A few months ago we received a check in the mail, for an amount in the low four-digits, from a well-known investment company.  There was no real explanation, but the word “pension” appeared on the stub.

What in the knuckle-crackin’ hell?

We deposited it into our savings account, and Toney gave their customer service department a call.  The man was very friendly, but insisted their information was correct; I was to receive the same amount every month, for the rest of my life.

“But my husband is 46,” Toney said, “Why’s he receiving pension checks now??”

“I wouldn’t know that, ma’am.  Did he have a special arrangement with his former employer?” he answered.

Toney told him something was wrong, and he assured her it’s very difficult to get such a thing approved, it would’ve had to cross six or eight desks.  It’s been thoroughly examined, he promised, and we should just enjoy the money.

I didn’t like it, not one tiny bit.  Something was askew.  And when we received the third monthly check, I called them back myself.

The dude started the same song and dance, but I cut him off and said I wanted it re-confirmed and explained to me, in writing.  Why am I receiving pension checks at the age of 46?  What triggered it, and more generally: what the crap, man??

He chuckled, like he was dealing with a hysterical school girl, and told me he’d order a review.  We should look for a letter detailing their findings, he promised.

And do any of you want to guess what the letter said?  That’s correct, we have until the end of January to pay all the money back, because of “an unfortunate error” on their part.

Yes, it’s reassuring to know our retirement funds are in such good hands…

I’m not at all interested in going into the details, I’ve had quite enough of it already, but the past week was a real testicle-masher at work.  I didn’t believe it would ever end, but my long weekend is finally here.

And tonight I plan to engage in a prolonged couch wallow/film festival.  I have Transsiberian, American Teen, and Play Misty For Me from Netflix, plus about fifteen additional movies saved to the DVR.

So, I’m going to drink Yuenglings from a pint glass, snuggle ‘neath the Scrote-watcher, and check out of this world for a while.  Escapism will be the theme of the evening, and I can’t wait.  I want to pass through a portal of beer, blankets, and cinema.

And once I’ve reached the other side, I’ll decide whether I want to return.

Buck sent me a link to this video today, and it’s pretty amazing.  I love the face the girl makes after saying, “I’ll sweep the floors…!”  I keep playing it, and that part kills me.

She has some wonderful friends, doesn’t she?  Their laughter can be heard throughout the whole video, and they presumably posted it to the internet.  Sorority sisters… ha!

I checked YouTube for a follow-up, and found this hilarious response.  It’s all good.

The Smoking Fish has been spotted at two recent sporting events.  Check it out.  Our logo, man, he watches a lot of ESPN.

Thanks folks!  Keep the photos coming.  Send them to my main address:  jeff(at)thewvsr.com

And since Kelly is wearing one of the new shirts, I’m going to use it as an excuse to link to the order page again.  Only a few remain!  Time is running out!!  When Fad has a sale, Fad has a sale!!!

Speaking of movies, did any of you see Valkyrie?  The TV commercials make it look interesting, but the thing completely tanked at the box office.

Is it because Tom Cruise is in it?  Has his humorless, scientologist, creepy-ass ways finally ruined his career?  Does his involvement automatically stamp a big red VETO across his movies at this point?

I don’t know.  I don’t like the guy very well either, he’s always seemed like a smug Chicklet-toothed frat boy asshole to me, but I’m not ready to write him off completely.  I want to see Valkyrie, once it hits Netflix.

However… anything featuring Sean Penn is an automatic NO.  I can’t stand the guy, on any level.  Yeah, I know he’s supposedly a great actor, but I don’t care.  If he’s involved, I won’t be seeing it.

There are a few others who are teetering, usually the ones who have the stick of righteousness up their ass.  You know, the people who have the same exact opinions as everyone they know, but act like they’re being exceedingly courageous by boring us all with it?  But Penn is the only one who absolutely disqualifies a movie for me.

What about you?  Are there any actors or actresses who fall into that category for you?  Which ones ruin it for you, and cause you to not even consider seeing one of their films?

Tell us about it in the comments, won’t you?

And I won’t be updating on Friday, I’m afraid.  I’ll be spending the day working on some behind-the-scenes stuff that should already be done.

So, have a great weekend, my friends.  I’ll see you on Monday, if not sooner.

Now playing in the bunker.

I took that picture, this morning between 1:30 and 2:00.  No, not from inside the shower.  It was the view through the driver’s side window of my car, as I sat around in the middle of the night, like a high-douche, waiting for the bullet-proof ice shell to loosen up a bit.

As I was leaving work a security guard said, “Be careful out there.  It’s pretty shitty.”  And his assessment of the situation was right on the money.  Shitty, it most certainly was.

The sidewalk outside the door was a highly-polished sheet of ice, and I had to walk like I was smuggling butt-eggs in order not to fall.  The parking lot was also slick and crunchy, but not as many people had walked in the same area, so it wasn’t quite as treacherous.

It was raining hard pellets at this point, and the whole world was encased in crystal clear ice.  If I hadn’t been facing a drive home in it, I probably would’ve thought everything looked really cool.  But, under the circumstances:  no.

My car had a hard protective coating on it, at least an inch thick.  I pulled on the passenger side door, and it wouldn’t budge.  What the?  I tugged harder, trying to remain conscious of the slickness beneath me, and the door exploded from its state of suspended animation.

Big plates of ice went flying in every direction.

I put my notebook and snack sack on the seat, and grabbed my military-grade ice scraper off the passenger-side floor.  And with the very first scraping motion, I knew it was going to be much more complicated than that.  It was almost literally impenetrable.

I egg-walked around to the driver’s side, played tug of war with that door, and got inside.  I started the engine, turned the heater as high as it would go, set it so it would blow directly onto the glass, and activated the network of heat-wires in the back window.

Then I got back out and tried to scrape again.  And it’s weird…  The rear of the car, and the passenger side, weren’t too bad.  I could apply a little pressure, and great sections of ice would bust loose.  It wasn’t really scraping, it was more like prying.

But the windshield and driver’s side were a mess.  The inch-thick layer of ice had become part of the car.  I literally couldn’t cut through it.

And why does that happen?  Why is there always bad sides of a frozen car, and not-so-bad sides?  There wasn’t much wind out there, so I don’t think that was the reason.  I’m sure some of you can school me on it…

So, I had few options, and decided to just get in the car and wait for it to heat up a little.  Then maybe I could make some progress.

I listened to George Noory, and his “everything’s going to hell” guest of the hour.  This one was talking about the impending explosion of Yellowstone Park, and how it will lead to the extinction of the human race.  Or somesuch.

Finally, after about fifteen minutes (fifteen real minutes, not fifteen tall-tale minutes), I noticed the ice at the bottom of the windshield was starting to go a little wobbly.  So, I got out and was able to clean the rest of it off.

And as I was working I heard a supervisor, way off on the other side of the parking lot, holler, “This is bullshit!  FUCK!!”

Finally I was moving, and the roads were horrible.  Until I reached the interstate the rear of my car wanted to trade places with the front.  The highway was a little better, but only the right lane, where previous vehicles had cut a path through the mess.

I don’t think I ever made it up to 50 mph during the entire journey, and didn’t get home until 3:10.  I’d left my job at 1:40, and live 36 miles away.  Grrr…

The sidewalk in front of our house has a few down-steps in it, and I didn’t trust any of it.  I had visions of a cartoon character slipping on ice, fully inverted, with his feet above his head.  So I walked through the yard, with my feet turned sideways, like skis.

I finally reached the front door, without blowing my neck open, and Andy exploded from the house.  He was wild, and took off running in some random direction.  Funk dat, I said.  If he’s gone, he’s gone.  I’m not chasing that crazy hound in this crap.

But, of course, he returned a short time later.  Coming from the opposite direction, I noticed…  Wonder if he ran all the way around the world?  It’s possible, I think.  Black Lips was moving.

I shed my coat, slipped into some ’80s sweatpants, flopped down in front of my computer, and popped the top on a Yuengling Lager.  Then another.

I finally crawled into bed at 4:20, almost three hours after I’d left work, and Toney’s alarm went off ten minutes later.  It was time for her to start the day, as I was drifting off to sleep for the “night.”

And that’s the way we live nowadays.

Now playing in the bunker.

I’m not sure if anyone’s noticed, but I’ve been trying to keep the updates a little more focused than they used to be.  More one-topic posts, and less bouncing from subject to subject…

Occasionally, however, it will be necessary to revert to the old epilepsy under a strobe light style of the past. And today is one of those days.  My notebook runneth over with bite-sized crapola.

Does everyone have their t-shirts now? At this point they should all be delivered, even the ones going to Europe, etc. So, if you ordered one and don’t have it, let me know. And please God, don’t let there be any issues. I don’t think my picture window ulcer can take it.

There are only a few shirts remaining. Here are the current counts. I’m not going to buy more, anytime soon. So, if you want one, right now would be a good time to order. Right forkin’ now.

I posted something new at Suggestaholic yesterday, and here’s the link. Going forward, there will be at least one new update every week at that site. So, if you’re interested in the subjects I cover there (music, books, movies, beer) please subscribe to the feed, and/or bookmark the site.

I’d be much obliged.

A few days ago the older Secret was telling me about something that happened in one of his death and dismemberment PlayStation games. Medal of Honor? Is that right? I have some difficulty with the details…

Anyway, he said he shot someone as they peeked around a corner, and as the dude pulled back a mist of blood was all that could be seen near the wall.

“There’s your band name!” I told him.

“Wha’?” he said.

“Mist of Blood! What a great band name!!”

And now he’s fixated on it. He wants to start a band, and call it Mist of Blood. And Toney isn’t real thrilled with my input on the subject.

Do you do that? Do you hear little phrases in your everyday life, and think, “What a great name for a band!” It happens to me at least once a week. I need to start writing them down.

Not that I’ll ever start a band, mind you. The only musical instrument I can play is my car stereo, and I’m not exactly a virtuoso with that.

A few months ago, as you might remember, Steve and I traveled to Philadelphia to see Paul Weller perform. He’s a Springsteen-caliber star in Europe, and almost completely unknown in America. Don’t believe me? Well, check out the treatment he receives from the tabloids in England. That’s something reserved for A-listers only, my friends.

And speaking of music and bad behavior, here’s some sad news for ya…

Over the past few weeks I’ve taken advantage of some really great one-day sales at Amazon’s mp3 store. They sell seemingly random albums for next to nothing for a few hours, then quickly raise the price back up to its normal level.

As you might imagine, this is causing me to become semi-obsessed… I’ve been checking the site several times every day.

But now I’ve found a better way. Amazon has set up a Twitter page, where all their quickie sales are listed. Right here. So, no more rooting around the website, believing I somehow missed the Best Deal Ever.

Yes, these kinds of things improve the quality of the OCD life.

And speaking of Amazon, I really hate when customers start their reviews with, “Well, what can I say?” For some reason that causes me to grind my molars, and make gurgling noises deep in my throat. Same goes for this ending: “‘Nuff said!”

Every person who’s ever left such a review, anywhere on the Amazon site, can kiss it. Both east and west of the great divide. …I’m sorry, I’m getting a little worked up.

I was digging through my closet a couple weeks ago, and found a pair of red sweatpants. They’re the old 1980s-style, with elastic at the bottom of each leg.

Huh, I thought, those look kinda comfy. They’re in really good shape too, possibly never used.  So I threw them in the washer, then started wearing ’em.

And they make Toney crazy. Clearly, she hates them. Every time I walk into the room wearing my new (but old) sweatpants, she sighs and shakes her head.

I finally asked her what was bothering her about them, and she said adult men should never wear clothes with elastic at the bottom. That goes for both shirts and pants.

I’d never thought about it. Is that true? What do you think?

Regardless, I plan to continue rocking them. They’re very comfortable, and what do I care if they’re gathered at the bottom, and are a throwback to the Footloose era? I don’t take fashion into consideration when preparing for a good couch wallow. Ya know?

I recently linked to a movie site Brad told me about. They offer vintage and downloadable drive-in movies, including an interesting one called Lunch Meat. Eventually I’d like to watch a few of ’em. You know, in my spare time.

But it leads me to the Question of the Day… There were a few highly questionable movies I saw, back during my high school days, which I’m hoping will eventually be featured at the site.

One was advertised under the phrase, “R has never gone this far!” And another was a softcore porn version of Pinocchio, with the tagline, “It’s not his nose that grows!”

So, that’s the question. What’s your favorite tagline for a movie? Not necessarily the sleazy stuff I’m talking about, any movie. Are there any that are especially memorable?  Which ones have stuck with you through the years?

Please tell us about it in the comments.

And I’ll see you guys tomorrow.

Now playing in the bunker.

Yesterday I received wonderful news, my friends:  Surf Reporters Tiff and Biff Spiffy (Tiff & Biff!) were married at their home in Wake Forest, NC.

And as if that weren’t cool enough… they actually met through the website!  Man, that’s just about as awesome as awesome ever gets.  Chuck Woolery can eat my dust!

And there’s a sentence I never could’ve predicted I’d write.

My spies tell me other Surf Reporters were in attendance as well, including Mr. and Mrs. Kenju, and Renn.   The whole thing is almost too great to process…

Well-done, guys.  I wish you nothing but the best, and hoist an outsize vessel of the golden elixir in your honor.

Please join me in congratulating the newlyweds!

Prices recently changed in the vending machines at work, and nothing makes much sense anymore.  The Big Grab potato chips (a sack large enough to please even me) cost just 75 cents, for instance.  But regular Reese’s (or as they’re called back home:  Reesey Cups) are $1.10.

My inner snack-sensor says those prices should be flip-flopped.  Don’t you think?  A normal candy bar should not be so expensive, and a family-sized serving of chips shouldn’t be so cheap.

As I was standing there contemplating this most pressing of issues, I started thinking about work vending machines in general…

The company that maintains ours also maintained the ones at my previous job.  So, it’s all very familiar; the lineup never really changes.

We’ve got two fancy-pants Coke machines, with buttons the size of dinner plates.  They offer what you’d expect, plus bottled water, and several (often mysterious) varieties of iced tea.

There are also two non-affiliated soda machines, with full plexiglass fronts.  These are loaded-up with all manner of drinkables.  There’s Pepsi products, milk (both white and brown), iced tea from a local “farm,” Mexican soda with dragons on the labels, etc. etc.

The chocolate milk is a major roll of the dice.  Sometimes it’s fresh and delicious, and other times a little light chewing is required.  The secret is in the chunks! One guy was having a bottle one night and I thought I heard crunching.  But I could be wrong.

And there’s almost never a Dr. Pepper to be found in that cold beverage dumping ground, so when one appears it’s immediately snagged.  Whether the person wants a Dr. Pepper, or not…  Then they prance around, wearing a big shit-eater, and singing, “Look what I got!”

There are also two snack machines, with the aforementioned pricing.  Chips and chips-related items are at the top, cookies and candy bars are in the middle, and large pastry-style things are at the bottom.  It’s a logical set-up, I guess, but not completely.

Lorna Doone, for instance, cannot withstand a fall from the middle shelves of that machine.  The two cookies that absorb the brunt of impact almost always turn to dust.  And if the package happens to land on its side, well… you might as well just throw it in the trash.

Unless, of course, you’re interested in rolling up a hundred dollar bill and snorting a line of shortbread.

At the very bottom is an assortment of terrible Life Savers knock-offs, for seventy cents each.  I once bought a roll of the five flavors, and it was just one solid column of candy.  All the pieces were sealed together, and I had to peel and eat the thing like a banana.  Pitiful.

They also try to pass-off what looks like premium Hostess snack cakes from a distance, but are actually something called Mrs. Freshley.  I once made the mistake of purchasing the cupcakes, and it tasted like two car washing sponges with a creamy bathtub cleaner filling.

Actual high quality candy bars are available in these machines, but they’re $1.10.  Sometimes I have an inexplicable craving for a Hershey bar with almonds, like a filthy dumplin’ child in 1945 Berlin, and agonize about whether or not to spend the money.  Usually I can’t go through with it, but am perfectly able to justify it in a true emergency situation.

There are also two machines I’ve never used.  One purportedly sells ice cream bars, but I haven’t witnessed a single person buying anything from it.  I imagine everything is radically freezer-burned, with wrappers that say, “Win a trip to the 2006 Grammy Awards!”

Then there’s the machine folks have dubbed the “wheel of death.”  It features rotating shelves, with little compartments containing pre-made sandwiches, microwavable burritos and hot dogs, and the like.  People who forgot to pack a lunch are often seen standing in front of it, engaging the flywheel, and looking sad and hopeless.

I’ve never bought anything from the wheel of death, but when I first started working there, a guy told me,  “NEVER buy a salad from that machine on a Friday.  Seriously, you need to trust me on this…”  Heh.

On the other hand, one of my co-workers swears by something called the Big Azz chicken sandwich.  He insists it’s really good, but I don’t know anything about it.  All I know is, it’s one of only two commercially available food items with profanity in its name, that I’m aware of.  The other is Heluva Good dip.  Are there others?

When it gets right down to it, the vending machines at my job are fairly standard and dull.  Does your place offer anything more interesting, in the world of coin-operated food dispensers?

Tell me about it, so I can live vicariously through your better situation.

And before I call it a day here, check out this mind-blowing Smoking Fish sighting.  Siberia!  How cool is that?  Probably very cool, huh?  Keep ’em coming, folks!  Our logo, man, he gets around.

See ya next time.

Now playing in the bunker.