Insisting on the Right of Way
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Click to read the obvious message.
Also at NASCAR events.
posted by Ghengis @ 9:29 PM,
,
Kirby vs the Mongolians
Thursday, August 24, 2006
I had blue crap all over my hands from trying to fix the toilet. There was a light knock on the door. Usually friends knock so I answered it. A young man hands me a bottle of soap said that he is looking for honest people in the neighborhood to give some opinions about cleaning products. Being dirty and already pissed off about plumbing, why not.
"Are you an honest person?" he continued from introduction. I could see in my head a man at the front of a seminar shouting, "Open with a question they can't say no to!"
"No, I'm a fucking compulsive liar." I answered monotonely. I became conscious of how tired and drained I was.
"Heh, that's a good one. Well do you at least like to give your opinions about things?"
How could I say no? "Oh yeah I tell complete strangers my opinions all the time." I said flatly.
He ran back to the truck and returned hauling in two boxes making a show of how the heat and carrying boxes was making him tired. "Oh man thanks for turning the air on for me! Ha ha ha!"
I was in no mood. By that I mean I could not ascribe a mood to how I was feeling. There was nothing. I was tired and I figured a show might be nice. It was at this point that I decided it was my job to make this guy feel as uncomfortable as possible.
I was wearing my collared work shirt from work, but I had put a pair of knit shorts on. These shorts are old and the material on the ass end is worn off. There isn't a hole, but it it's a two layer material. It's hard to describe, but they are prefect shorts to wear when fixing the toilet but are probably very uncomfortable for company. I didn't care.
He started the sales pitch opening with a few jokes. My favorite was the one when he accidentally got his tie caught on one of the boxes while he was setting up. "I swear these things were invented by the same guy who invented the noose! Hah!" I said nothing.
While he was getting set up I went to the fridge and grabbed a beer. I sat down and turned on Sportscenter while he continued the pitch. I stared at the tv like nothing else was going on in the world. He was talking about his vacuum cleaner.Finally it came to the question asking portion of the sale. He had sucked up a lot of crap off of the couches and the recliner and had set approximately 5 bags flatly on the floor so I could see how much crap he had removed from my furniture.
"Ok. Now. What would you say if I asked you to eat one of these bags?" he asked.
I snapped to attention as if I had be entirely unaware of his presence. "Oh yeah. I guess I'd give it a shot." I shrugged.
"Uh. Oh. Heh. Um. Well... no one's ever said that before... but that's actually good. Because doctors actually say that it is better to eat this than to breath it in... blah blah lung facts and etc..."
"Ok." I said.
He went back into sales mode showing me how it can clean ceilings and tvs and speakers and etc. Then he wanted to show me how it can work on carpet. We sprinkled some powder into the carpet. He grabbed the cheap vacuum that I own and said that he would show me how poor it is. "Ok I'll suck this up with your old Bissell and you tell me when you think I have got up all of the powder."
I turned back to the tv and let him vacuum over the spot over and over. He was on about 50 strokes when I saw him look up at me. "I don't think it's all up yet. Keep going." I said, monotonely but encouraging. He was doing such a good job cleaning my house.
Over and over and over he ran the vacuum over the spot where the powder was ground in. A battle of wills was being played but I knew I had already won. I was not going to tell him to stop. He kept going. For at least 3 minutes he worked and I could tell he was getting tired. Soon he would resign and stop without my say. But he kept going. Tell him to stop I kept saying to myself, but I had to stay strong!
Finally the kid stopped. "Whew!" Beads of sweat had formed on his forehead. "One hundred and 50 passes! I bet you think I got all of it!"
"I doubt it."
"Now let me show you how your vacuum didn't get all of it!"
He continued with more demonstrations. Finally it was time to use the shampooer. The moment I was waiting for. "Ok... now do you have any stains or spots on your carpet?"
"Yeah there's some blood over here." I said pointing to a small brown spot
"Whoa, did you say blood? Should I even ask what happened?" he asked.
"No you shouldn't."
"Oh man! Come on! I have to ask!"
"All right. There was a man here selling knives."
He got kind of nervous at that. "Oh really...?"
"Well he wanted me to feel how sharp they were so I cut a nice gash into the top of my head." I pulled my hair aside and showed him the scar from my truck accident. "That guy ran out of here afterwards. He left the knives if you want to try to sell those too."
There was a pause. I was done talking. "Ok!" he said nervously. "Well I just have this one last demonstration and I'll get out of your hair!" I didn't know if that was supposed to be a pun or not.
Finally his boss came by and they began the high pressures part of the sale. The asked questions that a sane man could not say no to, but an insane man could pretty easily. Still they persisted by repeatedly lowering the price on their machine. They insisted that I was getting a very very special price - lower than anyone has ever been offered. I could not say no enough. I even offered $50.
I said, "Listen. I am sorry I can not afford your fancy vacuum cleaner today but... I am so glad you guys are in my home," I paused folding my hands and steepling my fingers in front of my face, "because I'd really like to talk to you guys about Jesus." I said, pointing.
They could not leave any faster.
posted by Ghengis @ 9:54 PM,
,
One and a Half Nonplussed
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
American reporters are probably the smartest reporters. Every time something happens overseas and there is not a phonetical English spelling that can be looked up immediately when the story breaks; reporters wing it and hope for the best. After all being first is better than being right.
The straggling reporters then race to be second to report the story, also forgetting to learn a proper pronunciation. Like lazy college students, they go to the Cliff's Notes version of the pronunciation, forgoing their own research, and unintentionally stroking the ego of the first on the scene! reporter.
But wait! It is not over. Two weeks later a reporter will interview a "credible source" with a foreign accent and curiously different skin color who has a different way of saying a certain word or name. The cycle continues until there are 50 different ways to say each word.
First off these words don't even look alike, but for the longest time reporters were calling India's largest city, "Bombay", when it is spelled M-U-M-B-A-I. I thought it was still pronounced Bombay, but I found out with the rest of America how to say this when some kid was eaten by a shark or something over there.
It sounds like a genuine Arab on wiki solved this conundrum - Mahmoud Ahmadinejad. Although I have heard someone swear it was, Ama-Dina-JIHAD, this one seems to be finally on track.
The word Hezbollah (Hizbollah, Hizballah, Hezbillies?) however, has been tossed around, chewed up, consumed by frat boys at a tailgate party, and then regurgitated in a nearby stream where it is spread to the farm and is picked up by ears of corn that will eventually fuel your ethanol-mobile. Not one person has ever made the decision as to how they are going to pronounce this word until they have already said it. Hezbollah is a modern day tower of Babel and pretty soon no one will be able to understand anyone else. That is why I have started stocking up on cans of soup - the non-insane way to prepare for Armageddon.
If a reporter really wants to sensationalize and sexify the news, from now on they need only to turn to ESPN's Stuart Scott for help with all of their pronunciations.
"Hez-BOO-Yah!"
posted by Ghengis @ 10:52 PM,
,
Terminal Living
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
There's nothing like hearing a story from someone about how they got screwed over by an airport. And by nothing I mean that it is exactly like the feeling you get when you're cornered by a mountain lion in a windowless laundry room. I have done both so I will spare any itinerarical details and focus on the story at hand.
In my travels of the last few weekends I spent a compulsory evening in a major airport in a major city. When an airport closes for the night the usual civil environment of people hustling from one terminal to another, ordering coffee, and chatting while waiting for their flight changes completely. The night brings out the primeval urges of man. In some ways an airport at night is more savage than an ancient cave dwelling.
The first task is selecting the location that will be your home for the next few dark hours. We stalked down the hall looking for vacant spot to call our own. The edges of the hall were dotted with small segregated groups. I saw a group of teachers talking non-stop about how much they hated work (on summer vacation no less!). There were families huddled close around a the glow of a cell phone for warmth. A mother held her toddler in her lap. Both of them were prone to frequent coughing fits. Airport workers had already set about cleaning various places in the airport.
Finally we found a spot near the window away and away from the other squatters. While we quickly set about marking out our territory an electric cart came by with a cheery gruff man who was passing out blankets. "Staying the night? Good luck! Here is an extra blanket! Be sure to sleep with one eye open!" he told us with a smile.We used our shoes to form a semi-circle perimeter of our territory. We glanced furtively to either side while placing each shoe to make sure that anyone looking knew that we meant business. Then my dad and I staged a fake wrestling match to establish that we were the toughest squatters out there and that our clan was not to be messed with. I began by swinging my carry-on backpack and screaming obscenities while my dad parried with his fists. We called it good when he drew blood on my forearm with a mega Indian burn. Knowing that we were mostly safe, our clan decided that we could sleep.
I woke up at... God knows what time, and was feeling pretty hungry. All of the food courts had closed and I had not eaten in over half a day. As I walked around to see if anyone had a spare apple or pudding pack when who did I see but none other than the hulking 280lb, 6'10" mass known as Jared from Subway - sitting there in the airport just like you or I! I was thrilled to see a familiar and friendly looking face! He was busy setting his teeth to a raw T-bone steak as I approached. Surely he had some Subway mustard packets or cookies I could eat. When I stepped forward to ask he barked furiously at me. I jumped and turned to run. Jared chased after me on all fours. Finally I cleared his arbitraily defined territory which he had previously marked with urine. At this time he lumbered cautiously back to his meat.When I got my bearings back I found myself situated between the gaggle of teachers and the men's bathroom. A worker was busy waxing the floor in front of the bathroom and an impassable barrier of wet floor signs were blocking me from getting a drink of water. I looked towards the teacher camp. They were still yammering loudly about their jobs. On the ground sitting next to one of them I spied a half finished scone and a Starbucks coffee cup. Sustenance!
I was not going to attempt to
In the bathroom I tore off a few sheets of paper towels. I formed the paper into a sharp object. I crept back towards the hallway. I could not see the worker so I assumed it was safe. I wiped the object around in the wax to give it a nice coating. Then I scurried back into the bathroom where I ran the paper and wax under the hand dryer until it was hard. Now I had a perfectly made prison shank!
I used some of the blood on my arm and painted my face so I looked like a fierce warrior. Shank clenched between my teeth, I crawled on my belly towards the teachers' camp. They were still discussing work horror stories at... it was 4AM!"... and THEN he was like 'hey Cathy I need to talk to you for a second after you let your class out'. And I was like my contract states that my obligations to the school end at 3PM sharp and I will be calling the union if I'm held after for over 15 minutes..."
I was getting closer to making the scone and coffee be in my belly. I slid across the floor like a snake on a mission. But I started getting dizzy. I was breathing heavy. The teachers were still talking.
"... you know what I would do is give them detention and make their parents stay and watch them! HAHA! I mean why should we have to do all of this extra work..."
I found myself choking. Every breath only caused more pain in my chest. My head was pounding. The closer I got the less oxygen there was. The teachers had laid out a yammering vacuum trap to suck up all of the nearby oxygen and the scone was the bait! Nearly passed out I looked up. The teachers had surrounded me. "Gotcha!" Darkness...
I woke up. The teachers had tied me to an airport chair and were preparing a fire on the other end of the row of chairs. "We'll teach you sonny! Get it? Teach you? Haha!" The fire had spread to the second chair while the continued to complain about work. How the fire burned in the yammer vacuum, I don't know. One of them kept glancing at me to make sure I would not get free. The scone was still there, obviously set to trap another victim. I could reach it with my feet. I grabbed the scone with my feet and flipped it into the fire. No one else would be meeting my fate. The smell of burning scone filled the air.
The fire had moved to the 3rd chair. Only one chair separated myself from the fire. I had run out of plans. Then I heard something roar. Jared from Subway was running up the staircase. He must have smelled the burning scone! Jared leapt into the middle of the teachers and gnashed his teeth at them. He bristled his back growling. The teachers quickly got up and ran.
I told Jared that I loved Subway and eat there 3 or 4 times a week. He cocked his head to the side. "That's it boy. Come here!" The fire had reached the chair next to me. "Bite through these ropes!" Jared went to work on the ropes with his massive jaws. At the last moment Jared free me. I grabbed on to his back and he ran. The final chair caught fire and the whole row exploded in a great fireball. Eyes closed tightly, I felt tongues of flame licking my bare heals.
Jared carried me back to our airport camp and and placed me on my airport blankets. I was able to get another hour of sleep before catching that 7AM flight.
Thanks Jared. Cape Cod was a lot of fun!
posted by Ghengis @ 5:21 PM,
,
Haunted Bathroom House
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
There will be more on Cape Cod later, but it is bedtime for all little boys who spent too much of their life on a jet.
We were allowed to use the bathroom of the old house next to the very old church while the priest talked to the bride and groom. While the bathroom was in use we could not help but to explore. With every creaky footstep we peered cautiously around the corners. We peaked through doors and kept expecting to find a pile of skeletons or some kind of long untouched bloody instruments that suggested foul play. The attic was furnished into a bedroom which was torn from the page of an 1800's orphanage where something rotten happened and for some reason or another a child's soul was inevitably left behind. That is where the poem was found.
Seething?
This is definitely going to Found.
posted by Ghengis @ 11:47 PM,
,
