famous guest. Sure, there’s been some moments here and there of conflict, but few and far between, almost forgotten. It wouldn’t make sense to be controversial. You need the “big names” to book your show so people will watch. It’s like Christmas morning with transparent boxes and gift wrapping, it’s not exciting when you can see right through it.

I’ve saved the best, (worst?) part for last. When you’re watching the show, regardless if it’s a commercial break to come back with the guest or the interview, (and I use that term lightly) is over, just as they cut away or the cameras zoom back, the host leans over for “private words” with the guest. WTF?!?! Are we not worthy of your off the cuff and probably only real conversation? Isn’t that the whole reason we tuned in to your show? To hear you people talk? What could they possibly be saying? It drives me crazy!

If I had to guess, it’s either something terrible perverted or it’s “I don’t have anything to say really, I just wanted to piss off Ramblin’ Rooster.”

Well congratulations late night talk show host. You’re doing a great job. God help you if you ever get out of your limousine in my neighborhood.

It’s probably just something perverted.

Egg On,

Ramblin’ Rooster

My Celebration Equals Someone’s Suicide

I live about fifteen minutes, (depending on traffic) from where I work. Everyday I drive home for lunch. Not only to get away from the people I’m sure will enable me to a “life without parole, multiple homicide conviction”, but also to save money and let my dogs out. What’s that you say? The gas I burn driving all the way home negates the savings I acquire from not eating out? Fine, I go home to get away and let my dogs out, happy?

Given that I only have one hour for lunch and almost half of that is spent driving to and fro, I was forced to become addicted to microwave dinners, (you can eat sandwiches for only so long). Oddly, one of my favorites became Salisbury steak with spiral macaroni and cheese, (wow, how old am I?). I find this odd because to be honest, I think Salisbury steak is completely disgusting. I would never go out for a sit down dinner at a restaurant and ask the waiter, “How’s the Salisbury steak?” Wouldn’t happen, but that is not the subject to which I address tonight. Frankly, I don’t think that mystery will ever be solved.

So today when I cracked open my gourmet, frozen meal, I noticed that there were three patties. The box clearly states, right above the unrealistic and totally misleading picture on the front, ”TWO beef patties in gravy with macaroni and cheese”. Yet here I was, with three. I’m almost ashamed to admit it, but I actually got a little excited. “Yea for me!” I said to myself. Maybe today I’ll get full. After waiting the grueling six minutes, with a break in between for flipping and stirring and the two minute, post heating, cool down session I began to eat. Again I relished in the fact that I had received an extra patty, but then a terrible thought crossed my mind.

What if the extra patty that I was furiously snarfing down was cursed by the fate of the person who made the mistake and upon making said mistake, this person was caught by their supervisor and got fired? Here I am, basking in gluttony while at the same time there could be a person walking the streets, sleeping under bridges all because they accidentally put one too many patties in my box.

It made start to think about all the times I’d driven away from the drive through with an extra burger in the bag or received incorrect change in my favor or the got the big drink at the medium price. What if there’s a graveyard of unemployed zombies out there searching the earth in vain all because of misfortune to my gain? It almost made it difficult to eat that third patty, I’ll tell you that, but by then it was 12:40 and I had to get back to work.

Driving back, my mind switched gears and I thought of all the times I had been the victim of oversight. I know for a fact that those people didn’t get fired, ’cause I still see them at their posts, making the same mistakes. How hard is it not to put pickles on a burger? That’s all I needed to hear to make my guilt fade away and to feel balanced once again.

So if you’re out there unemployed food packager, I’m sorry you lost your job. If it makes you feel any better, that third patty really hit the spot.

Egg On,

Ramblin’ Rooster

Tampon Commercial is My Huge Break

When I was a kid I had wild, lofty and unrealistic expectations for what I wanted to be when I grew up. I’m not sure where they came from, who put the ideas in my head, or why it happened. I do know that even as my tastes, styles, dreams and goals changed, my ambitions always remained firmly planted in the ”never gonna happen” category. The one pertinent to tonight’s blog, which is probably fairly common, is that I wanted to be an actor.

I started acting pretty young, in a summer camp, couple of weeks, and workshop at a “Center for the Arts”. I remember the teacher being rather impressed with me and offering me the lead role, even though I had not expressed an interest. I did some work for a children’s theatre group that put on around six productions a year. I eventually lost interest because I was frustrated with the politics of the group, (the kids whose rich parents gave to the business end of it, received the role of their choice without having to audition). After that I joined a traveling improv group that performed for kids at public libraries. I don’t remember how that ended. Over the next couple of years I did a play here and there, even got a little praise and recognition. Eventually, I walked away from acting and wasted my life, er… I mean, time elsewhere. Several years later I tried to “get back in the game” by auditioning for a couple of roles. At one of my auditions, the director stopped me in the middle of my lines, to basically tell me I sucked and to stop smacking my lips. I tried another audition, this time an independent, low-budget film being directed by a guy I had known from being in a production together. I read my lines and when I was done, he had the weirdest look on his face, like he’d just seen some ultra hot chick pull down her pants and she had a penis. He asked me, “Um… do you want to try it again?” I knew I had blown it, that I lacked the spark that I once had, (if I ever had it at all). I kindly said no, thanked him and left. I have never done anything like that since.

Why am I telling you all this? The answer is simple, to illustrate that I have been in the acting world, met people who were acting crazy, people who have certain characteristics only belonging to people who want to be actors. Do I have NYC experience? Did I take a leap of faith and travel to the scary cities to really give it a go? No, but I had enough of a taste to get to the point of tonight’s blog.

When I watch TV and I see any commercial that has to do with something that’s “of a private nature” or perhaps embarrassing, dealing with a subject that no normal person would discuss out loud, (I’m talking about tampon, hemorrhoid, diarrhea, douche, jock itch, adult diaper, all vaginal infection cream, erectile dysfunction medicine and any other type of commercial in that genre) all I can think of is some actor calling on the phone, bursting through the door or dropping by to see someone in person, bubbling with excitement, dying to spill the beans, “Hey, guess what! I got the tampon commercial! We start tomorrow!” So while all the rest of us watch and say to ourselves, “How embarrassing. Who would want to do a diarrhea commercial?” Someone is throwing a huge party to celebrate and might be saying, “This is it! This is where my career takes off!” So suddenly commercials that used to represent an almost creepy, disgusting annoyance, now are down right entertaining to watch. The more serious the actor, the funnier it is to me.

I wonder if one of these actors has ever been stopped on the street. Here’s how I imagine the conversation going, ”Hey aren’t you that guy from the jock itch commercial? I love that part where you look like it really itches and you’re totally uncomfortable. Can I have your autograph? Thanks! Nah that’s alright, you can keep the pen.”

Egg On,

Ramblin’ Rooster

Movement of Home Improvement

I have one of those wives that likes to pretend she has everything she needs. Not to say that in theory it isn’t cool, but where the trouble comes knocking is on birthdays, Christmas, anniversaries, or any commemorative day that calls for a present to be given.

What happens is I ask what you would like… Now just hold on before you go attacking me and calling me unromantic or insensitive or something along those lines. The woman has closets full of all kinds of things that were given as surprise gifts. We’ve just reached the point in our relationship where buying each other knickknack crap is not only a waste of money, it’s down right annoying. “Wow, a suction cup shower mirror, thanks.” Have you ever seen me shaving in the shower? So you get my point. I still try and look for clues and signs of things she might want, but she seems happy with “the asking”. Anyway… what happens is I ask, “What would you like for (insert special day)?” To which she replies, (most of the time) “Nothing.” I then spend hours upon days, forcing her to give me something and in the end she winds up with some kind of trinket.

This year was much different, Maybe it’s because I let slip the phrase, “…it can be anything you want” at the end. She went with painting three bathrooms and the girl’s room. Yippee!

After buying all the stuff the first thing I did was “tape off” the baseboards and any trim. This is when I started to notice the amazingly lousy job of the person who painted before me. There were paint mistakes all over the trim, door jams, ceiling and floors. I was actually stunned how unobservant I’d been since moving in. It was awful. A one-armed, drunken, blind, circus monkey could have done a better job.

This is just the beginning of the dilemma. The harder I tried to make my lines and coat of paint professional and perfect, the more it seemed to accentuate the mistakes of this previous, nerve damaged, “I’ve got the shakes” painter. What can you do? Paint the baseboards? That wasn’t part of the “gift package”, we only agreed on the walls.

That’s why tonight’s victim is the “movement of home improvement”. I’m not sure when the first warehouse opened and initiated the desire in unskilled, unprofessional, unknowing people to take up power tools and paint brushes and start destroying their homes, but I think litigation is in order. There’s a reason they refer to these careers as “a trade”. There actually is an art to it, a right way of doing things and the ever overlooked “tricks to the trade”, (see there’s that word again, trade).

Not to say that some things can’t be done by the layman, but vice versa not all tasks should be taken on just because the supplies are on sale. I guess all I’m saying is that if you’re going to do something to improve your home, try to make it actually improve it. The half-assed job you do now will be left to clean up by the next poor sap. Take pride in your effort.

If you want your house to look like it was remodeled by lazy children, save yourself the time and effort and call me. I have three kids who bill out at a very affordable price.

Egg On,

Ramblin’ Rooster

Spin the Door, Break an Arm

I have had a lot of people tell me I have a child-like demeanor. I’m not talking about being immature or juvenile, but rather possessing that special quality that kids have that make adults angry that they’ve grown up. I believe that quality is the refusal to be bored, which oddly enough is the least likely candidate to find in a child, especially on theses days. Times have changed and so have the kids, but to look at the world through a child’s eyes, sure does make living a soulless existence tolerable.

What’s a soulless existence? The zombies we become, (me included) after following the monotonous weekly grind. You can’t help it. That much repetitive action forces you to lose part of your soul and almost all of your joy. It’s hard to “love life” when you’re constantly running around, or working twelve hours at a job you’d quit if you could without even thinking about it. So that’s why I find it important to entertain myself whenever and wherever I go.

If you were to place me under surveillance, you might just catch me suddenly laughing out loud for what seems to be for no reason. That’s because I like to think about funny things. I have several sit-com-esque daydreams everyday. I like to think about the people that stress me out or piss me off in wacky situations and compromising positions. It’s quite the gas.

I also try to take advantage of the playground that some people consider the world. No, I’m not a continental traveler. I find things in my everyday life to be exciting and exotic.

When I was transferred to a branch office in a new city and state, the first thing I got excited about when I saw the new office building were the two doors. The first one is an awesome, handicap-automatic opening door, the other one a revolving door. I absolutely love revolving doors. There can’t be a funner way of entering or leaving a building. I want to meet the guy/gal who invented the revolving door and give them a great big hug, maybe even a kiss, (on the cheek, on the cheek).

Sometimes when I go through the revolving door, I pretend I’m on the ‘Price Is Right’ in the ”spin-off for the showcase showdown” and I spin the door as hard as can. So hard that if someone is behind me that can’t even get in. They stand there as if they’re trying to time it, like trying to jump in on competitive double dutch. Other times if someone goes in right in front of me I jump in there with them in the quarter stall. Apparently there’s some unwritten law about not crowding in to the space, ‘because when I do it they always look at me like they’re about to call the cops or an ambulance, (after they kick my ass). On occasion I’ll let the person go in front of me, then I try to get through the door without touching it or letting it hit me. Once I stopped halfway through, clutching the push bar to simulate a panic attack. Give something for those witnessing it to talk about later.

This is all just a revolving door. Just imagine all the other wonderful things in the world that you can play with. If you come up with any good ones, please let me know.

Egg On,

Ramblin’ Rooster

Please Ruin It For Me

What is about people that makes it so they want to ruin everything for everybody? One bad apple ruins the bunch, so does one bad person ruin the world?

First off is jokes. Most jokes come via e-mail these days. I can even remember the last time someone actually asked me, “Do you want to hear a joke?” You get the same handful of jokes e-mailed to you every couple of months. Are they in rotation? Is there an e-mail joke office that keeps revising the set ups to fit the worn-out punchlines. Sure, you have an occasional shining joke that dares to break the mold or venture into originality, but let’s face it, they’re few and far between.

The one reoccurring problem with all e-mail jokes is the first line or worse, the subject line. Often times the line is repeated several times, by multiple recipients, depending on the number of “forwards” and where on the rotation you receive the joke. That line is along the lines of, “This is hilarious! This SO good!” Nothing kills “funny” faster than being told how funny something is. If you tell someone you’re going to “laugh so hard” or “spit milk through your nose” upon hearing a joke, human nature tends to automatically try to defy the fate to which is being forced on them. People just don’t like being told what to do, period. Doesn’t matter who, what, when, where or why.

The same goes for movies. When Napoleon Dynamite came out, I had a friend that spent several days telling me, at three minutes intervals, how funny and hysterical the movie was. He then made an executive to take it to the next level by telling me the whole movie from start to finish. Now I have to contradict myself, nothing kills “funny” faster than someone telling you the punchline before you hear the joke.

Is there a remedy for what I fear is to become an epidemic? I hear people around me, all the time, explaining movies to people all the time. My mother is one of the biggest culprits I know. She’ll ask me if I’ve seen a movie and if make the mistake of saying, “No” I fall subject to the equivalent of being read the script. My favorite part is when she finally gets to the end, she stops herself and says, “I won’t tell you the end, because I don’t want to ruin it for you.” Hey thanks! Save me the $12 and just let me know what happens. No point in wasting the money now just to catch the last scene.

If you want to be funny, let nature take it’s course. Don’t tell me you’re funny, how funny something is or how much I’ll it. How will you be able to tell? You can’t, so save yourself the breath and me the headache. No one can be funny all the time and no two people will find humor in the same thing, in the same way. 

You want to hear a joke? It’s frickin’ hilarious and you’re gonna laugh so hard. What do you call sex outside of marriage? SINsational.

See what I mean?

Egg On,

Ramblin’ Rooster

Haunted House Fun, I Always Miss It

My step-daughter’s birthday is October 15th. For the last couple of years we’ve been going to haunted houses for her birthday celebration. This year she brought a friend and her brother brought a friend, so including my daughter we’ve got five kids, all under the age of 13. Prime age for being scared.

I don’t know if it’s because the boy had a friend this year, but he and his friend decided to “act tough” this year, declaring how they “weren’t scared of nothin’!” The step-daughter’s friend was the exact opposite. She was terrified and moments away from having a severe mental/emotional breakdown. Inspired by the boys and wanting to pray on the nrevous wreck child, I also choose this year to declare that “kids would go first”, especially since the boys were so brave.

After waiting in line forever, we got on the trailer/hay ride that took us deep into the woods to where you have to wait in another line. Though, this one is shorter, moves faster and offers the delight of hearing people already inside the trail screaming and shrieking. Suddenly the boys became less and less tough. With every inch that we got closer to the entrance, the further back in line they seemed to be. The girl who was already terrified told my wife, “I don’t want to go. I’ll just wait at the exit for you guys. I really don’t want to go.” This sure seemed like it was shaping up to be a lot of fun at the expense of others, children no doubt. If you can’t be entertained by the fear of your children, what’s the point of having them? That’s what mother use to say.

By the time it was our turn to go, the kids were whipped into a panic. No one would go inside first. Finally I had to volunteer to go, or otherwise the people behind us in-line would’ve probably turned violent. I have to admit, I hate to be startled. I’m not scared by haunted houses or freaked out by gore, but I hate little shocks to my heart. I alleviate being startled by plugging my ears. Taking the volume/sound out of people trying to scare you, takes the shock away from your heart.

So, just as last year and the year before that, we ran through the trail with everyone holding on to the person in front of them, in a row like the world’s longest bobsled team or a speed metal conga line. It was over before anyone peed themselves, (which always makes the drive back to town more pleasant in the nostrils).

What sucks is I missed all the fun again. I never get to see the kids screaming, jumping, hiding or running away. I’m always stuck with recon, the sap who has to trigger the traps.

Next year I think I’ll try breaking off from the human worm, running ahead and hiding till the herd passes, then slip in behind and get to enjoy some of the fun.

Egg On,

Ramblin’ Rooster

Why Can’t I Punch Ladies?

Nothing says, “Equal Rights” like a fat lip. I’m just kidding of course, calm down, but you can’t tell me there isn’t a couple of women out there that are long overdue for a good ass kickin’. Truth is, the woman with whom I got into a confrontation with last night, that brought this on, quite possibly could’ve handed me my ass. It would have been a pretty good fight.

You’re to the point of wanting to know what happened, huh? Let me satisfy your curiosity.

Last night I was taking my daughter home. She lives four hours from where I live. Along the way our bladders became full and our stomachs became empty. Solution? Convenience store dinner. 9:08 P.M. we stopped at one of those “special” gas stations, the kind you can only find on two lane highways. The kind that when you pull up, the first thought that goes through your mind is, “I wonder how many people have been raped and murdered here?”, or “Didn’t they film that slasher movie here, that was based on a true story?” The daughter and I go in.

I go to the men’s room, I think that she’s going to the ladies room. When I come out, she’s still standing there. I asked what’s going on and she tells me it’s occupied. I don’t think much of it, so I wander around a little bit looking for some tasty snacks. As I’m browsing the outdated, over priced, powder flavored, fried potato section, I keep noticing women walking in and out of the bathroom, (at least three). So I go over to investigate.

“What’s the deal?” I ask my daughter, (who’s ten by the way). “I don’t know” was pretty much here response. Basically these ladies were just cutting right in front of my daughter to go to the bathroom. I guess in there defense, my daughter isn’t very assertive, but still. So I tell her that I’ll watch the door, hold her place in line while she goes and picks out her FDA approved, 100% nutritious, dinner in a bag. Not long after, a lady comes walking in, with eyes bloodshot like I’ve never seen before. They were so bloodshot, I’m surprised she was conscious, because it must have taken half of her body’s supply to fill them eyeballs up as full as they were. I’m standing in front of the door mind you and right off the bat she brings the attitude. Here’s how the conversation goes down:

“Excuuuuse me!”

“Yeah, it’s a one person bathroom and someone is in it. I holding my daughter’s place in line.”

“You’re waiting for the bathroom?”

“Yeah.”

“There’s someone in there?”

“Yeah. I’m holding my daughter’s place in line.”

“Oh, OK.”

Not a second after the conversation wraps up, the lock pops as the person inside starts to open the door. I turn my back slightly to Ms. Blood Eyes and tell my daughter the bathroom is free, (she’s like six feet away). As I turn back, Ms. Blood Eyes is making an attempt for the bathroom. I say “Hey” to her three times, each one increasing in volume and intensity as she’s ignoring me. The last one is rather loud and somewhat forceful, a dull shout I suppose. Ms. Blood Eyes spins around as screams, “Hey! Why you all up on me! Why are you accosting me?” “Give me a break. I told you my daughter was next, that I was holding her place. She’s right here and it’s her turn.” I replied. My poor daughter is kind of freaked out, (’cause believe it or not I don’t normally do things like this. I’m usually the kind who doesn’t say anything and bottles it up and let’s it eat at my stomach lining). I tell her it’s OK, to go ahead. She does. Ms. Blood Eyes curses me under her breath and spends a few moments in “I can’t believe this is really happening-ville”, (a lot of gasping, harrumphs and angry sighing).

After my daughter comes back out, we grab a couple of drinks, head to the cashier to get out of here. At the same time, Ms. Blood Eyes boyfriend comes in. At the counter, the guy in front of me is writing a check while simultaneously playing and buying “lotto” scratch tickets. He’s apparently negotiating rent, because he shows no sign of ever leaving. Meanwhile, Ms. Blood Eyes has finished snortin’ coke in the bathroom and is now standing in the middle of the store, telling her boyfriend, in a non-library voice, how some a$$hole was threatening her and was crazy and out of control, out of line, and out of his mind.

All I could think of was, “Please don’t let the boyfriend come over here. Please don’t let my daughter watch her dad fight a stranger at a gas station. Please don’t have the cops call her mom asking to come pick up her daughter at the station.”

Well, you’re gonna hate me, but that’s really it for the story. I put my crazy-don’t-even-think-about-fighting-me-I’ve-done-time-in-prison-face on, the boyfriend decided he didn’t want to fight for the honor of his girlfriend, (I’m guessing because he figured what’s the point, she won’t remember in the morning anyway) and the guy playing the lottery died of old age. We paid, we walked out, we drove off.

From now on, ziplocks of pretzels accompany me on all road trips.

Egg On,

Ramblin’ Rooster

Dancing versus Being Cool

You can throw out all the stereotypes you want. You can tell me all about how you have “hard evidence” to back up whatever it is you think is the truth. At the end of the day, out on the dance floor, all across America, please are dancing and it’s ugly.

Dancing is just weird. It’s a strange concept to wrap your mind around. I’m all about music and I have a long list of songs, ranging in various styles, that if I hear them, I have the feeling of wanting to “shake it”. Any good beat makes you want to tap your foot, but the whole idea of dancing is just weird.

In the beginning of music, I doubt the first cave-person banging on a rock had another cave-person doing “the twist”. Take the time period of Gregorian chant music. I think it’s safe to say, not a lot of dancing took place there either. Although I do like the idea of a church full of monks “cuttin’ a rug”. Along the time Bach showed up on the scene, the music had taken awesome leaps and bounds, but again, the dancing was probably not breaking out in the aisles of church. Ballroom dancing probably wasn’t too far away at this point. I have never done it, but it does seem fun, but alas, it’s something that must be learned and practiced. Not to be entered into after eight beers when your favorite song comes on the jukebox. I myself don’t know where the history of dance goes or came from here. I know I’m leaving out the Native Americanand African tribal/ritual dancing. All I know is that there was a time and place that a single person, either consciously or not, decided to let the music move their body and before that person, it had never been done.

So what happened? How do you go from meaningful movement, dancing with a purpose to drunken fools gettin’ down to ’80s pop music? Every club I have ever been to, where people were dancing has only been good for one thing. Entertainment of a comical nature. I’m no better. I’ve had to do my fair share of dancing and I’m sure if I could of seen myself from the outside, I would have laughed till I sprung a leak.

There’s no place I’ve ever been that has regular, non-trained, people dancing that look cool. The ones that are there, that obviously have practiced or had a class or twelve, look even more ridiculous than the double-left footed buffoons. They just look so out of place at “Dave’s Snooker Room”. The only place where dancing looks cool is on TV or in the movies, (or perhaps on stage).

Slow dancing has to be the worst of them all. Simply because everyone figures, “Even I can slow dance”. That’s just it, you’re not dancing. It’s two people sandwiched together, struggling to not offset each others equilibrium. So you end up with a couple looking like they’re trying to help each other to bed because the alcohol finally caught up with them.

If you want to dance, please feel free. It’s perfectly natural, good exercise and can be fun. Just don’t be surprised if you catch someone in the shadows, nudging their friend, pointing and snickering.

Would you like to dance?

Egg On,

Ramblin’ Rooster

Attention Advertisers, Kids Don’t Have Any Money

I’d like to dedicate this to all the advertisers and marketers out there… this one’s for you. Go @#$% yourselves!

Thanks for ruining me as a child and likewise, turning my child into the most annoying thing on earth. I had to lock the television in the attic just to get a moment of peace. You’re destroying the family unit.

It all started, for me, when I was a wee child. Cartoons made the leap from Saturday only, to after school time slots. They were known as 22 minute toy commercials, segmented by other toy commercials. A brilliant maneuver by the demographic experts, pure genius. Back in those days it was accepted by society to leave your child at home after school while both, (or one) parent worked. Daycare, Dayschmare. After school program? How ’bout a TV? What makes this programming decision so exquisite is that once the child is home alone, completely engrossed, sucked into the abyss of the radiation waves emitting from the picture box, with no distraction, the seed is planted with no chasnce of interference from an authoritative figure. Then, when the parent(s) comes home, the child’s desire for what he/she has watched has already spread throughout their mind. The roots of the weed sunk deep inside their little brain. That’s when it happens, “Dad/Mom, can I have the new, ultra, super, tectonic, gamma, wowzer?”

The parent, usually still wound up for work, still working on the daily “to-do” list, probably needing to ram food down a child’s mouth before whisking them away to some practice or class, can’t even hear the words, only the tone. “Me needy-wanty” comes out of the child’s mouth and the parent(s) only hears a high pitched shrill, capable only by small children and the West Indies, split feathered Wantagoo bird.

Immediately friction is created and tension fills the room. There’s not a parent alive that doesn’t want to give or grant their child’s every wish and desire. Also, there’s not a parent alive that wishes they never had to go buy the new, ultra, super, tectonic, gamma, wowzer or at least not have to hear about it for hours on end.

So that’s why I hate the advertiser and his friend the marketer. They know all to well that a child can’t resist the Hollywood studio quality commercial that shows the awesome toy in an environment that took weeks to build. Of course the “Multi-rocket, mega-boost, stunt cycle” looks awesome in the commercial racing down the Styrofoam city landscape, jumping off the engineered ramp into the professionally painted foam blocks. Sometimes I even want one after watching, but that’s the thing, I’m an adult and I can deal with the fleeting temptation of the impulse buy. A child is lucky to make it through dinner without taking a knife to your wife’s neck demanding that a negotiation be made, “The Flying Dino-copter or mom’s life… It’s your choice dad!”

So thanks advertisers/marketers for not only making me feel like I can never be bald, old, short, fat, poor, pale, weak, or lacking the latest and greatest, now you’ve made my child a zombie of needing an overflowing toy chest.

I hope you like Hell.

Egg On,

Ramblin’ Rooster

Why Do We Do The Things We Do?

I’m sure everyone in this world has experienced a “blah” day. No doubt everyone has also had the feeling of not wanting to do something that they’re suppose to be doing or should be doing. What I want to know is why do we do anything?

The first, and most obvious reason is necessity. Nothing in life is free, so they say, which is a pretty good motivation for doing something. If houses, cars, cable, cell phones, utilities, food and entertainment were free, would anyone go to work? I’m going to guess no and those few who did, would probably get beat up.

The second thing that comes to mind is boredom. If you don’t know what this is, it’s a terminal illness that has infected every human on the planet. Eventually everyone becomes overwhelmed by the disease and are bored to death. Boredom has created a lot of cultural pastimes, customs, games, and all around, short lived, general entertainment. Very few people can sit around and do nothing before insanity takes over. One might even argue that boredom has given more to the world and society than taken away. So let’s all raise our glasses to boredom.

Thirdly, behavior is often times nothing more than habitual, involuntary response. If you don’t believe me, try stopping someone that is performing some mundane task and ask them why they are doing it. They’ll give you a snotty response that will be nothing more than the question reiterated into a statement. For example, “Why are you sweeping the porch?” “So it’s swept off.” Don’t let them get away with it. Push the envelope, struggle, fight and philosophize over it until the person spits on you. People are much like sheep, but that doesn’t give you the right to date them, (you know who you are).

This is all leading up to the two biggest “whys” of them all. Washing your car and mowing the lawn. Why do we do it? If God wanted me to wash my car he wouldn’t have created rain and cutting something that grows back, over and over is the definition of insane. Until about a month ago, I had never washed my car, ever. Then one weekend I decided I’d give it a try. I washed, dried and waxed my car from top to bottom. The next day it looked like I just pulled it out of storage. Lesson learned, won’t be doing that again. Mowing the lawn makes me want to jump under the mower. Thankfully they have that neat release handle that prevents me from getting under there in time, (if only my arms were longer). If it wasn’t for the wife, I’d either pave my entire yard, or cover it in sand or as I like to think of it the world’s largest kitty litter box. I like a clean car and I can appreciate a beautiful lawn. I also know that I am not one that will dedicate the time or effort to make either one of those things a reality in my life. I’d also like to pitch in the 2009 World Series, but some things just don’t come to pass.

I know what you’re asking yourself… why do I write this blog? Simple, it’s a habitual necessity that stems from boredom. I also have a lot of free time created by a filthy car and ten foot tall “grass garden” out front.

Egg On,

Ramblin’ Rooster

Tired Topic Still Poignant

Yes, it’s been said before. What hasn’t been? Still, it needs to be said time and time again by all of us until something changes. That statement would be, “Doctors and scientists, you’re letting us down.”

I don’t mean to overlook, take for granted or dismiss the wonderful things modern medicine has provided us. It’s a good feeling knowing you no longer have to fear losing a limb if you go to see the doctor about a tooth ache or having leeches placed on your body to “cleanse” the poison and/or evil spirits out of you. All in all it’s a great time to get sick.

Yes, modern medicine helps people. Yes, modern medicine has come along way. Yes, modern medicine has come up with wonderful things. At the same time, modern medicine has branched out and taken some very dark paths to meaningless places. It wouldn’t be so bad if it wasn’t purely for the money. Balding, erectiledysfunction, and obesity are the three that jump to mind. We’ll overlook cosmetic surgery, though it really does need a good ass kickin’. For the simple fact that I’m ignorantly going to say that these doctors wouldn’t be wasting their time in the lab, cracking the codes if they stopped filling the world with fake boobs, new noses and tossing bags of fat into the trash.

Do you honestly believe the doctor who invented the “little blue pill” was thinking, “I really want to help people and save the world”? Or that another doctors thought to themselves, “If only I could give people their hair back, the world would finally know peace and harmony”? I honestly don’t know myself, but I’m willing to venture that they didn’t think about anything else but cold, hard, crazy money.

It’s just too bad that saving the world isn’t a bigger money maker. If you think about though, very few jobs work around the system that if you do your job extremely well, eventually you’ll make it obsolete. I’ve always heard conspiracy theorists say, “Doctors don’t want to make you better, ’cause then you’ll never come back”. The same can be said about auto mechanics. In that sense, if we use an analogy, you’re car is going to have troubles someday, no matter how well you treat it. If you come to me and I fix it right, hopefully you’ll tell your friends and come back to see me again in the future.

I guess I don’t get why more people aren’t screaming out that there’s a LONG list of things more important than fat, bald, impotent guys wandering the streets.

Egg On,

Ramblin’ Rooster

Buying A New Car

You’d think that in our modern world that everything would keep pace with the rapid advancements of technology. It’s no joke that as soon as you buy a electronic gadget, it’s out of date. I recently bought a new car and was astounded by the fact that nothing has changed in selling style, since it’s conception.

It all began with a flyer in the mail. It was for little, gas efficient cars at amazing low prices. I joked with the wife that I should trade my V-8, gas guzzler in for a compact car to save on gas. She said, “Sure. Go check it out.” I spent about four hours one day at a dealership and was about to be lead into buying a $14,000 MSRP car for $20,000. The wife told me I needed to walk away, which I did. Later she advised me that if I was serious about buying a car, it should be a car I actually wanted and not just a car from a circular in the mail. I actually did a little research, (little being the key word) this time before buying. I even drove out to a small town from where I live to look at the particular model I was after. It had been in an accident, so I walked again. Finally I went to another lot locally and found the model I was after icluding color and extras I was interested in.

This is where the whole old style of selling kicks in. My sales associate did the whole, “Let me go ask my manager” bit. Where they walk off and count to 50, then come back with another line of bull. We do a few of these back and forth things, until he can see I’ve reached my limit. Honestly, why can’t car dealers loose the slime and just be real with you. I think I’d been more inclined to buy a car, even more rashly or on impulse, if they just shot from the hip. Anyway, as I’m working on price, I bring up the cost of tag, title and tax. The sales associate tells me that they’re having a promotion of tossing a football from twenty yards into the back of a pick-up to win it. I told him that I was going to make it, no doubt, even though earlier I had seen a guy try who was twice my size not even hit the truck. He kind of smiled and told me no one had made it yet. The hours start slipping away and I’m to the point where I want to leave. This prompts the manager coming over to make his “final, low as I can go offer”. It’s pretty good, but I ask if I can go home and think about it. At home the wife and I go ’round and ’round about it. I eventually call the sales associate and tell him I’m going to pass.

Later on in the evening, the wife, out of the blue says, “You should buy that car.” So I rush down there, right before closing, find the manager and say, “I changed my mind, I want the car.” We do the initial paper work then go outside to “throw the football”. The manager is laughing as he gets the football from the bed of the truck, because it’s been raining, the ball is wet and slick and has three times the amount of air inside it suppose to. It’s a total carnival game. This football is like a super, bouncy ball. As I walk back to the line to throw, the manager tells me how a local, former, hot-shot, college quarterback only made 2 out of 10 attempts. I get to the line, dry the ball off best I can on my shirt and “let’er rip”. It was like throwing a watermelon. As luck would have it, I made it, straight in, right over the tail gate. The manager gets mad and I start screaming like a drunken, sports, fanatic. He throws the ball back at me, partly as a joke to hit me and partly as a way to vent his frustration to hit me. I catch the ball and we start to walk in to finish the paper work. I ask him, “Do you want me to throw it again?” He tells me, “Sure.” I toss it again and it banks off the back window and goes in. It was awesome. I’d never felt so macho before in my whole life.

The best part was driving home and calling the wife to proudly tell her I’d won tag, title and tax.

Egg On,

Ramblin’ Rooster

Can We Just Not Like Each Other?

Hate is a strong word. It shouldn’t be used lightly. One should not throw it around, because words can be weapons, hurtful and dangerous. So, I think it’s safe to say that hate isn’t a strong enough word to describe how I feel about the people I work with.

My feelings of disgust are so powerful, it’s as though they don’t even exist, but then the spell is broken as one of them speaks. I’m am not powerful enough or versed in the dark, mysterious, mystic arts to banish them from this realm, but make daily offerings of my soul to the dark overlord in exchange for the annihilation of the fellow co-workers. To date, Lucifer has not responded.

Each co-worker is specially gifted with a superpower of annoyance. Each annoyance is crafted, practiced, honed and is razor sharp. Executed with precision in both time and technique. Any one of them is so good they could “go pro”, if only forcing people to commit suicide was a sport. Perhaps the 2012 Olympics? I have the roster for the unbeatable, gold winning.

Here’s a quick break down of the team, (I’m withholding names because I can’t bear the thought of typing them, not to protect them. Plus, I’ve always thought changing John to Jack for the sake of anonymity was silly.)

Co-worker one: She likes to complain, fight with her husband on the phone, rearrange the office, burn popcorn in the microwave, scrap the inside of her yogurt cup repeatedly, (just accept that it’s all gone lady!) and sleep at her desk.

Co-worker two: She likes to read books, stare off in space, and sleep at her desk. (She is my favorite because she is so quiet)

Co-worker three: He likes clean his nails, stare at the wall and talk with co-worker one, all day, everyday. This promotes co-worker one to speak. They like to exchange interesting stories about animal hair, picnic baskets, bathmats and pickle preparation, (or maybe just random, stupid, small talk garbage).

Co-worker four: He likes to lose every thing he touches, not be in the office, promise clients the impossible, leave others to clean up his mess and “talk down” to everyone.

Co-worker five: He likes to micro-manage, play solitaire, eat cookies, and create overtime situations by blowing deadlines.

Co-worker six: She likes to talk on the phone all day long to people she hasn’t spoken to in years, offer advice whether you’re listening or not, eat snacks, call in sick, forget what to do and being reminded/told again. She plans on having a cell phone surgically implanted into her head.

Co-worker seven, (the captain): He likes to shotgun coffee, put things in his mouth, walk around, play with his phone, surf the web, leave early and elude responsibility.

Co-worker seven recently told me I needed to interact more with “the team”. I gave him the finger. Co-worker one was forced to ask me to join “the team” for drinks after work one night, I told her, “I don’t drink”, she replied, “Neither do I”. Great, then why wouldn’t we go to a bar?

I am currently working on inventing appetizing looking cookies made of some kind of explosive to “bring in” for sharing. If anyone can offer me some advice on how to get a believable texture, I’d be much obliged.

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

If You Liked Revolving Door, You’ll Love Automatic Door

This is a pseudo follow up to the piece I had about having fun in the revolving door. Whereas I stand by the statements I made, there is one door that is much more fun to play with. It would be the automatic door. Just so we’re clear, (or if you’d like to argue my name for it) the automatic door is the one usually found at grocery stores, where a person steps on the mat and the door opens automatically.

Quick disclaimer: These information is based on experiences had long ago. No one should try this at home. What’s that? Your home doesn’t have an automatic door? Well then you should try in a public place.

OK, so now that I’m liable and the lawsuits are piling up before this is even published, let’s go over the steps.

Step 1 – Pick a store that you don’t frequent and could accept being banned from.

Step 2 – Enter the store during a time that seems somewhere in between “the rush” and the time of “no one around”. (Note: You need innocent people to make this work)

Step 3 – Buy something at the store. People seem to pay less attention when you’re spending money and you’ll have a greater chance of being let go with a “firm talking to” if you were to caught.

Step 4 – On your way out the automatic door, pretend you’re stretching, yawning or just plain reach above your head. Above the door is a box, on the box is a switch, this switch controls the door’s power. Flip the switch.

Step 5 – Leave the immediate area, but stay within viewing sight of the door. If you’re a smoker, this is an excellent time to light up. If you’re not, pretend you’re on the phone, or as though you’re going over your receipt, (I like to add a confused face to drive home the impression I’m stupid and incapable of doing mischievous acts)

Step 6 – Stand and watch the people try to leave through the non-operable door.

Step 7 – Enjoy.

It really is amazing. Some people freak out and go to another door, thinking this one is broken. Others will get mad and push the door open. Some will walk into it. A few people will actually report the problem to an employee. It’s good fun, not too harmful and best of all it’s FREE. I guess you might be able to call it vandalism, but I bet you’d have a hard time getting a conviction in court.

Anyway, gotta a run. I’m late for a meeting with my parole officer.

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Being Naked Cool, Naked Volleyball Not Cool

Being naked is just plain neat. I feel sorry people who don’t enjoy occasional nudity. They must be really unhappy with their bodies. Being naked outdoors is an extra special treat. I think it’s because it’s so bizarre, unorthodox or the change of perspective. In my own personal life, I don’t get naked very often. Usually just for a shower or changing. So when I’m alone in the house and get out of the shower, it’s a feeling of total freedom to walk naked into the kitchen from the bathroom.

Having said that, let’s get to trashing nudists. Every time I see a bit on TV about nudists, it seems like it’s always the same four old guys. Whether the show is “crazy weddings”, “out of control rednecks”, or “nudists on parade” the stars of the segment are always people no one wants to see naked. Why are nudists so ugly?

Now don’t try and tell me about the time you were in Europe at a beach and saw some hot person on a towel. Those people aren’t nudists. They might be nude or partially nude, but there’s no statement behind the exposure. It’s not an exhibition and their not campaigning for “nude rights”.

Why do nudists demand to be naked anyway? They act like they’re being repressed, discriminated against or suffering from some kind of injustice. If I walked into my office and saw a 70 year old man’s testicles or a 400 pound woman bending over, I’d be the one who was being denied my human rights, but not the right to vomit.

That’s the part that I don’t understand, the angle of protest that televised nudists often take. They make it seem like they’re defending the right to be naked. “Hey pregnant, loose-skinned man! Anyone can be naked, just not at anywhere they want to be.” I don’t need people who should be legally made to wear clothes, beating the pavement, knocking on doors to ensure a “nude America”. I don’t want to buy a cheeseburger from a naked kid, or shop for a car on a lot full of slimy salesman flapping in the wind. How about being pulled over by a cop who stands at the car window writing a ticket and as you reach out to sigh the ticket you grab… well you get the idea. Think about all the strangers in your life and situations you might find yourself in. Now make everyone nude. Gets disturbing pretty quick, don’t it.

Some things just don’t need nudity. I know the Greeks were into the whole “naked Olympics” scene, but I’m not Greek, nor an Olympic athlete. Volleyball, golf, horseshoes, bowling and every other sport/recreation is not going to be enhanced by the participants going naked.

Perhaps you’re asking yourself, “I wonder if Ramblin’ Rooster would feel this way if a magma-hot lady was naked painting the barn next door?”

And I would say, “That’d probably be alright.”

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Death, Taxes, and Monogamy

You don’t have to be a marketing genius to know that sex sells. People like sex. It seems ridiculous to even have to say it. So why then, in a world of sex driven consumers, is monogamy such a huge practice?

At one time or another everyone has heard the statistic, “Half of all marriages end in divorce”. Let’s forget if it’s true or not, let’s just pretend it’s close. That’s a lot of divorcing. Why do think that is?

I don’t know either, but here’s my guess, fast-food. Did you just call me an idiot? Just give me a second to explain. American society/culture is fast-food. We like to have it fast, hot and cheap, with no mess to clean up. Plain and simple. Everyone wants to be rich, live in an awesome house, drive a fancy car, with free time to travel, indulge in recreational activities, be envied and most importantly be the object of desire. In return, no one wants to work. Seems balanced don’t it.

There’s only a few men out there that, if given a “free pass”, wouldn’t sleep with the dream girl of their choice, (which sadly is almost always a celebrity). These men are known as homosexuals. They’re not better than the other men, they’re just competing with the women for the dream guy of their choice. The point is, if consequence was not an issue and opportunity was present, monogamy wouldn’t exist. Now, you know how weak humans are, will power has never been a strong suit for Americans, so no wonder people are breaking hearts and ruining lives on the hour, every hour.

The reason monogamy exists is ego. People are selfish. You can’t help it. It’s the basic function of survival, “Get yours”. So when a human fancies something, they don’t want to share it. It doesn’t mean they themselves are satisfied, they just don’t want someone else to touch theirs.

Relationships always start out great, but the magic never lasts. It’s impossible. It really shouldn’t have to. If you really want to practice monogamy and take a relationship “the distance”, you have to tone it down, pace yourself. Courting is hard work. Saying the right things, opening doors, getting flowers, writing notes/letters, planning surprises, getting the right gifts, holding in gas, etc. takes a lot of energy. No one can keep that up for 40, 50 years. When the going gets tough, the tough getting going. Unfortunately it’s out the door, never to come back.

Monogamy won’t go away. The earth will never be one, big, “swingers party” and that’s probably for the best, (can’t imagine what comes after HIV). But this is the number one reason why all humans are crazy. They set themselves up for it. Wanting two conflicting things is beyond unachievable, it’s the path to psychosis. If you want to have sex with everyone you can on the planet, best of luck to you, but please never enter into a relationship. Never lead someone on to believing the opposite, tell them lies or give them false hope of a future that will never happen.

All I can say, is that at some point you’re gonna wake up to find yourself a shell of a person. You sacrificed beauty for vanity and missed out on one of the best things in life. A relationship.

By the way, get away from my hen house.

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Comic Books Turned Me Gay

For the sake of understanding, just in case you don’t know, these are the key elements to this blog:

‘The Boys’ – a current running comic book, written by Garth Ennis and Illustrated by Darick Robertson.

‘Girls’ – a 24 issues series by Jonathon and Joshua Luna that concluded in April 2007.

TPB – a Trade PaperBack, a collection of previously published comic books distributed in a softcover book.

Now that we got that out of the way, let’s get to it.

I love comic books. No, I don’t live in my mother’s basement and yes, I do have full time employment. I just love comic books. I don’t really know why. I like art, writing and crazy characters/stories. There are a lot of talented people working in comics and it when it’s done well, it’s great entertainment. Expensive, but entertaining all the same. I read a lot of comics, so therefore I’m always on the lookout for new material. I’ve been reading ‘The Boys’ since the beginning. I liked it, so I tried to turn one of my non-comic book geek friends on to it by buying him the volume one TPB. He liked it as well and I had to buy him volume two and three, (when 3 came out). How did he get me to buy his TPB’s? I don’t know, but you’re right, it’s ridiculous.

A while back, another friend, a comic book geek friend, told me to check out ‘Ultra’, the Luna Brothers first title. I read it and thought it was pretty cool. So one day, while at the comic book shop, I noticed all four ‘Girls’ TPB on the shelf. I picked up volume one and started reading it. I couldn’t put it down. Eight pages into it, I decided to just buy it. I took it home, sat down and went cover to cover in no time. I liked it so much that I wanted to track down the original issues. I found the whole series for sale on some auction site for cheap, 73 cents an issue, including shipping, (for those of you who don’t know, cover price on a new comic is $2.99 or higher. Once it goes to back issue, two weeks or older it’s $3.50 or higher). So I was excited, but of course the bids kept coming and eventually the price got high. My comic book shop was having a sale, so I called and asked what the remaining three TPB’sI needed would cost. $32, (roughly) which was what the auction was getting close to. I made an impulse decision and told him to put them in my bag, (hold them for me) and I’d buy them next time I was in. Ironically, the bidding stopped and I won the original 24 issues for less than $32.

So I called the comic book shop back to tell him I couldn’t buy the TPB’s. Then I remembered my non-comic book geek friend who wanted volume three of ‘The Boys’.

So, I actually called up the store and said to the owner… “I don’t want ‘Girls’, I want ‘The Boys’”.

Maybe I should move in with my mother. Too bad she doesn’t have a basement.

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Laughing On Laughing Gas Makes Me Feel Guilty

When “meth” started taking over the news and famous people who weren’t suppose to be drug addicts started coming out of the woodwork, the world started changing. Suddenly you couldn’t buy cold medicine anymore without showing a driver’s licence and somewhere there’s a list of how often all these people have bought it and where. Can you say, “Big Brother is watching”? So naturally my paranoia grew.

There were a couple of times at the doctor’s office, where the subject of pain medication came up and I had a moment of feeling like I was faking, (even though I wasn’t) just to get a pill prescription, but those stories are kind of boring and I’ve already told you the point/meaning you would extract if I told you the whole story. Where the real weirdness comes in, is at the dentist.

Before we get into it, I need to say I’m borderline phobic of dentists. I equate dentistry to pain and I don’t like to go in for visits.

For some reason, dentists still use “laughing gas” or nitrous oxide. You’d think by now they would have invented some bubble gum flavored laser that could zap away the pain.

The first time I “got the gas” I was pretty young, but I remember telling the doctor I could still feel him working and if he could “turn it up”. He replied, “I’ve got it as high as it can go, which I’ve never done for a patient before.” Wow, I guess that makes me special.

The second time wasn’t that long ago, so I have a much better recollection of it. The nurse turned it on, told me to “breath deep” and left the room. I started “huffing” on it. Time alone doing nothing feels like forever, so I don’t know how much time passed before I started thinking, “It’s not doing anything.” I started to “huff” harder. Then I started to feel warm and fuzzy. Next the urge to start to giggling began. At first I try to fight it, but alas it’s futile. In the end a always let out a little “stoner’s” laugh. No matter what, I feel incredible guilty laughing on “laughing gas”. I guess I think that it shouldn’t be enjoyable, or maybe that I’ll get in trouble and they’ll take it away. Which ever is the case, I try to stifle the laughing, but it always makes me laugh more. To make matters worse, the chair at the dentist never faces where they come into the room. For all I know the doctor and the nurse could be standing just outside watching me and talking about what an idiot I am. It’d be pretty cool to be a dentist.

FYI – I don’t know if I’ll be able to write tomorrow’s blog. I need to look into becoming a dentist to get me a “nitrous tank” of my own, as to avoid the guilt of laughing.

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Popularity Made The Universe, It Will Destroy It

Whether it’s the Presidential election, best song of the day or the Anywhere-USA elementary school pageant, popularity decides the fate. Sounds logical enough, but what if the popular vote is wrong?

Everything in the universe has a name. How did it get it? It got a name because someone said, “This is called a rzumpfufger.” Then the person standing next to him said, “OK.” Then that person got to be the smart one, when yet another person was ignorant and heard, “This is called a rzumpfufger.” So on and so on and so on…

I’ve actually wasted time being part of philosophical debates that were about, “Why is a table called a table? If it were called a shamurk, would it not function as a table?” Yes it would, but if you were asked, “Where are my keys?” and you replied, “They’re on the shamurk” no one would know what you were talking about. For a table is called a table, because everyone has accepted the name.

You might be to the point of saying to yourself, “What is the point to all this nonsense?” My point is that leaving the world’s future in the hands of popularity is beyond frightening, it’s dangerous.

All you need to make some radical, insane, deadly idea viable is acceptance by a majority.

If I was a lunatic and wanted to round up every person who wore white sneakers, have them jailed and eventually executed, most people would be against it. If I took the idea to the streets, started selling it to impressionable youth, the insecure young adult, the bored middle aged and the forgotten elderly I might start changing some minds. If I began a huge ad campaign, with limitless financial resources, playing the ad every half hour on the hour on every channel in the world, I might start changing some minds. If I promised to give every person who supported me a free pair of black sneakers, I might start changing some minds. Now, let’s just say that all this effort paid off and that the majority of those who thought I was a lunatic, now believed I was a genius. Solving the world of the hideous problem of bright, white sneakers. Let’s go further and say that my new law of: No one may wear white sneakers ever or they will be killed, was passed and enforced globally.

What has happened? Something crazy became the norm. Why? Because enough people bought into it. Sane citizens were broken, beaten, worn down, desensitized to an issue of outrageous proportion and now it’s as though there was never a time when white sneakers were allowed, like they never existed.

The scariest part of this scenario is that the next radical, insane, deadly idea will be much easier to pass. You see it all the time in today’s world. Horrible facts coming out that people just turn away from and the guilty walk away from with little or no consequence.

It’s not OK to always go with the flow, to always swim with the tide, to always take the direstion of the earth at face value.

If it rubs you the wrong way, fight the irritation, don’t look for ways to adjust to the friction.

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Have I Become Star Struck?

As you may or may not know, I’m kind of a celebrity hater. I don’t actually hate the celebrities, just the fact that there is such culture as “celebrity”. It could be I’m jealous. I’ve broken up with lots of girls, (or vice versa) and it was never on the news. I’ve flipped the bird to cameras before, but have never seen the pictures on the cover of a tabloid magazine. I’ve always thought people were people. Why should I care about strange, millionaires living thousands of miles away? So I was taken back when I felt the urge to become a weirdo, just like so many others grabbing at the coat tails of celebrities.

I just got done reading ‘Sentences: The Life of MF Grimm’, (an autobiography) written by Percy Carey, art and cover by Ronald Wimberly. I was blown away. This is one of the most interesting stories I have ever read. I won’t “retell” the story, but to understand a little of where I’m coming from, the highlights of the book are: Kid from New York-Appears on Sesame Street-Almost signs recording contract as rapper-Gets shot, becomes paralyzed-Sells drugs, goes to prison… OK I’ll stop there.

The part where I become confused is the feeling I got after I read it. I wanted to write a fan letter. A FAN LETTER, for cryin’ in the night! What’s wrong with me? This is how the letter went in my head:

Dear Mr. Carey,

I’m sure all psycho fan letters start out with the same line. “I’ve never written a letter like this before”, but in this case it’s true. I’d imagine that is always the second line in a psycho fan letter. Anyway, I read your book and I enjoyed it immensely, but I don’t have to tell you that. I doubt you or anyone else would have released it, if it were a piece of crap.

It goes on for a bit, but I’ll spare you. It was going to end with some kind of funny line that said if he was ever in the neighborhood to “drop by”. WTF is wrong with me? I’ve become everything I fear and hate! I love how I assume that the voice who wrote the story is the voice that makes the man. I’m sure he’d love to come hang out with me, who wouldn’t? I love how I naturally assume he could care in the least bit what I have to say. I love the fact that I think I’m the only one writing him a letter, as if he’s waiting around the mailbox, eagerly awaiting the arrival of the postal carrier in hopes that today’s the day a letter comes.

I just thought it was crazy that I could have been so swept up by his book. I just wanted to hear more stories, more details, more craziness.

Because to me that’s all life is. Sitting in my lawn chair, watching the world go by in a crazy parade.

Hey Percy, do read my blog?

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Sex Yourself?

If you hang out on the planet long enough, you’re bound to cross paths with someone who doesn’t like you or you’ll end up doing something that makes someone angry. It’s just par for the course. Quite likely you have already had this experience. Perhaps some of you even experience this on a daily basis. In this life, it’s hard to avoid being told by someone, at one time or another, in so many words of less, to “Go f#ck yourself!”

It’s impossible to venture a guess as to what your response was, but did you ever consider it? Now, I’m talking in a hypothetical, science fiction, type way. Not some bizarre, neck breaking, ropes and pulleys, thank-goodness-those-yoga-classes-finally-paid-off, kind of way.

Seriously, after you get done flushing and rinsing the vomit from your mouth, ask yourself, “Would I be happy in a relationship with myself?”

Imagine dating a clone of yourself, (of the opposite sex for those to which it applies. Although, if you were sleeping with your same-sex clone, would that be considered gay? That’s a subject for a different blog.) Try to think about it with a totally open mind. Pretend like it’s OK to think of crazy things. The fact that it’s impossible should keep those of you who are scared to try it at bay. It’s an interesting thing to think about, because once you get over the “weirdness” of it, it can be a truly deep insight to who you really are and quite possibly help you make a more informed relationship decision in the future, (providing that you are still on the market, as they say).

Here are some questions to consider:

1. Would you be happy or would you be bored? Do you think the two of you would get along great, or get on each others nerves. Do you like for your mate to like what you like or do you thrive on conflict and confrontation? Do you like to come up with ideas of what to do, or do you like to choose from a list that the other one provides?

2.  Would you fall into the same pitfalls and shortcomings as in your previous relationships? For example, if you are one who has a hard time expressing yourself and sharing, do you think you could tell yourself how you really feel? Could you trust yourself more? Would you risk more for yourself, go out on a limb more? Would you take greater chances?

3. Would the sex be great? Would you be uninhibited and wild, living out every fantasy you’ve ever had or would it be predictable, monotonous, dull and bland? How much control do you have? Do you want? Do you need? Are you the one who asks or do you need to be told? Would you be uncomfortable being naked in front of yourself?

4. Would you ultimately become bored once the “honeymoon” was over? Would you start to analyze, scrutinize, become critical and find faults in yourself that you never knew were there or aren’t really even there to begin with?

5. Would you cheat on yourself? Would you lie to yourself? Would you hide things from yourself?

You can get as deep as you want to go, don’t be afraid, it can be very therapeutic. Or it can make you remove all the mirrors in your house and force you to sit in the corner, rocking back and forth, eating pancake mix out of a box with a turkey baster, rubbing a toilet bowl brush on your head.

If you have ever seen those movies that deal in the subject of clones, who start to become their “own person” as time passes, because they’re living a different life now from yours, with different experiences and you want to try to integratethat into your fantasy equation, please feel free.

So the next time some one says, “Go f#ck yourself!”, just smile and say, “If I only I could, if only I could.”

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Vote for Prostitution!

Am I the only one who thinks it’s funny that “TIT” is in the middle of prostitution? I’m six years old, why do you ask?

 I don’t often go “political”, but something in the air tonight has got me “thinkin’ crazy”. Even in light of the excitement and novelty of this year’s Presidential election, I still feel neutral about the whole thing. I do want to say, that I think it’s awesome that America is finally starting to get away from the monotony of always having to choose between old, white guys. Golly, I wonder what another 232 years will bring?

The candidates seem so weird to me. When the race started out the Democrats really turned the world upside down. Not only trying to put a woman in the White House, but also a black man. I don’t care what you say or which way you vote or who those people might really be on the inside, it was really cool and totally refreshing. The Republicans on the other hand started out of the gate by standing still. It almost felt like the Republicans didn’t even exist.

Things progressed and we got down to an old, white guy and a mostly black guy ready to duke it out. Then the weirdness happened. Obama goes with an old, white guy for his running mate and McCain goes with an Alaskan redneck for his. WTF? Through all the hype, hypothesising and debate, to me, it never looked like anything more than each candidate trying to even their “shock factor” with one another. Obama said, “I’m considered black and white America hates black people, so I’d better get a McCain equivalent to be my V.P.” Then McCain fired back with, “I’m as exciting earthworm porno, I’d better make some waves by gettin’ some crazy whoa-man to be my V.P.” After that brief moment of chaos and panic, everything settled back down to boring and standard regurgitated politics.

Why doesn’t anyone speak out on the biggest, most controversial, largest injustice ever perpetrated by America? Do you know what it is? Prostitution my friends, prostitution. It’s an outrage! If I was Hammerin’ Hen, I’d be so angry I’d lay atomic bombs instead of eggs. It’s the most ridiculous, rip off ever!

Now all you good “ladies” out there who are disgusted by the word and who are shouting at your computer screens, “I would never sell my body. Anyone with a shred of self respect would do the same!”, think about this. You give it up for free. “But I’m in love…” How many times have you been in love? If every woman in America was able to charge for sex, it probably wouldn’t be considered disgusting. “If everyone was jumping off a building, would you?” Logically no, but honestly there’s a chance we all would. Never underestimate the difference between “looks good on paper” and the moment of experiencing it in “real life”. How can it be perfectly fine to be as promiscuous as you’d like to be, but the second a couple of dollars are exchanged, it’s off to jail? We need to fight the power! Demand the right to be a professional whore! “What do we want?” “Money!” “When do we want it?” “Right after sex!”

Perhaps I’m just too stupid to care, but when the candidates start talking about how they’re going to fix the country, I don’t even understand what’s broken. That’s why I want a candidate to have slogans like, “Legalize It”, “Charge for Sex”, “Let’s Clone a new America”, “I hate McDonald’s”, “I’m not wearing underwear”. The sad truth is that radicals forget how conservative America really is. If a candidate was to cut loose and spice up the campaign, they’d be done before they tried allowed to start. Crazy is fun at a party, but it doesn’t run the world.

Maybe by 2240 I’ll finally get to see the “all nude” debate I’ve always dreamed of.

Egg On,

Ramblin’ Rooster

What Do You People Want?

I would say the easiest and most often asked question is some form of, “What do you want”. What do you want to eatbore, what do you want to do, what are you doing tonight/tomorrow, what are you going to do, etc. Yet, it seems to be the most difficult to answer.

I can’t tell you how many times, the family and I have had the conversation, “What do want to eat?” You know the routine… I ask the wife, “What do you want to eat?” She replies, “I don’t care.” I suggest such and such, she replies, “Nah…” I suggest something or other, she replies, “That doesn’t sound good.” I suggest whatchamacallit, she replies, “We had that Thursday.” Even though I’m use to this conversation, it still never stops me from thinking to myself, “I thought you said you didn’t care.” (In case you’re wondering, neither the wife nor I are gourmet chefs and we don’t cook a lot either).

The same sort of thing seemed to happen back when I was single, hanging out with my regular friends. We’d get together and without a doubt the question would always come up, “You wanna do anything tonight?” “Like what?” “I don’t know, something…” Now, we’d usually find something to occupy our time, even if was going to the bar, but settling for a mundane activity isn’t synonymous with doing what you really want to do. Why is that? It’s because you don’t know what you want. Not really.

If you ask people what they’d do if they had money and didn’t have to work, a lot of people will tell you, “I’d travel.” Honestly, what’s stopping them from traveling right now? Do they not have vacation time where they work? Are they wanting to vacation on the moon, is that why they can’t afford it? I think that’s just a standard answer that people have copied down in their subconscious over the decades. It seems like it’s something people should do, so they think they want to do it. They’ve heard it so often that they think it’s their own idea.

How often have you sat in front of the TV with nothing on, flipping through channels, watching re-runs of shows you’ve seen before? Shows that you don’t even like. People are so desperate to find something to fill their time, that they do just about anything, (except important and much needed chores).

Why is it so difficult to admit that most of us lead very boring lives? The majority of us have a daily grind, a schedule to keep, and a standard routine. Yet we rack our brains trying to think of something exciting. Constantly feeling that we should be doing other things, more fun things, things we wish we’d do before we die, things we dream of if only we had more time. If given the opportunity, would you? I’ve always been of the mind, that it’d be great to retire, but time and time again I hear, see, read and witness countless people complaining after retirement, about how bored they are. As if they’re lost without someone telling them what to do. It seems insane to me!

I’m sure there’s lots of people that will tell me I’m full of crap, that they are the exception to the rule, that they are living life to the fullest and having the time of their lives. Congratulations, is all I will say. Deep inside, I think if they took a look at the reason behind why they did those things, they might find a shocking revelation, or maybe not.

What do you people want? What will make you happy? Please tell me so I can copy your answers.

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Meteorologists Equal Professional Fraud

Close your eyes. Relax. Take a deep breath. Exhale, slowly. Imagine you are a cashier at Burger-Mart. A customer walks in and orders the number three with cheese, no pickles. The total is $7.48. The customer hands you a twenty dollar bill. You push the buttons on the cash register, the drawer opens up, you put the twenty in and return $1.21 to the customer. How long do you think it’d be before the customer jumped over the counter to strangle you?

Here’s another one.

This time you own a furniture store. You run print ads and radio commercials for your upcoming weekend sale. The ads claim that all entertainment centers are 85% off. The day your sale begins a customer walks in and sees the entertainment center of his/her dreams. Upon looking at the price tag, the customer notices the mark down is only 15%. How long before a riot ensues?

What does it mean? It means meteorologists are full of crap man!

There’s no other job in the world that allows you to be so wrong, so often. So much, that most people consider your profession to be a joke. These people went to college for cryin’ in the night. Who cares if you know what a stratocumulus or a cirrostratus is. I don’t. I just want to know if I’m going to die in the blizzard. Is that so hard to understand ”Cloud-Man”?  Plus, they make crazy money, (at least the ones on TV). Yet they’re as incompetent as legless mules. Why don’t they just say, “There’s a 50/50 chance of sunshine, showers, snow, hail, earthquakes, tornadoes, volcanic eruption, swarms of locust and meteors falling from the sky today” every time they give their report? Just get it over with in one broad stroke.

Everyone knows meteorologists are worthless, but they don’t care. I’ve heard people say in the same breath, “The weather man is such an idiot… do you know what tomorrow’s suppose to be like?” Like grandma use to say, “If you want to know what the temperature is, go outside.” Dang, grandma was sweet AND smart. Your local meteorologist can be wrong every day for weeks and yet people still check the weather constantly, even though they are fully aware that it’s a “hunch” at best. Why can’t I have a job like that. “Hey Ramblin’ Rooster what 10 plus 10?” “Ummm… 37?” “Nope. Here’s your check, see ya tomorrow.”

Why are people so obsessed about the weather anyway? “Hey Billy, I’d love to come over and hang out, but it might rain, so I’m just going to stay here locked in the bathroom, laying in the tub with a mattress over the top of me. Maybe tomorrow.” Why would the weather stop you from anything you wanted to do? “Mr. Ramblin’ Rooster, maybe we might want to have picnic and we want to see if it’s suppose to rain, ’cause we’d hate to pack the basket, get all ready and go, just to get rained on.” Well, I bet you’d feel more stupid if you didn’t go and it didn’t rain. ”I missed wishing my brother goodbye at the train station because Hank told me that snow was likely.” Don’t let that be you.

The worst part of all is when severe weather does hit, (and it’s always the same) “This storm just came out of nowhere…” Or it came out of the sky. Perhaps you need to crack open your meteorology handbook and verify what the red, fuzzy circle means again. Severe weather strikes, so you turn on the news, (assuming you still have a TV) and suddenly there’s fifty meteorologists “on location” all over the city. People you’ve never seen or heard of. The regular weather person is never on. WTF?!?! So you watch the broadcast for hours, hoping to catch a morsel of information and for three hours you sit through these second and third string meteorologists going on and on about what ”they saw”. “Tell us what you saw Jim.” “Tell us what happen there Judy.” “Tell us what it’s like where you’re at Jam-Goo, the dancing sheep dog” Who cares? Just tell me if I’m going to die in the flood.

Truth is, I’m just jealous of anyone who gets to do shadow puppets in front of a “green-screen”.

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

America Ruined By All

This is the perfect example of tonight’s theme. I feel as though I need a disclaimer or make a statement that I love America in effort to avoid people being offended by the title. So let me just say, I love America, I love the fact I have the freedom to write and speak my mind. It is my dying wish that you can smell the sarcasm…

Which is why, ironically, freedom is on the topic board for scrutiny. Freedom, we all love it, we all take it for granted and assume it is a right, not a privilege. Let ye never forget, that which is given, can be taken away. But how much trouble has freedom caused? How much damage is it responsible for?

I think the biggest area of freedom abuse is in the legal system. Take for instance the lady who won money from her lawsuit for being burned by her coffee. That case should have never entered into a courtroom. The magnitude of the stupidity surrounding it negates discussion. The fact that it ”win her money” has turned this world into a “warning label” nightmare. You can’t buy a product that doesn’t “warn you” about the dangers of negligence and the company’s position of not being liable. Do I really need to fear chewing gum, toothpaste and shoelaces? Is there really someone in the world, whom is without alternative motive, that’s going to eat a frozen pizza that’s still frozen?

In turn the world has “gone dumb”. The more people tell you, warn you, scare you or direct you, the less you think for yourself. Tolerance doesn’t mean everyone has the right to intervene into every person’s business. Tolerance is allowing those you hate to live their lives, not control them in an attempt to convert them to your way of thinking. If you hate Ramblin’ Rooster, that’s fine. You don’t have the right to kill me, make me stop writing or try to make me write about something you would find pleasing. Let the opposite be said that I don’t have the right to make you stop hating me or your trying to spread a campaign of hate amongst the populous. The more you insist on forcing peace and harmony, the more you infringe on freedom. You can’t make all the people happy all the time. Did you learn nothing from Bob Marley?

“Justice is blind.” I’ve never understood why people think this is a wonderful, positive slogan. It doesn’t mean that “the system” is fair and judges us all the same, (’cause we all know that’s not true. If you’re rich and you have a good lawyer, you’re going to get away from just consiquence). Justice is blind has always meant, to me, that “the system” is uncaring of circumstantial fact. Example; If you were caught stealing a loaf of bread to feed your family, because you had been fired from your facotry job after the company went bankrupt and you were unable to find other work, you would be facing the same punishment as a person who stole a loaf of bread that was high on crack and thought it was a designer purse.

Some days it feels as though you can’t do anything. You can’t smoke, beat your kids, look at dirty pictures, eat food that was made in a factory that had a bag of peanuts sitting in the desk of the floor manager’s office, etc. Americans live in fear of always waiting for the other shoe to drop, the next thing to fear. Even people who love each other want to kill each other at times. There’s no way to be one, big, happy family.

Conflict is the spice of life. Without it we’d all complain about how nice everything was. How horrible would that day be?

Do you really want to ruin happiness by making the world a happy place?

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Let’s Go To The Lobby & Have A Heart Attack

“Let’s all go to the lobby, let’s all go to the lobby, let’s all go to the lobby and get ourselves a treat.” I can’t remember if it’s “have ourselves” and if “treat” is “snack”, but this is the jingle I recall from every drive-in theatre I went to as a child. Tonight’s blog isn’t about drive-in theatres, but rather the concession sold at movie theatres. I just always liked that goofy jingle.

Real quick, before we begin, I just want to establish the different type of movie-goers. There are three types:

Type A – People who don’t really care about the movie. They can miss parts, be multi-tasking, etc. The movie is the equivalent to background noise.

Type B – People who talk out loud during the movie. This type covers those that may be really into the movie, (talking to the screen) and those who are confused and are asking the person next to them for clarity/explanation or guessing the next scene/ending.

Type C – People who “zone-out” and don’t want to be disturbed, (not even if the theatre is on fire). They want to see the movie from the opening credits to the house lights coming on.

I’m a Type C movie-goer. When I was single, I use to go to the theatre up to three times a week. On my birthday, I’d go to the theatre and watch movies from the first showtime to the last. I loved it. I was never tempted to buy concessions, nor did I sneak them in. For some reason when I’m at the theatre I suffer from “old man bladder” syndrome. So I never wanted to drink a 32 ounce beverage and have to miss a part of the movie. I’d buy a drink, find my seat, (which I prefer the very back row, center) and then for the duration of the previews, I’d try to resist drinking my beverage. It was always difficult, but for some reason I had it in my mind that if I could wait until the movie started to begin drinking, I’d be OK. Eventually I grew tired of the game and decided to be “concession free” and I was always fine with it.

Now that I have children, they associate ”movie time” with “truckloads of treats”. Now I know that many a comedian, whether they’re a professional or your next door neighbor have made light of the outrageous prices at movie theatre concession stands. So I know that I am not breaking any new ground here, but after taking my son to the movie today, I want blood.

Again we run into the issue of “people-laying-down-and-accepting-ridiculous-corporate-commercial-sodomy”. We are all fully aware that a small bag of popcorn doesn’t cost five dollars. We are all educated enough to realize that a 32 ounce drink doesn’t cost seven dollars. Yet, like cattle with whip marks, we serpentine through velvet roped lanes, waiting in aggravating long lines, only to open our veins upon our turn and bleed green to young kids who for some reason refuse to fill your seven dollar beverage to the generally accepted “full line”.

It really makes going to the movies a drag. Isn’t there some kind of government enforcement about price gouging? Or does that only apply if you have monopolized the market? In any event it really doesn’t matter. The price of admission is ludicrious, the concession is mind blowing and in the end, if the movie you take a chance on sucks, you’ve dropped a car payment for chest pains. Buying the DVD when it first comes out is a couple of gallons of gas cheaper than two movie tickets. That just isn’t right. It’s totally insane! How can this kind of treachery continue?

Please go and see my new movie, “Ramblin’ Rooster’s Blog-tastic Movie”

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

HR Saved My Life

I’m a full grown man. I even have the ear hair to prove it. I’ve had some adventures and some life changing experiences. I’ve done some crazy things and stuff I regret. I’ve made wise decisions and bad decisions. I’ve learned from previous mistakes and continued making others. One thing I never thought I’d ever have to encounter in my adult live was being told how to wash my hands.

The office I work at put up signs recently in all the bathrooms and in the “kitchen areas” after several complaints about a this single employee who didn’t wash his hands after defecating. Ladies you may now let out a sigh of relief and ”high-five” one another as you collect your money from any bets that might have been placed on the fact that something so disgusting could have been perpetrated by a woman. Anyway, the human resources department of my office elected to put these signs up everywhere there was a sink.

A quick side thought. Human resources? Human? Is there an Inhuman Resource? Animal Resource? Mineral Resource? Why don’t they call it the “Whining Baby” Resource? Or the “My Boss Wants To Sleep With Me But I Need To Negotiate A Company Car Before Considering” Department? I’ve always thought that was a silly name/concept. Sorry to slow you down…

This sign comes from the Minnesota Department of Health. Sadly, I guess they don’t have that department in the state that I live in, so we’re forced to “get edgumacated somes where else.”

 I love the child like quality of the art. The soft lines, the size of the hands, the odd ’70s color theme and the angry germ characters make it a PSA masterpiece. The detail you’re missing out on is the germ characters in Step 1 wearing expressions of happy-chaos. They love being dirty and can’t wait to make you sick. Step 2 they are scared and frightened by the mysterious soap falling from the sky. Step 3 they’re choking and dying, literally being driven away. Seems kind of violent for the child-like poster. Don’t get me wrong, this flyer has very “handy” advice, but let’s over critique it.

1. It’s speaking to you as though you are the world’s biggest moron. If that’s the case, you’d never be able to complete any of these steps, because it doesn’t tell you to turn the water on. Now I don’t know about you, but if you leave the world’s biggest moron alone in the bathroom, tell him to wet his hands, things can get unsanitary awfully fast.

2. Keep in mind, “world’s biggest moron”. There’s no steps to take if soap and paper towels are not available. If you don’t know how to wash your hands, you surely aren’t smart enough to improvise in the event of a hand washing emergency.

3. Just like the missing instructions to begin, there’s nothing that tells you what to do after you’ve washed your hands. You turn off the water and I guess stand there until rescue teams find you or the white light descends upon you.

4. I love the title, Be A Germ-Buster. They’re trying to sell it with pride, like it’s bragging rights, as if you’d use this point as a highlight of your life’s achievements. “Yes ladies, it’s true. I AM a germ-buster!”

Also, if you are taking the precaution to turn off the water with the paper towel, shouldn’t you open the bathroom door with the paper towel? When the hell was the last time a door handle was cleaned?

Anyway, thanks human resources for saving my life. If it hadn’t been for you, I might have gone swimming in the toilet and drowned.

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

The Less Fortunate Make Me Happy

For those of you who don’t know me, which I guess would be anyone reading this, I’ve been known to throw myself an occasional “pity party”. I’ve sat on “the pot” and neither shat nor got off. You might catch me on a certain day where I’m felling sorry for myself.

I’ve always been the type of person that keeps to myself, especially when it comes to vocalizing my “problems”. I’m not the person that will tell you about my sister being in jail, or my cousin’s baby that was born addicted to crack, or my uncle’s struggle with testicular cancer. I’d be the quite guy in the back that you’d never even notice was there. On the rare moment of needing to “express” myself or vent my problems, I might choose a friend to punish with my baby-boo-hoo rant. When I finish with my tirade, the following response is usually given to me, (I’m paraphrasing) “Well at least your life doesn’t suck as much as someone else who’s less fortunate than you”.

I’ve never understood this logic. I get the fact that it’s basically trying to enlighten you to the fact that things could be much worse and you should be happy for what you have, but it seems evil to use the downtrodden to pull yourself up. People use it for everything, in any situation, for any circumstance.

“Gosh, I can’t be believe my boyfriend cheated on me!” “Well at least you had a boyfriend.”

“Can you believe I lost my job!” “Well at least you’re strong enough to look for another job”

“My steak is cold and is raw in the middle!” “Well just think of all the people in the world who have never had food to eat.”

Then there are those who throw out random ones:

“I can’t believe I got into an accident with my new car!” “Right now, somebody, somewhere is sleeping under a bridge because they’re homeless.”

It never stops. Can’t someone feel bad about something anymore? Even if it’s just for a moment? Yeah, there’s a lot of poverty in the world. There’s injustice, unfairness, bad luck, dark karma and tragedy, but can’t I be mad that I stubbed my toe? “You should be happy that you have all your toes and can feel pain in your appendages.”

It just seems creepy to be sad and depressed, then think of horrible things that are happening to other people and be inspired to be happy again. I know I need to be thankful for what I have, but I don’t think the misfortune of others should make you chipper. If anything, it should give you the opposite reaction. Being reminded of how vane you are isn’t a good feeling or to be shown how much we take for granted. You’d think having someone put things in perspective like that for you, would almost make you mute.

On the flip side, can I not enjoy the things I’ve earned? Can I like the level of achievement I’ve reached? I don’t feel like I gloat or hold it over any one’s head, nor do I judge those who have less than me. If I’m in a restaurant and I order a steak, well done and they bring me a rare steak, why can’t I complain? I know there are people in the world that don’t have hardly any food, but they’re not at the restaurant with me, nor did they work 50 hours this week and spend two hours worth of wages on a undercooked steak. Must I always take what I get, regardless of condition? If I buy a new dress shirt and it has no buttons, must I keep it because someone in the world is unemployed?

It does seem shallow and selfish, but I notice there are very few humble, grateful for what they have people walking around. They might have their moments of reflection and give thanks, but most don’t seem like they have time for it. Average people don’t really seem to care about caring.

Thanks for reading my blog. “At least you have a blog…”

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Cell Phone Debacle

When I’m not busy being a full time idiot, I volunteer part time as a crazy person.

Are you old enough to remember a time before cell phones? How ’bout cordless phones? How ’bout push button phones? How ’bout rotary phones? OK, I’ll admit I don’t remember a time before rotary phones, but they seem like they’re from a time that has long since past. For those of you who are without the warmth and knowledge of a world without cell phones, there was actually a time when people answered their phone.

Yes, you read that right. Before cell phones and the dawn of the electronic revolution people actually answered their phone. Why? Because it was exciting! You had no idea who was on the other end of the line. If it was a prank call you had no choice but to be a victim. Weren’t those the days?

I like to imagine the pioneer of cell phone invention was standing by a lake or stream somewhere, fishing perhaps, maybe on vacation with the family. The scene is like a coffee commercial, with breath taking mountains, amazing autumn colors and of course shinning white teeth smiles all around. Everyone is happy and having the time of their life, when suddenly, as our future genius and multi-gazillionaire casts the rod, a vision, a voice, a sign, the light bulb explodes and they say to themselves, “You know what would be awesome? Is if someone could call me right now and ruin this.” So they dropped their fishing pole, left the family in the tent, drove all the way back to the city, locked themselves in their lab and proceeded to invent the cellular demon.

Why don’t they ever have news coverage on cell phones giving your brain cancer or giant head tumors anymore? There was a time you couldn’t turn on the TV without seeing a special report about it. Perhaps in fifty years they’ll be a slew of ads, much like the ‘Truth’ anti-smoking campaign, where hip, young teens will come up with fun and nutty ways to divulge the cover ups, evil practices, and hidden/adulterated scientific research from “Big Cellular Companies”.

What I find odd about cell phones is the technology associated with them. The phone I have has a MP3 player, (never use it) Bluetooth capability, (never use it) a camera that takes pictures with a quality equal to if I had my cat make a rending of the scene, much like a courtroom artist and a lot of other things that I don’t even know what they’re for. What kills me is, that I used these features to help me pick this phone over the others. I don’t want these features because they help me, I want them because they’re cool, but they don’t make me cool, ’cause nobody cares. Now days, everybody and their dog has a cell phone, yet it seems like it’s impossible to get ahold of most people on them. We want to be in touch, but never be bothered.

Honestly, I don’t care much about cell phones. I like having mine in case I need it and it has come in handy at times, but I’m not going to pretend that I couldn’t live without it. I won’t make light of the people who are oblivious to basic phone etiquette or the countless number of people who have almost killed me whilst driving, because you know who you are and your time is going to come.

My only real complaint is those of you out there who have the “classic” bell-ringer as your ring style. Please go somewhere and die. Retro technology might be cool if certain areas, like vintage clothes or guitar amplifiers, but not in obnoxious noises. When your phone rings, I think to myself, “I bet prison isn’t as bad as they make it out to be. I just need a good lawyer, besides, this would be my first murder.”

By the way, I want a new cell phone. One that I can blog on and has a toaster.

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

What Happened To Halloween?

Halloween has always been my favorite holiday. I think it’s in part to the fact that I love autumn, but also it’s because Halloween is like no other holiday. It was always separate from all the others, far and away it’s own special day. Think about it. It’s the only holiday that doesn’t make you honor, observe, give thanks or struggle with religious significance. It was dark, scary, spooky, eerie and sometimes even horrifying.

What do you think would happen if you showed up to a New Year’s party dressed as a ghoul with a bloody axe in your head and fake guts hanging out. You got that right, you’d be called a freak and immediately ostracized. How about going to Easter mass dressed as the devil, man that’d be fun. I’m sure you’d really enjoy the stories about what happened, after you came to in the emergency room days later. Halloween allows you to cross over to the dark side, to touch the gruesome and grotesque. If only for one night. What other holiday offers you something like that?

Let’s not forget about the candy. You might find a parade once in a while where people throw out candy, but it usually falls in a pile of house manure, tastes like gasoline or gets run over by a Shriner in a midget car just as you’re reaching for it. Halloween says, “Free candy from as many doors as you can knock on before the porch light goes out”. While some houses give better treats than others, it really shouldn’t serve as any kind of discouragement, it’s all free. Don’t like it, throw it out. Maybe you’re saying to the screen, “But Ramblin’, I’m a full grown adult, how do I get free candy?” “What are kids for?” that’s what I say. Don’t have kids, well where do you think the saying, “Like hiding in the bushes, pouncing out and taking candy from kids dressed up like dinosaurs, pirates and princess” comes from?

Lately though, it seems as though Halloween has been bought by the “Giant Wussy” corporation. I think the beginning of the downfall was when parents stopped making their children’s costumes and/or kids stopped “going” as general things, (like a skeleton, vampire, witch, etc.). Today all the kids are beatin’ the asphalt as corporate sponsors. Every time I open the door I feel like someone is going to ask me to buy a vacuum or encyclopedias, but instead of asking if they can give me a quick demonstration they just want free candy. I don’t mind giving it away, but I’d like to see some creativity, some effort, some, (dare I say it?) pizzazz! The other thing I’ve noticed is some people have taken to decorating their lawns with inflatable ornaments. Am I only the only one who thinks BB gun? Inflatables and Halloween go together like peanut butter and ketchup. It’s ridiculous. I saw a pumpkin tonight that had three ghosts popping out the top, all of which were soft and cartoony, wearing big smiles on their faces. WTF?! Halloween is for zombies, ghouls, gremlins, ghosts, bats, skulls, mummies, gigantic spiders, gallons of fake blood and the haunted, not the Care-Bears, Smurfs, or Strawberry Shortcake.

Is it too much to ask to scare the shit out of children, rendering them permanently scared, needing years of therapy to return to normal life?

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster, MD, PsyD, Child Psychologist (free consultations beginning November 1st, call for details)

Change Your Perspective, Change Your Life

If you think about it, life is nothing more than one big mind trip, (which we will discuss in depth, in tomorrow’s blog). Perspective is one of the key elements in changing the world you live in.

I’m not much of a reader. I read somewhere between thirty to forty comics books a week, an occasional newspaper or magazine and every once in a blue moon an actual book. One of the books I was made to read back in my “school days” was ‘To Kill A Mockingbird’, (on a side note I once knew a girl that thought the title was Tequila Mockingbird, which sounds kind of delicious). I liked the story, but the part that stuck with me most, (for those of you half way through the book or who are planning on reading it soon, you’ll want to skip this paragraph) was the ending, where Scout is standing on Boo Radley’s porch seeing the neighborhood in a way she had never seen it before. The impact was significant because the truth of changing your “scenery” can be tremendous.

While I was still a bachelor, I had a rather large coffee table and a four foot diameter poker table in my living room. I also had two chairs that I placed on top of the tables and this was all the furniture I had in the room. Sitting on top of tables, although sounds silly perhaps, was amazingly entertaining. The whole room looked and felt different, not to mention the looks and comments from visitors. Something so small and seemingly insignificant had a huge ripple effect.

Another time I use to park outside of a police station and wait for the officers to switch swifts. As one of them would leave to start their patrol, I would follow them. In my mind I was treating them as a suspect and was following them as if they were a ”suspicious characters” up to no good. Needless to say that police officers don’t like to be followed. All of them, sooner or later, would pull into a parking lot or dead end street, stop and wait for me to “go about my business”. In hindsight, I’m surprised they never pulled me over for messing with them, but switching roles with “the man” was definitely different.

I like to approach panhandlers with a dollar out and in plain sight. They get excited to see the money and I like making them assume that it’s for them. I walk right up to them and ask if they can make change for a dollar. The mood of the scene changes faster than a woman right before her period. It’s pretty cool, (the panhandlers freaking out not PMS).

One Christmas morning, some friends of mine and I got dressed up in all kinds of weird fur coats and hats, sparkly, loud, jewelery, leather gloves and other odd garments of clothing at around seven in the morning. We then piled into the car and drove around looking for people. Surprisingly enough, there were a few people out jogging or walking, (on Christmas morning no doubt, talk about hating your family… errrr, I mean dedication). We’d pull over and politely say, “Excuse me, can you tell me how to find <blank>” and we’d ask for some near by town or even the town we were in. The answers and expressions was well worth the price of admission. My favorite was one couple that we asked for the town we were physically in at the moment and before it registered what I had said they were already moving their hands, pointing on where to go before catching and saying, “Hey…”

Some people might tell you that jumping out of an airplane, sticking your head inside an alligator’s mouth or “letting your mortgage payment ride” in Vegas is “living”. They make you think one has to be extreme to touch the virtues of a “real live”. Well, I think that’s rubbish. If you really want to go crazy, I can’t stop you, but I think you’ll find doing something small, like changing your perspective will make you see things in a whole new way.

I guess that last statement was pretty stupid, “…changing your perspective will make you see things in a whole new way.” Yeah, no shit Sherlock. All I’m saying is that I bet it’d be a lot harder to have your wife/husband/girlfriend/boyfriend/adult person friend push you around in a shopping cart the next time you go to Super-Ultra-Mart than parasailing. I even put money on you remembering the shopping cart incident long after the parasailing experience. Try it and tell me if I’m wrong.

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Life Is A Mind Trip

As promised, today’s blog will deal with the secret of life. I’ve stated before, there are two kinds of people in the world.  Being as such, the two kinds we’ll look at tonight are positive people and negative people.

I don’t know which side you, the reader, stands on, but for most it can be difficult to tell. We all have our moments of indulgence with both, so how can one tell for sure? You can’t, but rest assured, it really doesn’t matter. At the end of the day, what matters is if your soul is free or if you are poisoning yourself with anguish and turmoil.

I hate skin heads, neo-nazis, white supremacists or whatever name they choose to hide behind. The idea of being superior over another race on nothing but the level of skin pigment, religious belief, or sexual preference is so illogical and mindless that to even try and debate the issue is pointless. What is amazing to me about these people is the dedication to the mind trip that they have given. I mean you really have to put some serious effort into tricking yourself to believe the utter nonsense that these fools speak. You can’t reason with them, they’re just too far gone, and too deep to listen to reason. It’s really sad that they’d waste that kind of control for something that “meaningless” would fall short of describing. 

That’s the power of the brain and more importantly, the thoughts we classify as beliefs. That’s all beliefs are, thoughts. You may be willing to die for your beliefs, but that doesn’t change the fact that they were once a tiny seed in your subconscious. All it needs is to be feed and it will grow into a general thought. One that you might think about over and over again. Next you would accept it as fact, then latch on to it, thereby deeming it had reached a level of importance to be considered a ”belief”.

So if you are the kind of person that regrets things in life, or wish upon your wishes of things being different and find yourself frustrated that you can’t change your life, just stop. You can’t change your life. “What” you ask? You can’t change your life, period. If you want to get a promotion, you can’t wish for it, pray for it or kill for it, but you can change your mind trip and thus your behavior. Perhaps you will now actually earn this promotion. “Isn’t that changing my life dumb-ass?” No, it isn’t.

You don’t control your life. Doesn’t matter what you believe in, God or no God, fate or chance, you have no control. You have free will and you can do whatever you want, but you don’t get to pick the consequence of those action. If you could then everyone would do what a millionaire did and get the same result, right? We all know that doesn’t happen.

Free will is not the principal of quitting your job and smoking crack all day if you want, but yes you could do that. Free will is the practice of the “mind trip”. The “mind trip” is the inner voice, or as my good friend Kreg Krickle likes to say, “The Talkin’ Box”. I’m not talking about the voice that says, “I’m hungry” or the one that screams, “Water. Hot. BURN!” or even the one that says, “Don’t kill that person, even though you’re really angry and feel as though you want to.”

The Talkin’ Box is the voice that says, “Don’t ask her out, she’ll say no and you’ll feel stupid.” “I’m not smart enough to learn a new skill or trade.” “I’m not skinny enough to wear that dress.” “I can’t drink regular soda, because it will make me fat. Double, bacon, cheeseburger please.” You get the idea. It’s not your conscience, your inner child, or your primary-function-unit-voice, (the one that tells you, “Go to the bathroom or you’ll pee your pants.”). Your not born with, you develop it, mold it, craft it and work on building it your whole life long. It is the voice that sets the tone for your life. It is the one that is deciding how you are going to behave and what choices you are going to make.

If you see someone you are attracted to and you want to make contact with them, but are afraid for one reason or another, the Talkin’ Box is working. If you want to overcome the fear, it’s not by pretending that it isn’t scary, because it is. You may very well be made to feel foolish or become embarrassed. Regardless of your Talkin’ Box, that reality will always be real, it’s outcome is unpredictable. You can however, accept the fear. Know that whether or not the creation of spontaneous interaction goes in your favor or against, that you gave it your best shot. You don’t have control over the outcome and regardless of it, it doesn’t define who you are. The only trick is to truly believe that thought. That’s really the only hurdle. To believe so much in what your thinking that’s it’s no longer a thought, but a belief.

Depending on how long you’ve let your Talkin’ Box talk, you might find that you’ve built something quite ugly in design. You might be overweight and want to start walking at night to try and lose some of those pounds, but when the opportunity arrives, your Talkin’ Box makes such a wonderful argument not to go, that you change your mind. It’s all you! You have to kick your own ass if you want to tame the Talkin’ Box. If your Talkin’ Box says, “It’s too cold outside, and I’ve heard that exercising in the cold can hurt your lungs.” You tell your Talkin’ Box to shut it and you go walking. An evil Talkin’ Box that has been free to roam and develop itself can be extremely cunning in it’s deception skills. It will always find a new angle to throw at you to discourage you from gaining what it is you are after. It will even act as though the negative has gone dormant until you have reached a small stature of success, then it will pounce on you like a hungry lion. So even if you think you’ve overcome the evil Talkin’ Box and constructed a positive one, be cautious of it resurfacing.

“But this doesn’t make sense. Why would my Talkin’ Box want to steer me in the wrong direction?” It’s because the deepest, darkest secret in all of minds is the basic fail-safe of failure. “Say what?! How is failure a fail-safe? You’re an idiot.” Perhaps, but failure is the lowest, most easily obtainable form of success. If you keep failing at trying to quit smoking, because you don’t want to quit smoking, quit trying to quit. Presto, you’ve succeeded in riding yourself of disappointment in not following through, stress of withdrawal and the agony of wasting time thinking about it. The more you give up on yourself, the less responsiblity you have. The ultimate freedom is having nothing.

If you have ever envied someone or perhaps turned on the radio or television and witnessed a performance that you felt was horrible and questioned the heavens, “How can they make it, they’re terrible?” The answer is the “mind trip”. Theirs is better than yours. They trained their Talkin’ Box to say things like, “Never give up, never surrender, do your best, never listen to negative criticism, always keep moving forward.” That’s how they win. That’s how all successful people succeed, they turn their Talkin’ Boxes into a cheerleader. It’s impossible to fail, if you are the one watching your back.

My head hurts…

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

No Such Thing As Homeless

Do you like to argue over semantics? If you answer yes, then I dedicate this blog to you.

I use to work at a furniture store located downtown that faced a major street and had an alley behind that separatedthe store from the warehouse. I spent most of my time in the warehouse. A lot of “street folk” would walk through the alley. For some reason, most of them were rather friendly with me and some would even stop by for an occasional visit. I was always friendly to them and I guess they appreciated that someone actually talked to them like they were just a regular person.

I use the words, “Street Folk” because I don’t believe that there is such a thing as “the homeless”. It’s the most stupid thing I’ve ever heard. OK, that’s a complete overstatement. It doesn’t even come close to being the most stupid, but it’s dumb all the same.

Oh, I know what you’re going to say. I know what your definition of “home” is. When you hear that word “home” you think walls, doors, plumbing, temperature controlled air, the works. To me, that’s not a home, that’s your home.

Perhaps you’ve never heard the saying, “Home is where I lay my head”? If that’s true, then I have an immeasure amount of homes. Seriously, even the person that most would describe as “having nothing” indeed has “something”. I’ve yet to encounter a naked person that never sleeps and is constantly on the move, because that’s what it would take to truly have nothing.

The most down and out “homeless bum” that you can think of has, at the very least, clothes. Maybe a blanket stashed somewhere? I knew a guy that had made himself a pole with a one sharp end, (like the things people use when stabbing and picking up trash in the park). So everybody has some amount of personal belongings. You can’t escape from it and who’d want to?

Just because these “street folk” don’t go home to the same kind of place that you call home, doesn’t mean they’re homeless. These people are going back to some kind of shelter, be it a box between buildings, under a bridge, in a dumpster, a bush or an abandoned house/building. They have to go somewhere for the night to sleep it off. They’ve got a big day of panhandling tomorrow, they need there rest and time to go over their sob story and practice running their lines. “Excuse me sir, do you have a dollar to help a man out. I haven’t eaten in three days.”

Don’t let them fool you either. Don’t let them tell you that they’re homeless. If they try and pull that with you, don’t be to ask, “Where do you live?” If they fire back, “I’m homeless” ask, “Well where do you sleep?” If they say something like, “An old refrigerator box, behind Steve’s Appliance Super Store on 86th Street.” You say, “Well then that’s your home.” If they try something like, “I move around a lot and sleep in a lot of different places.” say, “Well then I guess the City is your home. How exciting. You’re so lucky.”

Being of the street I’m sure can be stressful, but it has it’s rewards too. No taxes, schedules, bosses, acquisition of a unique odor and free time like you wouldn’t believe.

Can I crash in your basement tonight?

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Women’s Magazines Rule Waiting Rooms

Whenever I go someplace that I have to wait in a lobby that has magazines, I always go for the girlie ones. Cosmo is by far the best. I don’t much care for Redbook or Vogue or anything that is about fashion or other crap like that. I just like reading the soft porn articles and taking the tests/quizzes. I find it amazing that I have never met a woman in my life that resembles anything like the women who write in to that magazine. Perhaps I do/did know some, but they must have chosen to keep that side secret from me.

You don’t know me on a personal level, so let me tell you that I use to love sports. So much that I took them way to personally and would, on occasion become overly emotional about certain outcomes that I found to be unfavorable. In the height of my love for sports I never had a desire to read about them. I also hate reading about finance/business, home decor, babies, cars, technology or fitness. So the pickings are pretty small.

One poll from Cosmo, I remember vaguely, was some kind of weird “Top Ten” list of why not to do things, (or some such nonsense). On the list was Uma Thurman’s drug overdose in ‘Pulp Fiction’ for “best reason not to do drugs”. Which I think is just silly. I think that scene in the movie teaches us not to take things out of other people’s coat pockets and snort them if you don’t know what they are. I really don’t think it’s a very strong message.

You want to be scarred off of trying drugs, take a guy I use to know. His name was John, but we’ll call him Jack to protect his anonymity. Jack use to enjoy recreational jabbing of needles into his arm. He enjoyed it so much that his “hobby” became a full time job and eventually he became a workaholic. Jack’s body wasn’t too happy with this decision to work so much overtime. The long hours started to take effect and with it a toll on Jacks’ body. Soon, it became necessary for Jack to sit on the toilet with his pants down to inject himself, because “getting high” had such a violent reaction with his system that he’d immediately lose control of his bowels. Now if that’s not the saddest picture of a man you can paint, then you must be a much better artist than I.

But we’re talking about magazines here… Women of the world, if you’ve ever needed justification for your superiority, then look to your dominance of the “waiting room” magazine. I sure it’s all you ever wanted.

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Overpaying Phobia Ripoff Disease Syndrome

For those of you keep track at home, here’s another inside scoop to the interworkings of Ramblin’ Rooster. I’m an average handyman. I like to think of myself as fairly intelligent and with a certain amount of aptitude. I’m not one who can fix anything and everything, but there’s a lot of things I can, or at least am willing to try, before calling someone and paying them to do it for me.

Do you suffer from OPRDS, (Overpaying Phobia Ripoff Disease Syndrome)? Me too! It’s not just about fixing things that break, it’s goes way beyond that.

First, my hot water heater stopped working recently. The pilot light wouldn’t stay lit. Being under warranty, I had to call the manufacturer before doing any work on it. They told me they would send me a new thermocouple, but I opted to just go buy one, (it was freezing this week and I needed hot water now!) “What do we want? Hot water! When do we want it? Every time we turn on the faucet!” To make a long story short, they ended up having to send me a gas valve, (or thermostat). I fixed it myself, the hot water is flowing and it cost me a total of one hour in labor, (including the thermocouple that didn’t need to be changed, but not counting the waiting for the tank to drain) and 37 cents for the stamp to send in my receipt for a refund on the thermocouple. I can’t even imagine how much it would have cost to have someone come out and fix it for me. To make things worse in that nightmarish scenario, the fix was the equivalent of changing a light bulb, (or six light bulbs with a couple of a wrenches).

Next, I bought the wife a new digital camera for our anniversary. We ended up doing zero shopping around, but rather just going to a store and picking the one she liked best. It was freakin’ expensive and the salesperson asked, “Are you planning on buying today?” “Yes,” I replied. “Well, Black Friday isn’t too far away and that camera’s going to be on sale, but if you buy it now and see it being sold for less anywhere else in the next 30 days, we’ll refund the difference, plus 10%.” WTF? I thought to myself. I no longer have to worry about overpaying because you’re telling me I’m overpaying? What a relief. Now I just have to spend the next 30 days combing every ad I can find, desperately looking for a cheaper price. How cool is that? That’s what I said.

Finally, I love fettuccine alfredo. With chicken, without, I couldn’t care less. “Give me a gigantic bowl of fettuccine alfredo and some bread sticks and I’ll be in hog heaven.” That was until I made fettuccine alfredo at home one night. For those of you who don’t know, the basic recipe for alfredo sauce is butter and milk. That’s right, butter and milk. Even die hard bachelorshave butter and milk in their refrigerator. Hell, crackheads have butter and milk in their fridge. Now then, you boil the noodles, melt the butter in milk, drain the pasta, put it back in the pan, sprinkle it with Parmesan cheese, then poor the butter-milk sauce over it, mix and serve. That’s worth $12 or more at a restaurant. How cool is that? That’s what I said.

The list goes on and on, but it just never stops being extremely frustrating. You as a consumer are in constant battle with yourself. Trying to think if it’s a “good buy” or a bad one, but never really knowing if you’re right or wrong. Most people just want whatever they’re in the market to buy, so they go and buy, (hey that’s me!). Which is probably one reason prices are what they are today. It seems like no matter how much research, looking around, comparison shopping or time you take to make a decision, as soon as you walk around the corner, there’s a sign for what you just bought that has it $20 dollars cheaper. Even though it’s only $20, it still burns you to the core.

Why couldn’t I be rich, so that the spending of money would be immaterial? “Oh, it’s $400 dollars for an oil change? OK, change it twice. I’ll be back in a hour.”

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Hello… er, um… Man

Life is chock-full of uncomfortable moments and awkward situations. It’s nice to know that no matter how cool, rich, sexy, smart of successful you are or become, no one is safe from these simple acts that keep us all in check, grounded and serve as a reminder that we’re only human.

The crime? Forgetting someones name. What could be worse than being so insignificant that a person can’t address you by your name? It’s one of the few things that makes you, you. Even John Smith and Mary Jones get to celebrate and relish in their name sake. It’s your name for God’s sake! It’s how the world knows you. It’s the first thing that you say to everyone you meet.

Some people are good with names. Usually sales people, but not always. I have always been horrible with names. I don’t know if it’s because I’m so introverted, I don’t really hear them ’cause I’m not paying attention, (thinking I’ll never see this person ever again) or the fact that I’m just not a “people person”. 

The one that I most recently fell victim to is the horrific “You know my name, but I couldn’t think of your name if I had eight centuries to think about it”. The kind of mind blank that leaves you so stumped, that you can’t recognize Susan being any better than Phil. I’m talking lost, totally lost, gone, no chance of ever pulling it out.

It always seems that the person who’s the victim is the one of those nicey-nice, people. They might not be a good friend or even someone you really want to hang out with, but you can’t deny that they are a nice person. It makes sense, negativity always makes a much more lasting impression.

Some encounters are far worst than others. Running into a friend of a friend of a friend that you met at a party three years ago is a far cry from running into your sister-in-law’s parents and completely blanking. The uneasy air that you breath in becomes toxic when the victim is someone that you should have remembered and been able to recall upon seeing them.

It never fails that they remember yours. That’s where the whole guilt trip starts. They see you and immediately start with, “Hey BOB!” Which in turn, puts the pressure on you to rebut, with certain arrogance, as if you can somehow hide the fact that their name has been wiped clean from your memory. “Hey!” “Hey man!” “What’s up?” “What’s goin’ on?” “Wow, how you been?” seem to be standard and well executed lines to conceal your ignorance. I’m sure they have no idea you’re a totally self absorbed idiot. I once had a neighbor come over and introduce himself to me, new guy in the neighborhood and all. A couple of weeks later he came by again and called me out, “Hey Ramblin’ Rooster! Do you remember my name?” What an ass. He must of noted my glazed over eyes and far away stare as he introduced himself.

This situation just plain sucks. There’s no good recovery, no smooth way of saying, “I’m sorry, what’s your name again?” You just have to play it off like you can’t feel the egg running down your face.

Egg On!

Um… er… Hacklin’ Hen?

Post Halloween Candy Blues

Halloween has come and gone once again. This year was the first time for all of my kids to decide that they were too old to go trick-or-treating. It made me kind of sad. You might be thinking it’s because the sweet, innocent years are passing with incredible speed and they seem to be getting older and bigger each day. You may be saying I feel sad because an era has come to an end and the time of becoming young adults is too soon approaching. Maybe your theory is that I can no longer ignore the fact that they are no longer “my babies”. You couldn’t be more wrong.

I’m sad because my candy supply was drastically diminished to just the lousy leftovers from the “door” candy. I finished the last of it today at lunch. It’s only the 6th of November! It use to be that the three, giant, pumpkin-pails would last all the way to New Year’s. Now what am I going to do? Lazy, punk, kids! All I can say, is that I’m glad I made the right decision by turning off the porch light at 7:30 pm.

I used to think that “Fun Size” candy was moronic. I use to think, “What’s so fun about it? It’s small and tiny. That’s no fun at all.” This year, it finally clicked. It’s “fun” to see how many I can fit in my mouth at one time. It’s ”fun” to see how many I can eat in one hour. It’s “fun” to see how many I have to eat before I vomit. Yea, fun!

I wonder where they came up with that idea or what that board meeting must have been like. “Everybody loves candy, sure, but we need to figure out a way to make it less intimidating.” “How ’bout we make it 1/5 the size and put “FUN” on the package?” “Genius!” I bet they paid a huge amount of money to some kind of marketing team or product research group, you know they did. ”Hey, we need to jazz up candy. It’s just so dull and boring. We want it to be fun.” “Why don’t you ad “Fun Size” in the upper corner on the wrapper.” “Awesome, why didn’t we think of that?”

My favorite thing about the “Fun Size” is that it doesn’t seem to be proprietary to just one candy bar, they’re all “fun”. Doesn’t matter if you buy the cheap, yucky, candy or top of the line, expensive, import, luxury chocolate. “Fun” really is for everyone. What else can make that claim?

I suppose I just need another baby, a new one. If there’s anybody out there that wants to make a baby and will let me have it every Halloween, drop me a line.

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

I Killed Bambi’s Mother

My whole life, my whole career as a licenced driver has fallen from my perfect “no kill” record. Yes, it’s true, I hit a deer last night.

For those of you keeping track at home on your score card, I had just bought a new car recently. So recently in fact, that I have only made one payment. Now the cars sits at some strange body shop, probably wondering why I made it an accessory to murder then abandoned it with strangers. Please forgive me car.

Here’s how things went down. I picked up my daughter in a rural, little town and was heading back on a dark, two lane blacktop in the middle of nowhere. We began having a lovely conversation when all of sudden five deer started entering the highway. I slammed on my breaks, swerved as far away from them as I could, but to no avail, I hit the leader. I immediately called the highway patrol and they asked for the mile marker where it happened, if everyone was alright and said I was free to go.

As I kept driving, I kept hearing “chunks” of my car falling off. I could tell that I lost a headlight, but figured I needed to pull over to check things out. I stopped at the next rest area. As I pulled up in the parking stall, my headlight frame fell out and I drove over it. I got out and looked, it was bad, but as my daughter said, it could have been a lot worse. A trucker who had stopped for his evening jog around the parking lot, (don’t ask, we’ll veer too far away from this story) brought over some duct tape to help keep my fender up, off the wheel. He too told me how lucky I was by telling me the story of his sister who lives in Minnesota that hit a deer and how it came through her windshield and she had to go to the hospital. I thanked him, got back in my car and headed for home. I could still hear piece after piece fall from my car as I drove. Every time I drove over a dip or low spot in the pavement, some hangy-down part would scrape the road. All I could think of was, “Please let me make it home, please!”

It took a long time for the shock to wear off and I felt extremely bad for the deer, (get your score cards out again) because I love animals. I’m one of those people that doesn’t even stop to think about a person being killed in a movie, but clinches up and holds my breath if an animal is in danger. I also started to feel bad about being so concerned for my car, but come on, it still has the “new car smell”. I never cared for my cars, ever, but this was the one car I was going to try and keep nice, to protect and take care of.

The next day I took my car in and got a rental. They only had two to choose from and when asked which one I wanted, I foolishly said, “I don’t care.” The one they gave me was filthy, stinky, the seat was terribly uncomfortable, (oddly uncomfortable and dipped down in front, making you lean forward towards the steering wheel) and my head touched the roof. I drove it home only to turn around to take it back to swap for the other one. They were fine with swapping and in no time I was out the door and into my new rental car. The parking lot was flat, (meaning there were no curb stops) so I started the car, put the gear in drive and started to leave. Instantly,  I heard a grinding/scraping noise. I got out and looked and I’ll be darned if there wasn’t a traffic cone under the car. I got back in and had to back up to get it out. All I could think about were the people watching me, thinking to themselves, “He just dropped off his car that he wrecked and now he can’t even make it out of the parking lot. He ain’t gonna make it.”

The ironic part of the whole thing, was driving back after the accident, after the initial shock wore off and passing along the message from my son to my daughter that I had just picked up. I kid you not, he really told me to say this, “Tell her I said hello and I hope she enjoys her drive in” Fat chance.

You think I could blame him for cursing the drive and thus causing the accident?

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Gratuitous Gratuity

To leave a tip or not leave a tip, that is the question. Whether it is nobler to suffer the humiliation of outrageous lack of fortune… or something like that.

I know that this is a very sensitive topic. Those who are in the profession, I’m sure have very strong feelings for tipping, but there are those who feel the opposite, (of course). Why do we have tipping, where did it come from and why does it seem to only be for the fancy food situation? I say fancy food, because it is not customary to tip in the drive-thru at Burger-Mart. I guess you’re suppose to tip bellhops, valets, taxi drivers and the like, but having never been exposed to that “lifestyle” I’m without the proper background. If you feel the need, please apply the following comments to those vocations as needed.

I think tipping should be abolished. It’s meaningless in value and only further complicates our social functioning. Tipping is solely based on percentage, therefore is void in merit because it is not a measure of quality or hard work. I know from time to time, one might say, “They didn’t bring me enough coffee, so I’m not going to tip very much” or something like that. Usually though, it never happens and most people pay out the 15 to 20% regardless of the experience.

I think people in the food industry should just be paid a straight wage. It’s really not fair to pay someone off a “total amount of check” percentage. If I go to “Mid-level dining world”, order a steak that costs $12.99, does the waiter/waitress work any harder bring me a steak that costs $25.99 from “Ultra-Supreme dining world”? No. So why should they get a bigger tip just because the food is a higher price? Perhaps if the wages were of a competitive market value, negating the need for tipping, the caliber of staff would rise and thus business volume, which would cover the higher cost of overhead.

America is eat-out crazy. We all love to do it. The market share is huge and it’s not going away. I think a restaurant that built a platform of “tipping is not allowed” would pack the house day and night. Who wouldn’t love being free of the angel-devil struggle on their shoulder every time the check arrived. “How much do I leave? Do I have the balls to stiff them? I’m not happy, but here’s extra money.” You already gouge us enough on drinks and appetizers, just let us pay for the meal and go.

Basically, it’s not fair for anyone. The rest of us working in offices and other crappy jobs are exempt from even the thought of being tipped. When’s the last time you tipped a cop, bus driver, fireman, baker, accountant or doctor? That’s right, never. It’s an outdated, old-fashioned custom that needs to be overcome. Let it go and let’s move on.

If you’d like to tip me for this blog, please use my pay-pal account. For all those in the food service reading this, please don’t spit in my food.

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Lost In Existentialism

One of the things I remember most about going through school was always being encouraged to ask questions. The safety net that teachers would provide for me was the cliche, “There are no stupid questions.” My other favorite line of encouragement that seems to parallel individuals wanting a person to speak their heart, or express their feelings is, “There are no wrong answers.”

It wasn’t until much later later in life that I figured out that it’s true, there aren’t any stupid questions, only easy and difficult ones. If your ten year old son asks you why can’t they have ice cream for dinner the question is an easy one. If he asks you what happens to Fluffy, the family pet, after it dies it gets harder. So on and so on.

If you are a believer in simple, mathematical logic and rudimentary philosophy, then you’re probably hip on the concept of opposites. Their is no God without the Devil. There is no happiness without sadness. Their is no light without darkness, etc. So it only makes sense that answers to questions are either right or wrong. Seems simple enough, but I must disagree. Their are no right or wrong answers, only choosing what to believe.

What is the purpose of life? What should a person strive to achieve in their lifetime? What is the most valuable thing in life? These all seem like pretty simple questions. They’re short, simple and direct. All you have to do is answer. I wonder what kind of answers you’d get if you asked 1000 people. I wonder how many “themes” would come up, forming a pattern, sharing very similar properties. I wonder out of all those similar answers, how many truly believed the answer they were giving.

Let’s play with, “What is the most valuable thing in life?” It’s a tough one, but I’m going to say the number one answer would be family. A close second would be health? Probably only old people would say that. Maybe love? Only people just falling in love would say that. It’s just so hard to judge. Hey, if your reading this, ask 1000 of your friends what their answer would be and then tell me the results.

I think this is really the hardest thing in life to deal with. Even if you’re one of those people who never stops to think about it, walking around with a smug grin, believing you have your life together. Somewhere deep inside, locked away from you is a burning, rotting place that nags for this question to be answered. I think it’s because we all ignore this question, because it’s too hard to answer, is why so many people are secretly miserable. They hate their jobs, their lives, their lovers, their friends, themselves, because they are living a lie. I think this is why animals are so happy, they never have to deal with philosophy.

Have you ever noticed how depressing to be around and full of shit existentialists are?

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Animals vs. Humans: Who’s Better?

I have often heard and sometimes even spouted the cliche, “Ignorance is bliss.” I’ve always had mixed feelings about this saying, because although its simplistic and poetic, (which I love) it also promotes something I hate, ignorance. I guess I don’t hate it, but I hate when people use it as an excuse to limit their responsibility. All of this of course is side tracking us from tonight’s topic though, so let’s get to it.

Other than a five year period in the middle of my life, a grace period if you will, I have always had, at the very least, one animal companion. I’ve had dogs, cats, fish, guinea pigs, birds, turtles, a snake, and a duck. Dogs, cats and the duck where/are all great pets. The duck was extremely messy, but more companionable than one might think.

It’s long been the general consensus that man is smarter than animal. I guess this is accepted because animals don’t drive cars, work in factories, or tail gate in parking lots. Another age old example is the opposable thumb and the use of tools, which have always been a big point of fact for superiority, (except for those damn monkeys). I think it comes down to the ability to speak a language that makes humans believe they are smarter/better than animals, (like jabbering on and on is a sign of higher intellegence).

I’m not one of those crazy animal owners that refers to my pets as “my children” nor would I spend thousands of dollars to prolong an animals life for another couple of months, (I’m sure I would if I had crazy money, but I’ll never call my pet my child.) I also don’t believe that animals feel love. I think that is solely a human device thought up for torturing the soul.

The thing I like most about animals is that they are above pettiness. OK, that’s a lie, they love to be pet, but the don’t ever seem to suffer from self-esteem issues, gambling problems or get arrested for drunk driving, (I know, it’s the opposable thumb thing, except for those damn monkeys). I think the sure fact of how lost humans are gives animals a slight edge. You could argue that we are more stupid just for being capable of creating a unimaginable wonderfulness and failing so miserable at it. Animals have nursed other animals outside their species and we have trouble talking to our neighbors. Animals don’t care what you look like, smell like, act like, believe in or think. They are oblivious to your bias, contempt, greed, perversion and mental state. They just want to eat, play, sleep and be stroked, (something I think we all can relate to).

So when it comes down to Animals vs Humans, Who’s Better? I have to go with animals. Of course that’s coming from a blabbering cock. What? 62 posts and this is my first cock joke, that’s better than good, it’s amazing.

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Does My Butt Look Big?

I can not think of a more idiotic statement than, “Does my butt look big?” or some form thereof. I’ve never been a woman, or at least I don’t remember that far back, so maybe I don’t understand. Women seem to really obsessover the way they look, (I know, major breakthrough concept). I guess what I’m trying to say is, that if they spend their lives always examining themselves in mirrors, why would they be lost in something so obvious as to the size of their butts?

It seems to stem deep into the psyche of women, this whole butt dilemma. It’s been widely discussed that women are subjected to fall victim to, being almost forced, to develop self-esteem issues because of the pop culture scene. Be it magazines, movies, television, or music videos, the industry standard is a woman must present herself as a slim, curvy, athletic built woman to be considered beautiful, (even though much effort as been put forth to prove different. Guess they didn’t listen Sir Mix-A-Lot). Which doesn’t leave much room for a big butt, (no pun intended). I’ve always thought it was weird that women look at lingerie catalogues filled with scantly dressed women, but I’m going to save that, (and more) for tomorrow’s blog.

My wife loves to watch those make-over shows and the “go buy yourself a new wardrobe” shows, so I know that it is possible to wear clothes that are unflattering to your body shape. However, you just can’t hide from the truth. If you have a large butt, it’s because you have a large butt. It’s not an article of clothing attacking your fat cells, changing your physical makeup, creating a “new butt”. It’s the butt you’ve always had. It’s the butt you spend all day, everyday with. You know, the one you’re sitting on.

Why can’t the large butt owners recognize and comprehend the size? If someone asks me if an ant is small or big, I can tell the ant is small. The same goes if you were to change the question from an ant to an elephant. The elephant is big. I think I was equippedwith this knowledge at a very young age, (the ability to judge size through a relative scale based on general comparison) around the same time I was studying colors and shapes. It doesn’t matter how many times you change your pants or how many different angles you look at it from, a big butt will always be big regardless your attempts to fool your eyes. That’s the power of the big butt. It shines through no matter what you do to hide it.

Finally, what does it really matter? If you have a big butt don’t fight it, just love it. I’m sure someone out there would be willing to help you out if you need it. A big butt doesn’t define who you are or where you’re going, (maybe where you’ve been). You should embrace your butt and be thankful that you have it. There are a lot of people in this world that suffer from “Concave Butt Syndrome”, (sometimes referred to as CBS). Millions suffer lonely nights at the club because they are stricken with “No-Ass-itis”. So rejoice, give your big butt a hug and for the love of Mary, stop asking what it looks like.

I’m sure you saw this coming, but you know I can’t resist… Does this blog make my butt look big? Or am I just an ass?

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

It’s A Wonder We’re Not All Gay

Now that I am all grown up, it seems the older I get the more I think back about my childhood. Sometimes it’s for nostalgia, but mainly it’s for trying to figure out how I got to be the way I am. No, I haven’t made any real progress, but my mother and Billy from the 3rd grade are my major suspects.

When I was a boy, homosexuality wasn’t very prevalent where I grew up. I’m sure it was present in my town, but I was never aware of it until much later in life. So at the time of growing up, I didn’t pick up on the overwhelming evidence that society was subconsciously trying to turn everyone gay.

The following is a list of behavior/situations I was made to participating in:

-As a child, I was only allowed for boys to sleep over, never girls.

-In junior high, after gym class, I was forced to shower with all the other boys. You’d think if you wanted to be a stinky child, you’d have that right, but no.

-When I wanted a girl to come over, she was never allowed to be in my room with the door closed. Again, when in the company of boys no regulatory action was taken.

Another thing that has inspired me to be a conspiracy theorist is the lingerie magazine. Almost every woman I know has or has had a lingerie magazine in their home. These magazines are filled with professional, computer enhanced, sometimes medical altered, beautiful women. Every woman I’ve asked will say that they think the models are beautiful. Which is a trick to try to get you to say that Frank from accounting is attractive. Also girls have always been allowed to call their same-sex friends, girlfriends. So logically, a naive male child would think that his male friends are his boyfriends, which as I’m sure you all know is extremely taboo terminology in the hetero-world.

Bathrooms are another bizarre social situation. Why are we split up between men and women? What further contradicts the custom is that it’s not practiced in private, only in public. It wouldn’t seem so weird if you went to a friends house and needed to use the bathroom and your went down the hall to find two doors, one with the man symbol and one with the female symbol. I’m hypothesizing that it’s so women can talk in private whilst in restaurants and bars. Honestly, why do we separate to go to the bathroom? If the reason stems anywhere near a sexual side, then wouldn’t their need to be four doors? Or would lesbians and straight men be in one room and women and gay men in the other? 

I suppose you could sum up the confusion best with a quote from my pastor. “I don’t care if you are a lesbian, as long as you’re a man.” Now that I type that, maybe that was just some drunk guy at the bar last weekend…

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Random Thoughts

I’ve always been against the idea of therapy. Mainly because I don’t believe that someone who has read books and taken tests can help anyone who has genuine problems. A therapist is only human right? The other reason is that if you place a space at a strategic location, (between the “E” and the “R”) you can spell The Rapist.

Women who show a lot of cleavage don’t like when you look at it or they pretend they don’t like it, but really love it, because deep down inside they suffer from low self-esteem and nothing cures low self-esteem faster than being sought after in hopes of you being a slut.

I’m all for sex-education and especially the disease awareness side, so I get the idea of why they’d teach how to apply a condom, but why do they always use a banana? Who’s erection is in the shape of a banana? Why not use carrots or cucumbers or even a vibrator? If you’re erection is in the shape of a banana for more than four hours seek medical attention immediately. And if you find yourself on the receiving end of a banana shaped erection, run away, there’s something wrong with it.

After watching the ‘Da Vinci Code’ I found out the symbol for male is “^” and the symbol for female is “V”. I couldn’t disagree more. If you’ve ever been to a hardware store trying to buy plumbing/electrical fittings/adaptors/etc. parts, they always ask if you need male of female parts. Male is cylindrical and female is the receiving part. So basically, men are poles and women are holes.

Dog biscuits that state on the box that they have four, (or however many) different flavors, all taste the same. The coloring, shape and design is all for human trickery. Dogs can’t buy snacks. They don’t have any money.

No matter how crappy or happy you feel, someone is doing better or worse than you. You can never be the best. Even if you find yourself surrounded by people claiming you are the best, it’s simply because they haven’t found the person better than you yet, but rest assure they will. Does that make you sad? Don’t forget some is sadder than you. You just can’t win. Accept we are all average with highlights, bloopers, outtakes, deleted scenes and gag reels.

Prescription drug commercials never report on the effects of the people that took placebos. Do they die? Freak out and get angry? Do they cry? How would you feel if you thought you were being medicated for an ailment only to find out you were being duped into taking a sugar pill? “Hey guinea pig, here’s your $50. Thanks for letting us lie to you and not help you with your problem.”

Lists of random thoughts usually stem from people who can’t write a continuous article/story/piece/etc.

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

A Story About My Dad, The Salesman

My father was a door-to-door “No Solicitors” sign salesman. He had an annoying voice, a bothersome demeanor and obnoxious mannerisms. Sufficit to say, he was very successful at what he did. Every morning at five am, he’d leave the house with a box full of signs, load them in his car and drive off. He’d return about seven pm with an empty box everyday. Later, he shared with me some of his “trade secrets”.

Here’s list of things he’d do to give him the edge he needed to be successful:

-”I’d never brush my teeth in the morning or eat anything for breakfast. I’d chain smoke and drink as much coffee as possible, which is another great way to get inside someones house or business, may I use the bathroom sort a thing. Anyway, I’d drive around smoking and guzzling coffee then when I’d make a sales call, I’d lean in close and try to push my breath on them.”

-”Sometimes I wouldn’t bath for days or I’d wear the same suit all weak. Wearing the same clothes over and over again gives you a much more offensive odor than just not bathing. It’s a unique smell, special, different from just plain old b.o.. I think it has something to do with the fibers soaking in all the stinkiness.”

-”If I found myself in a situation where I thought I was on the edge of losing a sale, a real sale, not some bum who isn’t really interested in buying, but someone who just needs that little something to seal the deal, that’s when I’d pull what I call the mister. That’s where you spit very lightly in someones face when you’re talking to them. It took me a really long time to learn how to do it well and not get caught. I’d practice a lot when I was driving around smoking and drinking coffee in the mornings, scouting sales routes. You really have to be careful and gentle in your approach and watch out for too much repetition. If it only happens two or three times in a meeting that’s enough and it has to be a light spray. If it’s light enough and soft enough, the person won’t expect a thing and usually won’t even mention it. You can always see it in there eyes though, that instant loathing, how they pretend they’re rubbing their chin or scratching their cheek, trying to wipe it off. Even if you lose the sale, it’s pretty entertaining to watch.”

-”Talking excessive loud is a good tool. Again, you have to perfect the technique, but noise is something that bothers a lot of people. Some people will buy a sign just to get a little peace and quiet.”

-”I always loved when I got a head cold. Trying to close a deal with the sniffles or an abrasive cough really moves the transaction along.”

-”I only did this a couple of times, because the last time I tried it a guy came after me with a Louisville Slugger. I’d carry one of those stink bomb viles in my coat pocket and just as I’d finish my pitch, I’d reach inside my pocket and crack the vile open. Amazing, some people will buy from you if they think you’ve shit your pants.”

I’m sure there was more, but I can’t recall anymore. It’s crazy to think that’s how the man feed his family, but he did and never complained. He sold those signs up to the day he died. I sometimes wonder if it wasn’t the life that killed him.

So now, every time I see one of those signs that say, “No Solicitors” I always think of my dad and how happy I am that I’m not a salesman.

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

The Secret Life Of My Mother

After my mother died, I found a diary she kept under her mattress. It’s weird to think that a grown woman would do something that seems so childish as to hide a diary under her mattress, but she did. I couldn’t help but to read it and figured if she was dead, she wouldn’t get mad at me. After reading it I was shocked as to find out who my mother was and the secret life she had lead. I wished that my father was still alive so I could ask him if he knew about what I had read. Of all the things to take to your grave…

Here are some passages. I’ve edited and condensed some of the entries, but I tried to stay true to the text:

-”I remember the first time I knew what it meant to be a woman, to have power over a man. The kind of power that would follow me for a long time. Laurie’s [my mother's sister] boyfriend was over one night and the two of them sat on the couch watching TV. I don’t know if they were just really into the show they were watching or just bored with each other, but as soon as I came down the stairs in my nightgown his eyes never left my body. I went into the kitchen and opened the fridge. I bent over to get the milk, purposely and seductively for his gaze. At that moment I could of asked him to do anything and he would have done it with out blinking or thinking. It was then that I knew that I could control any man I chose.”

-”When I got out of high school some of my friends were getting married and some were going on to college. Later, it seemed that they were only going to college in order to shop around for a husband because they had been so unsuccessful in trapping a man in high school. I never wanted to go to college, nor did I feel a need to expand my intellect. Who am I trying to impress and why would I try to do it with my mind when God has obviously blessed me with this face and body? I spent a couple of years just traveling around the states. Drifting would probably be a better word for it, because I was letting the wind steer my course. I wound up in Chicago and it wasn’t long before I met Daniel [not my dad!]. He wanted to take pictures of me, trying to convince me I could be a model. It wasn’t long before he was asking that I took my clothes off. It wasn’t much of a decision to make after I saw the stack of bills on the table.”

-”After three years of posing for Daniel, the road had run its course. Pictures were no longer good enough for him and he wanted me to perform sex acts for motion picture. I didn’t care what the amount was being offered, there’s just some things a girl shouldn’t do for money. When you’re as beautiful as me, you don’t have to be desperate, you just have to be smart and know when to say goodbye. I’m taking the money I have saved up and I’m hitting the road again at first light.”

-”It’s been three months since I left Daniel and the money is all gone. I’ve been looking for a regular job, but it doesn’t seem that I’m the kind of girl that professional men want. And by that I mean working for them. Maybe it’s because I’m too beautiful. I’ve taken a job at a club by the airport. It’s a gentleman’s club, but the men that are patrons here are anything thing but gentlemen. I’m not thrilled about having their dirty hands on my ass, but the money is outrageous. This seems to be a very fast moving business and the hours are only a few a night. I find myself becoming exhausted and have trouble finding the energy to keep going. One of the other girls that works here gave me something to keep me going, she called it cocaine.”

END OF PART ONE

Tune in tomorrow for the exciting conclusion.

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

The Secret Life Of My Mother – Conclusion

Continuum Warning! Clarity Disclaimer: This is the conclusion to the blog from last night titled, “The Secret Life of My Mother”. If you haven’t read the first part, you won’t want to start here.

Where we left off? Mother had died, I found her diary, I read it, she began her young life after high school as a drifter, became a porn magazine model, turned to stripping at a club and just tried cocaine. Yea mom!

-”I’ve been using the cocaine more and more, sometimes several times a night. It’s amazing. I feel free and powerful again, like I can do whatever I want. I haven’t felt like this in a long time. Even as I write this I feel a calling to return to the next room with the other girls to join in the party. They’ve invited over several men. Some regulars from the club, an employee or two and a man I’ve never seen before. His name is Sean [still not my dad!] and he’s as close to a movie star as I think I’ll ever get [my mother did tell me once that she always wanted to marry a movie star when she was young]. I really should go back to the party if I want to try to gain his attention as most of the girls seem to be thinking what I’m thinking. This is one handsome meal ticket.”

-”I’ve been noticing Sean coming to the club almost every night. He always sits down front, but never makes eye contact with me. He’s a polite and generous tipper and I wish I knew for sure if I can get a hook into him. There’s nothing more depressing than trying to reel a man in and failing.”

-”Sean came to the club tonight and sat down front just like clockwork. Instead of a dollar he gave me a slip of paper. Backstage, when I opened it, I discovered it was an address. After the club closed, I took a cab to the address. It was a large, dark warehouse that seemed to be abandoned. I ignored my instincts and got out of the cab and went to the door. I knocked and sure enough Sean answered immediately. Which is a good sign, a man that makes you wait is dead weight. Inside the warehouse was as gloomy as the outside, except for all the candles burning. It seemed like there were thousands. In the middle of the room was a large glass top coffee table and pillows all over the floor. Sean offered to take my wrap and offered me a seat on the floor of pillows. He offered me a drink, I accepted, then he disappeared into the shadows. I looked at the table, there was more cocaine on the table than I have ever seen in my life. It looked like it had been snowing. Sean returned and we drank our drinks and did some lines while the time rolled away. Around sunrise, Sean had retrieved a small, wooden box from a back room. Without saying a word he pulled out a syringe, a rubber tube, a spoon and a very small bag from inside the box. Then he worked over it like a scientist, mixing and burning and fiddling around. He came over and wrapped the rubber tube around my arm then he stuck the needle in my arm. A warmth rushed over me and I felt like I was leaving my body”… [she goes on to talk about them having sex, but I can bare to type it]

This is where the book starts to get really weird and incoherent. She starts writing little, short poems and drawing bizarre pictures. She goes on and on about Sean and how he’s the one that finally gets her to do porn movies. From what I can tell this went on for a little over two years. So let’s just jump to the end before I vomit for days.

-”The end came and went. Sadly I wasn’t conscious for any of it. I remember being out at a club for drinks with Sean at some point. When I came too it was dark and cold. I was naked in an alley laying in a pile of trash. All I could think of was that I had nothing. Absolutely nothing. No money, no dignity, no recollection of my life, not even a stitch of clothing. I emptied a trash bag and pulled it over my head and walked myself to the nearest hospital. While I walked, I wondered if I was even really alive or if this was a dream of the dead.”

-”I’ve been in treatment for eleven months. This is the best I’ve ever felt in my whole life. The doctors say I’m well enough to leave and try to start my life over, but I must admit, I’m afraid. Where can I go, what would I do? But I can’t deny that it’s time for me to move on. I’ve been here so long that I don’t even look like a patient anymore. For instance, today a man came in the lobby trying to sell signs to the receptionist and I. He was bothersome and annoying, but there seemed to be something decent about him behind it all. I don’t know if I’ve ever met a decent man before. He asked me if I wanted to have lunch and without thinking I said yes. He’s suppose to come by tomorrow. I hope he brushes his teeth.”

The end. That’s the secret life of my mother. I’m glad she decided to take the secret with her to the grave. I can’t even imagine how that would have affected our relationship growing up. I only wish she would have burned the damn diary. Don’t worry mom, I did it for you. Girls/women remember, some things are best not to write down.

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

If Given The Chance, Would You Stop Working?

I imagine that somewhere out there, there’s a person who loves to work and/or loves what they do for a living. I’m basing this solely on the fact that I’ve seen it in movies. I personally have never met anyone like that. I’ve met one workaholic, but he was more of a person that needed to stay busy and had a lot of professional ambitious hobbies. Even he hated his “real job”.

It seems wherever I go it’s all the same. People just don’t want to work. You can see this trait in strangers by the total lack of enthusiasm they exhibit and you can see this trait in co-workers by their worn out, over used, unoriginal negative comments. Phrases like, “Is it 5 o’clock yet?” “Is it Friday yet?” “Is it time to go home yet.” etc.

Every time I hear someone utter any of these the phrases, or anything remotely similar, I won’t to put a bullet in a skull. I’m to the point that I don’t care who’s skull it is, mine of theirs, just as long as a bullet finds a skull. At least there would be something new to talk about. “Hey, did you hear? Frank got a bullet in the skull.”

Why doesn’t anyone want to do anything? Where did all the excitement go? I’m not a huge John Cougar fan, er.. I mean John Cougar Mellencamp fan, er.. I mean John Mellencamp fan or whatever the hell his name is, but I’ve never heard a more true lyric than the ’Jack and Diane’ line, “Oh yeah, life goes on,
long after the thrill of livin’ is gone”.

That seems to be it though, everybody is done being thrilled. We’re all thrilled out, shocked out, and amazed out. So, everyone wants to retire. To do what I ask? If you’re bored with your life now, what would happen if you had nothing to do? You’d probably kill yourself.

The question is this. If you could walk away from working and do whatever you wanted, would you? I know a vast majority would scream out, “Hell Yes!” without even really thinking about it. I bet a majority of those that answered the question rashly, without thinking about it would be the same ones complaining at the bar about how they can’t stand being at home, about how bored they are and how they wished they still had a job.

Would you stop working if you could, would you spend everyday waking up asking yourself, “What am I going to do today?” Yeah, me too.

Misery loves company, but it loves working from 9 to 5 even more.

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Be The Photographer Everyone Hates

I’ve always loved photography. Not only looking at great photos or trying to make my own, but have loved photography ina very general way. I guess respect is a better way of putting it. I’ve always respected photography. There’s a certain prestige associated with it. After all, you as a photographer are recording time, regardless of composition.

Let’s say you take a picture of your friend up close making an “ugly face”. Will this picture make the cover of Time magazine? No. Will you receive an award for the picture? No. Have you recorded a time in your life that will give two people a chance, even though they may or may not realize it now, to look back at a time that has passed? Absolutely. You, the photographer, in twenty years will think something like, “Ah, I remember John. He was always such a goof”. Whereas John will almost certainly look at the photo twenty years from now and say, “My goodness, I look so young. What happened to me?”

Throw away photos have always been popular with me too. You digital monsters probably don’t know this, but photography used to require film, ( a thin plastic strip that had to kept away from light and processed with chemicals.) Every once in a while a weird, discolored, psychedelic photo would emerge in your stack of prints. Most people threw these away, but I have an album solely dedicated to them. They also include the wonderful “finger/thumb over part of the lens” photos too. Photos are like puppies or babies, they’re all precious.

When it comes to photographing family and friends, I find the best pictures are those that are spur of the moment, impromptu, or anti-portrait. I hate portrait pictures. (OK, I know I just said all photos are precious, so this is like that one super ugly baby that everyone thinks is ugly, but says how cute they are.) Standard “senior pictures” are the worst. Maybe actual family portraits done at Sears top the list, but they’re neck and neck. You know what I’m talking about right? These horrible pictures with forced, fake smiles, where everyone looks hot and frustrated and posed in unnatural positions. What brother puts their hand lightly on the shoulder of their sister?

So how do you break the mold of yucky photos? Go stealth. All the time, every time.

Here are some prize opportunities to seize:

1. Try being behind someone walking, preferably when their on a return trip, (as in the went to get another beer). Just as they turn around, snap the photo! If you’re impatient you can say something to make them turn around, but natural is better.

2. Sneak up on people from behind. Get close to them, they’ll feel your presence. Just as they turn to see what’s what, snap the photo!

3. Hang out in hallways that have corners/turns. When someone comes around the corner, snap the photo!

4. Learn peoples routines. If they hang their jacket in the closet every day after getting home from work, hide in the closet, when they open the door, snap the photo!

5. Linger outside the bathroom. When they come out, snap the photo!

6. If you live with someone and share a bed, wait for them to turn off the light and come to bed. As soon as the light goes off, snap the photo! If you catch them in the middle of night, say they had to get up to use the bathroom, it’s much better.

It’s important to remember that building a portfolio of “candid moments” takes time. You can’t do these kind of pictures everyday, otherwise people will become paranoid and your pictures will lose that true not ready/shocked/startled quality. Spread out the attacks and be creative. Now these aren’t Christmas card quality photos and consequences vary greatly in duration and intensity. One thing I will promise you is that they’ll be entertaining and most often hilarious.

Say “cheese”… or “What the hell are you doing, you scared the crap out of me?! You jerk!”

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Ask Ramblin’ Rooster

I’ve always wanted to be an advice columnist. Not enough to actually work at it or strive to make it a reality, but just enough to let it swirl around in the back of mind from time to time. Now I figure I can do whatever I want, so I wrote some questions and answers. Have a look.

Dear Ramblin’ Rooster,

My girlfriend doesn’t want to have sex with me as much as I would like. I’ve tried everything, but nothing seems to work. What say you?

Signed,

Lonely Lover

South Dakota, Michigan

—————————————————————————————————————————

Dear Lonely Lover,

You said she doesn’t want to have sex with you, so who does she want to have sex with? Just kidding… Two words: Chloroform, prison. The chloroform will allow you your wish and prison is where you’ll end up when you get caught.

—————————————————————————————————————————

Dear Ramblin’ Rooster,

My kids watch teeny bopper movies and TV shows all the time. Most of the time I don’t pay attention to them, ’cause they’re stupid, but sometimes I find myself really enjoying them and being sucked in to where I like them more than my kids. Does this make me creepy?

Signed,

TV Confusion

Long Beach Island, Nebraska

—————————————————————————————————————————

Dear TV Confusion,

Yes.

—————————————————————————————————————————

Dear Ramblin’ Rooster,

I write a blog every night that doesn’t get much traffic and hardly any comments. Sometimes only one person will read one of my blogs. I want to republish it with a new title because it seems like such a waste, but that also seems like cheating. Sometimes I don’t even feel like writing, but I read somewhere that you have to pick a frequency and stick to it. What should I do?

Signed,

Bland Blogger

Los Westdaleangeles, Maine

—————————————————————————————————————————

Dear Bland Blogger,

Stop whining and focus on killing yourself.

—————————————————————————————————————————

Hmmm… maybe I shouldn’t be an advice columnist.

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Candy That’s Good For You

I’ve got a wonderful idea. Vegetable candy. Wait come back, where are you going?

I know it sounds disgusting and I’m sure it would be, but that’s not the point. The point is why hasn’t anyone made it yet? Oh yeah, because it’d be disgusting and no one would like it, so therefore no one would buy it.

Well, they make fruit flavored candy that doesn’t really taste like the fruit it’s suppose to represent. Why couldn’t they make vegetable flavored candy that didn’t really taste like vegetables, but rather delicious candy? They make carrot cake and carrots are vegetables. Also you have sweet potato cassarole, sweet corn bread, rutabaga pie, avocado ice cream and yogurt dishes out the wazoo. So why not vegetable candy?

My intial thought was hard candy or chewy candy with a hard shell, but I guess you could do candy bars as well.

I’m thinking for hard candy, (or the chewy with the hard shell)…

Flavors: potato, corn, green bean, cauliflower, broccoli, carrot, zucchini, mushroom, egg plant, squash and cucumber.

And my candy bar line… 

Green Corn – Green Beans and corn, covered in caramel and chocolate.

Patty Cake – Chunks of potatoes and carrots covered in white chocolate with almonds.

Mushini – Mushrooms, zucchini and peanut butter wrapped in a corn husk and sprinkled with broccoli florets.

And as an added bonus, my frozen sensation: Ranchoccoli – broccoli with cheese smothered in ranch dressing on a stick.

Man, I never knew brocoli, cauliflower, and zucchini were so hard to spell.

Can anyone loan my some money to make my mortgage payment? I just blew my savings on a stupid vegetable candy factory.

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Traveling Difficulties

Traveling, for most of us, is an everyday occurrence. Whether it’s to the store for milk or to visit your cousins on the other side of the world, traveling is something we all have to do at some point in our life. So what’s the problem with traveling?

Some people might say it’s deciding where to go, what to do or when to travel. Others may say that budgeting for travel is difficult. For me, it’s getting out the door. Perhaps it’s my “last minute” lifestyle or a demonic curse that I picked up in the early nineties at a party or something. Either way, the act of getting out the door seems to be near impossible.

I do great packing. Not only am I light packer, but I possess a supernatural ability to place bags in a car to maximize the benefit of small spaces or to accommodate placing bags that that have a certain level of importance, (like a diaper bag, or the wife’s makeup bag, etc.). I’m awesome with directions and I almost always find where I’m going. If I do find myself lost or confused, I will ask for help or directions. I have never understood why some people feel that they’re above asking for directions. Maybe if it was because they were afraid of being told wrong directions on purpose I could understand, but I doubt that is the case for why those people can’t ask for help.

It just seems like I can never fully commit to thinking it’s alright to leave. I either think I need to try and go to the bathroom once more time, (because I am one of those psychos that hates stopping once I get going) that I’m forgetting something, that I should check something, (like did I leave the stove on boiling a live chicken?). I make multiple trips in and out of the house. I walk around aimlessly in the house. I stand still and pose in the thinking position. None of which ever yield anything. It’s not until I’m an hour away that I’ll remember that I forgot something.

I gotta go…

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Alcohol & Vomit, Projected Not Puddled

I just got back from visiting my friend “the alcoholic”. He’s a really good one too. He never gets mean, nasty or overly emotional and he never throws up. It’s really quite amazing, but like I said he’s an alcoholic, a professional. I’m not like that. I seem to vomit a lot when drinking, especially when hanging out with him.

So anyway, we were hanging out and sure enough, I started drinking. Not only in large quantities, but also excessively fast. Everything was going fine. I was having a good time taping silverware, plastic bowls, empty beer cans, dominoes, a box of nutter bars and other miscellaneous items to the wall. I even got daring and taped a chair to the wall. It stayed for about a half hour before falling. Next I went to go play the keyboard. I put my head down to start jamming when the alcohol hit me like a truck. A wave of intoxication rushed over me and my stomach instantly turned upside down and sour. The kind of nausea that rumbles your bowels. I went outside, which was freezing by the way, and sat in this broken recliner I found sitting by the trash cans. It was actually pretty nice and ideal for purging my system of the poison. I sat there for quite awhile waiting for the “sickness” to pass. I eventually made it to a bed to pass out. The morning was worse than the evening. I had the dry heaves five or six times, (that’s the first time that’s ever happened to me). Later on, after I got up, my friend “the alcoholic” and I reminisced about all my “bad luck” with drinking. I never really knew just how bad I was at drinking.

Here are a few of my horrible highlights:

-Vomiting in bed, (on several occasions)

-Sleeping on the porch in puddle of vomit

-Vomiting in bathroom and passing out in front of the bathroom door so no one can come in the room, (sadly this happened twice in two different places)

-Vomiting in a someones lap

-Vomiting in people cars

-Vomiting on my own shoes

-Vomiting in a swimming pool

Besides the vomiting, I always manage to pass out or sit in weird places as I wait for the “sickness” to pass. Once I was behind the garage of a friend’s house, sitting in the grass vomiting. I had my eyes closed and I felt something touching my hand. I opened my eyes and a opossum was right in front of me checking out the free smorgasbord. I let out a little hiss and it took off. With all these painful experiences, you think I’d learn my lesson.

I’m thirsty… when do the bars close?

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Routine vs. Random

Which type best describes you? Take this short test to find out!

Do you like to have a schedule? Do you like knowing what’s going to happen next? Do you try to plan out your day, week or even month in advance? Do you like to follow the same routine everyday?

If you answered yes to all of these questions, you’re a “Type A” person.

Do you feel stress out or burdened by following a schedules? Do you like letting the wind take you? Are you living life by the seat of your pants? Do plans make you feel stifled? Do like everyday to be an adventure?

If you answered yes to all of these questions, you’re a “Type B” person.

What’s that? You didn’t answer all of the questions as “yes” on either of them? Well that’s weird, I guess you’re a “Type C” person and you can’t participate in this discussion.

The truth is, “Type A” people for some reason hang around “Type B” people. I think so it makes it easy for them to fight and ruin other people’s dinner at restaurants. Nothing like having a nice sit down dinner and get to listen to a couple argue of over what they’re going to do. “You never told me that!” “Yes I did, you just weren’t listening. You never listen to me.” “I like to know about these things in advance” “Well, I’m telling you now.” Blah, blah, blah… don’t you people ever stop? Try putting some food in those mouths!

What’s that? Oh, I guess that conversation is me and my wife. Sorry about that. I thought we were deconstructing anonymous strangers, my fault.

It’s true. The wife and I are complete opposites. She’s a planner and I’m a free-for-all-er. After years of arguments like the one above, I’ve learned this. Don’t make avocado ice cream, it’s disgusting. No, I’ve learned that both sides are hard work.

Planning everything is hard for obvious reasons. It is constant work, a daily grind, and a monotonous choir. It’s slow and grueling, but it makes the surprises of life minimal. It seems like the safe bet, but if you’re not of a certain discipline or mind set, don’t even attempt it. Once you go down that road, it’s hard to come back from.

Being a free spirit may seem like the easy road, but it’s not. Sure, up front it seems effortless, but just like planning; it’s a constant void that needs filling. The constant is of course the never ending question, “What to do now?” If you’re not creative, possess a lot of patience and are willing to encounter set backs daily, then don’t venture into the free spirit lifestyle. You won’t make it.

The question I have for you is this. Did I plan this blog or did I wing it?

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Wear Button Fly Jeans, Have Sex

Do you own a TV? Me too, we have so much in common. I don’t watch a lot of television programming. It takes away from cleaning my rifles and staring out the window, mumbling curse words under my breath. For some odd reason I like having it on in the background while I read. It’s the same principal as listening to the radio and watching television or a sardine and peanut butter sandwich.

I’ve noticed over the last few months or so that there’s a lot of button fly jean commercials on. I was unaware that button fly was making a go at taking over the market and putting the zipper out of business. I guess with the economy the way it is and the market in the shape it’s in, everyone is fighting for survival/superiority.

I don’t care for button fly myself. This next line definitely falls into the “too much information” category, so if you are someone who likes to avoid such things, please skip down to the next paragraph. Anyway, I don’t like button fly jeans because I don’t undo my belt or waist button to go to the bathroom. Trying to do the buttons with your top button, (and belt if applicable) is a real pain.

I am however reconsidering the button fly jeans, solely on the ad campaign that filters through the air waves, penetrating my book and making me look up at the television. Apparently if you wear button fly jeans, you get to have sex.

You might be saying to yourself, I already have sex. Be that as it may, you’re not having hot-button-fly-jeans-sex loser. It goes beyond just the act of intercourse; the jeans turn you into a magnet, an idol, a wanted man by women of the highest level of beauty. All you have to do is put them on and in seconds someone is asking that you take them off. Not only that, it’s crazy, on top of a bus, riding a camel, flying to the moon sex, not your boring Mr. and Mrs. Smith sex.

I wonder why it is that the “think tank” at the advertising companies can’t get around the angle of sex. Surely there’s other ways to market and sell you product besides having them put on and taken off. It’s just so obvious. “What are we selling?” “Jeans.” “I’ve got an idea, let’s have a guy getting out of bed and putting them on. Then show some half naked chick passed out in bed. The guy leaves and the logo pops up.” “Awesome! Great job Jim.” “Throw a tag line on there and we’re done.”

Here’s my jean commercial: Shot opens up of a typical city street. A hot chick is walking down the street naked. She just keeps walking and walking as the camera follows her. Finally she walks off camera and the panning shot ends. Fade to black. The slogan pops up: Jeans, on a naked chick?

Oh no, I’m just as bad as they are.

 Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Thoughts To Be Grounded By

Perhaps you feel like you’re all alone, like you’re invisible, or that no one cares. You just might be right, except for the being alone part. With 87 billion people on the planet, it’s pretty hard to be alone.

On the other hand, you might feel special. We’re all special, each and every 92 billion of us. Special in our own way and that’s a whole lot of special. It amazes me the planet can sustain that much specialness. Where does all that specialness come from? If someone dies, does their specialness transfer into a new born child? Is special like energy, can it ever really die?

Well here’s a little exercise that will bring you down from atop “I’m Special” mountain. Think of something, anything, like an activity. Maybe something you wish you were even doing at this very moment, say nude hang gliding with midget, Brazilian, bikini models. Got it? OK. Now accept the fact that someone, somewhere in the world is doing that right now. Now try to think of something “far out”, something that you would never do, something that might even disgust you, say nude hang gliding with midget, Brazilian, bikini models. Got it? OK. Now accept the fact that someone, somewhere in the world is doing that right now. The point is there’s nothing that you can imagine that isn’t being done by someone on the planet at this very instant, or maybe their just finishing up or just starting, but you get the point.

Why even your name sake leaves something to be desired. I guess if you’re the product of super hippies and you carry a name like Sugar Flower Mama Rainbow, you might stand a chance at being the one and only, but don’t get too cocky about it. Someone, somewhere will remember your name, take a liking to it and then one day, BOOM they name their child Sugar Flower Mama Rainbow. That’s just how it goes.

The humbling thing about “world realization” is that it takes the pressure off. Oh, don’t get me wrong, it can make you suicidal if you let it, so don’t. Instead, let yourself bath in the comfort that you’re a fleeting moment in history, a blink of an eye, a fart in the wind, here today gone tomorrow. How can this make you feel good, you might be asking? Take the barrel out of your mouth, I can’t understand you.

The feeling of comfort comes from knowing you’ll never be last, the worst, the fattest, the ugliest, the most dumb, the most unpopular, the most or “est” anything. Also, nothing you can do will be the worst or destroy the world or ruin the universe. You’re completely free to just live. Live any life you want, after all everyone’s too busy to notice.

It’s OK to feel good and bad about yourself, as long as you stay in touch and check yourself. You have 187 billion brothers and sisters and the house is getting smaller. Just be happy you got a piece of pie at all.

What a horrible blog…

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Brother In-Law

We all have a family or some form of family. There’s someone in our lives that we love no matter what. As if we had no choice in the matter. Just like in the scene of every made for television movie where the parent says at the climatic ending, “I’ll love you no matter what!” You just automatically give it up for these people, which at times, can be hard to call family.

So where does “In-Law” factor into the equation? It’s long been the cliché or stereotype that the mother-in-law is the hated beast and biggest bitch in the universe. Likewise the father-in-law is always the disapproving, “you’re not good enough for my child” type. This may or may not be the case in your life. I’m sure the relationships and a character type for mother and father in-laws varies as much as the number of in-laws. It’s really just all about how you get along with them I suppose. So where does that leave brother in-laws? Where do they fall in the stereotype/cliché world?

I have a brother in-law; let me tell you about him. First of all we need a picture. Hard to imagine someone when you don’t know what they look like. Think of an apple, or better yet a caramel apple on a stick. Except this caramel apple has two sticks. Those are his legs. On top of the caramel apple let’s put a marshmallow. That’s his head. Now break off a couple of arms from an old He-Man action figure and stick them on the side of the caramel apple. There we go, my brother in-law, a six foot tall caramel apple on two sticks with a marshmallow head and He-Man arms.

What’s he like, because he sounds delicious? This has to be the next question. It’s hard to get a feel for someone if you don’t know anything about them. He likes to bully people and by bully people I mean make people squirm and scream. He’ll grab sensitive spots or pressure points on your body with his gorilla like hands and squeeze until you squeal like a pig. Then he laughs. He’s a redneck, know-it-all that’s an expert on everything. He’s not afraid to let you know how much a pansy, wussy, girly-man you are. “You don’t know how to rewire a breaker box? What are you, a homo?!” He’s ultra macho, the whole nine yards, drinks beer like water, dips tobacco and never spits, likes to abuse animals and small children and all women are mindless, lost, sex-droids that need reminding of their true purpose, (servitude). God forbid you should ever make him mad or cut him off in traffic, because the consequence is death. I’ve read about Roman emperors who were more compassionate than him. The whole family has resolved that the demise of my brother in-law will be the result of driving, if not in an accident, then the person that will road rage back with a pistol.

The worst part of it all is that I always have to call him for advice and help with the projects I’m forced to take on. Every time I call him it’s the same conversation. I tell him what happen, he’s laughs, I ask for help, he calls me derogatory names, I’m quiet, he calls me more names, I hang up and he comes over.

The best part of it all is that he’s my brother in-law. I’ve really come to like the guy over the years and would actually call him my friend regardless of the family tie between us. He may be rough around the edges, raw on the inside, too sharp to touch and quite possibly toxic, maybe even cancerous, but he’s brother in-law and I love him. This really makes him uncomfortable.

I always try to hug him when I see him so he freaks out a little.

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Thanksgiving Of Course

Like today’s blog wouldn’t have been about Thanksgiving.

 

Today’s the day, the day of “the feast”, the most gluttony filled day of days. I bet the devil gives thanks for Thanksgiving because of all the gluttony. Man, I love Thanksgiving!

 

You have to admit, it’s the most glorious holiday of them all. It’s for everybody! No other holiday has so little controversy, hassle, conflict or responsibility.

Whoa! Why’d you throw that turkey baster at me? I’m not talking about being with family that you hate, the fights in the car driving long distances, working your ass off all day cooking, (and some poor people starting at like 2 am), the cleaning afterwards, the pressure to make food for people who would like nothing better than to judge and humiliate you and all of the other horrible and stressful things. I just meant it’s a great holiday for lazy people.

 

It’s the only one that doesn’t require anything of lazy people. It doesn’t really celebrate anything, or does it? If it does, it’s so meaningless that nobody even cares. It’s not like Memorial Day where you can really piss some people off if you’re ignorant. Come to think of it, I’ve never really asked a Native American what they thought of Thanksgiving. Maybe they hate it. Anyway, to mainstream America it’s nothing but family, food and football.

 

This is going to sound soft, I know, but I can’t help it. The thing I like most about Thanksgiving is that it’s a day to give thanks. Seems like that’s a pretty silly and simple thing, but when was the last time any of us really stopped to give thanks for what we have? Just being alive is an awesome thing and definitely something to be thankful for, (unless you’re serving life in prison for a crime you didn’t commit). Taking things for granted has become so normal, so common, that even saying “taken for granted” has become taken for granted. The point is every day we get to walk on the topside of the earth, everyday of air in our lungs and sun on our faces is a blessing. Whether you’re religious or not, you can’t be so ignorant to be blind to the fact that being alive is a good thing. So instead of being mad at Henry for forgetting the can of yams, or belittling Susan for overcooking the casserole, or yelling at Timmy for blocking the television, take a moment to be thankful for everything you have. Believe it or not, you are a very lucky person. I’ll let you make your own list.

 

OK, pecan pie is the thing I love most about Thanksgiving, but be thankful is definitely second.

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Black Friday

What a miserable day, this day, this so called Black Friday. I’m sure there’s a real reason why it’s called that, but I’m unaware of what that reason is. If I had to guess, it’s because everyone hates everyone at around noon.

Let’s say the average person starts the “shopping madness” at six AM. I realize that there are those who sleep out front way before six and that most people probably are up and getting ready, (especially the women) before six as well. I’m using six AM simply because it’s simple math to get to noon. Six hours of heavy traffic, having your foot run over by carts, bumped, pushed, shoved, finding what you’re after is sold out and knowing all of your sacrifice was in vain, and spending more money than you ever wanted too can make any sunshine yellow, happy face black.

I never hear about how restaurants do on Black Friday. Surely they see a surge in business. A little bit at least? Running around, boiling your blood, becoming disappointed and wanting to kill that person who just pulled out in front of you can really make you hungry. Post the biggest, dirtiest dish producing, most bloating, over indulgent meal of the year the last thing you want to do is go home and cook.

The wife loves Christmas and lives to go shopping. I don’t care for either. If I want something I go buy it, I don’t shop. Black Friday is one of the reasons I’m not a huge fan of Christmas. There’s this feeling of pressure and responsibility to buy a present for every person you’ve ever known. A lot of the times the perfect gift for someone comes out of a bin or off the shelf in the checkout aisle. Who knew the perfect gift for your sister’s husband was crammed behind a jumbo bag of Skittles. Nothing says love like “impulse purchase”.

I’ve never understood gift giving. “Hey kids, what do you want for Christmas?” “I want a blank-blank”, “I want a yada yada”, “OK, here you go.” “Wow thanks, it’s exactly what I asked you for. I’m so glad you listened and did what you were told.” Where’s the fun in that? There is none, but that’s the problem, unless you know someone on a military-veteran-buddy or prison-cell-mate level, it’s hard to figure out what they really want. Nothing’s worse that buying something for someone and having them open it and a look of total disappointment is obviously seen, (from outer space) washing over their face. Gift cards and money is almost on the same level. “Here, not only do I not know you or what you want, but I don’t even want to try.”

That’s why I’m purposing that families, couple or friends go out to the stores and shop side by side together, but for themselves. Pick what you want for yourself and buy it, (or have the little ones point it out and buy it). Ask about your companion(s) purchases. Show them off to each other, talk about them and what you’re going to do with them, (if applicable/appropriate). This way, you’ll never get stuck with something you don’t like, the pressure will be off everybody’s back and your relationship(s) with those you take with you shopping will develop and grow due to all the time spent talking.

Or you can just give me money.

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Good Beat Still Needs Good Words, Right?

My favorite kind of music doesn’t fit into one category or genre, but it does have one commonality. A good beat. No, scratch that, an awesome, ass shaking, make you want to leave your seat, beat is more like it.

Techno, Hip Hop, and some rock usually fill the bill, although Techno can get old fast in its monotonous structure. Just to make sure we’re clear, when I say Techno, I mean all that crap like house, club, street, grind or whatever other nonsense label they throw on it. I like Techno because its rarely vocal driven. So when I’m in the mood to groove, but don’t want to listen to signing, I turn to Techno. Rock is a difficult one for me. There’s just so much garbage out under the “rock” designation. It always has been that way, since its creation. For every decent rock band, there are fifty lame ones and for every great rock band, there are five hundred terrible ones. Most of the rock bands I like have incredible drummers. Without a solid, driving beat, I just can’t get into it. Hip Hop is the leader in groove beat deliverance. Again, to clarify, when I say Hip Hop I’m referring to funk, rap, gangsta rap, soul, or what have you. I’m sure there are a lot of music theorists out there that would love to tell me how wrong I am, but I can’t take the time to break them into separate categories man!

The only problem I have with Hip Hop, (most of the time) is the lyrical content, no, not the vulgarity or degradation of women, just the lack of substance. Don’t get me wrong, there’s a lot of bad poetry, (song lyrics) out there. I’m not trying to exclude the other offenders out there, but Hip Hop seems to have a very small window of subject matter in its popular titles.

Also, it’s so demanding. It always wants me to do something, whether it’s to shake, bounce, jump, get low, put me hands in the air, push, roll, shimmy, dance, slide, or covet other people’s possessions or body parts. It’s just a lot of pressure. I love listening to the music, but I just want to listen, not do a work out. The worst of all is the romantic ballad style songs. The “lines” that most of the world have a good laugh at, (crap like “if I told you, you had a nice body, would you hold it against me?”) is better than some of the lyrics in these songs.

Yet, in light of all this I still listen. Even when the lyrics make me cringe because they’re so horrible, I’m still groovin’ while I’m listening. In the same way people who complain about new movies with fancy CGI special effects cancel out the need for good stories, dialogue and acting, Hip Hop music doesn’t seem to be suffering from the decline of lyrical value. Even the crappiest of crappy Hip Hop songs usually have pretty cool beats.

So maybe it doesn’t matter what people say anymore… where’s that leave me and this damn blog?

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

PS3 Blows My Mind, Means I’m Just Old

So what? I bought a Play Station 3, what’s the big deal? A non-gamer, old man, went out and had an impulse purchasing moment and bought a $400 dollar gaming system, is that a problem? I guess only if you’re one of the people at a company which sends me monthly bills, because I won’t be paying you this month, or next month probably.

I’ve never been a gamer. I played “Pong” and the arcade classics like Asteroids, Pit Fall, Donkey Kong, Elevator Action, Spy Hunter, Galaga, and Pac-Man. I even owned the Atari, Vic 20 and Commodore 64, but kind of let video games go when Nintendo took over the market/home scene. Many years passed by as did the Play Station, Game Cube, Play Station 2, X-Box and all the hand held Nintendo gems. I tried a couple of Play Station 2 games, but it didn’t take.

“So how did this happen,” you might ask? A commercial, a stupid, freaking commercial made my “go for it”. It was for Mortal Combat vs. the DC Universe, the part where the Joker pulls some attack move on a MC character and does a little “happy dance” in delight. It just seemed like so much fun. I wanted to be the Joker and do the “happy dance”. Am I really this simple? Sadly, yes.

Well, I got the PS3, but not the game yet. It goes on sale in six days so I’m going to wait and at $60 (new) every penny’s worth of savings seems worth it to me. In the mean time, I bought some used games because I had to try it out of course. Man oh man, how times have changed. No wonder the military snatches young kids out of their futons in the middle of the night to make them black-op soldiers, those games are incredibly hard. Remember in the good ol’ days when if you simply got close to doing what you were suppose to be doing, the game would do the rest for you, like jumping to a vine, running through a door or shooting a bad guy? Those days are long gone. I always wondered why my son would search the internet for “cheats” and why there are books published on how to beat a game. Almost every nuance of being human is now incorporated into the game and it’s no longer a novice’s playground.

I’m more than aware that my amazement is nothing short of just being old. That the graphics/technology for today’s youth isn’t a major accomplishment deserving recognition because what they were upgraded from wasn’t that bad to begin with. I know that my confused feeling about all those buttons and what seem to be impossible button maneuvers are being laughed at by six year olds around the globe. I’m not blind to the fact that there is very little difference to me in my living room with my PS3 and shaking my head at the elderly man driving the Lamborghini, but in the same way I’m sure he feels, this is just too cool to care.

In any event, congratulations to all those who can kick my ass at any game I play. All I can say is too bad it’s not a skill that transfers into the real world. “Thanks for your resume Timmy. Says here you have no real work experience, but can get to level 27 on Toxic Kill Zone IV. Yeah, that really isn’t a prerequisite for being the Fry Guy at Burger-Mart. Sorry.”

Which sucks, because I could use a second job to help afford games and another controller?

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Do You Hate Your Name?

When I was a youngster, I hated my name. I’m not really sure why, I don’t remember the details or specifics of it, just that I disliked it. I wanted to be named Steve or Mike. I thought those were the coolest names.

Ironically, just a few months ago at the office I worked at, we had three out of eight employees named Mike. I sure was glad my name wasn’t Mike then.

I wonder why it is that people hate their names. I’ve met several people in my life that hated their name and wanted to change it to something else. Oddly it was always in then adolescent stage of their life. I’ve never met an adult that wanted to change their name, (excluding Muslims, married women or weirdoes, like the friend of mine who radically changed his name but left his last name the same so as not to piss off his parents. It was the equivalent to Papageorgio Rodriguez Smith ).

Also, it seems to go hand in hand that when the people tell you their name you always love it. “Possobean? That’s an awesome name, I wish I had it.” I’ve never heard a name I didn’t like, (except for last names: Lipscomb, Snodgrass, etc.). These people seem to live their life somewhere, somehow, having some kind of life changing experience, because when I see those people years later they’ve accepted their names and in some case are now proud of them. You run into them and say hello using their “old name” and they correct you. WTF? That’s what I use to call you twelve years ago until you went cuckoo and changed it, so don’t get an attitude with me!

Another weird trend I’ve seen is people who trade out their middle name for their first name. Most of the time, (especially in men) the switch is so insignificant you almost want to slap them. Like going from Arthur to Wayne is going to change anything in you life. To top it off, they always tell you that it’s not their first name. “No, Frank is my middle name.” Which makes no sense, if you don’t like your first name so much that you go with your middle name, then why would you want to tell people that you’ve switched? You know the first question out of their mouth is going to be, “Really, so what’s your first name?” In that case you’ve totally lost the whole point of switching your name.

Unless your name is Slutbag or Shithead, I don’t think you have anything to feel bad about. Just go with the name your parents gave you, nobody cares anyway.

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Steve Rooster Mike

Rock Paper Scissors It

Am I a simple man? That’s a very difficult question to answer. I am easily amused, easily angered in certain situations, (and certain days) and easily distracted. Um, what was I talking about?

Does that make me a simple man? Sure, (I don’t know). I like simple answers, I like to find simple solutions and I reveal in simple ideas. Having said that let me now make the most ridiculous statement I’ve ever made. Rock Paper Scissors could solve the entire world’s conflict.

Not just solve international disputes, domestic as well. Why have I gone insane? Maybe and maybe it’s because insanity is the only thing that can change the world. Just take a moment and look at the genius of Rock Paper Scissors:

1. It’s completely fair, balanced and equal, requiring almost no training/education
2. Everyone has the same chance at winning, (except for people who are smarter than their opponent)
3. It’s near impossible to cheat, (successfully)
4. There’s no disputing, challenging, or confusion as to the result of the game
5. It’s dirt simple

Imagine you’re watching COPS and the officer goes to the trailer park to find the drunken, rednecks going at each other. Instead of wasting time listening to them sludge through their alcohol soaked minds looking for a lie to tell, the officer just pulls up and says, “Rock Paper Scissors time. Whoever loses goes to jail.” Boom, in and out, five minutes top. Just think of all good police officers could do for the community with that kind of time freed up.

Another example, a couple are in divorce court, she wants alimony, he doesn’t want to pay, judge walks in says, “Rock Paper Scissors time. Winner decides.” Boom, in and out, five minutes top. Just think of how much quicker the justice system would move. We could finally get back to managing the piles of frivolous lawsuits. Yippee!

The application is endless, bound only by our mental limitations. Whenever there is a disagreement, Rock Paper Scissors it. Can’t decide or agree on something, don’t fight, Rock Paper Scissors it.

One word of advice, if you choose to implement this in your home or with family/friends, establish the rules before doing so. The most common discord found in Rock Paper Scissors is the number of rounds to go before the final decision is rendered. The loser will always try to “up the count” for as long as it takes to win, “Best two out of three” “Best three out of five” “Best seven out of ten” etc. You know the type, grasping by the pathetic string that probably got them in the mess to begin with.

So let Rock Paper Scissors decide your fate, your life, your everything. Will I read this blog tomorrow? 1… 2… 3…

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Old Or Fat, Who’s Hated More?

As you may or may not know the world has a general standard to which you are to measure yourself and live your life by. I’m speaking of course about the beautiful monster called Pop Culture.

If you don’t know what to say, how to feel or how to conduct yourself, fear not empty headed for the answers are a mere click away. Whether that click is a computer, television or car door shutting on your way to the mall, Pop Culture is rampant everywhere and the ability to be told what to do has never been greater.

One of the things I’ve noticed is that Pop Culture hates fat people and old people. I just can’t decide who is hated more. I see them sometimes out in the stream of mass media and occasionally it’s not even an appearance just to be the butt of a joke or cruel prank.

I like to think that this is just an oversight by someone working at the “media factory” and can only hope that they have been terminated for the oversight.

I mean who wants to be exposed to fat people? They’re fat and old people? They’re old for cryin’ out loud, it’s disgusting. If that’s not enough reason to banish someone from the beautiful, popular and trendy highway of Pop Culture, I don’t know what is.

Sadly, that’s the way the world seems. I just watched a show tonight about old people caught on video doing the kind of things that becomes the content of shows about people on video. The lack of respect and overall contempt of humanity wasn’t just disturbing, it was straight out frightening. The videos weren’t so bad, but the voice over/commentary was so derogatory you almost couldn’t believe it was approved and produced.

How can anybody be cool? Guess Andy Warhol had it right about the fifteen minutes, because that’s about all the time one might have to fit into the small parameters of Pop Culture correctness. I feel sorry for all the people that are burdened by the waves and wakes that Pop Culture creates, the holes it digs, the traps it sets, sitting, waiting to pounce on some poor, insecure person.

That must be how Pop Culture survives, on the energy of the souls in drains.

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Was Grandma A Whore?

I don’t know if I’m on an old person kick or if subconsciously I’m terrified of being an old rooster, but here we are again on the topic of the elderly, grandmas to be more specific. Maybe because it’s the “holiday season” and family seems to be on a lot of people’s minds. Personally, I don’t have any living grandparents, but if I did, I’m sure these thoughts would cross my mind.

Are you familiar with the Pedestal Syndrome? No? That’s probably because I just made it up. The Pedestal Syndrome is the fear or denial of seeing someone you hold to a higher level, who’s locked inside a certain roll, (in your mind) living outside that roll, being an average, everyday human. Some examples: Seeing your overly professional, completely square boss who always wears a tie, (even on Friday) in shorts and a wife beater. Seeing your child’s teacher, whom you thought was very sweet and reserved on “Teacher’s Gone Wild”. Seeing a cop smoke marijuana. There are just some people you can’t see doing anything other than their specific duty/role. Once they come out of the mental image you have, it’s like your brain can’t even process it.

I think grandmas are like that. Grandmas are suppose to be great cooks, super sweet and cute, have endless supplies of candy in secret pockets on their person at all times, and love you no matter what, because you’re her favorite grand child and also because she’s your grandma.

So it’s rather disturbing to me when I see the “Now Generation” living their hedonistic lifestyles and all the weird and wild sexual things people are into. It’s not that I think this is something new, but it’s just so public and proud. Plus there’s the piercing, tattoos and flashing, (seems like everyday I get an e-mail of some girl exposing herself).

Now I’m not disturbed by the behavior, nor am I trying to condone, or support it. I honestly couldn’t care less what people want to do with their bodies. What I find disturbing is the “Now Generation” when they become the “Was Generation”. All the grandmas sitting around the card table swapping stories that would scare a porn star. Thinking about the blurry tattoos in plain sight as grandma still sports the halter top and thong high rider with low rider jeans gives me shivers. What if her medication gets stuck on her tongue stud or goes down the hole in her tongue because it never closed up? If grandma decides to flash or expose her breasts, you can bet that will be my last visit. It’s hard to think about grandma kissing you on the cheek when God only knows where that mouth has been.

Oh hey, wait a minute… I’ll be dead before then. OK, never mind.

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

The Good Ol’ Days When People Were Quiet

You know what’s sad? I’m an old man way before my time. I don’t know what’s caused this premature aging of my personality, but I’m really confused. I have a juvenile sense about me, in that I enjoy hobbies and activities that most “grown ups” consider to be childish and I’ve always seemed to be able to get down to a kids level given the situation of interaction with them, but yet I look at the world and wonder. Things like, “What the hell has happened to the world?” “What’s wrong with you the youth of today?” and “Get off my lawn!”

I feel almost like an old man poser, (golly is there such a thing?). I was born before cordless phones, cable television and VCRs, but I don’t feel like I’ve lived long enough to turn on humanity. I’m just getting to the weird pains stage, the food seems more rewarding than sex stage and the I don’t care what my hair looks like part of life. How can I be ready to punch these whippersnappers in the face?

This all came about, I think, because of cell phones and reality TV. Sure there has always been the crazy person at the bus stop, (or any other place where you’re forced to sit and wait, not being able to leave) that would tell you their life story and any other thought that passed through their head, but it’s like the whole world is that crazy person at the bus stop.

When did people stop keeping secrets? When did people let go of needing to have a private personal life? When did everything you ever did, will do, want to do or think about become public domain? Have you ever had a moment when you were asked something about your life, or day, or plans and you refused to “open up” about it? You might as well have pulled down your pants and defecated on their shoes they’re so offended. Now days you’re an outsider if you’re not broadcasting yourself to the world.

Think about it. Let’s say they had cell phones in 1950. Do you think that people would have been walking down the street discussing their medical test results for everyone to hear? No they wouldn’t. You can always find one of “those people” anywhere who doesn’t care, but the majority of people would have been more discreet, more private, and displayed more courtesy. If you rather, how about reality TV. Do you think if you approached a teenager (or early twenties-ager) in 1950 and said, “Hey you want to be on a TV show that just follows you around and films you doing everyday mundane stuff? Oh, yeah, I almost forgot, you have to drink in excess and make out with three people a day. And it’d be awesome if you could get naked and swim in a fountain” they’d be like, “Hell yaz!” Do you think anybody would have watched it? Imagine people who actually wanted to be accepted and respected in society, (and by their parents. Yes kids at one time in our history children actually wanted to make their parents proud).

People used to get embarrassed. People use to have humility. People use to wear full-body, wool bathing suits. I guess we’ve just progressed to this point from all the constraint and rules of etiquette that oppressed us. Now it’s a free for all and there’s no stopping us.

But you’re right, no one would have read this blog in 1950 either. Touché.

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

How Do You Measure Integrity?

Integrity is a pretty cool thing. One of the things that make it so neat is that it’s very rare these days. One of the silliest games ever played by humans is “what would you do for a million dollars”. Why there’s even media dedicated to this game. It’s crazy to hear what some people would do or give up for money.

Integrity isn’t just about being a good person or being good most of the time in most situations. It’s about honesty and not the kind of honesty you can just give when you feel like it, but honesty that’s a part of who you are no matter what. Honesty like a terminal disease, no matter what you try, it’s always with you.

Three hundred years ago I worked at this furniture store with a guy who didn’t believe in celebrating Christmas. I don’t really know why or what his deal was, but I guess it really doesn’t matter for the meaning of this story. All you need to know is that he didn’t celebrate Christmas, (sorry to slow you down). So around the holiday bonus time, my boss called this guy into the office and handed him a “Christmas Bonus” check with the usual, lame, “for all your hard work” speech. The guy turned the check down. My boss flipped and didn’t know what to do or say other than the obvious, “Why?” He replied, “I don’t believe in Christmas and it would be wrong for me to accept gifts.” And so it was, a human walking away from money, money that some could say he earned or even deserved. All because he refused to compromise his own beliefs, wow.

I’m with the rest of you though. I’d give my mother over to monsters for them to eat if it meant I got a small stack of cash. I’d run naked through the mall or urinate on top of a cop car at a stop light. If there’s free money to be had for being an idiot of giving up something temporarily that I think I could handle being without, then I’m game.

Does that mean I lack integrity or does that mean I lack something to believe in? I like to think that I’ve derived a little test to measure a person’s integrity. Now this test is for us “floaters” that don’t adhere to a set belief system or group of ideas that are commonly practiced. It’s for those of us who go through life never proclaiming to know “what it’s all about”.

The test is simple and it goes like this. If you are throwing something away and you choose to throw it at the trash can rather than just drop it in, but you miss, do you or don’t you pick it up and put in the container?

If you answer no, then you lack basic integrity. If you answer sometimes, depends on where I’m at and how much I’ve had to drink, then you lack basic integrity. If you answer yes, then you lack basic integrity. What?

Only someone with integrity would answer, “That’s stupid.”

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

What’s The Difference Between Love And Hate?

I’m not sure what the answer is, but I think it’s around twenty dollars.

Before we get started let’s just clarify love and hate. When used in this blog, we’re talking about true, deep, heart felt emotions. This doesn’t apply to, “I hate hot dogs” or “I love ice cream.” This is like “soul mate” love and “you just ran over my dog on purpose” hate.

The subject of emotion is a touchy one. Well it’s an emotional one isn’t it? I’ve met a lot of people that seems to be with out emotion and I’ve met a lot of people that seem to have acquired the extra emotion floating around because it’s always pouring out. It never seems to be distributed properly, does it?

There are two different sides to emotion. You have emotion that is better described as passion, but its emotion all the same. Then you have emotion that is a reflection of how you feel. Be it sad, happy, angry, scared, love or hate. What’s the main difference between all these emotions, because in the big scheme of things they appear to be a lot alike?

Fear, (being scared) and excitement mirror each other exactly, as do love and hate. The difference between the two is the context in which they are felt and expressed. If you ask someone how they feel in love, the list of “feelings” they describe are similar in nature to hate.

Both love and hate are strong emotions and take a toll on the owner. In the beginning stages, the feeling is all consuming and it’s hard to concentrate or think about anything other than the object of your emotion. As time passes the “high” steadies out to be a pulse if you will, that keeps a constant, repetitive level of devotion. This is where a lot of people lose interest or in the case of hatred, forgive or forget. It is only the true of heart that may pass or you get to be old and talk about how much you can’t stand the person you love with all your heart.

I’ve always thought of hate as love that had no where to go. In by which the metamorphous is transpired by not wanting to die, so it feeds itself in a new avenue. Kind of like the joke, “What the difference between a bitch and slut? A slut sleeps with everybody and a bitch sleeps with everybody but you.” Like a baby that can’t get what it wants, the emotion is immediate, and most of the time without conscious thought, turned into negative emotion. Rejection is often the fuel from the flip of love and hate. Basically love and hate is the same thing, but we decide which mask it wears.

So if you tell me how much you hate my blog, I know you really love it deep, down inside.

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Am I An OCD Candidate?

OCD is one of those things you hear so much, so often, that you become so familiar with the word that you lose track of the fact that you have no idea what it is.

I stole this from Wikipedia: Obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) is a chronic mental disorder most commonly characterized by intrusive, repetitive thoughts resulting in compulsive behaviors and mental acts that the person feels driven to perform, according to rules that must be applied rigidly, aimed at preventing some imagined dreaded event. In severe cases, it affects a person’s ability to function in every day activities. The disorder is often debilitating to the sufferer’s quality of life. Also, the psychological self-awareness of the irrationality of the disorder can be painful. For people with severe OCD, it may take several hours a day to carry out the compulsive acts.

Whew! What a relief, although I did feel inclined to read that paragraph six or seven times.

I’ve noticed I perform and like to do certain things in my everyday life. I don’t think you can argue that humans, by nature, are habitual. So it should come to no surprise that we all have a “certain way” of doing things and thus we all have a hint, a sprinkle or smidgen of OCD inside of us.

Here are a few of the little mannerisms I have. When I mow the lawn I put on my “work shoes” with socks. After pulling the socks all the way up, the right leg is folded down to resemble and “ankle sock” while the left leg is merely pushed down like a slob. I do this in tribute to the different hemispheres of the brain and their unique characteristics. When I put on deodorant in the morning, each armpit must get the same amount of strokes, no more no less, even-steven. If one side gets a stroke more I feel as though there is an unbalance. I take a shower the exact same way all the time, shampoo, wash face, then body. I try to step over cracks or places where the floor material changes, (like carpet to tile). Not because of my mother’s back, just ’cause. When I eat a 3 Musketeers Bar, I tap the fluff down between bites. I’m sure I could go on and on, but let’s just stop there before the paddy wagon arrives.

The point is we all have strange little ticks. You might even think I’m a loony, but I bet if you examined your own behavior you’d find a quirk or two hundred. I guess the difference I see in the description of true OCD and my own bizarre nuances is that I’m not driven to do these things. They’re born from boredom and pursued for the same reason. I don’t get upset or violent or even crazy if things don’t happen in a fashion I’m used to, but what if that changes? Who decides when crazy is crazy? Do you have to be a danger to yourself and/or others in order to be off the deep end? Isn’t someone who’s probably fine, but just has a hard time dealing with things and wants to hide or surrender responsibility more sick than someone who really has lost their facilities? It reminds me a pharmaceutical commercial I saw a long time ago about a pill to treat general anxiety. If you don’t have or haven’t experienced general anxiety in your life then you’re probably dead. If you don’t feel anxious before a job interview, giving a speech, asking someone out, etc. there’s something wrong with you and I hope they find that pill soon, (I think it’s called a bullet).

One of my favorite quotes was from a guy people called Fishpond who said, “You know what makes me crazy? Other people telling me I’m crazy.”

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

More Bad Luck!

Get out your score cards ’cause this one’s a doozy. For those of you faithful readers, you’ll recall that not long ago I hit a Bambi’s mother in my new car, (to which I’ve only made ONE PAYMENT!). If you remember, give yourself 88 Ramblin’ Rooster points.

Three weeks went by and I finally got it back from the body shop. I must say, it was beautiful and it felt like I had a brand new car all over again. The only down side was the interior smelled like Bondo putty. I’m talking bad, real bad. That’s just being nitpicky, because they did a wonderful job and I was very excited to be back in the saddle again, (as they say). I wonder how much of my excitement came from getting out of my rental car that I hated. Again, doesn’t matter, because I had my baby back, my sweet baby, pumpkin, automobile lover. Yes, I love my car.

Now just hold on with the accusations of my vanity or materialism. I love my car for the reason that this is the first car I’ve ever owned that had air conditioning, a working gas gauge, all four hubcaps, a CD/Radio, uniform paint, all glass chip/crack free, and the best for last, I don’t feel scared to drive it consecutively for more than six hours or 500 miles, which ever comes first. So it’s not that I’m rear-ending you because I’m staring at myself in the visor mirror, I’m just relishing in the most luxury I’ve ever had. Jeez!

By the way, if you care, the total bill was a little over six thousand dollars. I think my neighbor said it best, “No wonder Santa Claus went lookin’ for Rudolph. Them reindeer can be expensive!”

Anyway, now it’s time for the bad luck part of the story. I had the car over the weekend, three days of paradise, and I still haven’t made the second payment yet. Last night we had a terrible storm, winds like a hurricane, rain, and debris hitting the house, thunder and lightning, the works. I woke up and went outside to go to work and guess what I saw. The stupid mobile basketball goal we have blew over and landed on top of my car, denting and scratching it. I’m telling you, that car is cursed. I can’t imagine what my next disaster will entail. I guess I should just be happy that it didn’t go through the windshield and rain inside the car all night. Chalk one up for optimism. What’s that? M-I-S-F-O-R-T-U-N-E doesn’t spell optimism? Well you could’ve fooled me.

So unless it’s the cause of my death, I’ll let you know the next accident that happens.

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

The Common Cold Sucks!

You know as I begin this blog, just taking a moment to look at the title kind of makes me want to slap myself. Is this really a topic for discussion? Is there anybody out there that would play the devil’s advocate on this? If there is, please let me know where they live so I can send a lynch mob to their residence for a good “talking too”.

Being sick has to be the worst thing ever. I’d rather be homeless in Siberia with nothing to wear except a thong. I’d rather pass razor blades in my urine while being submerged in a vat of salt water. I’d rather fornicate with my cousin while my parents watched, (OK that’s going a little too far). I hate it, do you understand? It’s as if you’ve become the living dead. I find that in pursuit of trying to stop the symptoms that I’m willing to fill my body with deadly combinations of pills, ignore all warning labels and render myself catatonic. At least my nose stopped running, never mind the fact that I can’t walk or communicate.

Speaking of drugs, what happened to NyQuil? There used to be a time that taking NyQuil would require you to be in bed before dosing because the effect was that fast and that powerful.  Now, thanks to the “meth heads” you don’t need to “show you id” to get it, and therefore it doesn’t pack the same punch.

The thing I hate most about the common cold is the relative power it wields. It’s more politically correct than any human alive in the fact that it isn’t biased and will change to accommodate its new found host. What am I talking about? Have you ever caught a cold from a child, even a wee child like a baby? Is the cold less severe because you’re an adult? No! It attacks you without thought of your size or age and makes you feel horrible on the same scale as the sickly child. Talk about unfair.

The second most hated thing about the common cold is the third or fourth day into it, when you can see light at the end of the tunnel. Similar to the relief after vomiting when you think “all is well with the world again”, the moment of decline from the initial strike to your immunity system is welcomed with joy and enthusiasm as you begin to think you’re “getting over it”. Unfortunately this is where the sneaky bastard usually migrates into your chest. For me, the worst example of this is the first second of waking up in the morning. There’s a ten second window where I feel like I’m all better and the cold is gone, but then I get up. My head squeaks like miniature whoopee cushions deflating in my sinuses and sadly I’m reminded that I’m still sick.

Then there’s the raw, red nose from blowing my nose 872 times a day, but I just tell people I’m a WC Fields impersonator.

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

The Difference Between Breast and Boob

A lot of men in this world claim to be “breast men”. I wouldn’t fall into this category. It’s not that I don’t like or appreciate a good boob, but when it comes to the woman’s anatomy I guess I prefer other parts more. So let’s just leave it at that… So what’s the difference, if any, between breasts and boobs?

Let’s start with boob. First of all boob doesn’t sound very appealing. Boobs are what grandmas have. Boobs sound saggy and lifeless. Boobs are what fat men have. Let’s not forget that boob is also a stupid person. In Britain a boob is a mistake. Also there’s the ever, not-so-popular turning on of the boob tube. So where the idea came from to call the mammary glands boobs is not something I know the history of, but it doesn’t seem positive or flattering. Add to that a “Y” and make boob, booby and you’ve put me in the 4^th grade all over again. The only credit I can give booby is in the juvenile humor aspect of the double entendre you get from “booby trap”.

Then we have breast. Again, breast can be a very generic thing, used in many different facets without any sexual connotation. Chicken breasts are the most obvious example of this. There’s nothing sexy about chicken breasts, is there? (Please don’t tell me about it if you say yes.) Breast is commonly used and referenced in literature and poetry. Unlike boob, breast sounds firm, almost hard. Grandma doesn’t have breasts. The young, college neighbor has breasts. Breast seems to be an acceptable and responsible word during the day, but can easily hang out at night to party.

I think it’s easy to say that breast beats boob nipples down. As far as the other thousand euphemisms for a woman’s chest, I won’t bother discussing them. There’s nothing note worthy about hooters, honkers, melons, knockers, jugs, cans, ta-tas or the rest. They all sound like names derived from a drunken, virgin, man-child.

I will however give a short moment to tit. This word has always seemed very dirty to me, even pornographic and it’s funny because the word is so small. It seems silly when it’s stripped of its meaning and stands alone. Tit. But ladies, imagine going in for a mammogram and the doctor saying, “OK, put your tits up on the machine” creepy, huh? None of this explains tit for tat though. That’s pretty weird. Who’s got a tit to spare and what’s a tat? Does it mean I can get a tattoo for my tit? Doesn’t sound fair does it.

Regardless of what you call them, a woman’s chest is a complex topic filled with many different sizes, er… I mean angles. The bond of mother and child is a special one and considered beautiful and sacred by many. Of course this doesn’t account for “feedings” at restaurants. The Europeans consider topless women to be nothing short of normal and is widely accepted in a broad spectrum of media and public attractions. Nonetheless, with the billions of breasts that have lived and died on this planet we seem to still be fascinated with them as a society. Men, (and perhaps lesbians?) can’t stop staring at them and women can’t seem to stop comparing them and showing them, (or at least the line in between).

Maybe with the advancement of science, someday every citizen of the planet can have their own pair hanging on a wall in their home.

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Why Are We All Rude Drivers?

This is something I’m definitely guilty of, no chance of being hypocritical here. I’m telling you this is me too. Maybe I should sit in the corner and talk to myself about all of this rather than “blog it out”.

Driving has become one of the worst forums for instant anger, unnecessary violence and unmerited hatred. I don’t believe I’ve ever been in a car with anyone who I haven’t seen get upset behind the wheel at some point in their driving career, including me. Granted I’m talking about people I’ve seen drive on many, many occasions, but still it’s all of them. Even those I haven’t witnessed while being in the car with them, I’ve witness as the dreaded “other car”. Meaning everyone everywhere is this way.

The number one thing that makes people angry while driving is the driver that acts or seems like they believe themselves to be the only person on the road. They might suddenly and slowly move into your lane even though you clearly are in possession of the space they want to occupy. Could be that they’re driving in the far left lane, when suddenly a light bulb illuminates and they discover that they need to turn or exit at the street they are about to pass. So of course they make a two, three, four or even five lane right hand turn. Is that wrong? Perhaps they want to turn, so they turn on their blinker, but are overtaken with panic and dementia so they can’t remember where it is they want to turn. Is it the blinking that has distracted them? These are the people that never turn, but are always ready to because the blinker is always on.

The most common behavior or driving that has always confused me, though I don’t why, is what appears to be a natural desire or need to never be the car behind. I know the reason is the typical American, egocentric, pressure preached, ideology of being number one, but it’s not a race or a contest. I don’t get a bonus if I make to work before you do. I don’t get 10% off if I beat you to Super-Discount-Mart. So why then does everyone feel they have to accelerate, pass and then get in front of you just to turn? I realize that seconds add up to minutes and minutes add up to hours and hours add up to days, so that hypothetically you could be saving years over your life time by endangering your safety on the road. Makes sense!

Speeding is another wonderful tool for angering people on the road. Those who speed can offend and quite possibly piss off or at the very least draw some negative energy from people who disapprove of speeding just by passing them. I’m sure that all the speeders in the world can admit, if they can be honest, that they’ve seen the fact that speeding in a city doesn’t really save any time. Oh, you may catch a light here or there, but eventually you’ll have the experience of speeding pass someone to get to a red light only to look over and see the person you passed pulling up next to you.

I love road rage because it makes the least likely of people act in ways that contradicts their stereotypical behavior. I’m talking about old people flippin’ the bird, especially old women. It may sound sick, but I just love it when I see old people givin’ the finger. I also enjoy, when I’m calm, cool-headed, and collected, seeing people exploding with anger. It’s the best when they’re actually yelling at you with their face close to the glass as if by being inches closer you’ll be able to hear them. The part I hate about road rage is seeing parents with young children in the car being pushed to the point where they’re either using language that would make sailors cry or driving erratically.

So why are we all such rude drivers? It’s because we’re such rude people. Don’t give me that “I’m nice, I let people in, I don’t cut people off, etc.” because everybody has their moments of laziness when they let their rudeness down. It happens, but don’t worry, you’ll be back to being rude and thoughtless in no time, just keep driving.

See you out on the road… You want to race to different destinations?

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

In Remembrance Of My Friend

This past weekend a longtime and good friend of mine died. The following are some of my favorite quotes, sayings or just tidbits that fell out of his mouth. I realize that none of you knew him, but even so, maybe you can find some entertainment from his weirdness.

“Who are the people that walk to the ice machine barefoot, in their underwear and t-shirt?” – comment while staying in hotel.

“Look before you beat a dead horse that leaped into water!”

“If I had a child, regardless of the sex, I’d name them Ketchup Peacock.” you’ll all be glad to know he never fathered offspring.

“I’m as happy as a horge in my hip pocket.”

“Life sucks, accept it and you’ll contribute less to make it suck.”

“Nothing is the way it seems, except nothing.”

“This isn’t really happening, but I’m sure glad it is.”

“Never confuse a dream with a wish.”

“Love is like death, it only happens once, but you can get close a whole lot.”

“War is an ignorant answer to a stupid question.”

“Life is like being in a car, not everyone can have a window seat.”

“Farming is agricultural masturbation.”

“Deaf in one ear can’t hear out the other.”

“There’s something deep inside each and every one of you that makes me sick.” – part of his graduation speech.

“You’re listening to the smooth sounds of heavy metal.”

“I feel like I’ve just been arrested after a failed suicide attempt.”

“We all learn the hard way.”

“Pointing out faults in others is confessing what you do not like about yourself.”

“Never is always.”

“The only justice is consequence.”

“If I got everything I wanted, I would be the only person around to enjoy it.”

“I may not be truthful, but I’m honest.”

“Sometimes I feel alright.”

“There is by no means a true reply to help.”

“I’m pickling snot happy!”

“Yeah, yeah we all want to be lesbians, but let’s not forget the point. Children are dying…” – excerpt taken from a party.

“A conversation will not last long if one of the parties involved is secreting gas.”

“I’m so #&$*ed up, my cat drinks filtered water.”

“I’m out to rid the world of people who wear leather pants. Except hot chicks, they’re OK and rock stars I guess… oh and bikers probably.”

“You want something to do? Try flexin’ your belly button.”

“Cops are just like regular people, except they’re cops.”

“I wish I was a hip pocket salesman.”

“Deaf people are really loud.”

“Looking at the world through bloodshot eyes.”

“You ever make someone see your idea so much that they took it as their own?”

“The truly happy people are the ones with nothing to do.”

“The time is coming for me to go and I will leave.”

How true that last one is. You’ll be missed, may you rest in peace.

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Being Naked As A State Of Mind

If you’ve ever had to do something nerve racking in front of people, give a speech, go on stage or seen a movie or television show that has a similar scenario, there’s a good chance you’ve heard the phrase, “Just pretend the audience is their underwear.” Perhaps you’ve been the one saying it. It’s supposed to ease the jitters and shakes because nothing is more humiliating than attending theatre events in your underwear. As you know, once someone is humiliated in front of you it’s hard to feel nervous. Never mind that the average person in an audience is someone you wouldn’t want to see in their underwear because the point is not visual enjoyment, but rather public shame. Why would this make me feel less nervous? I’ve been around real life humans, literally in their underwear, yet never had the notion of performance sweep over me.

This quaint little cliché did however inspire me to this thought, “Live your life as though you were naked.” Chew on that for a minute.

What would you do if you found yourself naked at work? Just out of the blue, for no reason, no warning of any kind, just boom, naked. You’d freak out, right? You’d run, you’d hide, you’d grab files and try to cover your genitals, etc. Why? Because nobody wants to be naked, it’s too… well naked.

No think of all the bad relationships you’ve had. Not just romantic ones, platonic ones as well. What made them bad? OK, I guess that’s a little too broad of a question. I’ll just throw out dishonesty because: A) I’m sure it’s on the list and B) I need it to make my next point. Dishonesty usually results in someone trying to hide something from another person, (no kidding? Tell us more genius!). Whether it’s because they’re scared or ashamed is irrelevant. It comes down to people not being truthful with themselves.

If you like porn don’t be ashamed of it, just don’t date someone who hates it and if you do, be upfront about needing your “quality alone time”. If you like church and God and it’s important that you associate with those who are the same level as you, don’t be scared, just let it out and see who scurries away and who sticks around.

If we all embraced what it is that we loved, liked, disliked, hated, cared about and didn’t care about our lives would be much better. Imagine how nice it would be for all to see who we are worn upon our sleeves as bright as the sun, shinning brightly amongst the strangers of world. We could then quickly decide to approach or move along.

If we imagined ourselves to be naked all the time, with nothing to hide, nothing to fear, nothing to regret, we could make better decisions, feel better about ourselves which would provide enrichment in our relationships and promote a more positive outlook on life.

If you found yourself naked in the grocery store and decided that instead of screaming and running to your car, vowing you’ll never be able to return to this store for as long as you live, you’d just finish your shopping. There you are walking down the bread aisle, buck naked, free, not embarrassed, not ashamed, indifferent to the stares, (both rude and creepy), just shopping. Can you imagine the power? You would have overcome every social obstacle ever thought of. How cool would that be?

So instead of being afraid of telling your next date that you love being spanked, just smile and say to yourself, “This is me, this is who I am, I’m naked and I’m free.”

If you can’t deal with it, then into the closet you go!

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

The Opposite Is True?

What kind of world have we made for ourselves? When did the cynic take over the hearts and minds of all the citizens of the universe? I remember a time not that long ago, when being cynical would get you a scoff or scowl at the very least if not a disapproving confirmation that you were one, (as if to be shunned). Now it’s as though the cynic is the new cool, a staple of society, your friend that waits lurking around every corner.

There’s so much to discredit, discount and disregard these days. As soon as we hear something we dismiss it immediately without investigation or even truly hearing it. “Gas is only $1.50 a gallon!” “Yeah right, probably need a car wash or buy a case of soda pop to get it.” No matter what it is, it’s always “too good to be true”. I’ve heard that since I was born. “If it’s too good to be true, it probably is.” What a sour grape that is. How depressing. No wonder we all take mood stabilizing medication, (or should). “Hey did you hear some good news? Yeah, it’s total bullshit!” “Hey thanks for ruining my day with your optimism.” The phrase that plagues this world of consumers is, “What’s the catch?” The funny thing is it doesn’t matter. What’s the catch, what’s it matter? You can borrow $20 and you’ll have to pay back $40 in two weeks. OK, sounds good!

I realize that the cliché is true in some cases, (obviously), but it isn’t the rule of thumb. I find myself being crippled by the stigmata of it. I can’t even read e-mail jokes anymore that have the tag of “Hilarious”, “Funniest joke of the year”, “This is hysterical”, “Totally true story” simply because I know it can’t be true. Every restaurant has the best “lunch deal”. Every store has the “best deal”, the “lowest price” or the “guaranteed best, lowest price”, (my personal favorite). Every car is the “best model in its class”, “best overall value” and “best in customer satisfaction”.

I can’t go anywhere or do anything without feeling pulled in numerous directions for any option I can think of. How can the world be full of such wonder products, services, and choices, yet be stricken with so many problems and crappy customer service or cheap junk that breaks taking it out of the box? It’s like the whole 99 cent thing that has never seemed to die. $19.99 is twenty dollars, you’re not fooling me! If the kids ask me to buy them something, I ask how much does it cost. They tell me it’s $9.99. The first thing I think of is, “Do I have ten dollars?” I’ve never, ever thought, “That’s LESS than ten dollars, that’s cheap! Go grab two kids!”

You can’t blame them for treating us like we’re stupid though, because that’s how we act. Day in, day out, we run around like lost sheep looking for the best deal, best price, best ranked, newest model at the lowest price in town from the greatest store ever.

How could that ever breed cynicism?

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Comedy: Hardest Thing On Earth?

I’m sure being a doctor or a scientist or a grammar school teacher is difficult. Both in the schooling to the actual job duties, but I don’t think that it can overcome the most difficult of all. That of which would be comedy.

I can’t think of anything more difficult than being funny, at least on demand. I think everyone has a moment of being funny or making someone laugh, (whether they intend to or not) but to be able to deliver on the spot is a much different talent. Have you ever had someone say, “Make me laugh. Say something funny.”? That’s quite a task, but harder than brain surgery or splitting and atom? How would I know?

This leads me to the comedy album, (CDs as they’re called now, soon to be Bluray). In theory, the comedy album seems by all rights a hard sell. Recording comedy material for people to buy and listen to at home or in their car? Comedy is like magic in a way, once you’ve seen the surprise ending it kind of loses the flash and appeal. Although circulating e-mail jokes seem to blow this theory out of the water. I’ve been reading the same e-mail jokes since I got an e-mail account two hundred years ago.

Unlike magic though, some comedy is just too funny to dispose of after only one listening to. Some comedians are just so talented you can hear their jokes over and over again. Even so, it does change the fact that the joke is never the same or as funny as the first time you heard it.

I guess the world just doesn’t see the comedy circle in every day life. I would think the biggest buyers and listeners of comedy albums would be budding comedians. I’m sure there is an underground movement of fellow joke tellers than move in shadows, whispering as they hand off bootleg copies of comic giants to one another is dark alleys in the middle of the night. I’ve never seen it though.

When was the last time you heard someone ask for or tell you about a great new comedy album? Have you ever walked into a department store and heard a comedy album playing for you while you shop? I don’t read Billboard, but do they have a comedy album section on the list? I’m sure there is a list, (consisting of sales no doubt) but does anyone say, “And coming in at number one for the fifth week in a row it’s John Doe with Funny Shit”?

Give it up for funny men and women, it’s a hard and not funny world they live in. If you need to put it to perspective, go to your local comedy club on amateur night and get up on stage. That should show you how hard being funny is.

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Random Thoughts Volume 2

Friends don’t let friends drive drunk. They do however throw parties, serve alcohol and invite friends over to drink for hours on end.

You know how most cars and trucks are dirty? A lot of the time “funny people” write in the dirt, cute little messages like “wash me” of “Kilroy was here”. Today I saw a dirty, dusty, macho-blazed truck, decked out with a lift kit, giant mudders and custom parts up, down and all around that had a house with a tree, (drawn by a child from the appearance) etched in the grime on the driver side, rear, quarter panel. I thought that was really different.

“Clean as a whistle” – can some explain the origin of this cliché to me? Seriously! Clean as a whistle? Clean as something that, for all practical purposes, is spit into while being used and rarely, if ever, gets washed. Whistles are disgusting!

Why are “pants” plural? Is it because of the two legs? A pair of pants, is that four legs? Shoes and socks can be shoe and sock, but change pants to pant and you’ve totally lost the meaning and the crowd. A pant suit isn’t pants suit, only a single pant there. “Jeans” is the same way. If you’re wearing it below the belt, they’re jeans, but make it into a jacket and you lose the “S”. It’s not a Jeans jacket, (I guess people say it both ways). Maybe it just sounds too weird to say, “Take off your pant” or “I didn’t wash your jean with the sweaters” but that’s only because were used to it being the other way.

Q: What do you call crotchless, thong underwear?

A: A belt.       (I’m sorry this wasn’t at the bottom and upside down)

This entry marks my 100^th blog.

Congratulations Ramblin’ Rooster. Why thank you Ramblin’ Rooster.

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Am I Paranoid or Just Irrationally Suspicious?

How can I tell if I’m paranoid? Isn’t an internal discussion about it enough to at least qualify for honorary paranoia? Can you hear me? Do you work for the government?

There’s a huge difference between the meth-head paranoid and the average, every day paranoid person. First of all, the latter isn’t on meth, (or are they?). The average person doesn’t sit in a empty apartment with blankets over the windows and piles of trash surrounding them, lost in their mind, contemplating conspiracy theories as they dig through the carpet for “chips” or “flakes”, (or do they?). The average person doesn’t wear tin-foil helmets, use pay phones, (good luck finding one) or refuse to lick envelopes because of anthrax or cockroach larva infection scare, (or do they?). Alright, enough of that…

Even so, the average, every day person has moments or times where paranoia strikes regardless of how strong they are emotionally or mentally.

Here’s where the average person gets caught up in “innocent” paranoia. Sometimes you just can’t help it. 

• Cop car behind you. Instant paranoia, even if you’re following the law to the letter and have never committed even the mistiest of misdemeanors, you just know that cop is going to pull you over.
• As you walk by, a group of people laugh and then go silent. Instant paranoia, they just have to be making fun of you, what else could it be? Doesn’t matter if you’re the coolest, hottest human alive, these strangers have found fault in you, enough to laugh at!
• Car behind you that makes several of the same turns or lane changes as you. Instant paranoia, they have to be following you. No one could be using public streets to go in the same direction or be headed to the same destination as you. That’d be impossible.
• Farting sound made, either by a leather chair, squeaky shoe, stomach rumblings, on accident through your lips by some weird exhale moment, doesn’t matter, just anything that’s close to a farting sound. Instant paranoia, because who wants to be known as someone who farts?!
• Going on vacation. Time released paranoia, depending on who you are, will determine severity of paranoia, but no matter what, you’ll think you left something turned on, unlocked or forgot something important.
• Trying to impress a romantic interest. Time released paranoia, have you ever tried to be romantic and left a gift for someone to find, someone with whom you’re not very close to? You’re trying to sweet, but after the deed is done or the gift is left, you can’t help but to think what this person will think of you and if that thought will be, “What a psycho!”

The list goes on and on, but I’m afraid if I keep going, you’ll stop reading.

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

A Cool Boss?

I guess a lot of people would say having a cool boss would be the greatest thing on earth, but I’m not one of those people. There’s just something creepy about a cool boss.

First of all we need to establish/define a cool boss. In my opinion a cool boss is someone who seems more like a peer than a boss. A cool boss would never give you a hard time about being a couple of minutes late in the morning or coming back from lunch. A cool boss doesn’t give you a hard time if you need to leave early or make you prove and explain in great detail what you are doing if you ask for time off, (even if it’s just for an hour or so). A cool boss lets you wear jeans to the office on Wednesday. A cool boss lets you make personal calls, listen to your MP3 player at work and visit web sites on company time. You can crack a dirty, clean, politically correct or incorrect joke, talk about getting “three sheets to the wind” drunk last night or some crazy, weird encounter you had with someone in college to your cool boss. Basically a cool boss is like a good friend. You don’t fear, scare or become uncomfortable around your cool boss. In fact your cool boss is your best friend in the office. Sometimes you just sit in their office and shoot the breeze with them.

Now you’re really confused as to why I’m not on this train, huh? This is why it’s bad. Cool bosses are destroying professionalism. Cool bosses turn professional people into heroine addicted hippies and those who are already unprofessional begin to thrive and nourish themselves into unprofessional nightmares that can’t be stopped. Before you know it we’ll all be wearing rope sandals and playing hacky sack in the conference room. Lunch will be four hours long, followed by nap time and a client will be “lottery ticket lucky” to ever get anyone on the phone, (but what will they care? They were probably just taking a break from their Frisbee golf game, calling you back from the message you left three months ago.)

Your boss shouldn’t be cool, nor should they be your friend. You should almost wet your pants every time your boss comes around the corner. You should hide your eyes, your personal belongings and every aspect of your personal life from a real boss. Why, you shouldn’t even know the first name of your boss in a perfect world. Bosses are meant to be mean and nasty. They should make you want to work overtime for free because of the stern and firm wake they leave behind just by being in the office. You should want to always stay clear of your boss and would never want to initiate a conversation. A real boss rules with an iron fist, is a dictator and near shows any sign of humanity. Your boss doesn’t eat, sleep or use the bathroom and if by some chance they have a spouse, it’s because they are a business partner for business-social events. If they have kids it’s because of the tax breaks.

To be a real boss you must have a black heart, have lost or sold your soul and above all, without exception can not circulate blood in your veins, (because that’s were the ice goes).

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Ice On Road, Cars In Ditch

Driving seems pretty difficult for a lot of people on the road, (or so it seems). Bad weather doesn’t help things. It’s not like I think that it would, but every winter it never ceases to amaze me the total lack of knowledge, patience and understanding of today’s average driver.

Where I live, even if it rains, cars drive very slowly and overly cautious. This in itself can be very dangerous. You can not stop on the highway for ghosts or shadows, cars will rearend you! Rain is not the biggest culprit of turning bad drivers into accident, killing machines. That prestigious honor goes to ice. Again, where I live it doesn’t snow, only sleet and ice falls from the sky. Ice is not your friend. Ice is one slick customer, but all the same it’s not deceitful. In the same way I’ve never understood how trains kill people because tracks don’t move and trains run of tracks, ice is slippery and can cause accidents but it doesn’t attack you or act differently or in unpredictable ways.

Whenever the ice comes to wreak havoc on my city, you feel like you’re in the middle of some war torn village. Driving along and seeing all the cars off the road, in a ditch or just plain abandoned by the side of the road. If you’re driving at a low peak level and no one else is out on the road it can also feel like you’re the last person on earth, caught in a science fiction movie where the ice steals all the people away.

Ice can be driven upon. You can make it to your destination. Patience becomes your ally and you need to embrace it. Getting stressed, freaking out, slamming on your breaks or driving like it’s not icy out are all huge mistakes. This is not to say that you have to drive three miles an hour either.

Just a reminder, punching the gas makes your tires spin. Spinning tires don’t make you go anywhere, (but may help melt the ice).

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Bumper Sticker Laziness

Bumper stickers are a silly animal, aren’t they? Just the idea of having something to read on a moving object, while you, yourself are driving and need to be concentrating, (some of us more than others). I suppose you could stumble upon one in a parking lot, but you usually notice them at stop lights. A lot of the time you notice the bumper sticker and end up having to pull up, nearly bumping the person, to try and read it.

Bumper stickers that have small print should be against the law. It’s a strain enough to read most of them, but a safe-sized font should be regulated and enforced. That way the cops could have a new reason to pull you over. “Excuse me sir, do you know why I pulled you over? You bumper sticker font is less than 24 point.” Why not? The government loves to regulate and citizens are crazy about being regulated, it’s perfect.

Bumper stickers that are about current events, most commonly being political slogans/names, are the worst decision to paste onto your car. If your person doesn’t win, then you’re stuck with a “loser” tattooed on your car forever.

Also expensive luxury cars that have bumper stickers on them really bother me. I can’t afford a luxury car and seeing someone defile, disrespect and degrade them just boggles my mind, especially when the sticker is mindless nonsense. I once saw a spiffy, beautiful, brand new BMW that had an “I [heart symbol] MY BMW” sticker on it. Really? I’d think if you loved it, you wouldn’t affix a 30 cent piece of crap to it. The kind of car that should have a bumper stick on it should be a car that smokes, rattles, has body damage, is very old, rusty and makes a very loud noise while running. The kind of car that you don’t lock the doors when you park in a public parking lot or care if the windows are down when it rains. If a bumper sticker can improve the appearance of the car, then that’s a car that deserves it.

The thing I hate most about bumper stickers is what I call the “lingering” bumper sticker or as it’s known on the streets, the “punk bitch” bumper sticker. You might have seen this yourself while cruising around town. It seems to occur when private citizens sell their cars to each other. One person who owns their car puts a bumper sticker on it. Years later they go to sell it and find a buyer. The new owner takes the car home and tries to remove the bumper sticker, but since it was placed by another spirit it clings to the surface for dear life. Usually just a corner is torn off or a long, thin strip through the middle, but never makes the message of the bumper sticker unreadable. Ironically, the message of the “lingering” bumper sticker is always in conflict or contradiction to the new owner. Say a young pro-choice girl buys her first car from an old lady, there’s a 99% chance that the old lady put a pro-life bumper sticker on it.

If you’re going to remove a bumper sticker, remove it. Break out some toxic chemicals or a razor blade, put some backbone into it, but get it off if you want it off. There’s nothing more ridiculous and tacky in appearance than a “lingering” bumper sticker. Plus it says to the world, “I don’t believe in the message, but I’m too lazy to remove it.” The only thing worse than that would be dying in a car accident trying to read a small print bumper sticker with dirty underwear on, oh parish the thought. Think of your poor mother!

I like bumper stickers best when their on a rack at a store or on a T-shirt.

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Bless You & Thank You Cards

If you’re full grown, living on your own without children, it could be a little difficult to relate or remember the fighting and stress of either being told or telling your own child to be respectful and polite. Even half decent parent tells their child to be mindful of respect and social etiquette regardless of how horrible they may be themselves. It kind of makes you wonder how we all grew up so crude. OK, not all of us, I know some of you out there are “holier than thou” or angelic and innocent, but most everyone I know has a certain degree of filth about them.

• - Cover your mouth when you cough/sneeze
• - Excuse yourself if you belch and never pass gas
• - Ladies cross their legs, men open/hold the door
• - Don’t use foul language
• - Don’t make a spectacle of yourself in public

I’m sure there’s a lot more than can be added to my list, but then again I was raised by wolves in a barn.

The whole idea of being nice and polite is usually a front anyway, especially on the phone. I can’t even try to count the number of times I’ve seen people all sweet and nice on the phone and as soon as they hang up they scream obscenities or others making the “blah, blah, blah” motion with their hand like it’s a puppet. I wonder how many times I’ve been on the phone with someone who after we hung up did or had done something nasty while we were talking while I felt like, “they were so nice”. I’m guessing hundreds?

The two weirdest thing of the polite and sweet culture is the “thank you” card and the “bless you” or “gesundheit”.

The Thank You card: Why do these even exist? Sometimes you might really want to thank someone and want to sincerely tell them so by mail, but that sentiment is totally lost in a sea of forced, unnatural, habitual and cheap thank you cards. You ever get one that was like, “Thanks for the thing. Tom”? Makes you all warm and fuzzy inside doesn’t it? I’m of the mindsets that if you wanted to tell someone thanks, you tell them, maybe even do something nice in return. Grandma gives you money, go rake the leaves in her yard, but sending a 99 cent card with a bird on the front and the inside that says, “Thank You” doesn’t send that message. Maybe it’s just me. If you do get a thank you card are you suppose to send a thank you card for the thank you card? It seems like you could get locked into a “thank you circle” that you could never get out of.

Bless You & Gesundheit: Why is there a battle between these two anyway. I’ve never understood blasphemy, because I’d think that “blessing” someone would be beyond your job duties as a mortal. I don’t like being told either one because it makes me feel uncomfortable. What do I say in return? Do I have to say something in return? What if the person that tells me that is a co-worker that I hate and I don’t want to tell them thank you? Is it rude to ignore them and not respond? Would it be better to just let people sneeze?

I think the next time some tells me “bless you” or “gesundheit”, I’ll just send them a thank you card.

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

How To Deal With Being Average

When did being average become a horrible thing? I lived for it when I was in high school. It’s all I wanted to be. That could explain why I never went anywhere or amounted to much, right mom?

It is true though, I’m a pretty average rooster. Average build, height, shoe size, income, and of course world appeal. I’m sure you can find at least twenty guys just like me standing at the bus stop downtown after midnight. Well maybe just nineteen, ’cause one of those would actually be the “real me”.

Although saying it out loud seems to make me want to refute it. I don’t want to be average. I want to be “special”. So that’s where the problem is. Somewhere between not caring about anything in high school and being a grown man, I’ve lost something or gained something I wish I hadn’t picked up, (please insert your own filthy joke here.)

I’m unique, just like the other 200 gazillion people on the planet. Which kind of makes us all average, right? Wrong! I have to be lacking something from those people who are lucky, (or unlucky) enough to grab the spotlight, regardless of how long it lasts. If  I wasn’t short that something I’d be in the spotlight too, right? Wrong! Spotlights are cast upon those who are entertaining and what’s entertaining changes more often that asking a child under five what they want for Christmas. There’s tons of examples and I’m sure you might even know a couple yourself, like Joyce in accounting or Frank who works at the video store, stupid people who got a hand up for no discernable reason. Perfect example is the ninety year old or the red neck trash that wins $200 million in the lottery. There’s no rhyme of reason to this crazy thing called “life”.

It all comes back to being average and why we all hate it so much. If given the choice of being average of below average, even say far below average, (like you couldn’t even see average from where you were) we’d all choose being average. If we see unfortunate things, injustices or hardships thrust upon others, there’s a brief moment in the back of our heads that says, “thank God that wasn’t me”. Perspective can be humbling and give us that second’s worth of gratefulness. It’s always a series of unfortunate events that makes OK with being average. Wasn’t that a book?

So if you’re average, don’t feel bad, you’re not alone and if you look hard enough you just might find someone more average than you to ease the pain.

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Christmas Grieve

THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS
by Clement Clarke Moore or Henry Livingston (we don’t know?)

(smart alec comments by Ramblin’ Rooster)

‘Twas the night before Christmas, (that’s Christmas Eve to you and me)

when all through the house not a creature was stirring, (except parents waiting for the kids to fall asleep so they can do their thing and get a four hour nap)

not even a mouse, (you have mice in your house?! Why not set some traps?)

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, (as apposed to haphazardly hanging them up? I’m sure OSHA will be happy to know that.)

In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there, (that’s Santa Claus to you and me)

The children were nestled all snug in their beds, (total lie, never happens)

While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads, (perhaps LSD is not a good choice for a bedtime snack)

And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap, (what couple goes to bed naked with only hats on?)

Had just settled down for a long winter’s nap, (if four hours is long)

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, (call the cops)

I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter. (to call the cops)

Away to the window I flew like a flash, (scared someone was going to jack with your lawn ornaments?)

Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. (you’d think it’ be sash then shutters)

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow (a little plug for White Christmas?)

Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below, (so he was worried about his lawn ornamants)

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, (I thought he was focused on his lawn ornaments)

But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer, (I’ve never heard reference to reindeer being tiny, then I guess the one I hit a while back must have been a mutant, ’cause it was huge!)

With a little old driver, so lively and quick, (lively and quick? Sitting in a sleigh?)

I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. (that’s Santa Claus to you and me)

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, (Coursers? I thought they were tiny reindeer?)

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name, (awful loud for trying to be low profile)

“Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! on Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen! (Santa is a very creative name giver, guess this was before Rudolph)

To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall! (coming in awful low!)

Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!” (I thought they were just arriving?)

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, (so this is happening in Florida?)

When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew, (again there’s that horse reference)

With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too. (don’t forget the tiny horses, or reindeer)

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof (can you imagine the damage a sleigh would do to a shingled roof?)

The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. (those damn coursers are tearing up the roof, I knew it!)

As I drew in my hand, and was turning around, (was he flippin’ the bird or goin’ for his pistol?)

Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound. (this couple sleeps in the living room?)

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot, (I can’t believe that PETA hasn’t attacked poor Santa for all that fur)

And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot, (not to mention histoplasmosis)

A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, (why doesn’t he just take the ones that he needs, or does every house get a bag full?)

And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack. (so Santa’s a bum, huh?!?)

His eyes — how they twinkled! his dimples how merry! (he’s a bum, but appealing?)

His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry! (so Santa’s organic?)

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, (Santa was gagged?)

And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow, (a minute ago he was covered in soot, how’d his beard make it out clean?)

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, (Santa smokes? He gets less and less politically correct by the minute)

And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath, (Santa smokes in your house? How rude)

He had a broad face and a little round belly, (Santa is pregnant?)

That shook, when he laughed like a bowlful of jelly. (Santa’s just laughing to himself? What’s in that stump of a pipe?)

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf, (holy smokes, Santa’s an elf?!?!?)

And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself, (that’s worse than looking a gift horse in the mouth)

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread, (was he afraid of Santa?)

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, (Santa is all business)

And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose, (Santa is a coke head?)

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose, (Santa can defy gravity?)

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle. (is this before missiles, ’cause that would have been better than a plant)

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, (again with the yelling)

“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night.” (you broke into the house, woke up the guy who was scared, then take off and he’s suppose to have a good night?)

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

I Christen The Christmas

Just like last year, and always as I remember, Christmas has come and gone as though it never happened. As a child it seemed like you’d wait all year and when the glorious day finally came it was over in a matter of seconds. Now that I’m on the other side it seems like nanoseconds.

As a child the hardest part of Christmas is waiting, but as an adult all the effort to shop, buy, hide gifts, get hints, and spending all your time wondering if you labeled the gifts right far outweigh the troubles a child endures. Once all that hard work comes to pass, the moment is almost instantaneous. The paper flies off, the box is ripped open, a quick comment is made and then it’s on to the next one.

Sure the one that receives the gift may “light up” their face with a smile, but it almost doesn’t seem worth all the effort once all is said and done. Does that make me an Ebenezer Scrooge? What doesn’t anyone name their baby Ebenezer? I guess because of the negative connotation.

It just seems like a lot of waste, too many returns and too many lies. “Of course I love it, it’s a pink poodle sweater!” Then again, the alternative turns out to be so cold, the gift of money or gift card, (you know how your mother reacts) “That’s so impersonal, wouldn’t they like a brain-teaser puzzle?”

I haven’t even gotten to the part that Christmas, for some of us, feels like the only vacation we ever get from work, but instead of sleeping in and taking it easy, we’re putting up and taking down decorations, shopping and getting up at the crack of dawn to swim through wrapping paper to find the phone to get a call from an elderly relative who wants to talk for hours. Gosh, I sound like a real selfish, hateful person. Bah-humbug doesn’t even cover it.

It’s not that my heart is black, it’s that I don’t understand holidays. If you want to give a gift to someone why does it have to be on a certain day? Can’t I give you something whenever I want? Do you think it’s any less special on any other day? Add to that that the rest of the country is out doing the same thing at the same time. You’d think that would kind of ruin the moment for anyone.

I wonder if America took all the wrapping paper, after Christmas was over, and laid it end to end, in a 6″ wide strip how many times it would circle the earth?

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Overeating Is Overly Easy

You might say that overeating can be blamed on American culture or society as a whole. You might say overeating is the fault of your parents or their parents or their parent’s parents. You might say it’s your own damn fault. Regardless of whom you want to blame, if you even want to blame someone, you can’t deny that overeating is a very simple thing to do.

If you’re dinning out at a restaurant that you order a specified plate, the portion they bring is always to much, but yet most of us find a way to put in our stomach. If you dine at a buffet, obviously the problem is too many trips through the line(s). Maybe it’s because you think you want your moneys worth or you can’t help the feeling of “get all you can”. If you’re at home, then it’s probably just poor judgment.

In all of these cases, for me, I seem to overeat because I usually wait too long in between meals. By the time I get around to eating, I’m so hungry that it feels like I’m eating for three to sustain life through the winter.

Although it’s trite, the holidays add an abundance of food that is easily assessable. Those of us that fall victim to eating out of boredom are particularly vulnerable. Everywhere you go there seems to be a plate, dish or tray sitting out just begging for your attention.

All of this aside, it’s amazing to me how stupid the human really is. No matter how many times I stuff my face, bloat my belly or give birth to ninety pound, dead bacteria babies I can seem to stop myself from making the same mistake. Over and over again I eat way too much and then complain that I overate, as if by some coincidence four adult size portions of pie will make me sick not only last week, but today as well. Is my body actually trying to communicate with me?

All I can say is that loosening my belt helps and it’s sad to be a living stereotype.

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Nausea

So if you read last night’s post, this is almost like a continuation. We ordered pizza and I ate too many pieces, but it didn’t stop me from eating the incredibly greasy, yet incredibly delicious cinnamon breadsticks. Something about deep fried, sweetened grease just makes me smile. Then, awhile later I ate some of my Christmas candy. Yes, I am a grown man that still gets Christmas candy. I’m not afraid or too macho to admit it. I like candy, big deal. Apparently fruit flavored taffy and greasy meat with bread makes for a deadly combination in the stomach.

 

What’s most interesting to me is the crippling power of nausea. There’s nothing that shuts me down quite like or as fast as stomach upset. Now there’s many levels of nausea, but the one I’m talking about it is the, “Oh God, I think I’m going to throw up” kind.

 

When you get to the point of being vomitous, the world becomes a much different place. Suddenly things don’t mean what they use to and surfaces no longer hold meaning or history.

 

What am I talking about? When I get physically sick I really don’t care about anything. You could ask to fill my new car with shaving cream and I’d say I don’t care. I can lay my head on the toilet seat without giving it a second thought. I can curl up on the floor, beside the toilet and sleep the night never having cooties cross my mind. Filthy things are immaterial. The way I look is the furthest thing from my mind. Cleanliness and sanitation are words that have no meaning when I’m bobbing up and down in sour-tum-tum-land.

 

On several occasions, alcohol driven puking sessions have kept me “paralyzed” in extremely cold weather. The kind of weather that’s inadvisable to be out in for an extended amount of time. I can understand now why “winos” die in the park during the winter. Some of those experiences I was so sick that the thought crossed my mind that I might perish if I don’t force myself to get inside.

 

Finally, nausea makes me want to be alone. I don’t want to be taken care of or tended to, I just want to be all alone and very, very STILL. Similar to how dogs like to go off to die, I just want the universe to ignore my existence until such a time that the curse has past. I understand that someone might be concerned and want to ask me, “How are you doing?” but it just makes me wish they were dead. I know they are just being nice, but I don’t want to talk, I just want to heal.

 

I’d like to keep going, but I’m afraid I need to lie down on some broken glass in a truck stop bathroom and try to calm my angry tummy.

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Garbage Is Not Trash

One man’s trash is another man’s treasure, a wonderful cliché.

 

The town I live in doesn’t provide polycarts, (just in case you don’t know – those plastic bins that people put trash in, maybe you’ve seen them used as recycling carts). You just place your bags at the curb. Pick up is twice a week, which is nice, (especially in the summer). Every night I walk my dogs through the neighborhood and on trash days I get to see what everyone is throwing away. It’s very depressing to see what some people just throw away. Sometimes I think I could fill an Olympic sized swimming pool with all the things that I hate seeing, “go to waste”. I’d probably bring more of it home, if it didn’t make my wife angry and I didn’t have a garage full of junk already.

 

I once came across a group of guys, five of them, who all lived in a house together and were all sanitation engineers. OK fine, they’re trash men, (or garbage men if you rather). Anyway, their house was full of treasures. Every room was full, piles up the ceiling with things you wouldn’t believe. I’m not talking about hub caps or old boots either, but real stuff that a lot of people would want. Items like: saxophones, guitars, lamps, furniture, appliances, electronics and so much more. No, this isn’t an info-mmercial. I’ll stop now.

I only wanted to say and make a point that people throw away a lot of good stuff. People by nature are very wasteful.

 

Many years ago I worked in the furniture business. Whenever I’d go out on delivery with new furniture, we’d always take away the people’s old furniture, (so they wouldn’t have to deal with trying to get rid of it on there own). On more than one occasion, the stuff that the customers would be getting rid of would be almost like new.

 

I’m not really a conservationist, by action, and I wouldn’t describe myself as being “green”, but I do hate to see waste and wastefulness. So maybe I don’t have a right to even say this, not being pro-active and all, but it makes me sad that this world doesn’t have a better method of recycling/trash disposal. I suppose it’s because there’s no money in it. Although every time I see those piles of trash, I can see dollar signs.

 

Whoops, I just broke my soap box. Guess I should throw it out.

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

CSI Shows Are Bad?

I’m not a big fan of the crime-murder-investigation-48hour-who-done-it-mystery shows, but I can tell who is. My wife! She never gets tired of these things. She can watch them all day long every single day and never seem to tire of them, regardless if the same narrator is doing the next show. It’s like an eight hour show sometimes. She prefers the real life case shows compared to the fake, Hollywood ones, but if she can’t find a “real” one, then she settles for a “fake” one.

 

What have I taken away from all of this? Three things really…

 

ONE: These shows have made me completely paranoid. It doesn’t matter that I’m innocent of anything and everything, but the constant playing of these shows makes me think like a crime scene investigator. Every time I use my credit card somewhere in the furthest part of the back of my mind the thought comes, “This is totally traceable”. The paper trail on me would be like 5000 miles long. Every time I vacuum, I think of hair and fiber samples, every cigarette I smoke I think of DNA samples, fingerprints on my can of soda, suspicious vehicles sitting in the neighborhood too long, it just never stops.

 

TWO: Why aren’t more criminals watching these shows? It’s like all the cheats one could ever need to commit heinous crimes. Of course they always throw out the disclaimer that, “no one is smart enough to commit the PERFECT crime”. Well, they’re certainly doing all they can to make someone try it. It’s just hard to believe that criminals are still leaving their wallets on the scene, of a shirt with their name written on the back label or bragging about their “fresh kill” at a local bar. You’d think that these shows would raise the caliber of criminal marginally at the very least. Don’t get me wrong though, I’m glad that crime doesn’t pay.

 

THREE: Luminol would make an awesome band name, (if it’s not already). I love the name so much, and if it’s not already taken, I want someone out there to use it for their band. I don’t even care about credit or sharing thunder I just want to have a band in this world called Luminol.

 

I knew it, it’s already a band. Damn it! You just can’t do anything in this world that hasn’t already been done.

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

End Of Vacation, End of My Happiness

I’ve always lived in cold houses. Mainly because they’ve been old or drafty, but more recently it’s because of high ceilings and high prices of heating it. I’ve always hated huddling around space heaters because they just make me colder. As the part facing the heater warms, the part that is being ignored feels colder than it would have if no space heater was being used.

 

I only bring this up because my week and a half vacation is over tonight and its back to work tomorrow bright and early. It makes me wish that I never took vacation because I don’t realize how much I hate my job until I’m away from it for an extended amount of time. Three day weekends aren’t long enough to forget about the misery, but anything over five consecutive days makes the return almost impossible.

 

It’s not only the fact that I hate my job, but it’s that I can’t stand it. I know, I’m babbling and being repetitious. I can’t help it. This is the first time I’ve ever been able to save all of my vacation time till the end of the year to use all at once. It’s been incredible. I don’t even feel bad for wasting a majority of my time doing nothing. I didn’t know that going back would be so hard. I think I feel a tickle in the back of my throat. I might be coming down with something, (cough, cough).

 

Don’t try to give me the lecture that I need to find a different job, because I’m one of those morons that landed a job, stuck it out through the hard times, the desperate times and fought off the temptation to quit. What did I get in return? The ability to make myself valuable and slowly earned a pretty good salary, especially given the lack of my educational background. The flipside of course is the fact that all of this wonderful training has made me tailor made and trained for my current company, not their competitors. So believe me when I tell you, I’ve looked for other jobs, no one is dumb enough to give me what I’m getting from where I work now. Such is life…

 

OK, so why am I whining like a little baby to you? I just thought maybe you were on vacation too and it was about to end, then you’d be returning to your own private hell.

 

I just wanted to let you know you’re not alone.

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

New Year’s Eve

The first New Year’s Eve I remember, I was a child. My family had gone to a friend of my mother’s house. At midnight they made everyone go outside and the kids all banged pots and pans together. At the time I really didn’t understand what we were doing or why we were doing it. Now that I’m no longer a spring chicken, the appeal of New Year’s Eve has even less of an appeal to me.

 

Why does everyone want to do something? Why does everyone feel like they HAVE to do something? Going out on New Year’s Eve is like going shopping on Wednesday before Thanksgiving. You might as well be burning your money.

 

I realize that New Year’s Eve might be fun and exciting if you have lots of friends, lots of money and young love to which you hope to impress by a lavish fiesta. I don’t have any of these things, so I can’t relate. Perhaps you’re just an alcoholic and like to gamble with your freedom by driving under the influence on the most highly patrolled night of the year. I’m not much of a drinker myself and I don’t like talking to cops, (when I’m being pulled over).

 

The need to go out, to be somewhere, to be doing something is just silly to me, but then again I’m an anti-social, hermit crab, living under the ground in a abandoned bomb shelter. I wonder how many of the people who “need” to get out and let loose suffer from cabin fever on a regular basis. Or is this the “one time” of the year they’ve earned/deserve to go out?

 

New Year’s Eve is a young person’s holiday. I usually stay up till midnight every night, but I’m pretty sluggish by eleven and certainly wouldn’t be any fun to be around. I’m not a party animal. I’m not even a party animal that has been domesticated. I’m just an old man who’s frugal and grumpy.

 

Now if you’ll excuse me, I gotta go, my limo is here and I’m gonna be late to the club.

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Shortcut Mania Equals Shortcut To Hell

As if you or anyone else needed more proof that I’m a premature, angry, elderly man I decide to provide you with the following. No need to thank me, consider it a New Year’s present.

 

Have you ever met someone who was shortcut crazy? Someone who looms over your shoulder at a computer and sighs or gasps with every key stroke you make? Me too and I can honestly say that if you feel at all like I do just drop me a line and you can join my lynch mob. We’ll be setting out to hang these people by their toes later this month.

 

I’ve always heard or been told time is money and fast is the pace of business, but is it really? I’ve never really worked in an office environment or professional environment that would “make or break” over a few added seconds. So you could understand why maybe I’m not interested in having a shortcut for everything that I do on a daily basis. Some days I need things to run a little long or I wouldn’t have anything to do. I’d be so efficient I’d make myself obsolete. That’s weird…

 

I understand that some of the shortcuts are really cool and can make your life easier, but why must I make everything a abbreviated version? I’ve been at people’s computers and asked them to open something or need to show the something and been amazed at the “old school” ways or prehistoric method they are using, but I don’t mind. I’m not in that big of a hurry to get back to my desk and I certainly don’t feel the need to belittle them or try to “correct” their behavior. Nothing makes friends faster than voluntarily becoming their technology tutor.

 

It’s great that you’ve changed your e-mail lists to where you can type one letter for each person you know. I’m amazed by the adjustments you made on the scroll wheel on your mouse. You blew my mind at the customized right click menu.

 

You know it’s not even about the fact that the shortcuts aren’t useful, it’s the attitude that people have about them. They always tell you about how much better or faster it would make things for you. As if you couldn’t live if you didn’t conform.

 

Having a shortcut doesn’t make you better than someone. It makes you lazier, (or smarter) depending on how you look at it.

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Future Looks Good For Optometrists

One of my friends stopped by over the New Year’s evening to say hello and happy New Year’s of course. Truth is I think he stopped by just to show off his new iPod touch. Nothing seems to provide obnoxious people with nonstop conversation more than cutting edge, (or somewhat cutting edge) gadgets.

 

I will admit that it was a pretty cool toy, “toy” being the key word here. Similar to last night’s shortcut pet peeve, cutting edge gadgets with their tiny screens offering all things that modern media has to offer, seem silly to me. Surfing the internet on a screen that you can hardly read is ridiculous. Yes, you can zoom in and out and scroll and scroll and scroll and scroll, but what’s the fun in that? Something like this would be ideal if you were waiting for a flight or a bus and you needed something to kill the time with.

 

Anyway, after playing around with this thing for about an hour or so it finally hit me. This isn’t just a novel device that’s meant to appeal to the hip, young generation, no, no, no my friend, this was a part of something much bigger. That’s right, this was the foundation of the next, great, conspiracy theory.

 

What’s the conspiracy? Failing eyesight of course! That’s why everything is shrinking, cell phones, buttons, screens and attention spans. OK, attention spans don’t really play into the conspiracy of eyesight destruction, but when ever I think of a bleak future, the subject of attention spans just falls out of my mouth. I can’t help it.

 

The only thing I can’t figure out is why the optometrists have all met in private and began their aggressive buyouts of all the technology leaders and nobody is doing or saying anything about it. Don’t believe me? Check it out:

 

May 5^th, 1999: Dr. William Greene becomes the major share holder of Sony.

June 21^st, 2000: Dr. Sarah Miller is named secret CEO of AT&T.

January 19^th, 2001: Dr. Roger McRoger assassinates the president of AOL.

October 1^st, 2002: Dr. Sheryl Hankersonsky buys out Nokia.

March 31^st, 2003: Dr. Carl Franklin Smith Jones uses mob connections to take control over Samsung.

August 17^th, 2004: Dr. Tandy Bergerheinstein sets elaborate trap to indict the board and later seize control of Sprint.

November 24^th, 2005: Dr. Ricen Aldobrhiy takes control of T-Mobile by means still unknown to anyone.

February 11^th, 2006: Dr. Hojhiek Rhankansassasaaskkik is awarded total control of Verizon Wireless through some weird blackmail scheme. No charges filed.

April 3^rd, 2007: Unnamed doctor is anonymously and privately named the new head of Apple.

 

I can’t even imagine what’s next for this new powerhouse of world shapers and future controllers. So be warned, be fearful and most importantly be aware. The optometrists are out to make sure that every man, woman and child will eventually be in glasses.

 

What sucks the most is that when I went to go get my iPod, they were all sold out.

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Vanity in 2009?

If you’ve come to this blog in hopes of reading about or gaining consumer insight to bathroom sinks or women’s handbags you’re going to be very disappointed. So stop now, turn back and sorry for wasting your time.

 

Now that the disclaimer is over with, let’s get down to business.

 

Of all the things alive and kicking in this day and age vanity is one that I can’t believe is still alive. As you may or may not know, everything I learn and know comes from television. According to television, the pinnacle of cool is something that hardly any human can achieve and those that could really couldn’t hold it over anyone’s head because they’re already so far removed from society.

 

Like fat women in halter tops, fat men in Speedos, skinny girls in halter tops, old men with earrings and bald men with pony tails you’d think what’s obvious to all the rest of us would be apparent to the person, (or victim as I like to refer to them) perpetrating the crime.

 

I’ve also heard that some of this is based on the misconception that attitude controls outward appearance. There are some people out there that seem to believe that if you think you are beautiful then you will be beautiful. If this was true then if I believed I could fly I would be able to. Well, two broken legs, a broken arm and a fractured collar bone later I can honestly tell you that humans can not fly under their own power.

 

In this day and age it’s near impossible to be cutting edge. Not only because the edge is constantly moving, but for the most part a lot of the technology is on average affordable. So if you think you’re cool because of your new phone just know that an eleven year old has the same phone as you and can execute all the options more efficiently than you. Think you’re cool because of your lap top? Yes, again there’s an eleven year old that has the same model as you and probably got it for $200 less than you paid for it.

 

That leaves just the beautiful people that are clueless. If you think you’re hot there’s a good chance that you’re probably fairly attractive, but it really doesn’t matter because with 8 billion people on the earth there is definitely someone out there better looking than you.

 

Furthermore, if there’s one thing I’ve learned from my television research and devotion it’s that vain people learn an important life lesson and turn there life around. So how is it that someone could be ignorant to this fact? The vain person always loses in the end.

 

Finally, the thing that bothers me the most about vanity is how anyone could think they’re better than me.

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Rest Stops: Created By Felons?

I use to do a lot of traveling by car using the incredible and efficient highway system of this great country of ours. The last couple of trips I’ve taken have resulted in the using of a rest stop.

 

Just to be clear, (and I think we all know what a rest stop is but…) a rest stop is nothing more than a building with a male and female bathroom in it. Perhaps a vending machine or picnic tables, maybe even an area to “exercise” your dogs. The main ingredient of qualification is that it’s not manned by anyone, meaning there are no employed people overseeing its use. Which means it is fair game for the crazies.

 

I just got to tell you, rest stops scare the hell out of me. They’re the creepiest thing on earth. They always seem too far off the highway, behind trees or other obstructions and ghost-town vacant. All of them seem like the perfect place to commit an act of unspeakable carnage or an unimaginable, heinous crime.

 

I can’t believe the horror industry doesn’t use rest stops for a setting of “slasher” films, (if you exclude Rest Stop and Rest Stop 2).

 

In a world that’s scared of its own shadow, with piles of money being wasted by parking lots that can be seen from outer space, putting excessively bright light poles in every park and on every street corner, it’s amazing to see that these potential “houses of horror” still remain in use.

 

I believe that a bunch of ex-convicts, all of which having multiple felonies of a very colorful nature, got together and formed a “legit” business that focus solely on the commissioning and erecting of these places “predator playgrounds” so that they could use them for their future evil indulgences. Paranoid much?

 

OK, maybe I am being a little ridiculous. Perhaps I am basing this off of only a small handful of “run down” rest stops that I have visited. Maybe you know of some real classy ones, even prestigious or luxurious. I shouldn’t judge a rest stop by its cousins, just its smell, right? At the very least they’re good for selling drugs and midnight trucker love.

 

See you at mile marker 88 tonight?

 

Egg On!

Ramblin Rooster

Eavesdropping vs. Overhearing

Is it really eavesdrop, with a “V”? That’s so weird. Does anyone pronounce it with the hard “V” sound?

 

My grandmother slapped me across the face for eavesdropping once. Ever since then I’ve been somewhat the anti-eavesdropper. Apparently it’s not a socially accepted activity.

 

Do you like semantics? Me too. It’s because of semantics that we can eavesdrop without being slapped by grandma simply by saying we “overheard” it.

 

The difference is so simple, a child probably made it up. Eavesdropping is the sick, sinister, evil, deceptive, maniacal act of sneaking and hiding to hear things you’re not supposed to. Overhearing is where you are the victim. You didn’t necessarily want to hear it, but you couldn’t help it because it was forced inside your ears.

 

So it’s true, especially with all the cell phone use in public these days. Not too long ago I was at the grocery store and went to get some cookie dough and then woman standing there was discussing the events of a pedophile’s victim case in detail. Suddenly I no longer wanted cookies. Hell, after that I no longer wanted to be in the store. I wanted to go hide in the trunk of my car.

 

Truth is, sometimes you really can’t help but to overhear people. Here’s a great example. Today I was standing in line at the bank and a guy in front of me was approached by another guy and I got to hear the following conversation (I’m paraphrasing):

 

Other Guy: Hey John! (excited)

Guy in line: Hey… (not so excited)

Other Guy: Franklin. (kind of offended)

Guy in line: Yeah, I know. (total lie)

Other Guy: What’s going on?

Guy in line: Nothing, waiting in line.

Other Guy: Isn’t your girlfriend a botanist?

Guy in line: She has a degree in horticulture.

Other Guy: Do you know of any liquids that are odorless that will kill plants?

Guy in line: What?

Other Guy: I was thinking bleach, but bleach is real stinky, but I didn’t know if the soil might soak up the smell.

Guy in line: Yeah, I don’t know. (totally stunned)

Other Guy: Maybe transmission fluid or antifreeze? Is antifreeze bad for plants?

Guy in line: I doubt that it’s very good.

Other Guy: I wish gasoline or paint stripper wasn’t so smelly ya know?

Guy in line: What do you want to know this for?

[thank goodness, he finally asks!]

Other Guy: The secretary where I work is such a bitch and she’s on vacation this week so I thought it’d be hilarious if I killed all her stupid plants on her desk.

And there you have it, the time when being in the right place at the right time can totally make your day.

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Is It Wrong To Kill Insects?

When I was a boy I did some cruel things to insects. My brother, cousin and I once tortured crickets in the basement with an old school electric train set. I also use to take two grasshoppers and holding them by their hind legs would put them face to face and make them fight. I have killed a spider of twenty in my day and of course I also burned ants with a magnifying glass. But all kids do that, right? Does this mean I’m going to hell?

Apes/monkeys have opposable thumbs. Kurt Cobain told me, “it’s all right to eat fish ‘cause they don’t have any feelings” and most four legged animals taste good after being barbequed. So does that mean insects are meaningless?

When you think of the genius of most insects, it seems like a shame to kill them senselessly. Their accomplishments and functionality are amazing. Their achievements far outweigh those of man. We could never do, endure or prosper like the majority of insects, yet they are so easy to squish.

So is their only downfall the predator, better known as man, or are we slowly becoming the prey of this overgrowing population of cunning life forms?

Even though I have committed crimes against insects in my early years, I have since changed my ways. I have made friends with a lot of the insects in the world and think I live reasonably well with them. I don’t mind if a lady bug lands on my arm or a butterfly. I let spiders go about their business in the corner of the room and I try to avoid stepping on miscellaneous other bugs while walking somewhere.

Having said this, there are some insects that just can’t be overlooked when it comes to prejudice. There are those that I will still kill at will or on sight. My general rule is that any insect that attacks me is fair game for warfare. The first one is the mosquito. Anything that wants to suck blood must die, period. Next up is the fly. Now it’s not just that they love to dive bomb me and buzz in my ear, (even though I do somewhat enjoy that Doppler Effect) it’s the vomiting thing when they land and their fetish for feces. It’s just to disgusting to forgive. That brings us to the cockroach. Again, the cockroach appears to be somewhat harmless, it stays out of sight, runs away when the light comes on, but it’s just so nasty that “crunch” is all I can think of when I see them.

In the end I guess there is no right or wrong answer and really who’s able to judge what lives or dies. One thing for sure, insects are here to stay and their numbers increase more rapidly than ours. So watch out if you’re an advocate of “bug killing”, you might just get yours in the end by 500,000 angry ants.

I sure hope there aren’t any giants in the world that might come step on me.

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Working Overtime

What could be more fun and exciting than working overtime? OK, maybe it’s not fun, but time and a half? Now that’s exciting!

There seems to be this odd allure to working overtime, like you’re going to make a whole bunch of money from all the extra hours you’re putting in. Yet when you finally get that check, it really doesn’t seem to match the effort you put forth, nor does it ever really feel like it compensates you in return for giving up your life.

There’s just something not right about going to work in the dark, going home in the dark and missing the sun completely. Regardless of how much extra money you get an all day work day is just wrong. Also being all alone in a office is just plain weird. It’s like seeing a television set in real life, or standing on the field at your favorite sports team’s arena. You’ve seen it so much, but to actually be there or change the perspective of it makes it almost foreign to you.

Eating all three meals of the day at work is wrong too. Most people probably skip breakfast and I know a lot of people skip lunch as well. Me? I can’t skip any meal, my metabolism won’t allow it. Lunch was specifically design by the slaves of the world to escape their evil overlords, if only for an hour. So missing out on your time honor, much sacrificed for freedom is downright dishonorable.

In the end, you run your body down, you’re tired and still poor and the hierarchy couldn’t care less. They just wanted their work to get done. They don’t care how it happened or what you gave up to make it happen, just that it happened. That’s the worst feeling in the world, to give of yourself and not only be taken for granted, but to be unappreciated.

For those of you fellow overtimers, I have to ask… is it all right to stop bathing and changing clothes if you work more than eighty hours a week?

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Not Love Just Alliance

I don’t believe in love.

Having added the period at the end of that sentence, it officially makes me a hypocrite, because I tell my family I love them all the time. I even drop the “L Word” on silly, insignificant things like, “I love that movie” or “I love caramel covered nut bars”.

Truth is, I still don’t believe in love, even though I use the word. I use the word because it’s accepted everywhere and it expresses the point I’m trying to make fast and with ease. Nobody is confused by saying, “I love you”. They might be confused if your actions don’t match your words, but I don’t remember ever hearing someone say, “They told me that they loved me. What do you think they meant by that?”

I think about love a lot. What does it mean, where does it come from, why is it here? I also think about it a lot when it comes to relationships, since 113% of pop culture is based on “boy meets girl” or “boy sleeps with girl’s cousin, while girl is sleeping with boy’s best friend”. It makes you wonder what’s going on with all of us. The divorce rate is outstandingly high, but yet some couples make it through the test of time, which leaves the rest of us wondering why and how.

This is why I don’t believe in love, I believe in alliances. That’s what makes relationships last. I don’t think it has to do with opposites attracting, things in common, similar backgrounds, identical political party affiliation, religious denomination, or economic standards. It’s all just an alliance you make with another person. It’s finding someone that you know has your back or your best interests at heart, (in the long run). They might hate your velvet Elvis painting, or forget your birthday or even make you feel stupid at a party in front of your friends, but that doesn’t mean they’re not on your side. It just means they’re human and humans are kind of insane. That’s why it’s so important to find one that you can form an alliance with, because it’s you against the world! I know, I know, easier said than done, but then again if you weren’t looking for love you might find an ally.

As far as love and your family, well you just have to love your family, especially your kids.

And puppies are quite loveable.

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Sleep Deprivation And You

I heard from a friend who was told by a person that talked to a guy who knew a man who had read a book written by a doctor. In this book it said that sleep deprivation was bad. I for one believe him.

I’m usually not a well rested person in general. I’ve always been a night owl, but I must maintain a daytime, (or first shift) job. So what ends up happening is I stay up late and get up early. It doesn’t take a math wizard to figure out the time in between gives a minimal amount of hours to sleep.

Lately I’ve been more sleep deprived than usual, (because of the mandatory overtime I’ve been enduring). I’ve been amazed at how quickly my body and daily functioning was affected. Almost immediate I was tired, (of course) and then I was exhausted. There are times where I literally can’t keep my eyes open even if I’m in the middle of doing somethinnbk                            Sv2ew Whoops! Sorry, I dosed off there for a second. Secondly I started to get headaches. Third I noticed my joints started to hurt. Most of this discomfort I felt was in my feet, ankles and lower back. Next I started to feel nauseas for several hours at a time. Then came straight up confusion and “spacing off”, where I’d just kind of stop for a minute and become a zombie for a short spell. Sadness was starting to set in and I was questioning my life and thinking of all the regrets I had and poor decisions I’ve made, but it was quickly replaced with random contempt and a short fuse. There were times I felt as though I could have killed someone over the slightest provocation. This all happened over a week’s period.  The most amazing thing is that I was also adapting to it rather easily and rapidly. It wasn’t before too long that I had almost forgotten about how life was prior to this sleepless excursion. It was as if this was the “new” me and I felt fine about it. I don’t know, but I guess that this is very similar to going insane.

It made me wonder about all the “screwed up” people in the world and I thought, “I wonder how many people just really need a goodnights sleep.”

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

 

Deserted Island For Sale

Overall I’m a person who wants to make people happy. I like to do things for people, like running errands or small favors and such. This is odd because I’m not the friendliest of folks. The more I’m around people, the more I don’t like them. They’re frustrating and difficult and I never know for sure what they’re truly feeling or thinking. Plus you can’t trust anyone with anything. The time I like people the most is when I am all alone, which as you should know by now got my wheels a’turnin’.

 

Tonight’s mindless head trip is, “Could you live alone an island” or would you breakdown and yearn to be around the people that drive you nuts?

 

In effort to get us all on the same page and weed out the some of the “endless questions” of this hypothetical nonsense of a question, we need to establish a couple of things to make this easier. First of all, you are granted with the knowledge of survival, (so even the most pathetically domesticated of us can play too). The island is vegetated and able to sustain life, (there’s an ample food supply, materials for making shelters, etc.) We can even pretend that you have your own little ‘Gilligan’s Island’ one man palace if you’d like. It doesn’t matter where it’s located or how you got there, so please don’t waste your time or get off track. Let us also pretend that we could have the gift of magical amenities. You can have a electricity, plumbing, shower, toilet, a TV, gaming console, computer/internet, (with the exception of using for chatting or communicating with others) and laundry facilities, (and anything else you can think of that you would need that doesn’t violate the “No contact with the outside world” rule.) There are no scary monsters on the island either.

 

The question is simply, “would you go live on an island by yourself if you could?”

 

Immediately a lot of people are going to say no. They’re quite aware of their dependence on other humans and know that if they can’t go an afternoon sitting by themselves alone in their own house, they wouldn’t make it through the night on the island. By the same token a few will blurt out that they’d go. Whether it’s to be different from the crowd or because they owe thousands to the IRS, they’ll say they just want to “get away from it all”. Most of these people wouldn’t make it either. Only the ones that wouldn’t make a sound after being asked would be the ones you’d have to worry about. The ones whose eyes would glaze over and a far away glare would wash over their face as they drifted off into heavy thought. Those are the people that are really “mulling it over” and will probably be thinking about it for days.

 

It’s huge to think about giving up people. People are probably the most used and abused thing on this planet. All of us are a junkie to some extent. So, would you do it?

 

Let me know, OK? ‘Cause if you’re going, then I can’t.

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Curse This Penis

Yes, I understand that this “thing” is a urine tube, but they can make it so I don’t need it, (for more information, see Medical Magic pg. 453). I also understand that it’s where babies come from, or part of where they come from. What I don’t understand is what to do with it the 99% of the other time.

 

I’ve yet to experience being a girl, maybe in my next life, but until then I can only guess as to what having a vagina is like. To me it’s a hole that leads into the body and a hole, an actual, real life hole seems pretty freaky. The male genitalia on the other hand, or in the other hand, (hee-hee-hee)… It’s totally the opposite. Thank you and that concludes today’s first grade anatomy class.

 

Male genitalia are out in the open just waiting to be blown off. The testicles are like little time bombs that are close to being the most fragile thing on earth. Just a slight graze, with precision contact can cause a chain reaction and a total meltdown. Yet men are willing to bare it all at the drop of a hat.

 

It’s kind of like the people who own guns, but don’t hunt or go to firing ranges, it’s like why do you have it in the first place. You know you’re just sitting around hoping someone will attack you so you can whip it out and squeeze off some rounds. You don’t own a gun to keep it a case; you show it off like in the action movies. I know that those guys out there that are “swingers” and know all “the moves” are probably using their penis quite a bit, so they don’t really care. For the rest of the 98% of the male population they might be thinking to themselves, what is that droopy thing down there?

 

The penis is always just hanging around. It’s always there as if it’s waiting for something. Waiting for action? I don’t know maybe. Some guys can’t seem to resist it themselves and will even “cup it” or “cop a feel” in the most awkward of situations. More proof that the penis is just itching to get loose. Where does it want to go and what does it want to do? If given the opportunity would be “engaged” at all times? What fun would that be for anyone? What would you do about work, about dinner, about the thousands of kids in your house?

 

A penis is just a bad seed looking to get into trouble. It’s bad news on a bad day, yet it’s just too hard to let go of. It’s almost like a security blanket or Radar’s teddy bear. You just need to know it’s there to feel better.

 

I guess we will never unzip the mystery of the penis, but I promise I’ll keep beating it until I get some answers.

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Cruising On My Scooter

In the world of automobiles, you have cars and trucks. In the world of motorcycles you have Harleys and crotch rockets. Standing way off to the side, behind a tree, over by the trash can, their’s the scooter.

 

For some reason the way we arrive to any location is incredibly important, regardless of the significance of the location and/or our business their. If you go to the store at four in the morning to buy your girlfriend some tampons, you look awesome doing it in a Hummer, whereas if you were in a Ford Fiesta you would be laughed at by the alley cats hiding in the bushes, (and nobody wants that).

 

The debate as to whether or not we need to arrive in style being credible or worth while, is not the topic of this blog. The only reason I reference it is because it’s pertinent to part of the reason scooters just don’t make you cool.

 

So that’s the first reason, it’s hard, (or rather impossible) to appease the shallow, material, and judgmental inhabits of “Stranger-Land” on a scooter. Please go buy a Lamborghini if you’d like to make me stare at and envy you.

 

The second reason is the sound. Nothing kills cool quite like the sound of “riding” something recreationally that sounds like a lawn care product. “Did someone just pull up on a weed whacker?”

 

Third is the look. Even though scooters have come a long way from the old school ‘70s models that were, for all practical purposes, bicycles, they still look very unstylish and just plain ugly. They need to revolutionize the look, go crazy, break out of the mold and do something daring.

 

Fourth, you don’t have to have a legitimate license to drive one, thus, it means children can do it. As we all know it’s hard, (or rather impossible) to be cool if a child can do it. You can’t be at a stop light, trying to flirt with some girl in a car, when a thirteen year old pulls up beside you. Ruins the moment, (trust me).

 

Finally, the name is the absolute deal breaker. Scooter? It sounds like a snotty nosed, unpopular kid, (or the luckiest criminal bastard ever… I’m talking to you Libby!). Even if you fancy yourself a hip, modern hippie who’s above “outward appearances” and “what people think of you” it’s impossible to go “hop on the scooter” and take off without people actually stopping to say, “Holy shit, what a dork.”

 

I own thirty seven scooters.

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’Rooster

Desk Calendar Rip-Off

I’ve never bought a calendar in my life. I guess I never wanted to know the future or cared about the immediate future enough. Whatever the reason, it doesn’t seem to matter because people love to give me calendars. My favorite is the life insurance salesman that sends me a calendar on my birthday. My birthday is in the end of November and the calendar is always for the current year, meaning it’s only good for less than forty days. How’s that for customer service!

 

I have now become quite the fan of the desk calendar. There’s something about knowing that each day you get to read a new page. It’s like a little present just waiting for you at work. Mondays’ are especially exciting because you get two pages, (having not been there over the weekend). The anticipation of waiting to see what tomorrow’s funny cartoon, caption of sweet affirmation is going to be is a big reason why I continue to go to work.

 

I seem like a big fan, so what’s my gripe?

 

For the most part, desks are associated with work and most people work away from their home so they don’t go into work over the weekend, I get it, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want separate pages for Saturday and Sunday. How can they possibly be so cheap as to rip me off all those treasured extra pages? To top it off, they put blank pages at the end of the calendar, as if to tease and mock me. WTF? What’s that for? Are they trying to fool someone in to thinking there’s more days in the year? “I was going to buy the Dilbert desk calendar, but then I noticed the Far Side desk calendar was thicker. It must be better!”

 

Please stop by the store on the way out and purchase your 2008 Ramblin’ Rooster desk calendar, marked down to 99% off.

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Real Life Artificial Humans

I don’t know who the richest person in the world is, but I know who the richest person in the world is going to be. It’s going to be whoever perfects the RLAH, (Real Life Artificial Human). I know I’ll pre-order one.

 

What could possible be better than a realistic human? Isn’t that the problem with any “doll”, they’re just not human enough? You would think that a person that would turn to a RLAH for companionship, (or maybe even a good time) would be so far removed from humanity that it’s “friend’s” lack of realism would be totally benign. Why you’d almost think that turning to a RLAH would mean that you in fact wanted to get away from all things human, but maybe you’re just lonely.

 

I think the biggest appeal of RLAH’s is the fact that they’re not actually alive. Isn’t that what we all wish we could get away from, the thing that makes us real? Why would you want to be in a relationship with a person who gets sick, moody, argumentative, sad, defensive and mean when you could just flip a switch and have an instant “best friend”? The other huge bonus is that when it’s time to be all alone, you just flip the switch again. No need for lying, or sneaking off or worrying about hurting “feelings”. You’d be like a true master of something with a submissive servant. Talk about power trip come true! The power! The absolute power! (Insert maniacal laughing here).

 

The other added bonus would be that if you have a dark side you could fulfill those fantasies as well without risking any jail time. Do you like to beat women? Buy a RLAH! Like to stab people? Buy a RLAH! Want to run someone down in your car? Buy a RLAH! See what I mean? You could do anything you wanted with your RLAH.

 

I bet it wouldn’t take long for an activist group to rally in the name of RLAH ethical treatment and rights, but still call me when they hit the shelf.

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Corduroy Pants?

My son is very particular about his clothes. He can’t wear shirts that have a thick, heavy iron-on or patch, nor can they have stitching on the inside. He also won’t wear any material that “swishes”.

 

The other day I wore a pair of corduroy pants to work. I hadn’t worn this pair of pants in a very long time. While I was walking around I thought of my boy and how this would be driving him crazy. Then I thought about how bizarre corduroy pants are. They’re very loud. Even when I walk very slowly and kind of bow-legged, they still make noise. Then I think about how silly it is to be conscious of walking, or at least so focused on it. You should be able to just walk freely without being self-conscious of your thighs, right?

 

Corduroy pants, there’s nothing like them, is there? I’ve always associated corduroy as the tan jacket with the leather elbow patches worn by intellectuals. I don’t think I want to be a part of that scene, (I’m sure I couldn’t be even if I wanted too).

 

What’s the cut off age for corduroy pants? Is there one? How sad is it to be seen in them? Is it silly for a grown man to wear them? Is corduroy synonymous with nerdy? Do cool people wear corduroy? Do they make corduroy underwear?

 

Who can answer all of these difficult questions for me?

 

Ramblin’ Rooster

I Love Carnage

There is a world in which we all live that we need to see and experience shocking events. There are many times in which we all desire to fulfill our appetites for mayhem and destruction. Sometimes it may be buildings blowing up or general warfare. Maybe it can be a good cop bad cop shoot ‘em up flick or a bloody, slasher movie. Driving seems to be the perfect time to seek and feed your desire to see dead people.

If I’m out on the road and traffic is bumper to bumper on the highway, (which by the way is somewhat uncommon where I live. Sorry big city folks), I instantly get angry and stressed out. You might even hear the phrase, “There better be somebody dead up there” being uttered from my clinched lips. It’s not as if dead people will make it better, or save me any time, so I don’t know why I say that. Oh yeah, anger, that’s right. In fact, if there was an accident ahead that was the cause of the traffic hold up I would feel really bad. Not only for the people involved, especially if anyone was seriously hurt, but also just for the fact that it would be a jackass moment. You know the one, like the moment one might feel after walking into a room with sad looking faces and saying, “Wow, did someone die?” then finding out that in deed someone did die.

Nevertheless, the carnage of car accidents is fascinating. We all enjoy rubbernecking as we drive by. Everyone wants to see it. What happened, what’s going on and other general nosey parker inquisitions invade our minds. The worst the accident is, the more excited we become. No one wants to see a minor fender bender. We want to see crushed, mangled, upside down cars, broken glass, huge pieces missing or hanging off the frame. Deployed air bags are good and blood is always a plus. Some of us are even lucky enough to actually witness the accident occur, which would be the best way to see one, all the pleasure and none of the waiting.

It’s odd that something that is so horrible would be welcomed by a vast majority of people. I’d even venture to guess that a lot of people would stop in the middle of their Italian dinner, (Italian because of the common use of marinara sauce and its closeness to blood), to look at graphic pictures of car accidents. Why there’s even a web site dedicated to the misfortune. Yet we all pray that it never happiness to us and if we are unlucky enough to be involved in an accident, we feel the pain, headache and multiple tiered complications and difficulties that it causes. Suddenly we’re not such big fans of the car accident, but we still don’t mind watching it happen to others.

Hope we never meet by accident.

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

After The Vacation

As all of you don’t know, I just got back from a four day vacation in sunny Florida. Which is in the United States, I think? Never mind the fact that it wasn’t very sunny, nor was it as warm as it should have been. Somehow my inner-nightmarish-all-around-unseasonably-bad-weather-travel agent was in full effect because it was cold, (for Florida). We’re talking between 60 and 70 degrees and windy. Not ideal for a winter getaway. If I wanted a cool breeze and moderate warmth, I would have stayed on the couch.

 

Anyway, I just got back from Florida and boy, is my ass tired. Whoops, wait, that didn’t come out right. I just back from a vacation and I need another vacation. (Nah, too old). I just got back from Florida and it was a great trip, (how’s that?).

 

I’ll try not to bore you too much with details about the trip, (because I figure what do you really care about my vacation). So I’ll just give you a couple of bullet points.

 

-         Traveling along US-1 between Key Largo and Key West sucks like I never thought driving could suck. The fastest speed is 55 miles per hour. 55! There are a lot of places that are 45, (some due to construction, some due to small, little, cities, which apparently are spaced about every six miles). At night, you pass through an “Endangered Species” area and the speed limit is 35 miles per hour. That’s right, 35, on a highway! If that wasn’t bad enough, the highway is literally crawling with sheriffs and highway patrol. The sign that says, “Don’t Even Think About Speeding” is no joke.

-         Alligators are incredibly boring to watch in captivity. Interesting to see something that big with its reputation for being a man killer, but watching them lying in the sun is comparable to watching paint in a can, (yes it’s worse than watching it dry). Five minutes is about all you need to “catch” all the action.

-         Air boat rides are awesome!

-         South Beach is insane. Small town folk need not go there for any reason. Some “big city” things are best left to “big city” folk.

-         The word “beach” is used with a very broad stroke.

-         Pastels are a very unique way of painting every inch of a state.

-         Every street has one of the following words in it: Coconut, Palm, Beach, Sand or Sun. In the same right, there shouldn’t be a Michigan Avenue, it just doesn’t fit.

-         Fish for breakfast? Seriously?

-         I love key lime pie

-         Every joke that has ever been written, told or thought of about air travel is completely, 100% true.

 

The thing that I found most curious, about myself really is that after getting off the plane and being back home, as I was walking to the car, it occurred to me, I’ve never lived anywhere that people visit or vacation. Is that lame or wonderful?

 

Maybe that’s why my travel advice is worthless?

 

Egg On!

Ramblin Rooster

Defaced Portraits

There has always been something terribly sad to me when it comes to pictures of people that have been defaced. I’m sure that a lot of the people being defaced probably did something to make the defacer deface them, but still there’s just an aura of innocents that seems lost.

 

I think it has to do with the fact that a picture is a moment in time meant to be frozen and stored away for future reference and remembrance. Most of the time the person in the picture is smiling or at least playing to the camera with some sort of joyful “cheese”, I guess there is probably a fair amount of pictures of people who are not happy, but then again I doubt those are very often defaced.

 

School pictures are the worst, I almost think they were invented just for other kids to maul and destroy. Do you ever take an eraser to a wallet sized picture of a fellow student who gave you their picture? You can do some serious and wacky damage with a pencil eraser. It goes back to the smiling. Here’s a picture of a kid, happy, care-free, (or at least it appears so in the picture) and then someone adds fangs, a Mohawk, glasses, an eye patch or blacked out teeth. It’s like an assault on the person in the photo, a moment of prestige ruined for all time and the victim can’t even defend themselves.

 

Then of course you have advertising and the random vandalization. You can see this most often on public bus benches, most of the time their realtors. I wonder what the percentage is of people who vandalize those pictures being disgruntled customers seeking out the only revenge they could muster. I’d guess 0.01%. I don’t find the same sadness in these moments. I think it’s the market angle, takes away the innocence. If it’s done originally, (or even classically) I might even find mild amusement in it.

 

Oddly enough, when it comes to magazines and phone books, I’m a bit of graffiti artist myself. I like to make models ugly in my wife’s clothing catalogs and make all the lawyers look like freaks and punks on the phone book. It’s a good way to pass the time when you’re on hold.

 

Wowzers, I never knew I was all over the board like that, sympathetic to benign to perpetrator. Who knew I was so crazy?

 

In all cases, I wonder what it’s like for the people of the defaced pictures to see themselves altered in such a way. I’ve never been exposed to such a horror, but I would imagine it would attack the ego and undermine self-esteem, if only for a moment. So maybe if you alter a picture, to vent frustration or act out your anger, (like drawing a dagger in the head of an unfaithful lover) just destroy it when you’re done. As for all the realtors, lawyers and anyone else brave/stupid enough to put their face of a public advertisement, well they’re just asking for it.

 

Here’s to defacing  you, kid.

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Gift Giving

One of the greatest inventions of all time is the gift. Who doesn’t like a gift? Well, at least before opening it. After that, disappointment can set in faster than gangrene on a broken leg, lost deep inside the jungle.

 

What makes gifts so wonderful? Is it the materialism? Is it the mystery? Is it the unveiling, as if you’ve solved a riddle? Who knows who cares? Gifts are just awesome!

 

I like to gift gifts, but I hate being made to feel like I have to give a gift. All these holidays and guilt trips can really ruin the spirit. In some ways I think it has made me into a bad gift giver. The holiday never falls on a good day in my personal life. It’s always on some horrible day when I have to work late and go to a kid’s soccer game. Plus I always feel rushed because I’m not actually being motivated by inspiration, but rather fighting the clock. Buying you an oven mitt at 10:30 PM on Christmas Eve from the drug store on the corner doesn’t make you happy. Well, guess what? It doesn’t make me happy either. I didn’t want to buy the stupid oven mitt, but I had run out of time and I didn’t get to reach into my heart for the perfect gift that would bring tears to your eyes.

 

“But Ramblin’ Rooster, all these holidays fall on the same day each year. Why can’t you plan better or become better organized?” Shut up…

 

I want to give gifts when I want to give them. April 14^th, October 2^nd, and January 29^th all seem to be as good of days as any other. Why can’t I give you you’re oven mitt on one of those days?

 

I enjoy wrapping gifts. It’s fun to me because I do a really horrible job. I like to use newspaper, brown paper bags and miscellaneous other unsuitable/traditional materials. I’m a huge fan of the “tiny gift – big box” joke too or the ridiculous layers of paper that makes the person almost want to give up trying to open it. I also like to give crappy gifts, like oven mitts and used string.

 

When I was a child I grabbed an empty tissue box and walked around my house filling it with pencils. Some were unsharpened while others were nearing the end of their life cycle. I wrapped that box up with paper and put it under the tree for my father. Come Christmas morning, well I ‘m sure I don’t have to tell you just how happy he was.

 

I wonder if that’s why we haven’t talked in 25 years.

 

Egg On!

Ramblin Rooster

E-Mail of Malevolent Intent

When I worked at the corporate office of the company that employs me, I locked my computer station pretty much every time I got up from my desk. The reason was simple; we had a lot of comic geniuses floating around. When I relocated to the branch office, which as you remember is very small and completely lifeless I got out of the habit. What could happen with a bunch of zombies laying around, right?

 

Well today I was out of the office all afternoon and I left my computer on. When I got back to the office I discovered that a certain someone had been bitten by the “life-bug” and took it upon them self to play a little practical joke on me. What’s the best way to prank someone when you have full access to their computer? Send a perverse and highly homosexual e-mail to your boss of course. Here is a copy of that e-mail. To protect the innocent and victimized, all names have been changed. For the sake of clarity, the part of my boss will be played by none other than the world renowned Mr. Smith.

 

Mr. Smith,

 

It occurred to me as I strolled through my lavishly styled motor home last night, wearing my silk robe, flipping through a vintage issue of Boys Life, that we have never officially consummated our relationship with some good ol’ man on man love.

 

I don’t know how you feel about the whole gay love movement, but let me reassure you that it’s quite wonderful. If you are afraid or apprehensive, let me ease your mind, (and hopefully the rest of your body) by telling you that I am as gentle as I am thorough. Many years ago I was in the orient on a vacation of pleasure. The techniques I learned would soothe a full grown tiger, so imagine what they could do for you.

 

I apologize if this is coming at you as a shock, but you should know that I like to be straight forward and forthcoming in all of my endeavors.

 

I hope to hear from you soon as I find it more and more difficult to be in such close quarters with you day after day. I think you’re feeling what I’m feeling…

 

All my love and then some,

Ramblin’ Rooster

 

Needless to say my boss was not impressed and thankfully knew that I had not written it. Although no harm was done a new grudge has been formed and alliances have shifted.

 

Remember to lock your computer before leaving it unattended.

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Spare Change

Spare Change

By Justice Noby

 

[I thought we’d take a break from the Ramblings of the Rooster and share with you a story that one of my friends wrote. I don’t particularly like this story or poem or whatever the heck it is, but I owed him money and couldn’t pay. This is what we worked out instead.]

 

The nickel is no longer shiny

The one I barely notice laying on the street because it’s so dull and dingy

It blends into the old and faded concrete as if to punish itself for being discarded

I wonder what happened to it

Why was it thrown away, discarded, abandoned

I turn the nickel to view both sides, an unproductive, useless habit of mine

I note the year and read the inscriptions

“In God We Trust”… maybe

“Liberty*1992”… this nickel isn’t even a teenager yet

“E PLURIBUS UNIM”… whatever the hell that means

Funny how people are all irate about people speaking Spanish and here’s Latin, a dead language mind you, on the most precious of all American possessions

“MONTICELLO”… is that the name of this building? I thought it was like the Jefferson monument… man, am I ever stupid

How does something of value become wasted?

It might not be of much value, but it’s valued all the same

And someone thought nothing more of it than garbage

Or perhaps they merely dropped it

Even so, it meant not even putting forth the effort of bending over to retrieve it

Oh well, it’s mine now

Who cares you say?

Think of throwing a nickel away for every dollar you earn

Not so insignificant now is it

So I take the nickel

Not for building wealth

But because I dislike wastefulness

And I hate to see a lonely nickel

 

[I told ya…]

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Boys Would Make For Nasty Girls

You wouldn’t believe, or perhaps you would, how many times in my life I’ve had, heard or been a part of a conversation that is about, “What I would do if I was a girl”. Granted, most of the “talks” took place in my early teenage years and it’s been many years gone by since it’s been relevant. Nevertheless, I’m sure the next generation and generations to come will take part in what I now prophesize as a passage to manhood.

 

It’s apparent that most boys start off by simply standing naked in front of a mirror, to ogle and drool over them selves, a magazine picture come to life if you will. Some boys take it a step further and might mention squeezing and/or rubbing certain parts of their new found body. Others take it many steps further and visualize hour long sessions of masturbation with everything in their house that’s even remotely phallus shaped. Then there are those who take it too far.

 

For them the subject is more than just a funny or quaint topic budding from sexual curiosity, but rather a deep, secret, fantasy that they have been meticulously toiling over for years. They will speak of their plans in great detail, as if it was a genuine plan for what they hope might be an aspiration they could acquire. It’s more than odd, bordering on creepy. It’s not as if they are a future transvestite case, like they feel trapped inside their body, but rather a dark and mysterious venture of extreme voyeurism.

 

Some guys I knew even said that they would sleep with all their friends. Is that gay? This is kind of a bizarre line in the sand to think about. If a boy was suddenly given female anatomy for, let’s say a week, there’s no doubt that masturbation would be a very common occurrence. But how long could that hold out? Similar to having “just a few beers” humans have overwhelming tendencies to push the envelope and strike out in exploration. At some point, one would naturally assume the thought or desire to “test it out” for real would surface. Then again, if those urges were acted upon, what would be the result between the two friends after things switched back? Weird huh?

 

It’s sad that no one I ever talked to about this ever said anything other than something sexual. No one ever said, “I’d probably go shopping for shoes” or “I’d dress up and do all the make-up and jewelry stuff and go out on the town” or “I’d hold a baby and wish for it to call me mom”. You know? Guys just can’t seem to get past anything that’s not sex. Shocking news, right? So basically every boy would become a huge slut if they became women. Does that mean incarnation is real and all the whores use to be men?

 

And what would a woman do if she was given the male anatomy for a week? My guess is urinating as often and as many places as possible. What could be cooler than peeing standing up?

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Distorted Music Makes Honorary Oxymoron

I don’t know how old you are, but I’m like three hundred and twenty seven. One thing I know for sure is that this next statement has nothing to do with age. Distorted music is the opposite of every good thing about music.

 

(You know I’m going to throw out my disclaimer right?) When I say distorted music, I’m not talking about music that has a guitar riff being played by a guy with a distortion pedal, nor am I referring to some kind of avant-garde, punk, heavy metal, skaw, jazz fusion from Detroit, (which I’m a huge fan of by the way). This also has nothing to with volume level, (directly). I’m talking about music being played in direct violation of the recommended physical limits of the equipment that it’s being played through.

 

For example, the hippies playing Hacky Sack in the park with their jam box, blaring Grateful Dead through twenty year old, pot smoke covered speakers that sound like wet cardboard is a classic. The redneck party cranking Skynard with one speaker, that’s lost the woofer, lying sideways on the porch of the trailer home is another good one. Then there’s the ’96 Bonneville with duct taped bumper, extensive body damage and three tire “donuts” rollin’ down the street, kickin’ the bass so hard that it’s leaving a trail of nuts and bolts behind it. Recently, there’s the MP3, ear bud people with the music bouncing off their mushy brains and slipping out the side of there ears. All of these are great illustrations of distorted music.

 

The whole point of listening to music is to enjoy it and when the speakers are cracking, smoking, vibrating and ripping apart you’ve lost the whole reason to listen. Loud music is fun, (occasionally) but you need to have the system to support it. Still, your level of enjoyment increases when the decibel meter is at a pleasurable mark. If you’ve ever listened to a phonograph record on a high fidelity sound system, you know that high quality equipment really makes a difference.

 

How many John Cusack movies can you find in the above?

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Diamond Ring Nonsense

“Two months salary”, “Every kiss begins with Kay”, “He went to Jared’s”. Read these phrases, memorize them and keep them close to your gun. For they are the works of evil doers, of mad men, of heinous geniuses belonging to a secret, underground cult, bent on destroying the world one relationship at a time.

 

I don’t know if you are aware of this, but unless your spend a large amount of money for a piece of jewelry, better known as a diamond ring, the love in your heart is dead. Two months salary, what? In case you didn’t know I need two months salary just to get by this month.

 

I’m actually somewhat surprised that people still believe in marriage. It seems like it’s kind of an outdated tradition. I’m not even sure if marriage was meant for common people, (also known as poor people). If I had to guess, and I do, my theory of marriage is that it originated for business purposes. The bringing together of families, merging land, amassing wealth, things like that. So it would make sense that a large and expensive “rock” around a woman’s finger would be just another way for the rich to throw around their money.

 

I also hypothesis that there was some peasant farmer that wanted to romance some peasant girl and he devised a plan to “woo her” by making her feel like she wasn’t a peasant girl. So he made a ring out of straw and mud and put it on her finger. He probably told her she was his queen or a princess of some garbage like that. She was of course “swept off her feet” and they married. As you know, any good idea someone hatches is immediately stolen, repeated and copied. So all these peasants started making rings to impress women and two thousand years later I’m at the mall with a cooler containing one of my kidneys, bartering for a ring.

 

To be honest I can’t tell the difference between an $8000 diamond and an $80 cubic zirconium. Maybe if I was close up on them and could give them a good inspection I’d be able to tell, but who knows. When are you ever going to be examining someone’s ring? It’s just an indication of social status on a finger. What’s the big deal? Why do I have to sell everything I own to get a ring to ask some chick, (whom I’ll probably get divorced from) to marry me? A ring doesn’t have anything to do with love? Or does it? Would a ring out of a bubble gum machine not mean as much as Mercedes, er… I mean diamond ring, (got mixed up there since they’re the same price)?

 

The only other reason for a ring is to claim property. “That’s my wife; see the trip we could have taken to Spain with around her finger?” “She’s married; see the ring on her finger?” “Who’s that lovely woman? Oh dang it, she’s married. Notice how her left arm hangs lower because of the giant diamond ring on her finger.” It’s all of bunch of hooey.

 

Instead of buying an expensive ring, why not put it towards an awesome honeymoon, or a down payment for a house or a good divorce attorney?

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’Rooster

Rental Agreement

As you all don’t know, I’m quite the anally retentive loaner of my personal things. I’ve always been a big protect and baby my things kind of guy. I deny all allegations that this stems from a materialistic or shallow place, but rather I just like to keep my stuff in pristine condition. Quite simply, I take care of my crap.

 

I’ve always been horrified when I go to someone’s house and see piles of jacket less/case less CDs stacked in the corner. I cringe at greasy finger prints and scratches on DVD rentals. I shiver at people unplugging something from the wall or unit by yanking on the cord and I tense up when I see people swinging or twirling things by the cords.

 

Recently, my boss wanted to borrow some of my DVDs for the weekend. I felt hesitant to say yes, but after all, he is my boss and all. What better way to look “cool” or “down with it” than doing something I’d rather not that makes me very uncomfortable?

 

To make things better for me, I decide I’d draw up a rental agreement. A little something to sooth my worried mind. Much to my surprise, my boss actually got a big kick out of my “contract” and even helped me with the drafting of it in some places.

 

The following is a copy of that agreement. As always, to protect the innocent, the part of my boss will be played by none other than Mr. Smith, (all the way from Washington).

 

TERMS OF AGREEMENT

 

I, Mr. Smith, herein referred to as BORROWER; enter into the binding contract with Ramblin’ Rooster, herein referred to as OWNER, on this day, January 23, 2009.

This agreement is in conjunction with the lending/borrowing of the following items, herein referred to as MATERIAL:

The Office (DVD) Season One

The Office (DVD) Season Two

The Office (DVD) Season Three

The Office (DVD) Season Four

 

The BORROWER acknowledges and agrees with the following:

1.       All DVDs were taken into possession in Near Mint Condition, including, but not limited to;. DVDs, (discs) are free from scratches, fingerprints and residues, all original packaging is included and all cases are free from tears, scuffs, folds, bends and soiling of any kind

2.       All DVDs, (discs) will be handled by the outer most edges and the storage post receptacle, (inside hole) and never touched on the media storage area or in a manner that violates standard DVD, CD, Compact Disc care as found on any material labeled “Handling Instruction”.

3.       The BORROWER shall not wipe, clean or use solutions on any of the MATERIAL.

4.       The BORROWER shall not extend, loan or give the MATERIAL to any third parties.

5.       Sole responsibility falls upon the BORROWER for the end use of the MATERIAL and holds harmless the OWNER of any wrong doing as a result.

6.       Normal rental fees are waived by the OWNER, due to the BORROWER being the boss.

7.       The BORROWER will keep the MATERAL for no longer than two week, including weekends and holidays.

8.       Should the BORROWER violate any of the above provisions, the BORROWER agrees to replace the MATERIAL.

9.       MATERIAL subject to inspection before agreement is effective by the BORROWER and upon return of MATERIAL by the OWNER.

Perhaps it’s not that amusing. Be that as it may, I think everyone should develop a shrewd, business side for the purposes of lending their personal belongings to people. The world would be so professional.

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

After Losing Your Mind

I met an alien named Dave. I had my suspicions that it wasn’t his real name, but just a fake name he used because he was tired of people not being able to pronounce his given name. I didn’t push him on the subject.

 

The circumstances of how we met are nothing more than mundane, but I will tell you anyway so you don’t ask me later.

 

I went to the DMV to replace my driver’s license, (which I had lost in a snow storm while vacationing in Florida). I was standing in line, waiting for my turn when I noticed out of the corner of my eye, a beautiful woman bending over at the soda machine to retrieve her change. She must have had unusually large fingers because it seemed rather difficult for her to get the money out of the slot. As she struggled, what seemed to be ten minutes, my number had been called.

 

I went to the next available counter and began what I knew would be a long and tiresome process. The following conversation took place:

 

“Hullo sir or madam, may I be of help to you how today?”

“Ummm… yea, I lost my driver’s license and I need to replace it.”

“OK, you need want to take test to get license?”

“What? Was there a question in there?”

“You need want to exam for your license.”

“I just need to have another one made. I’m already a licensed driver and I’ve brought in two other forms of identification to verify I am who I say I am.”

“Have you a medical chart from a doctor of optometry?”

“Excuse me?”

“Have you been in an accident in the last six months?”

“What are you talking about? I need to replace my license that I lost. That’s it.”

“Please take a number and await a call for your turn.”

“This is my number right here, [holding up my little slip of paper] I’ve already waited my turn, I’ve already been called up here.”

“May I be of help to you how today?”

 

It was at this point that I noticed I was not at the DMV, but instead I had somehow wandered into an immigrations office. I knew then that I had lost all connection with reality and the better half of my brain.

 

What did I do next? I went to get ice cream of course.

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

More *&#@$^! Racism

A lot of people will tell you that racism is dead. You can always point them out in a crowd because they are the upper class white male. Everyone else is pretty much on board with the fact that racism will never die.

 

I like to think that if we were all one race that we’d get along better, but then again some of my friends call me retarded. Truth is I know that people would just move on to something else to dislike and hate about each other. How else could they isolate themselves from being a good person?

 

I think I’ve stated before that the subject of racism is so ridiculously stupid, that it doesn’t deserve to be discussed. Does anyone really need to hear that it’s logically unsound to judge a person by their skin pigmentation? The whole point is that if you answer yes, “the talk” isn’t going to help.

 

I don’t know where racism came from or how old it is, but I’m guessing it started about day three after mankind hit the scene. How it’s remained alive and well throughout the centuries is a true mystery, but my theory is that it’s just too easy to be passed up. You know the drill, if you’re fighting with your girlfriend and she’s making you very angry, it’s very easy to call her a bitch. You might even do it by accident. “It just slipped out”, (good luck with that).

 

Recently I’ve discovered that Traffic Engineering is a major contributor to the pro-racism movement. I was shocked to find out that it’s worked into their standards. As you know, you can’t change standards once they’ve been printed in a book. Anyway, you’re probably as stunned as I am to be hearing this news. You’re probably dying to know what it is that I found out, the evidence, the source of what I’m talking about, no?

 

When engineers do road and highway plans and they’re putting in new pavement, they have to show the contractor where and what to paint on the street. These are called marking or striping plans. Now here’s where the dirty, no good, ugly racism comes into play. I was told that the yellow edge line on pavement is always on the left hand side of the road, whereas the white edge line is always on the right hand side of the road. I was told that the motto is… white is always right!

 

Can you believe that shit?

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

E-Mail Pet Peeves

What is a peeve and does it really make for a good pet? Is it good with kids? Don’t know do you, doesn’t matter, that’s a topic for a different day.

 

E-Mail, boy howdy how I love and hate this monster, how could something be so wonderful and horrible at the same time?

 

It’s incredible to be able to send an electronic letter to anyone, anywhere in the world with a click of a button. It’s wonderful to be able to communicate with others in such an expedient manner, (when compared to time of traditional/standard letters delivered by the US post office). I think we lose sight of what a miracle that is and we certainly take it for granted, even when we’re without.

 

What drives me crazy about E-Mail? The following covers a few items I had.

 

1. E-Mail isn’t special. Yes, I’m so pathetic I use to get excited about receiving a letter in my mail box, (then one outside my house just to clarify), but when you get hundreds of e-mails a day, the specialness wears off instantly.
2. SPAM
3. When people put there question (or e-mail body) in the subject line. You get an e-mail, you open it up and it’s blank. Very frustrating and I always feel like the sender thinks I’m a moron for opening it up, (applicable for those who receive notice of opening only) when they knew nothing was there.
4. Much like point #1, there’s nothing personal about it. I’ve gotten letters from the IRS that are more personable and friendly than some “casual e-mails” I’ve received from co-workers/family/friends. Every letter should start out with who it’s to, (Dear John,).
5. People who use their “texting” language. I hate that crap, even on phone text messages, but I overlook it for the simple fact that it’s somewhat tedious typing on your phone. If you have a keyboard, by all means, make it the full word. How much extra time does it take and does BTW really gain you anything over By The Way?
6. The constant traffic, like forwarding, responding, etc. I don’t mean just the bad ones you delete, but all of them. It’s so easy to just clickity-click the reply and/or forward button. Before you know it an hour has elapsed and you’re 26 e-mails into a conversation that’s meaningless or that could have taken minutes face to face.
7. People who forward things that are four miles long with all kinds of forward addresses and the same line over and over again, so you have to scroll down for a long time just to get to whatever it is you were sent.
8. Old jokes from long ago. I still maintain that there are only twenty three jokes currently circulating the internet.

 

Please E-Mail me your pet peeves.

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Shoes Made For Sitting

I’m not much into fashion. I’m not really even into clothes that much. What’s the difference? In my mind a person that is into fashion would be more into the trendiness of clothes, recognizable names, maybe even design whereas a person into clothes may or may not care about “what’s hot” and just really likes buying and wearing certain types of clothes. I’m nowhere near either one of these kinds of people. I wear clothes because if I didn’t I’d go to jail.

 

That being said, I also don’t know anything about clothes or more importantly the manufacturers of them. I can’t tell you the difference between the cheap brand and the expensive brand or if it even matters. The latter I think has taken a toll on me and thus I am at a crossroads of sorts.

 

When it comes to my feet, I buy the cheapest shoes on the planet. My shoes are so cheap that they come in a plain white box with black letters that say, “Shooz”, (you know like chez on food packages because they can’t say its cheese of it’s really not?).

 

Every pair of shoes I own makes a sound when I walk. Some squeak, some whistle, some seem flatulent, and some act like they’re being hurt with every step I take.

 

So I wonder if it’s because they’re so cheap or if I’m just so hard on my shoes that they wear out and are actually asking to be retired by making sound. I wonder if they’re trying to embarrass me.

 

Of course I’ve never owned an expensive pair of shoes. I’ve met some people who have strapped some serious cash to their feet, but I’ve never exceeded twenty dollars.

 

So my questions are; do expensive shoes really make a difference? Do expensive shoes squeak? Should I break down and buy an expensive pair of shoes? So seriously, let me know, all you expensive shoe owners, what your shoe experience is like.

 

I’m not asking about women’s shoes. One, I think all women’s shoes are expensive because the shoe companies know that women love shoes. Secondly, I don’t wear women’s shoes.

 

I guess if they were comfortable and went with more than three outfits, I might try a pair.

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Depression Is Depressing

I’ve been seeing a commercial a lot lately. Ironically it comes on most often late at night. I don’t know why television programmers believe that everyone watching TV past the hour of 11:30 PM is either the most gullible fool on the planet or that their life is in terrible jeopardy. Perhaps it’s based on some sort of fact or evidence, like a poll or survey. Perhaps it’s because early morning advertising time is half of what prime time advertising costs or maybe it has to do with magic fairies and pixie dust.

 

Anyway, this commercial I brought up an hour ago is about depression. The commercial goes something like, “Where does depression hurt? Everywhere. “Who does depression affect? Everyone.” Of course during all of this voice over stuff, you get to see people looking incredibly depressed. I’m not talking about, “Hey Bob, you look a little down”, we’re talking, “holy moly, I think I want to kill myself just by looking at you” depressed. Ironically I find the commercial to be very depressing. Why are they always whispering during the commercial?

 

There have been a lot of depression commercials over the years. As new medications are released, new waves of ad campaigns to sell them follow along. In all of these commercials they make depression out to be a very bad thing. I think one of them talked about, “we all feel blue from time to time, but if you shake it off…” WTF? If I can’t shake off my blueness, what, take some pills? What if my depression is the result of seeing my family murdered on a subway train by an angry dinosaur with rabies? Can I feel blue for the entire week or do I really only have a window of a couple of days to “shake it off”. Another one claimed that depression will ruin your life and everyone you come in contact with, (OK, maybe that’s the conclusion I drew from seeing the commercial). Who are the pharmaceutical marketers trying to convince is depressed, the miserable or the slightly maladjusted happy person?

 

As I’ve said many times before, one of the leading causes of depression is being told you are in fact depressing. No pill will cure that, only new friends. You don’t see many commercials advertising new friends in a bottle… but how awesome would that be?!

 

I’ve always liked gray. I’ve always liked gloomy, rainy days and sad, slow music. Not all the time, but more than “not ever”. I have days where I don’t feel fresh… no, that’s not what I meant. I have days that I don’t feel like a ray of sunshine and that day might slip into tomorrow or even next week, but I’m not opposed against it. I’m not in a corner rocking back and forth, crying and laughing and crying. I’m just not a sparkly, firecracker whose oozing sunshine and wants to brighten your day with my amazing smile.

 

So let depression breath, it’s not the end of the world. There are lots of things in this world that can make you depressed, why not enjoy a few of them? Why would you want to medicate yourself? Why would you want to take away an opposite of happiness, which would ultimately ruin being happy? What could be more depressing than taking pills to be happy?

 

The only way I’d take depression medicine is if I could crush them up and snort them at a party with some strippers.

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Lost At The Bathroom Doors

When I was a bachelor I ate out for pretty much every meal. Fast food was my choice, because of the convenience, price and accessibility. I always ate small portions and always ordered off the cheap menu. Plus I never ordered a drink, (kept a two liter at home). In doing all of this I was able to keep the cost to a minimum and it suited me just fine.

 

After I got married things really didn’t change much, except now I was buying for four or five instead of just one. Things got expensive and fast. It was then that I came up with the brilliant idea that we would no longer eat fast food through out the week and save all of that money we were spending, (or just me) and put it towards one “nice, sit down, bring us our food, restaurant”. So the family now enjoys a Sunday lunch/dinner out on the town once a week.

 

Everything seemed to be going OK, but after a while the restaurant scene started to resemble the fast food scene in a lot of ways. The only thing that was really different was that it was really expensive. In hindsight it makes sense. There are only so many restaurants in any given city, eventually you eat at all of them. The ones that you return to have good nights and bad nights, then there’s times you try ordering something you’ve never tried before, (just to spice things up) and you end up hating it, but hey, it only cost twenty dollars.

 

So I’ve been to more restaurants than any human probably should. One thing that makes me feel really bad is when I go to a theme restaurant. Doesn’t matter if it’s Australian, Mexican, Asian or Mediterranean, it only matters on how far they go with the “theme”. More to the point is did they place exotic, foreign, native names on the bathroom doors.

 

This is almost embarrassing to admit, but sometimes when I get up to go to the bathroom I have a moment where I feel like the most stupid person on earth. There’s nothing more pathetic than being a grown man standing in the little hallway between the bathroom doors wondering which one is suppose to be “men”. I would even venture to guess that the girls and boys, traditionally, are supposed to be on a certain side. Truth be told, I’ve never really paid much attention to it. Is the women’s always on the left?

 

Anyway it totally sucks to have to think about it. Most of the time it only lasts a second or two, but that’s a long time to feel retarded “mentally below par”, (that’s for you Michael). That’s why it should be a federal law that you have to have the stick figure on the door regardless of the name you put above it.

 

So if you ever go out dining and you see a man urinating in the water fountain, let me just apologize in advance and please don’t call him names because he feels dumb enough as it is.

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Leather Furniture Phobia

I’ve seen this happen a million times on television and in the movies. I’ve even seen it first hand, in real life. It’s even happened to me. What am I talking about? You know how when you still in leather furniture, there’s a 98% chance that the leather will make some kind of farting noise when you sit in it? It’s called Leather Furniture Phobia and we all suffer from it.

 

Leather furniture and the tricks it likes to play on people. I’ve heard from many a vegan, that if you eat meat you are in fact ingesting fear and pain because that’s what the animal felt right before it died. I really don’t want to get into all of that, but only brought it up so I could segue into this tasty idea. What if the angry soul of the cow that was used to make that piece of leather furniture was haunting it? Since ghosts aren’t allowed to touch you, it decided that it would just try and embarrass anyone who sat in it instead, by making awkward noises. I don’t know; it’s just a theory.

 

When I was a kid, I was kind of poor. Not break your heart, eating out of the trash, make you want to kill yourself poor, but average poor. So I always considered leather furniture to be somewhat of a social status object. If you had a leather couch, you weren’t only rich, but totally cool. Leather has always seemed to have a rather cool and trendy image. It’s seems at times synonymous with luxury, as in car upholstery. So if it’s so hip and upper crust, why does it try to mock you while you’re doing the most mundane of all actions, sitting?

 

What’s most odd about the whole Leather Furniture Phobia is that everyone knows that it’s just the leather “talking”. We know you didn’t fart and you know you didn’t fart, but yet there’s always that moment of silence and quick lock of eyes as if to say, “Did you just pass gas?” It’s very similar to the end of a condiment bottle, when you try to get that last drop of mustard or ketchup out and it makes the horrible diarrhea sound. Kids just love it. Oh wait, maybe the angry ghost cow is really just an incarnated clown who wants nothing more than to amuse the children.

 

To make sure that suspicion is completely lost on me, I got rid of all my leather goods and only kept my leather toilet seat.

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Class B Cigarette Disappointment

Have you ever had one of those long running jokes in your life that has been around so long you don’t even remember where it came from? Well, although it’s not funny-funny, Class B cigarettes has always been one of mine.

 

If you’re not a smoker, you may not know that every pack of cigarettes you can buy, regardless of price or quality, has stamped somewhere on the box, “Class A”. Not knowing what this means, one is lead to believe that Class A is the top of the line. It also makes you wonder if there’s such thing as Class B, Class C, Class D, etc. Knowing first hand, (and second hand) how nasty and disgusting Class A cigarettes are, imagining how filthy and vile Class B must have to be is where the humor, as faint as it is, came into play.

 

Today my boss brought up smoking and asked if my cigarettes where fire proof. I tired with all my might to refrain from saying, “How f#@%ing stupid is you?” Guess what? I was successful and said something like, “I don’t think so, that would kind of defeat the purpose.” He became frustrated and said, “No, not fire proof, but Fire Safe”. Apparently they’ve invented a way for cigarettes left behind in ashtrays to stop burning if left unattended. My boss went on to say that FSC is printed on the box… so now you know how we got on to the subject of Class A. I said I wondered if there was Class B cigarettes. He responded with, “Look it up on the internet.” So I did.

 

Turns out that there used to be Class B cigarettes, but they don’t make them anymore. The “class” designation wasn’t used for anything other than tax purposes. How disappointing. I had a friend tell me that clove cigarettes are Class B, but I have never seen anything to be able to fully support that statement. All in all, it’s a big let down.

 

I suppose next you’re going to tell me Santa Claus isn’t real and that he smoked the last of the Class B cigarettes.

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

If Pets Could Talk The Bullshit Would Stop

I had just gotten out of the shower, (meaning I was nude) and was looking at the wrinkles on my face when I noticed, in the reflection of the bathroom mirror, my dog just sitting there watching me. He seemed concern about my mental well-being, so I kicked him in the face. Just kidding, he didn’t seem concerned at all about my mental well-being.

 

It occurred to me, as my dog was dressing me with his eyes, how many pets in this world are privy to secret information. Things so private and deeply hidden that even spouses are kept in the dark about it. Why is this? It’s because pets don’t talk, or at least when they do, no one can understand what it is they’re talking about. Remember, “Loose lips sink ships”. Animals have it better than any “boy-pretending-to-be-gay-to-see-a-girl-naked-in-her-room” adolescent fantasy, because for them it’s very real. They get to see, hear and smell it all. Who hides anything from their pet?

 

So what if suddenly animals could speak our language? The world would turn upside down and more than a few people would probably burst into flames. The rest of us would turn red as our pets began to blab about all the twisted, disgusting things they’ve witnessed during their time of loyal servitude. It would be like six hours into happy hour and your pet had just done a pile of cocaine. You couldn’t get them to shut up for anything. They’d be like, “I can believe you put me in a f#$%ing sweater!” or “All this time I’ve been barking, all I wanted was for you to turn down the television. I didn’t want to go outside, go for a walk or chase a damn tennis ball. I just wanted you to turn down the TV for crying in the night. I mean are you deaf?”

 

I bet the pet population would start to dwindle pretty fast. You’d start to see all kinds of homeless pets working the streets, sniffing around for loose change.

 

The real point would be that people would have to really clean up there act. No more sneaking around, lying, coming home late, dishonest phone calls, bringing “strangers” into the home when significant others were away at work, and of course no more porn on the couch on your day off.

 

It would seem to follow that if animals began speaking our language it would be only a matter of time before they started walking upright and driving cars. Before long they’d totally infiltrate our way of life. They’d want to take over and make us pay for domesticating and dominating them for so long.

 

World war three will be fought between the humans and the animals. You’ve been warned.

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

How Can Words Be Bad?

I was sitting in the parking lot of a discount carburetor workshop when I heard a couple of men walking along having the most foul of conversations. It was the kind of conversation that would make Martin Scorsese pass out and Quentin Tarantino blush. We’re talking some serious filth, flarn, filth as Eddie Murphy likes to say that Bill Cosby would say.

 

I’m not offended by “rough” language, but it does sound “dirty” when it comes out of other people’s mouths. It makes me wonder how horrible I sound when I drop f-bombs or other colorful words. Do I sound as terrible as these two hooligans walking across the parking lot? I don’t see why I wouldn’t. Oh wait, because it’s me and I’m totally biased when it comes to myself, so I must be the exception. Whoa, that was close.

 

Where did cuss words come from? Who was on the committee that decided which words would be placed on the taboo list of swears? Why do certain words have such power behind them? Why are these words so important in our lives and especially our culture?

 

I’m sure you’ve seen an ‘R’ rated movie on television that’s been “edited for language”. You know, where they replace the curse words with family friendly curse words. When you watch one of these movies it really becomes difficult to bear. If you’re a fan of film and artistic expression, then just having it changed is already painful enough, but the dubbed “clean” language is just annoying.

 

Is frickin’ a much more pleasant term? If I was to tell you to fvck off, would it be more or less hurtful than if I told you that I hoped you were to be murdered tonight? Personally, I’d much rather be told to fvck off than something as horrible as being murdered. You can bounce back after you’ve fvcked off, but it’s a little hard not to let dying bum you out. Now if our conversation was recorded and played on television then it would go like this, “Why do you “take off”! I hope you get murdered tonight!” Weird huh, no one seems to care about violence.

 

What about all the pseudo bad words? Is shit really a bad word? What about damn, hell, crap, and bitch? Bitch can’t be a bad word, because I hear it all the time, everywhere. It wasn’t that long ago that bitch was a bad word. Maybe it changed because of all the women who became proud of being bitches, (or at least that’s what I gather from looking at the keychain rack at gas stations). I guess words become acceptable only after society comes to terms with them or we somehow work them into our pop culture. Maybe rap music gave us the privilege to use bitch?

 

The pen is mightier than the sword, but is the motherflippin’ pen stronger than goshdarn sword?

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster 

Inventor’s Invention – Pride or Annoyance?

Possessiveness isn’t just a bad habit; it’s a way of life. You can’t be “kind of” possessive. You either are or you aren’t, (for more on this topic see my blog “Two Kinds Of People”). I think one of the things that’s easy to be possessive about is ideas. It doesn’t matter what the idea is, be it a joke, a book, a song, or a new kind of asphalt that is maintenance free for 100 years. Once a person forms an original, (or at least an improved) idea, they lock on to it for dear life. Trying to take it is like those angry dogs at their food bowl when a stranger tries to get in on it. It turns vicious and quickly.

 

There are a lot of cultural icons that get credited to people, whether they deserve it or not. For instance if you say fast food, I immediately think of McDonald’s, (and I hate their food) but I think of them because they’ve carved out that niche for themselves as the biggest, best known, crappy, fast food joint. One example that really bothers me is Eric Clapton getting credit for ‘After Midnight’ and ‘Cocaine’, written by J.J. Cale. It drives me crazy that people think Eric wrote those songs, (by the way if you haven’t heard the original versions you must check them out). Actually, I don’t really care anymore.

 

So I’m wondering about the inventors of the world, the pioneers, the visionaries and people that transformed the very life we’ve come to know. I wonder what it’s like inside their heads and their hearts, but more precisely what they feel/felt after their mark took over the world. Xerox, Kleenex, Coke, Styrofoam, Wite Out, and Scotch Tape are a few examples of products that are so common that their very name has turned into generic terms for the products they represent. “I need you to Xerox these and take them to Fred.” “We’re out of Kleenex.” “Can I have a Coke? Can you put it in a Styrofoam cup” “I huff Wite Out.” “Do you have any Scotch tape?” See what I mean?

 

Do these inventors feel proud that they’ve integrated the culture and redefined our language or do they feel resentment towards the general public for using their “word(s)”, feeling as though they should receive some kind of residual for each time their product name is used?

 

If it were me, I’d feel proud every time I got a check in the mail.

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Drowning In Disclaimers

I don’t know about you, but the world I remember was a scary one. When I was a kid doctors smoked while examining you. Infants were laid on the front seat, wedged in with a book while traveling in a car. Boiling hot coffee came in a cup that didn’t tell you that you were holding boiling hot coffee and albums didn’t warn parents of their explicit content. The list goes on and on. Boy, those were horrible times.

 

This is all a very gray area for me, because I become a little hypocritical. On the one hand, I think the abundance of warning labels and disclaimers is silly and ridiculous. Most of the time they really state the obvious and when they don’t, it’s usually something that people really should know. An example would be like, “Cigarettes contain toxins that will kill you”. Who doesn’t know that? Who is that for? Does anyone pick up a pack of cigarettes and read the box, screech in horror, put them down and walk away telling themselves, “That was close, I almost bought those. Good thing that warning label was there. Did you know that cigarettes were bad for you?” Another good one is frozen pizza. “Must be thoroughly cooked”, really? Who the hell would eat a frozen pizza still frozen? How would you eat a frozen pizza still frozen? My all time favorite is the silica pack. You know that little bag of granulated silica that comes in every product you buy? It says right there, “DO NOT EAT”. I love this because I imagine someone buying a pair of shoes, let’s say, take them home, open them up and then they see it. “Awesome! I bought these shoes and I got this bonus tiny bag of what looks to be rock salt. I love eating rock salt!” Come on, totally unnecessary.

 

On the other hand, I must admit that I like disclaimers too. I like hearing television and radio car ads at the very end when the speed talker, (or freelancing auctioneer) rattles off four pages worth of exclusions at a rate that no one can absorb, let alone understand. I like television shows that tell me “not to try this at home”, “reproduce the effects of” or “seek the advice of a qualified professional”. It is even better when the television show is doing something that I could never reproduce in the first place, like seeing if a compact car’s side impact airbags can withstand a collision with a semi-truck. “Hey honey, let’s go buy a big rig and drive into the side of your minivan this weekend. I just want to see if you live.” I even like giving out me own disclaimers from time to time. “OK, I’ll try it, but I’m not very good.” “I’m not saying I won’t stop by your party, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to make it there either.” “If your mother comes over here there’s a good chance that I won’t talk to you for the rest of the month or that the police will be called to our house.”

 

Regardless of my personal feelings, conflicting as they are, it’s really all null and void. Disclaimers aren’t going anywhere; in fact they’re the wave of the future. You can expect to see more and more of them every day, everywhere you go. It won’t be long before you won’t be able to say, do, buy, sell, or consume anything without having a warning appetizer.

 

“Views and opinions expressed here within are the sole opinion of the author and do not reflect those of WordPress, RoosterEgg.com and their subsidiaries. Blog is unrated, has not been edited and may contain material unsuitable for all ages. Reader assumes full responsibility.” Or something like that.

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Cocaine Conversations

Once again, Ramblin’ Rooster couldn’t leave the hen house and so I’m taking over the reins. I’m a friend of Ramblin’ and my name is Kreg Millian. I wanted to reach out to the community and do an Anti-Drug PSA blog. Ramblin’ said it sounded like a good thing to him, so I hope you enjoy and he’ll blog with you tomorrow.

 

I don’t know how much cocaine you “do”, but if it’s any at all then you’ll know everything I’m about to say is true. If you’ve never done cocaine, but were thinking of giving it a shot then perhaps this blog will set you straight and prevent you from doing something you’ll probably regret.

 

We’re talking about cocaine here, not crystal or meth or crushed up anti-depressants, but cocaine, man!

 

Cocaine is expensive. To give you a reference of comparison, cocaine is like going to a fancy restaurant and ordering a $300 plate and only receiving a baby’s portion of food. You blew $300 and you’re still very hungry, as if you didn’t even eat at all. So in this rough economical time, you should probably avoid a wallet vacuum like cocaine.

 

Cocaine is crazy. It’s not like alcohol or marijuana at all. If marijuana was a swing set and alcohol was a merry-go-round, cocaine would be a free fall rollercoaster. Once you’re on cocaine, you’re on it. There’s no coffee, food or napping that’s going to even you out.

 

Regardless of who you are, how reserved, private, tough or macho, cocaine makes you unhinge your jaw, but unlike a snake trying to swallow a field mouse, you just want to make flappin’ you gums easier. If you’re around other people doing cocaine it becomes a frenzied talk show with no host and no rules. Everyone wants to tell their life story and things they’d never even thought of sharing until now. This doesn’t mean that the stories are risqué, interesting or revealing. They could be about the third grade or what mother use to cook on Sunday. The worst part is that nobody is even hearing the words coming from your mouth; they’re just listening for you to take a breath so that they can cut in and start muttering off nonsense.

 

Cocaine puts the tense in intense. If you like being nervous and flexing every muscle in your body constantly for hours, then by all means, do cocaine. If grinding your teeth, experiencing lockjaw and experimenting in “ticks” sounds fun, then cocaine is for you. If you like looking out the window, over you shoulder, checking your phone, checking your watch and barricading doors, all for no real reason then please try cocaine.

 

Bottom line, cocaine is bad. Sounds silly to say, but it’s the truth. I was addicted to cocaine for six years. I estimate that I spent close to half a million dollars in that time and in the end I have nothing to show for it except bad credit, tons of debt, and a medical chart that says I had a heart attack. Ultimately the choice is up to you, but I urge you to stay away from the white devil powder!

 

Sincerely,

Kreg Millian

Neck Pubes Disgusting Beyond Words

In case it’s not obvious to you what the title of this blog is about, let me clarify for you. Neck pubes are the hairs that are well below any facial or beard hairs and have migrated or somehow relocated from the chest. Neck pubes are the little hairs that curl out from the top of a shirt or grow from the level of where the collar of a dress shirt would be.

 

There is no doubt that you know or have seen someone that has been a carrier of the “neck pubes”. Perhaps you are even the person that people know or have seen. In any case, the neck pubes are the most horrifying of all the male body hair. I’d rather sleep on the hairiest of all hairy backs than be subjected to the sneaky neck pubes creeping out from under a shirt.

 

Much like the sexist pig male, whose eyes wander to cleavage, I find it impossible to look the person in the eyes who is sporting the neck pubes. I can’t take my eyes off the unsightly, grotesque, inhuman, mutation. Those hairs are like tractor beams. Anything that comes out of the person’s mouth sounds like the adults from the ‘Peanuts’ cartoons.

 

All I can think about are those evil hairs. How did they get there? Why are they crawling out of his shirt? What do they want? Do they need to be feed? Is this man part gorilla? Perhaps he doesn’t have any mirrors in his house? I wonder if he’d get mad if I knocked him out and shaved his lower neck.

 

I guess some women, (and I guess men) might enjoy a nice hair chest, but shouldn’t it stay on the chest? I’ve never heard anyone state that they like a man with a nice hairy neck. It’s like a year ‘round scarf. It’s like their smuggling shag carpet. It’s like their trying to sneak a cat or dog into somewhere under their shirt. I can’t stand it.

 

At this point you might be wondering why I’m so overly concerned and give such energy to the hate of the neck pubes. The truth is I’m one of these despicable creatures.

 

I’ve covered in feathers from head to claw.

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Rock Star Singers Take A Seat

Music is a very large pool, an ocean if you will, a vast body that seems to span both time and space. It’s also cool to listen too. There have been numerous people who have left a distinguishable mark, be it positive or negative, in the subject of music over the centuries. There are so many wonderful composers, writers, players and groups that you almost feel dizzy thinking of all the magic that’s been released into the universe.

 

It always makes me giggle deep inside my subconscious when I hear people talk about popular music, I can’t help it. Admittedly, it’s only funny when someone says something like, “(Insert a band/performer you don’t like here) is the greatest thing in the history of the world!” Not to knock (whatever band/performer you chose before), but come on. I love popular music as much as the next rooster, but you can’t compare even the best of pop artists to anyone who’s a master of classical or jazz music. Even if you don’t care for that kind of music, you can’t deny the genius behind it and how it outshines, (intellectually) any pop music. For goodness sakes, Tommy Lee couldn’t even make it on the high school band as a percussionist, (see his short lived reality show for details). That’s what popular music is, fleeting, disposable and short lived.

 

One thing I love about pop music is rock and roll singer clichés.

My three favorite are: Lead singers who…

 

1. …get the audience to “clap along” with the music. Now I’ve been to shows and heard many live performances. I know that there are some hip audiences out there, but for the most part, your everyday person could clap with the beat to save their own life.
2. …strap on guitars and then hold them the whole time. Maybe they strum a chord or two, during a chorus, but sometimes it doesn’t even seem like the amplifier is even turned on because you can’t hear them. I use to see it a lot in music videos, (a long time ago when I use to watch music videos and there was a channel that played nothing but music videos). Nothing looks more ridiculous than a “rock star” singer holding a guitar.
3. …wear the ear plug/headphones and still manage to sound off key. I guess they wear those things to look serious or professional, which would seem to contradict being a “rocker”.
4. …think I care at all about what they think. I love when the lead singer of “Death Hawk” wants to talk about how to help save the whales.

 

OK, I’m done now, but you know making fun of pop music is music to my ears.

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

I’d Rather Kill Myself Than Inflict Self Injury

I don’t have to tell you that the whole point of life is to look and act cool, thus making people believe that you are in fact cool. Seems simple and easy in theory, but humans have a nasty habit of being uncool. One of the easiest and most familiar ways to appear or be uncool is to look like an idiot.

 

Just to be clear, idiots are not the same as morons. Idiots are random and ever changing. An idiot one day can be totally cool the next, whereas a moron is a moron, regardless of what day it is. But this is not about idiots vs. morons, so let’s move on.

 

Most of the time looking like an idiot stems from an action that is ultimately your fault. A lot of us get away with idiotic actions because most of the time people are too involved with their own life to notice. Then there are those times when you might be subjected to someone’s candid view and you are their entertainment. Here’s a great example. I was outside at work during the last ice storm, across the street at a hotel a young couple had gone for pizza. They were walking towards the lobby and the sidewalk was iced over pretty good. There was an elevation difference to the door and the guy carrying the pizza tried to jump to the top of the sidewalk, (I guess to avoid the ice?). His feet left solid ground and he became parallel with the parking lot in the air. Afterwards he came crashing down with the pizzas cushioning his fall. Making a fool of yourself in front of “your girl” is an automatic idiot. Thus proving, the worst kind of idiotic behavior is self inflicted injury.

 

The best kind is when someone is showing off, like riding a motorcycle in a dare devilish way and wiping out or driving as though they are on a racetrack and getting a ticket. When the person being an idiot deserves it, because their actions are undeniably idiotic, for a short moment everything seems right in the world. Some other good ones are:

 

-Buring yourself with food, drinks, a match, lighter, cigarette, etc.

-Stabbing yourself with toothpicks, knifes, scissors, etc.

-Tripping over things, (extra points if it’s your own feet)

-Hitting your head, (extra points if it’s in a place that you should be familiar with the dimensions, like your house)

-Slamming your own fingers in doors, windows, etc.

-Trying to get out of the car with your seatbelt still on

-Pulling a “landline” phone off of a desk or unplugging it by over extending the reach of the cord

-Burning yourself on the stove, (I’m sorry, but that’s like the third thing you learn in life, “Stove! Hot! No touch!”)

-Locking your keys inside of anything

-Walking into signs, doors, parked cars, etc.

-Pouring out or spilling your drink by trying to look at your watch

-Startling yourself or hurting your ears, either by turning on your car with the radio to loud or turning on your headphones and blowing out your eardrums

-Kicking something by accident and stubbing your toe, (in the dark is no excuse)

-Zipping up skin in your zipper

-Getting gum in your hair

 

-Reading this blog… HEY! Who said that?!?!

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Happy Valentine’s Day

Ah, Valentine’s Day, or as I like to call it VD Day. It’s what keeps 8 million flower shops in business across this great country of ours. Roses are red, violets are blue, today is Valentine’s, so I spent money on you. What better way to say I love you than a box of chocolate and flowers that live for about a day and half. Oh, I know, a store bought card that tells your “special someone” how you feel about them using someone else’s words. Excellent!

 

I won’t spend too much time trashing Valentine’s Day. If you’re a regular reader of Ramblin’ Rooster you know I’m not keen to holidays, especially one that carries more guilt to buy stuff than any other. You can argue Christmas, but no one says. “It’s better to give than receive” on Valentine’s. Maybe they do, but you can’t hear it over, “Where are my flowers, chocolates and diamond necklace?! I thought you loved me?!?!?!”

 

What I want to trash tonight is romance. To keep the fight fair, I’m not talking about being “sweet” or “nice” or even “considerate”. If you pick up a candy bar in the check-out aisle for no reason other than to just give it to your “lover” because you were thinking of them, that’s sweet. If you hold the door open for someone, that’s nice. If you don’t drop the F-bomb at a parent-teacher conference, that’s considerate, but if you line the stairs with rose petals, burn candles, got Barry White going, and are sitting next to a bucket of ice with champagne in it, wearing a silk robe and bedroom eyes, that’s a stereotypical attempt at romance.

 

What is the purpose of romance? The answer is sex. Go ahead and get huffy and puffy, I don’t mind. Once you calm down, you know you can’t disagree. When a person first meets someone they’re interested in, they will try all they can to make the object of their desire “like them”. They may very well indeed pull out all the romantic tricks they know to try and impress their target. Don’t kid yourself, the whole point is to initiate sexual contact and as you know once that happens, it’s all down hill from there.

 

You always hear it around this time, a lot of the married folk saying things like, “I’m lucky to get a card” or “I got flowers just like always” and “We’re going out to eat at a restaurant we eat at all the time”. Unless you have fresh prey, Valentine’s is just a nuisance, an annoyance, a thorn in your side, (that amazingly stops hurting on February 15^th).

 

So all you young lovers out there enjoy today while you can, for it is fleeting. You will grow old and tired and with it watch your desires run out the door like dogs after the mailman. Don’t worry though, once on the other side you’ll be relieved at how much money you save.

 

Will you be my Valentine?

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

My Social Network And Me

I’m tired of pretending I’m a robot or a professional wrestler, the truth is I just want to be loved. I want to have lots of friends; so many that I can’t remember all of their names. I want to be in a beer commercial. I want to throw a party that serves food, is crammed with people and there’s dancing on tables. Damn it, I want to live in a John Hughes movie, (well at least up to Home Alone).

 

So I figured the closest thing I could get to that would be joining a social network on the web. OK, truth is my bosses wanted me to join a social network in hopes of spreading the word of their website, RoosterEgg.com, from which this blog is derived. (Whew, I hope they read that ‘cause self indulgent plugs like that really drain my soul.)

 

Anyway, I joined a social network a few weeks ago. What a shock it was. It seems really weird and difficult to make friends. I thought it was hard in the hen house, but man that’s easy compared to this.

 

My initial shock was that the social network I choose wasn’t really for meeting “new” people. Its purpose is to look for or find people you already know. Perhaps you lost touch after high school or stop talking after they went to jail, who knows, but what a great way to catch up with somebody. (Social network my eye!)

 

I sent a couple of “messages” to famous people, (or somewhat famous, at least famous enough not to be bothered by me). They never replied, go figure. I joined some groups and left comments, oh, I did send a message to a stranger who wasn’t famous. They never responded either. I tried several approaches over several days, but nothing happened for me.

 

I have to say that my favorite part of the whole experience, so far, has been the part where I check my “home page”, if you will. I have never seen such genius in being polite and semantically sensitive. Every time I clicked on messages or friends, I never got depressed, because never once did my social network tell me, “You have no friends”.

 

Perhaps I could just be friends with you social network program.

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

It Pays To Be Rich

I don’t make any money. Don’t get me wrong, I draw a paycheck from my “day job”, but it’s not my money. I’m just collecting it so I can send it off in the mail to utility companies, creditors or personally hand deliver it to retailers and grocery stores. Sure they give me some token gifts, because they’re so happy to be getting the money I owe them, but the gifts never lasts.

 

It’s probably a no-brainer, but apparently you have to be rich if you want to do anything. There’s an old saying, “You gotta spend money to make money”. No wonder I don’t make any money, I never have it to spend.

 

My latest venture into, “Hey world please remind me that I’m poor and I’ll never amount to anything more than a ditch digger” comes from talking with publishers about my “great, American, novel”. (Sorry to have degraded you fellow ditch diggers, but you know as well as I do that the world looks down on us.) After several conversations, with several different publishers I learned that I’ll probably never be a published writer.

 

Why, you ask? Is it because I’m lazy? Is it because I’m easily discouraged? Or is it because I’m a quitter? Quit focusing on the obvious and read between the lines, will ya?

 

The reason I’ll never be a published author is because I don’t have any money, that and the fact that I was unaware that authors had to do all their own publicity, promotion, sales and marketing. I now want to open my own publishing house, because I guess all you do is accept manuscripts, say yes, and then collect checks. Sounds like something I could do.

 

In my phone conversations I even said to the representatives things like, “if I knew how to do that, why would I be talking to you?” and “I can read all this information on the web for free?” This never seemed to discourage or slow them down. At one point I said, “You’ll publish anything won’t you”. I was told that their business model isn’t set up to judge the value of a manuscript, (which in hindsight is genius). My point was that I didn’t feel special and that all of this was a borderline scam, (kind of like going to a modeling agency and dropping tons of money on headshots and runway lessons, but never getting a gig out of it). One web site even had a typo on their page, which in this day and age isn’t that uncommon, but for a publishing house, it’s inexcusable.

 

So what did I learn? That if I had a lot of money, lots of time, a go-get’em attitude and knew all the right people, you could go out and buy my book.

 

The name of my new book is called, “How To Go About Not Getting Published”. Don’t bother looking for it.

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Messin’ With My Boss

As I mentioned before, I have one of those “cool bosses”. He has a really good sense of humor and allows me to mess with him in ways that are completely inappropriate. Sadly, screwing with him and playing pranks is the only part of my job that I like.

 

I realize that when it comes to practical jokes, it’s somewhat difficult to share them with other people. They just don’t seem that funny when you’re telling “what you did” to somebody. It’s too personal and too much of an “inside joke”, so I’ll spare you the long list of horrible things I’ve done to him. In the same breath I will give you a list of some disgusting jokes I subjected him to.

 

A few months ago I took a picture of my boss. I told him it was to show to my wife since I talk about him so much she wanted to know what he looked like, (always appeal to the ego when lying, if applicable). Of course all I really wanted was a picture of his face to do my evil deeds with.

 

My boss keeps a desk calendar by his computer, so I thought it would be funny to make my own calendar pages and insert them on every “Monday” page. So I made little pages that had his face on them with a caption or quote above it. The following is a list of those captions or quotes.

 

OK, I started to type them out, but they’re just too disgusting and the list if frightfully long, like 37 gay innuendos, (and that’s just too much). I will share my favorite though, just so you can get a taste of it. Now imagine a smiling face, just a head floating on a piece of paper with the words above it, “Veteran Spelunker of the Man Cave”.

 

I don’t know, maybe I should have just kept this to myself.

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

I Forgot Choked Up

Five days ago I wrote a blog titled, ‘I’d Rather Kill Myself Than Inflict Self Injury’. It wasn’t until last night, after looking through my notes, that I discovered I had forgotten to add to the list, “Choking on you own saliva”. This really sucks because it is by far my favorite and probably number one on the look-uncool-with-idiotic-behavior list.

 

I thought about editing the “I’d Rather Kill Myself..” blog, but decided to give choking on saliva it’s own page. Not only because it’s so incredibly embarrassing, but in an attempt to make it feel better with flattery and once again be in its good graces.

 

First of all, there is nothing sillier, more dorky, more ridiculous, more stupid, (or any other adjective you want to add) than chocking yourself. It’s so bad because if you’re with another person or people, they see no sign or warning of it coming on. All they see is your turning red and coughing and they think to themselves, “What the hell is wrong with that guy?” “I don’t know. We were just sitting here and all of sudden he started choking.” You yourself have a short warning right before the devastating attack, but it’s worthless. It’s not like you’re going to tell someone, “Hold on a minute, I’m about to start chocking on my spit. Please excuse me.”

 

How is it even possible to choke on your own saliva? You’d think the amazing machine that your body is would be able to avoid sending liquid to your lungs. I know it’s hard at work performing all kinds of actions, but trying to suffocate itself seems like a pretty easy task to avoid. Your saliva isn’t necessarily sticky, but it’s no water or any other potable liquid. It’s not like you can’t manage your spit. I’ve been know to drool while I sleep, but I’ve never had a mouthful of saliva come falling out of mouth because it “got away from me”. You don’t even have a large quantity on hand to begin with. The glands just slowly leak into your mouth, it’s not a faucet and you do not have to swallow large amounts quickly over long periods of time.

 

Imagine if the unthinkable became your fate. What if you did accidentally kill yourself with your own saliva? How horrible would that be? Could there be any more of a “rip-off” death? Would you go to Hell? How would you explain that in the afterlife, (assuming you get to hang out on clouds and talk to people)? You think you’ve dealt with stress and being angry, I can’t even tell you how pissed I’d be to wake up on the “other side” and find out I choked to death on my spit. I’d probably die again after exploding. You just shouldn’t have to worry about choking on your own spit. I hope they fix that in the next release.

 

I bet animals and extra-terrestrials don’t choke on their saliva.

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

To Be On Time Or Not?

As people, we are obsessed with time and some more than others. Whether you think you’re “outside the mainstream” or not, it’s near impossible to be without it. At some point you’re going to need or just plain want to know what time it is, (you burned out hippie!). Sometimes I’ll look at my wrist watch two or three times in a row and still not know what time it is. I have sixteen clocks in my seven room house.

 

I, of course, have a standard love/hate relationship with time. I like to watch time when I’m at work or at some other place I’d rather not be. They say a watched pot never boils, but I say it just takes a really long time. I like to track time. I often ask myself, (even sometimes out loud), “Where did the time go?” “It’s already three?” and the classic, “What time is it?” I like to estimate around or about it. When I drive long distances, I try to guess to the exact minute when I’ll get there, to the door. I like to figure out how long it’s going to take to do something and then see if I make it on schedule.

 

What I hate about time is that I feel it slipping away from me. It just keeps going faster and faster. I never feel like there’s enough time in the day to accomplish what I want. “Never enough time” should be my epitaph.

 

So what about arrival time? I’ve always been of the belief that you should be on time. If you say that you’ll be somewhere at five, you should be there at five, (not 5:05 or 5:15). I don’t know if this was taught to me or just something I latched on to as a kid and adopted as my own as I grew, but somewhere that idea got inside of me.

 

My question is does it really matter? Every doctor I have visited has made me wait. It could be a doctor that I’ve gone to my whole life, I still end up waiting. I could arrive a day early and I still wouldn’t be asked to “come on back” till fifteen past my appointment time. I see people show up to work everyday late, yet I still see them everyday, their not getting fired or told to “shape up”. I’ve had countless dates, meetings, business deals, get togethers, practices or other, miscellaneous occasions where the other person has waltzed in as though time doesn’t exist, like it couldn’t have been avoided, so what’s the big deal, “I’m here now”. If you’ve noticed, they’re never upset or putout by their tardiness. Why should they be, they’re not the ones that waited, rotting, watching life pass by in slow motion. Even going to a movie, the paper says eight, you get there and there’s twenty minutes of commercials and previews.

 

So why should I bust my ass trying to get somewhere on time, when I feel like I’m the only person on the planet who can tell time? Have you ever seen a person eating alone at a restaurant and you asked the waiter, “What’s the deal with that sad, lonely person?” and the waiter replied, “Oh yeah, tragic, they never showed up to dates on time, so now they’re forced to spend the rest of life without love.” Of course not, there is no substantial punishment for being late.

 

If you want to look at a house for sale and the realtor is an hour late, chances are you want to see the house more than ever. Hell, you waited a whole hour. If you tour the house and want to buy it, you can’t turn to the agent and say, “We want to make an offer on this house, but we need a new agent” or “We want this house, but you’ll only receive a 5% commission because of your poor time management skills.”

 

We’ve got to come together on this and fight these time hippies. So let’s promise each other, the next time someone shows up late to anything, for any reason, spit in their face and I’ll do the same. Maybe if everyone did it to all the “show-up-late-losers” we could rid the world of lackadaisical time travelers.

 

I gotta go…

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Almost Positive Is Really Close To Positive

For some reason people who ask questions want to receive a definitive answer. “I don’t know” is the worst answer you can come up with. Among other “not so good” replies are pretty sure, think so, definite maybe and of course almost positive. The last one has always been an unfair statement to scrutinize, (in my opinion).

 

Almost is like really, really close to there and being there is what you want. So if you’re almost something, it seems to reason that just a little effort will take you to the finish line. That’s all you really want anyway, right?

 

Positive is for sure, no doubt, and no uncertainty. You can’t ask for better than that. Positive is so upbeat and chipper. It’s the sun coming through the gray clouds, a smiling face on a commuter train, a favorite song playing on the radio during a long car ride. Why would anybody want to shrug off positive? How could you walk away from it?

 

Almost positive is like an oasis waiting for you. It’s as close to perfection as you’re ever going to get. You shouldn’t feel like it’s not enough, you should celebrate being that close to something so incredible, so wonderful, and so delightful. It’s just around the corner for crying in the night.

 

You may think I’m wrong and that’s OK. Perhaps you’re one of “those people” who are accustomed to the two word system. I’m here to tell you right now that there’s a much bigger world out there beyond “Yes” and “No”. Open your door and explore.

 

I’m almost positive I’m right.

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Birds and Cages

Most birds are pretty popular and some birds are darn right loved. Eagles and hawks are like rock stars or movie stars in the animal kingdom. Owls are admired, but they lack the power of the eagle and hawk. I think birds are so coveted because of the gift of flight. I bet if birds didn’t fly, no one would care about them at all. They’d just be rats with feathers. Look at the ostrich, nobody cares about an ostrich. I guess people love penguins and they don’t fly, but they’re awful classy with those tuxedos. Peacocks don’t fly either, do they? Again, they’re special because they have those fancy feathers. Wild birds capture a part of the imagination and speak to the spirit of man. It’s the freedom of the bird that we secretly or subconsciously are in love with.

 

So what about the non-wild birds like chickens? No one loves a chicken except at dinner time. Roosters get a little respect, probably a lot of that has to do with the double entendre of cock. Plus roosters are tough and can fight. Then there are the “pet” birds like parrots and cockatiels, (and like four hundred other kinds).

 

This of course brings us to the cage. It seems almost incomprehensible to think of putting a bird in a cage. “But I like to hear it sing.” So buy a CD of bird sounds. The most gifted of all animals, the ones that defy gravity itself aren’t able to break free from man and his cage. One could argue that the birds sold at shops are born and raised to be caged pets, so it’s not that bad to keep them in such a manner. Others may say how they let their bird out, how they’ve trained it to hang out in the kitchen while they make dinner or watch television. That’s great, but I think that deep down, somewhere inside each and every bird is a feeling of flight and regardless of how they’re kept or cared for, they want to spread their wings and go.

 

That led me to the thought of how we’re like birds in a way. We are capable of miraculous things, but a lot of us are stuck inside our own cage. That cage can be your horrible, disgusting, draining your soul, hate with all of your heart Sunday evening because you know you’re waking up to go to your job or it could be your house that you hardly ever leave, except maybe to get tacos.

 

Some people have never left the town that they were born in. Some people have never left the state. Some people have never left the country. Some people have been around the world. So maybe it’s not about whether or not you’re in a cage or not, but rather if you’re one of the lucky birds that gets to fly free.

 

I’m lucky to be given a computer to peck this blog. Thanks Farmer Brown!

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Limited Time Offer

I’ll admit it; I was cut loose, kicked out, expelled, asked to leave and booted from “marketing skool”. So I never got my degree and I missed the week where they talked about the “limited time offer” ploy. Just looking at it written out I get tingly all over just thinking of its genius. Limited time offer, it just sounds so wonderful, scary and exciting.

 

Here is the RoosterEgg.com exclusive, behind the scenes look at the transcript from the first meeting that launched the LTO movement.

 

“Hey Dave, thanks for meeting with me today.”

“No problem Phil, thank you for taking a look at my ad campaign.”

“That’s what you’re paying me for”

[They both laugh]

“I’ve been giving your restaurant a lot of thought and I’ve come up with an idea. You need more people to come, but less often.”

“What?”

“Just bare with me Dave, you get traffic, but it’s boring, stale traffic, those people are going to come eat there no matter what. You need to make people feel like if they don’t stop by your restaurant that they’ll be missing out on something, that they blew it, that they were left out.”

“Um… OK? But how do I…”

“It’s so easy, limited time offer! Limited. Time. Offer. Just say it. Doesn’t it just scream urgency?”

“I guess I don’t underst…”

“Dave, jesus, pull your head out! Have a cup of coffee or rub hot sauce in your eyes or something. You need to think up some kind of gimmicky sandwich, something that’s a lot like all your other sandwiches, but has just a little something extra, say like mushrooms or Swiss cheese. Then you run a huge campaign that says, This Sandwich For A Limited Time Only So Hurry In!”

“But if people liked it, why wouldn’t I just add it to the menu permanently?”

“Are you the stupidest man alive? How did you ever get to where you are without me? For @#$* sake Dave! If they can buy the sandwich anytime they wanted, they’re not going to buy it! They only want it till it’s gone!”

“OK, you don’t have to yell.”

“Tell you what; you can bring it back every year. Yea… it will be our Back By Popular Demand campaign. I’m so @#$%&* brilliant, I really should be charging you more.”

 

There you have it, the history of how the LTO became the greatest idea of American advertising. You know when I read that transcript it really does make a lot of sense and all my hate and anger just melts away.

 

I wonder if that’s only for a limited time.

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Let’s Have An Affair

I was thinking today how awesome it would be to have a torrid affair. Pending you could get over destroying the lives of your spouse and children, tearing apart your family, gut-rotting guilt, lies that assure your place among the top spots in Hell and nightmares about crying, screaming and hurting people. Other than that, it’d be totally awesome.

 

Let’s say you’re sitting around the house with your boring spouse, when suddenly you get a mysterious phone call. You tell your spouse that something came up at the office and you need to go down there for a couple of hours to help out. No, they’d never buy that. I got it, you tell your spouse that your friend just got arrested for drunk driving and you need to go downtown to bail them out. No, that would be too easy for your spouse to very it’s legitimacy. Wow, this affair thing is a lot harder than I thought.

 

OK, let’s just say you came up with a good, solid lie, one that your spouse bought without a doubt. You’re free and out of the house. You drive to a sleazy hotel to meet your secret lover and you two get a room. “Does the room have free HBO?” You’re missing the point here. The two of you get a room and engage in ultimate sin. Then you shower up and scoot on home. Doesn’t that sound exciting? Sure beats a night of watching television and talking to your kids about their day.

 

To make the whole affair really worthwhile, it’s important that your secret lover is also married with children. It’s just not fair that only one of you has to sneak around and lie. Plus, when the whole thing blows up in your faces, you want to make sure that the maximum number of casualties is achieved.

 

Now, you should keep up this affair for a very long time, long enough to become comfortable. Otherwise it will be hard for you to let your guard down and become sloppy. “Why must I get sloppy?” How else are you going to get caught? A secret isn’t a secret until others find out about it.

 

Once the affair hits the fan, it’s usually pretty explosive and heated. You should be able to see emotions coming from your spouse to which the likes you’ve never seen before, (note: more excitement). Once the fireworks are over and you’re driving around looking for a hotel, (this time it’s just for a place to stay for the night, not time spent with your secret lover, because at this point they’ve lost interest in you because of all the drama) it should start to hit you. “What will hit me?” At some point you should be overcome with painful feelings, which will inevitably lead you to thinking about what you had and how you’re going to miss it now that it’s gone.

 

Over the next few months you’ll experiment in loneliness and solitude. You’ll wear an invisible mask that you’ll become extremely paranoid about other people seeing. This is why you figure everyone is looking at you like you’re the scum of the earth. Just ignore it as it will go away, much like your money to alimony and child support. Finally one day you’ll be having lunch and as the check comes you’ll notice an attractive waiter(ess) and it will remind you of your secret lover. You’ll then be amazed and shocked that you can no longer remember their name, but will relish in the fact that all of this is better than being bored on the couch.

 

As I always say, the best way to spice up a marriage is infidelity.

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Whatever Happened To Knee Patches?

My wife will buy the kids a new pair of jeans at the slightest sign of knee wear of pin sized hole. When I was a kid I had one pair of jeans that lasted me from kindergarten till I graduated from high school. Basically at the end of their life, there was no denim material left at all. They were entirely assorted patches by then.

 

I liked when the hole in the knee would rip out from behind the patch and my mother would re-sew the patch on by grabbing extra material from off to the side, making a kind of bizarre pleat in the jeans. I’m not sure, because my mother has never divulged the answer to me, but I hypothesize that back in those days each child was only allotted one pair by the state or that the mobsters that owned the patch factories had struck a deal with the teamsters. Either way, I wish I knew where all the patches went.

 

Some of you might not know that there was a time when patches ruled the world. You couldn’t walk into a store without seeing them everywhere. They weren’t just for covering holes either, no, no my friend, they were a fashion movement. Patches were for every inch of every item of clothing you owned. Plus, you could get a patch for any band, product, team, saying, or symbol you could ever think of.

 

You knew the sad kids right away, because they had the plain patches or even worse, the jean colored patches. You had to have a flashy patch back in those days to be cool. It had to have a groovy saying or popular character or some kind of animal on it. How can you make a statement with a plain green patch?

 

There were two kinds of patches, the classic sewn-on and the iron-on. The iron-on ones would last about as long as it took to ride your bike down the street, but it didn’t stop anyone from buying them for the simple fact that they could easily be converted into the sewn-on kind.

 

I wonder if the economy is the way it is today because of the patch industry going away. You’d think that in the middle of a recession that this would be the time you would need patches, now more than ever.

 

Let’s patch it up!

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Free Lunch Incentive

Having been in my professional industry for over a hundred years, or what feels like a hundred years, the personal invitation or news of others receiving an invitation to a seminar or presentation that gives a free lunch has been massive. Even outside my little cubical the world loves offering a “free lunch” while feeding you information, (pun intended). It’s kind of like the free hotel stay if you tour a condo or a free trip to Mexico if you allow a vacuum salesman to pour coffee grounds on your carpet. It’s classic marketing 101, “Bait ‘em with the prospect of free”.

 

Right off the bat this raises two questions. One, does this really make it free and two, what is the reasoning behind this shady offer of a free lunch?

 

Let’s start with; does this really make it free? Obviously the cliché, “There’s no such thing as a free lunch” comes to mind. Everyone loves the word “free” yet no one believes that it’s real. We all think or know that at some point there’s a catch, but that doesn’t stop us from hunting down anything that has the word “free” attached to it. In the end it’s impossible to deny that going to something to receive your “free” thing isn’t free. At the very least it costs you time and on some occasions that can seem like a rip off in comparison to the pain of “sitting through” whatever it is you have to endure.

 

What is the reasoning behind this shady offer of a free lunch? I think I answered this, for the most part, in the previous paragraph. People love the fantasy of “free stuff”. In my mind, I’ve always thought of how ridiculous, not to mention a waste of money, it is to feed people who have no intention of buying whatever it is you’re selling. A lot of them aren’t even listening to you or can’t hear you because of the crunching and munching echoing inside their skull. I suppose I’m totally wrong and this system of “feed and sale” is cost effective, because it happens all the time. Another cliché is, “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach”. So perhaps, “The way to a company’s check book is through a free lunch”.

 

I wonder how long before they have a stripper dancing in the background during a presentation. That’d really fill the seats.

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Chivalry Is A Scam

It’s been said that chivalry is dead and I for one agree. I don’t think it necessarily was avoidable or a bad thing, but gentlemen sure aren’t what they used to be. I mean have you ever been to a “gentleman’s club”? There’s nothing very gentlemanly going on in there. The world has drastically changed and with it, so has our culture. Women have been entitled to equal rights, are allowed to show their ankles, (or if they’ve just turned twenty-one and are at a bar with a video camera going, their chest) the right to work long hours and enjoy all the other freedoms, to lengthy to list here, equal to a man. So of course women are going to be treated differently.

 

If you saw a woman bending a steel bar or biting off a cap on a beer bottle, you’d be less inclined to help her down as she made her way out of the buggy or carriage. Oh wait, that’s right, we don’t have those things anymore. Well then, you’d be less likely to help her out of your 4×4 Jimmy with a 16” lift. In the same right, if dining with a woman who belches out loud with force, you’d be less likely to stand when she excuses her self to “powder her nose”, especially if she says, “I need to piss”. You see where I’m going with this?

 

The reality of it is evolution has killed chivalry, not the “pigness” or laziness of men. You see some glints of it still today. Its presents isn’t totally gone, but did you know that all of it, every single act, ever committed was a scam?

 

Think about it. Every act of chivalry made it possible for the man to get behind the woman. Why would they want to do this? It is/was to be able to look at your butt of course. It’s a well known, scientific fact, that all men, regardless of sexual orientation, love butts. It doesn’t matter what kind of butt you have, because the man is just looking. He doesn’t care if he likes it or not, he just wants to see it. Hold the door? Look at your butt. Pull your chair out? Look at your butt. Ladies first? Look at your butt. Etc.

 

So now the secret is out and we can all go back to just trying to sneak a peek like the good old days. It’s much more fun and a lot less work and in the end, it’s a well rounded compromise.

 

Have you ever noticed that when a guy wants to “let women know the secret of men” that he’s like the biggest perverts that’s dying for “lady-time”. I can assure you that this is not the case here.

 

Who wants ten girlfriends?

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Fighting Temptation To Punch You When I Talk

You think that title is long; you should have seen what I wanted to call it, “Fighting temptation to punch you square in the face when I hear the annoying sounds you make while I talk”. So be grateful they made me condense it. This whole blog could have been the title. Maybe it should be, maybe I should stop right here, but you know I can’t.

 

I’ve always been an advocate for communication. I agree with leading experts that communication is the key for… well… communicating I guess. Anyway, there are to gigantic pet peeves I have during the conversation process. You might think that they are of a grammatical nature or something that shows the ignorance of the speaker, but you’d be wrong. Don’t worry, I laugh at you in my head, but I don’t judge you. It doesn’t bother me if you say, “He ain’t got no nothin’ to showed me.” We can still be friends. That’s just you and how you speak. Now here is where I contradict myself.

 

The first one I hate is “m’kay”. The long “M” sound followed by the “K” from OK. Why would anyone want to make a conjunction out of “mm” and OK? It turns every sentence into a question. This has been played out like ‘Stairway to Heaven’ or ‘Hotel California’ on the radio. Every cartoon show has at least one character that ends every sentence with “m’kay”. It’s been over exposed, over used and what was once funny is now a source of disappointment. So when I meet someone in real life that uses “m’kay” as a real part of their speech patterns, I must admit, it drives me crazy and I want to hurt them. I honestly see red. I can’t think of anything more annoying or ridiculous. Except…

 

When people intermittently inject “um-hm” while you’re talking, this is an automatic death sentence. How can you be agreeing with me before I finish me sentence? How can you be agreeing with me without a question even being asked?

 

“So I went to the store…”

“Um-hm.”

“…to buy some milk.”

“Um-hm.”

“And I saw this girl working there…”

“Um-hm.”

“…that I used to go to school with.”

“Um-hm.”

 

It’s completely irrational, illogical, irresponsible and “the bringer of the end of days”.

 

The only way to make these horrible habits of speech worse is to be a bystander of them. Rather than being engaged in the conversation you have to listen to people actually talking to each other in this manner. If you got a “m’kay guy” together with a “um-hm guy” we would all get to meet the Devil, because Armageddon would have commenced. I guess in actuality, they’d be a perfect match. So I guess I’ll see you in Hell.

 

There’s a lot that I can tolerate, but there are some things I can’t, m-kay?

 

Egg On (um-hm)!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Random Thoughts Volume 3

I felt like it was time again for another segment of random thoughts. That and the fact that I don’t want to do a full blog tonight is all I needed to let this roll. So without further adieu, I give you Random Thoughts Volume 3.

 

-People who dream big are often very tired.

 

-Women who perform or practice fellatio on fruit and vegetables reduce the change of developing scurvy by 358%.

 

-Misspelling intellectual and genius is the cruelest irony in the world.

 

-Listening to a clock tick is like hearing your life slowly drain out of your body.

 

-Somebody has to actually push up daisies?

 

-The only place where drug testing is applicable is in the medical field and factories that produce snack cakes.

 

-Everyone is beautiful before they speak.

 

-There is no dip for computer chips.

 

-Does anyone ever run with scissors? Is there a cutting emergency that requires running?

 

-Who sees more people naked, doctors or nudey magazine photographers?

 

-How come restaurants don’t give there trash to homeless people?

 

-What is the definitive quality of a sport? Who decides what gets to be and what doesn’t? I think blogging should be a sport.

 

-Is a joke that’s not funny really just a boring short story?

 

-Is a gay man is depressed is he no longer gay?

 

-Everybody loves discontinued, clearance and second hand items for sale, except at the grocery stores.

 

-Clowns have a very difficult life.

 

-Women who wear fake mustaches look like women wearing fake mustaches.

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Hamlet 2009

To blog, or not to blog: that is the question:

Whether ’tis easier for the ego to skip

The slings and arrows of outrageous comments,

Or to take arms against a sea of views and hits,

And by opposing end them? To read: to sleep;

No more; and to blog to say whatever we want

Oh the heart-ache that shouldn’t be a shock

That traffic is heir to popularity

Devoutly to be wish’d. To read, to sleep;

To sleep: let my computer go to standby: ay, there’s a thought;

For in that sleep of death what blogs may come

When we have shuffled off this tired page,

Must give us RSS feeds: there’s the respect

That makes blogging of so short life;

For who would bear the whips and scorns of blogging,

The oppressor’s wrong, the top man’s page,

The pangs of despised traffic, the reader delay,

The lack of an office and the coffee

That patient merit of the unworthy effort,

When he himself might not want to read this

With a bare bodkin? Who says bodkin?,

To grunt and sweat on a keyboard,

That the dread of no one visiting,

The undiscover’d brilliance from a nobody

No surfers returns, puzzles me it will

And makes us rather bear those ills we have

Than fly to idea of expressing our thoughts about nothing?

Thus subconscious does make warriors of us all;

And thus bathe in the hue of 1200 x 800 resolution

Is awesome with the 24” dual monitor of thought,

And dreaming of enterprises advertising at the top

With this regard the spirit and soul turn awry,

And lose the name of action. – Type you now!

The fair Google! Ruler in thy web

Be all my sins archived.

 

Egg On!

William Rooster

Need An Awesome Stress Relief?

I don’t know about you, but I had a bad day today. I won’t bore you with the details, mainly because I know you’d start to cry and then you’d want to send me money and with the economy the way it is you need to keep all the money you can. With that being said, it was still a bad day and I found myself getting rather stressed out. I don’t get stressed out much, so I’m not that good with dealing with it. That all changed today though. I found the best stress relief you could ever hope for and best of all, it’s free, (certain restrictions may apply)!

 

All you need to do is grab your phone, preferably a land line so as to not eat up your cell phone minutes, (if applicable) and find yourself a place to be alone, if you have small children in your home or choose to do this technique in public, (which would probably be a bad idea).

 

Call your bank or any place of business that you know is either automated after hours or is has a twenty four hour automated caller service. Once you get on the phone with the robotic, yet oddly polite automated teller let them have it. Yell obscenities at them, (if that’s your thing) or just be incredibly snotty. I like to be really rude and say horrible things about their make-believe parents. Sometimes if it’s a man, I’ll even tell him that I’m having an affair with his wife. The point is that you can go crazy. You can take it to any level you want to take it to. Threaten their life, their family, the family’s family, their unborn, who cares? Talk dirty, call them names, tell them they’re fired or just scream. The sky’s the limit baby!

 

The best part of it all, of course, is that they never talk back, get angry or hang up and most of the automated services can keep going and going for as long as you need to vent. Need just a minute of screaming at someone? Give ‘em a call. Need an hour of screaming at someone? Give ‘em a call. I will warn those people that actually want to scream, be sure to listen for them to, “not understand your response”. If you get too many of those in a row, they will hang up on you, so you may need to break character for a second to get the system going again. There is nothing worse than having to call back in the middle of your rant.

 

It may seem silly or childish, but it’s clinically proven to work, (that is if you accept that my living room is a clinic). Besides being cost effective, it is really healthy. Instead of yelling at your family, lover, pet or co-workers just use the automated victims. You’ll improve your personal life dramatically and see your life change in big ways. You’ll be a lot more fun to be around, that’s for sure.

 

Give ‘em a call and then give ‘em Hell. They don’t mind.

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

People Are All The Same But Totally Different

It never ceases to amaze me the absolute, nonstop, guaranteed and endless entertainment that humans provide. Granted, it may take a while, perhaps even days, for the entertainment value to sink in, but it always seems to in the end. You just have to keep a good sense of humor in your pocket and a somewhat easy going approach to life. In return you’ll never have to read a book, go to the movies or watch television ever again.

 

“Everyone is unique” has always been a fancy way of saying we’re completely the same and I have always believed this to be true. I find it odd when people look to be “outcasts” or “standouts”, because humans hate to be alone, (unless you’re male, over sixty and have been divorced three times).

 

So today I’ll share a story about my friend’s day at work. He had to go to people’s homes and knock on their doors. Already that sounds painful. No one likes to be bothered at home during the day, (or anytime really). He had to gain access to their backyard for the purpose of municipal improvement project planning and despite having a questionable right to just “hop the fence” he felt the need to be polite and ask permission.

 

He’d knock on people’s doors and for the most part people answered. (That was my first shock, I actually thought people had day jobs, silly me.) Then he’d give them his speech, “Hi, I was wondering if I could have your permission to enter your backyard for a moment. I need to take a picture of a manhole cover for the City’s proposed sanitary sewer improvement project for this neighborhood.”

 

A lot of people would ask him to repeat himself, most would reluctantly say yes, as if they were being put out, a few people said yes before he even finished his speech and a couple of them escorted him in and out of their property. Seemed pretty normal to me and it sounded like the majority of them were nice and accommodating, but then he told me of the “other folks”. (Will now change to first person of my friend telling me the stories)

 

Bitch One: First of all she had the door cracked open only wide enough for her eye. I realize that opening your door to strange men is unsafe, but that’s just the thing, she opened it. If I was out to hurt her I could have easily kicked her and the door down. Either keep it shut or open it. She asked me to repeat myself like four times and never did seem to understand the words. She kept asking to see my “City” truck or to have it in writing from the City. I said, “Oooook” as snotty as I could and went to the house around back. When I got there the lady was freaked out as well and asked it I had any I.D. I told her no. Then she asked if I was going to go “Jason on her” and that she had a big dog she could sic on me. I replied, “Ma’am you can let your dog loose on me if I get freaky, but I just want to go into your backyard and take a couple of pictures.” So she let me and even came back there with me. I got my pictures by leaning over the fence into the bitch’s yard and as I was walking out she apologized for being weird, saying, “You just can’t trust anyone these days”. I agreed and thanked her.

 

Bitch Two: I rang the bell and a teenager answered the door. I gave my speech and she told me to hold on and then shut the door. Then her mother came to the door and asked me what I wanted. I repeated the speech and she told me, “I don’t even know who you are.” So I told her my first name. She then said, “No. No. I do mind. No. No.” Again, I gave her the snotty “Oooook” and went to the neighbor’s house. Once again I looked over the fence and got my pictures. As I left all I could think about was why would these people be so protective of their backyards. These weren’t nice houses by any means and a lot of them were straight up white trash pastures. I guess I should have told them I’d swear not to tell the cops about their weed bushes.

 

People; if nothing else, they’re good for a laugh.

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Kill Me I’m Already Dead

A friend told me that they were afraid of being raped in prison and that’s why they never broke the law. It actually came up in conversation, so it’s not as random as it may seem and it did get the wheels a churning, you know how it is. One little word can spark a whole days worth of philosophical thoughts. Mortality was what I came up with.

 

I’m not sure how being raped in prison led me to thinking about mortality. Could be because I’d rather die than go to prison or get raped, so being raped in prison is definitely out of the question. Oh yeah, I remember it was that he said he feared it and it made me think of what I fear.

 

I’m probably afraid of lot of things I’m not aware of. A good example is if I was to be in an airplane and was being told that I had to parachute out, I’d probably be faced with some fear. It might be the simple phobia of heights kicking in and since I spend the vast majority of my time on the ground I don’t really encounter a fear of heights. Another might be a pit full of spiders. Again, I don’t see too many spiders or spend time in too many pits, but if I was suddenly propelled into a situation that harvested these environmental, random, factors, I’d probably squeeze out a little bit of fear. Although as I look at both of these examples I do see that death is an underlying possibility in both scenarios.

 

Death is kind of a weird thing to fear, but because unlike the airplane and the spider pit, death can’t be avoided. It’s like the first big bummer you face on this planet. “Hey kid, you’re going to die someday.” Well, maybe the whole Santa debacle is the first tragic reality, then mortality.

 

All the old people I talk to about death never seemed phased by the idea at all. In most cases they act or talk as though they’re ready for it. “I’ve had a long and happy life” has been quoted to me on more than a few occasions. A few of them actually appeared to be waiting for it for as if it was a bus and they were somewhat annoyed that it was running behind schedule. Maybe if I live to be old I’ll lose my fear about death like I seem to losing so much other stuff, (hair, style, hipness, etc.)

 

One thing for sure is that I don’t care about the party afterwards. I don’t want a coffin or a mausoleum or any kind of non-sense like that. Burn my body and forgive me my sins, nothing worse than taking up space once you’re gone. I don’t care about my legacy or leaving a mark on the world either. I know that my presence was like a finger in a bucket of water, once you pull it out there is no void, it just fills in behind. I’m cool with all of that, but I just don’t want to die.

 

I think I’m that hysterical no-name guy in the disaster movie with his only line of, “I don’t want to die, I don’t wanna die!” right before he dies. But alas, I am going to die and I just can’t seem to accept it. I use to say that, “I do not believe in my own death for it can not be challenged or proved until either one is insignificant.”

 

Back then I use to drink heavily, so no, I don’t know what that means entirely.

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Prince of Persia Epilogue

I just ordered, or rather I downloaded, Prince of Persia ‘Epilogue’ today. I have to say that I am even more angry, hurt, frustrated and angry, (did I say angry twice?) than when I finished Prince of Persia ‘Sands of Time’. Don’t get me wrong, the only reason I’m feeling all of these things is because I love this game so much.

 

Let me just say that I’m not a big “gamer”. I don’t have the experience, time vested, or the skill set to be slumped in with those guy/gals. I’m a novice at best, but I was able to play and eventually beat the game. I probably wouldn’t have bothered if I’d known I was going to get hung out to dry so badly with the story line.

 

See, I like there to be substance in my games. I like the banter of the Prince and Elika, hearing the history and listening to the immense story that the makers of this game obviously worked hard on. As soft as it may sound, I really wanted to see the tension of the two of them to explode in the end. So what do they do? Elika dies! Yea, not really what I was expecting. So then I hear news that ‘Epilogue’ is coming out and it will pick up where the last period of ‘Sands of Time’ left off. I’m excited and happy again, but for how long.

 

Ten dollars to download this game and it took me two hours to play through it. So for gamers it was probably like ten minutes. Not worth it and I knew it before I bought it, but as I said before I love this game and I never wanted it to end so I didn’t care.

 

So I get to the end and I thinking to myself, “Wow that was fast. Kind of a rip-off, but oh well, at least I get to finish the story.” NOPE! The cliff hanger on this game is ten times worse than ‘Sands of Time’.

 

What is up with Ubisoft? They make some of the best games, but their endings are kick-you-in-the-balls-when-you’re-not-looking-horrible. Prince of Persia and Assassin’s Creed are two of my favorite and both have absolute dreadful endings. I understand that you want to leave me hanging so I’ll buy the next release, but a cliffhanger isn’t slamming on the brakes when you’re driving 100 miles an hour. They shouldn’t even be legally able to call it Epilogue, because it doesn’t finish or conclude anything.

 

I guess I’ll just have to wait till 2012 for the next full game release. Damn you Ubisoft! Do I smell Price of Persia Double Epilogue? How ‘bout Prince of Persia & Altair double teaming with Elika… that came out wrong.

 

I’m sorry Sunnah. (Sunnah left me a comment about being human and not posting advertising nonsense, but I needed to get this off my chest and I wanted to write it before I read your comment, so please forgive me. As for my other readers who are asking themselves, “What’s this kind of blog doing here on Rooster’s page, I assure you it’s over now and I won’t do it again.)

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Big Dogs and Small Dogs

I don’t know where you stand as a pet owner. Perhaps you hate animals or you are a cat lover. If either of these is the case, you can forget about wanting to read this blog, because this is all about the canine. More importantly it’s a look at the difference between the two versions. Don’t get mixed up in the breeds, because that’s just a flavor. When it comes to dogs, you only have big ones and small ones.

 

I’ve been around dogs my whole life. I feel like I’ve been around every breed there is. I was the teenager who’d bring home every stray I found and would find it a home. I’d take a dog to the emergency vet if I saw it get hit by a car while out driving and then follow up at the pound to make sure it wasn’t put to sleep. I’d even adopt it if I had to. In my early twenties I took several years off from ownership after a couple of traumatic experiences, but now I’m bad in the saddle again.

 

Big dogs are awesome. They have a certain stability and reliability that can’t be explained. They’re like a rock, (in fear of sounding trite). You don’t worry about them or look around in fear of killing them on your way to the kitchen by stepping on them. You can get rough with your big dog; get into some good old fashion wrestling, mimicking pop culture that displays a dog and a boy as inseparable. I like dogs so big that you want to ride them like ponies, big dogs that knock over furniture with their tails and big dogs that sound like wild animals that can kill you when their running in the dark across leaf covered yards. Big dogs are scary, whether they’re mean or not. If you round a corner and see a big dog standing there with no leash, the first thing a person thinks is, “Uh-Oh”.

 

Little dogs are totally different. You don’t have a little dog for any other reason than you wanted a baby, but settled on a dog. Every little dog’s name is “cutie” and none of them have ever heard any human speak to them without the grotesque sound of “baby talk”. Little dogs wear clothes and are carried in bags. Little dogs are more of an accessory than a pet. You don’t play fetch, catch or wrestle with your little dog. Instead you have fashion shows and look at it while you think to yourself, “How precious”. Everything a little dog does it precious. When they yawn, bark, jump, poop or beg, it’s precious. Little dogs lay on your lap, lay on your stomach or on your shoulder. Little dogs don’t ever want to do anything but lay on your and eat “special treats”. If your wife wants a fur coat, just get her ten little dogs.

 

No matter what kind of dog you have, one thing is for sure. Dogs are made up of two elements. Recycled babies and left over angels.

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Whatever Happened To Ramblin’ Rooster

Maybe you haven’t noticed and if you haven’t I’m very mad at you, but I haven’t posted in a while. I’d like to apologize… “I’m sorry.” It seems yours truly has fallen victim to vicious malware deployment. My computer is dead, completely dead. I can’t log on even in safe mode. I found a friend that is going to fix it for me, but he can’t get to it till this weekend. So until then you’ll just have to go back and read some of your favorites or maybe check out some blogs that maybe you missed. I promise to be back as soon as I can.

For those of you wondering how could I be blogging this if I don’t have a computer, I’m sorry, but  you haven’t caught me in an awkward lie. I’m actually at work using company equipment, (which by the way is heavily frowned upon) so I won’t be doing this again. I just felt bad for leaving anyone hanging, wondering why me page never updates. 

Thanks!

Cracked Egg

Ramblin’ Rooster

The Return of Ramblin Rooster!

Holy Hell Hammers it’s been so long since I’ve sat here and typed to you, my fellow bloggers and reading enthusiasts. Oh, how I’ve missed you. I have finally beaten my deadly and nasty virus. Well I didn’t beat it, a technician and my wallet, working together, overcame the atrocity that was laid up my innocent computer. I felt like the only kid on the field that was made to go sit in time out. The whole experience of being killed electronically has left a very bad taste in my mouth. Let’s discuss each item of my feelings as they occurred.

 

Feeling No. 1 – Shock

 

Yes, I was shocked. I’m not a big computer user, I mean I sit in front of one all day. The last thing I want to do when I get home is get in front of another one. I don’t download illegal music, look for free software or surf meticulously for porn. So when I saw that my computer was dying faster than I could spit out twelve letter vulgarities, needless to say I was shocked. I seemed like someone who was safe from such clichéd fates.

 

Feeling No. 2 – Anger

 

Let’s face it, who wouldn’t be angry losing their computer? Forget that it’s a computer, just owning an electrical device that won’t turn on when you push the button is frustrating enough. Computers aren’t very versatile, in that you wouldn’t use your old, non-working computer as a paper weight, door stop or bookmark. More than that, I was angry that the money that I pay each year to be “protected” from such threats failed to stop what was a common virus. Even if I questioned the validity of my anger it would soon be replaced with merit after calling technical support and being told, “Yeah we can’t help you” after being on hold for 87 minutes, (no joke). Not so much as an apology for their pathetic software either, not even a fake sorry.

 

Feeling No. 3 – Helpless Hopelessness

 

I asked a couple of my friends for some help. I tried a few tricks that I’ve picked up along the way in life. I even bothered the IT guys at work for some pointers. Nothing worked and I was going nowhere. Then it started to sink in, the guilt and shame of being a helpless idiot. In today’s world it’s easy to feel like you’re ancient with the tower of technology growing ever higher with each passing second of every day. Not being able to “open ‘er up” and “wipe the hard drive” without paid assistance makes you feel like a real nobody. Well, it does me. I don’t like relying on others to save me, but I was out of options. So I bit the bullet and made the “long walk” with computer in hand to the cheapest repair shop in town. With bowed head and eyes on my shoes, I mumbled to the 12 year old clerk, “Can you fix my computer?”

 

Feeling No. 4 – Anger (Again)

 

This time it was different. This anger was coming from the time elapsing long enough for everything to sink in and for the feeling of “getting screwed” to take hold. That and the phone call from one of the IT guys from work asking me, “How things work out with your computer? That bad, huh, where’d you end up taking it? Oh man, don’t take it there, those guys are horrible!”

 

Feeling No. 5 – Panic

 

After that I called the store where I took it, asking if I could pick up my computer and avoid the mandatory charge. Much to my surprise they said that I could. When I got there they seemed pretty mad and didn’t even wish me a nice day on my way out. A lot can change during the drive over I guess. I then sent my computer to the IT guy in another state because I trusted the guy and he was even cheaper than the repair store.

 

Feeling No. 6 – Depression

 

Sitting around with no computer is like sitting around with no computer. It’s just not fun. I guess maybe I’m more of a computer guy than I guessed.

 

Feeling No. 7 – Joy

 

I get my computer back and am able to return to the blog.

 

Feeling No. 8 – Pride

 

I was extremely happy to see that so many people kept reading and visiting in my absence. It made me feel like I was given a break for my extenuating circumstances. Thank you to everyone for bearing with me during my personal crisis and hanging in there until I got back on my feet. I can’t wait to return to business as usual.

 

I’ve been sober five minutes.

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

I Propose ‘Appreciation Week’ For Stimulus

Seems like all I ever hear anymore is stimulus this and stimulus that, yet it never seems to be anything I’m all that interested in. You’d think that hearing the words stimulus and package together in the same sentence so much would put you in a juvenile happy place, but ultimately it just leaves a dry taste in my mouth. I’m not trying to say I’m for or against what is happening, but I can say that I think stimulus is needed in other places. For instance, with the morality and mindset of the American people, I have a stimulus package that could change Americans forever and it’s totally free.

 

Check it out; it’s so simple and easy. It’s called ‘Appreciation Week’. So often the problem in America is the people, always so ungrateful for what they have, always worried about things that don’t matter and always destroying lives out of greed and lust. It makes you want to lay down on the train tracks when you think that cats and dogs have it so much better than a lot of humans on this planet. Yet, I think this can easily be changed.

 

Much like the title alludes to, ‘Appreciation Week’ is a once a year, week long trial designed to give a person a new perspective where they can be appreciative for what they have and perhaps reduce the way they contribute to the ugliness of the world. Interviews would be given to everyone in America to find out what they most feared or would miss about their life. Sometime after the interview, a group of “black op” soldiers would show up at your house and kidnap you. Upon awaking, you’d find yourself living out that which you feared the most. Sound harsh? You bet! Because that’s what we all need, a good slap in the face, a good kick in the pants and something that will wake us up from our social coma.

 

OK, OK, before you get out of control complaining about my rampant insanity, the “fear” that all of us would be facing wouldn’t be something harmful. If you had said in your interview “I’m afraid of going to prison and being raped”, you wouldn’t be placed in prison and raped, (that kind of extreme action is a Plan C or D). Rather, imagine that you feared being blind, so for a week you where blindfolded and never allowed to take it off for anything. Maybe you said you were of afraid of being homeless, so for a week you were stripped of all your precious, material belongings and forced to wander the streets with nothing and no one to help you. Can you imagine the change that would give a person inside? Me neither, but I bet the result would be positive 98% of the time.

 

All I’m saying is that once you get too comfortable you start to turn like a tub of sour cream on the bottom shelf in the refrigerator that’s obstructed from view. You need to know that your precious life really is precious and that at any moment you could be in a very dark place, so maybe it’s not worth giving me the finger on the highway or parking in a handicap spot at the store when you are not qualified to do so. Maybe you have a damn good life that you’d hate to see go away, but can’t see it until part of it does for just one week.

 

You might think I’m crazy, but I’ve already done mine for this year. (Remember? One week without blogging)

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Women and Laundry

As you know, I’m just coming off being electronically dead. It was no picnic and at times I felt as though I was starring in a depression control medication commercial, (except for the fact that I never wore sweat pants). What’s a rooster to do with no computer to peck at? Watch television of course!

 

I don’t know if you’ve ever watched television, but in case you haven’t let me explain it to you. There are these annoying six to eight minute segments of programming called “shows”. They can be about all kinds of things, but they’re really just there to give you a chance to go to the bathroom or grab a snack so you don’t miss the whole reason to watch television. That reason is commercials and they’re awesome!

 

Commercials let me know what’s happening in the world better than any stupid news show. Commercials are the voice and reflection of what the world is really thinking and feeling. Commercials are better than any drug or source of euphoria you can get, because in commercials the world is perfect. There’s always peace and political correctness going on that let’s me know where I should be in my own moral decision making. You see I trust marketers, because it’s they’re job to pander to all of us. They can’t say or do anything that doesn’t hit home or they’d be out on the street. This is why you don’t see young, hip hop kids trying to sell the elderly Jitterbug phone, or grandma selling condoms, it just wouldn’t fly. Commercials can’t lie; they are the only truth in America!

 

So when I see laundry soap commercials come on television that have a young man talking to women as a group, a room full or individually, one-on-one via a street corner about stains and washing soap technology I know it’s for real. The thing of it is I never see any men in the commercials being talked to about the soap or their laundry needs/worries/concerns. I guess it’s because men don’t do laundry, only women do and apparently they love it because they get somewhat excited about the grass, coffee, blueberry, mud stain coming out of Billy’s soccer uniform.

 

This is all very important to me, because it helps me in my own life. In my house I use to do a lot of laundry, but after seeing these commercials I know that I’m denying my wife a pleasure in life. So I told her, “Honey, I’m sorry that I’ve been keeping you from a joyous and pleasurable experience in your life and I promise never to do it again. That’s why I pledge to never do another load of laundry ever.”

 

In loving memory-

Ramblin’ Rooster

Mysterious Highway Skid Marks

Driving down the highway can be tiring. It doesn’t make sense, since you’re not really doing anything except sitting, but regardless, long trips seem to take it out of you. I’ve always had a theory that the reason for this is speed. You may not be moving your limbs using your muscles, but your body is traveling at the rate of speed equal to the car’s speed. Now unless you have been bitten by a radioactive, moon cricket and have been blessed with super powers, you’re probably not use to traveling at 60 to 80 miles an hour unassisted.

 

The other thing about traveling is that it’s rather boring or certainly can be. That’s why there’s all those great, yet mind boggling, desperate games like Alphabet, I-Spy, 20 Questions and countless others that were created by those that would rather spend 87 miles looking for an “X” than just riding in a car. If you happen to be “of the unfortunate nature” and find yourself traveling alone, it’s almost impossible not to fall inside you’re brain.

 

Before you know it, you’ve relived every fight, conversation, missed opportunity and pleasurable experience you’ve ever had. Once that’s over you begin to slip into the zombie-esque state of staring at things with blank face and empty mind.

 

You start to notice roadkill. Out of the corner of your eye you see a hawk take flight. Across the field you observe an abandon, near reclaimed by the earth farm house. You think to yourself, “I wonder who lived there. I bet they’re all dead.” Passing an out of business gas station you tease yourself about running out of gas, but you still check your gauge. Twice. It’s then that you see the first one.

 

It’s just a slight stain of black, somewhat faded, but noticeable to your now awaken road eyes. A few more miles whiz by and you pick up on two solid burn marks. As you continue down the road, more and more skid marks run across the road. This way and that way, to and fro, on the road, off the road, into oncoming traffic, and down into the ditch. What the hell happened on this road? What kind of carnage took place? Have you found the lost shooting location of Mad Max/Road Warrior? Nah couldn’t be. That was filmed in Australia. Holy smokes, did I drive all the way to Australia?

 

“Two days ago I saw a truck that could haul that tanker. You wanna get outta here? You talk to me.”

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Room Can Only Take One Smart Ass

You know the old cliché that women don’t get along with each other because they’re always in competition and comparison wars? What’s that, it’s not a cliché? Oh… Well, men have their own version of this. It’s called the “Smart Ass” limit and that number is strictly, without tolerance, set to one.

 

What is a smart ass? Good question. A smart ass is someone who likes to use sharp humor, violent sarcasm, extra dry wit and extremely quick thinking to bring humor and a sense of being uncomfortable into a mood or situation. Often times the smart ass will actually use things being said as his weapons as he masterfully crafts a metaphorical mirror in to which he makes his victims stare. Nothing is safe around the smart ass, for the smart ass will eagerly, (and many times without thinking) venture into forbidden or touchy areas of conversation. A smart ass doesn’t want to hurt people, but on the other hand doesn’t think about if he is hurting people. A smart ass is untamed, wild and thoughtless. There are no filters on a smart ass. If it enters the head, it’s already on its way out the mouth. A smart ass can quickly start piercing shields if he’s not an excellent marksman. It doesn’t take long for things to go from bad to worse if a smart ass takes a wrong turn somewhere.

 

As mentioned in the opening, much like a women who gets angry when another girl shows up wearing “her outfit”, a smart ass doesn’t like it when another smart ass shows up on the scene. There’s really only room for one smart ass in any situation at any given time. You’ve never heard anyone say, “We need another couple of smart asses in here.” Although they’re funny you can only take a smart ass in reasonable quantities. Smart asses don’t like competition. Since the whole routine of being a smart ass is alienating, it’s really all they have, so they don’t want some chump trying to move in on their action. It’s like that line from the book, ‘Smart Asses and You’ by Dr. Hutton C. Barkelucktumdill, where David, the main character and smart ass, says, “I’m a smart ass OK? It’s all I got. I gave up drinking and drugs and smoking and gambling, but I can’t give up this. It’s intertwined into my soul. It’d be like trying to remove my skeleton. I’d rather you just kill me or quit talking about it.”

 

A smart ass is good to have around for a fix of dark humor, but you can’t get close to a smart ass. Nothing is real and everything’s material for the next joke. You can’t trust a smart ass. Not because they might be unfaithful or undermining, but because you never know what to believe. A smart ass can be anything or anyone if the mood suits him. He’s not afraid of what the opinion is or where it might lead. A smart ass is only in it for the short haul, for the now.

 

So the next time you see a smart ass, go over to them and whisper in their ear, “It’s alright, I won’t try to change you., but you will die alone.” Then walk away and leave the room. Believe me, it’s pretty powerful stuff.

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Sweat Pants Companies Sue America

I’ve never practiced law, but I’ve always wanted to sue someone for something. On occasion I’d find myself out in the world noticing things that could have led to “class action” if I had wanted to “go for it”. For instance, there was a fast food restaurant by my office that had three or four steps to the front door and a little porch, if you will, with railing. Well the railing was loose and faulty and I thought about breaking my leg and performing a make-believe fall outside their building. Potentially it could have turned into some serious money. I just never got around to wanting to break my leg. Oh yeah, and it was morally wrong.

 

I’m glad to say that things have changed and I no longer suffer from morality. I’m ready to take America head-on. I want to sue pop culture. My client? The sweat pants companies of America.

 

What is wrong with sweat pants? They have the worst rap of any clothing item and it’s completely biased. There’s nothing wrong with sweatshirts, just the pants. Only fat people or depressed people wear sweat pants. You never see celebrities or cultural icons roaming around in sweat pants. No one ever says, “Do you have these in a sweat pant?” or “Do you have the sweat pants that George Clooney wore in Ocean’s 500?” Sweat pants never get to be cool or a sign of a wise fashion choice. Even the trend of “ass vocabulary” sweat pants made popular by teeny-bopper girls never really earned the respect of people. They still carried with it a projection of “trashy” or “dirty”. No one wants sweat pants, no one ever asks for sweat pants for a gift, sweat pants aren’t given away as prizes and have never been adopted as a uniform by any organization. “Here’s your hat, your gun, your badge, and your sweat pants.” Not going to happen.

 

Why? Sweat pants are so comfortable and relaxing. They allow your body to do whatever it wants to do, stretch in any direction it wants to stretch and to grow and grow. Sweat pants are your friend. They’re not out to judge you or get in your way, hold you down or try to make you into something you’re not. Sweat pants are the real deal. No hidden tricks or smoke and mirrors. If you wear sweat pants in public, you’re basically saying to the world, “I’m not afraid of what any of you think. This is me and I’m not ashamed. I will not let the fear of being judged put me in tight, constricting pants.”

 

Shame on all of you that have tried to crush sweat pants, let misfortune knock upon your door for destroying an innocent fiber blend. Think of all the poor v