Daily

On Saturday I took the boys fishing, at a nearby lake.  It’s quality father/son time that doesn’t include board games, or the chasing of a ball, so sign me up.

Last time we used some kind of ridiculous bait they’d found at Wal-Mart, which I think was meant to lure ocean creatures, like octopus or possibly the elusive sea camel.  I don’t know.  But, as predicted, we didn’t catch a freaking thing.

Therefore, I insisted we go back to the tried and true:  grub worms.  They’re not as nasty as night crawlers, or minnows, or things like that.  Plus, they work.  What a concept!  I’m not really a fan of the continuous, unnecessary experimentation.

So, we went to a bait shop way out in the wilderness somewhere.  We’d been there before, and purchased grubs from them; they were our super-secret, always-reliable grub hookup.

When we pulled onto the parking lot some kid came careening out of my peripheral vision on a bicycle, and rode straight through the store’s front door, which was propped-open.

I’d never seen a person ride a bike into a convenience store before, especially at such a high rate of speed.  I expected to find someone inside with their head driven through a Doritos display.  But, unfortunately, it didn’t happen.

Turns out it had been a girl, approximately twelve years old, all tomboyed-up.  And, while standing next to her at the counter, I noticed she could’ve used the following:

• at least one additional hygiene product
• a support garment

I asked the guy behind the cash register if they had any grub worms, and he told me they’re hard to find this summer.  What?!  What does that mean?  How could it be??  I always got them when Bush was president, so it must be Obama’s fault, right?

He sold me a tub of night crawlers, which I’d gone out of my way to avoid.  I reluctantly handed him my money, sighed theatrically, and the l’il (stinky & pointy) Jodie Foster said, “Hope y’all caitch somethin’!”  Thick-ass Southern accent…

The whole thing was quite disconcerting.

We went to the lake, and it was way too crowded.  We were practically standing shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers, and everybody’s lines kept getting crossed.  It wasn’t exactly what I had in mind, but I kept my bitching to a minimum.

The night crawlers were huge, and the older Secret started cutting them into sections with a pair of scissors from the tackle box.  Cutting the bastards like ribbon, while still alive!  The poor things.  They’d probably been minding their own business in a field somewhere, and now some kid was dismembering them, impaling ’em with a hook, and repeatedly flinging them into deep water.

And I sometimes complain about my day?

We didn’t caitch anything, and nobody else did either.  Fish aren’t THAT stupid.  I mean, there were probably two hundred people around that lake, all attempting the exact same scam.  I suspect the fish were way out in the middle, shaking the front one-third of their bodies in amusement.

After we gave up on our fishy dreams, I asked the boys and Toney (she’d taken a walk while we’d gone John Wayne Gacy on the worms) if they wanted to go to a nearby ice cream shop.

This place is WAY off the beaten path.  It’s on the grounds of a dairy farm way up an obscure road, and is kind of a dump.  But the ice cream is incredibly fresh and good.  It’s well worth seeking-out, and we’ve been there many times.

So, we each ordered a cone with a freakin’ softball-sized scoop on top, and took a seat at one of the picnic tables outside.  Ahhh… there’s nothing quite like eating frozen dairy products while smelling the shit of the very cows that produced it.  Mister, that’s livin’.

While enjoying our cones, a car with New York plates pulled into the parking lot, and an enormous man emerged.  He was wearing shorts, flip-flops, a Gilligan hat, and nothing else.  He had no shirt, and his torso was just an avalanche of cascading flab.

He waddled around for a few minutes, snapping photos and plucking the legs of his shorts out of his crotch.  His pants rode up in the middle, fully and completely, with every two or three strides of his massive sausage legs.

Finally he went inside the shop, and the four of us started making bets about what he’d buy.  And I was the winner, I’m proud to announce.  The dude came out with a gargantuan $5.95 banana split.

That evening Toney and I each enjoyed a full ration of the golden elixir, while preparing a holiday deck feast.  We had more food than was necessary, which is the only way to go, and ate dinner outside.

After dark the boys went into the backyard and detonated about thirty dollars worth of shitty Grade C fireworks.  But they enjoyed it, and Toney and I watched from the deck.  With frosty Yuenglings in-hand.

It was an almost perfect 4th of July.  We had a great time, and the weather couldn’t have been better.  It turned out to be what you always think a holiday weekend will be like, and almost never is.  Know what I mean?

What did you do for the holiday?  Anything exciting?  Tell us about it in the comments.

And I’ll be back tomorrow.

Now playing in the bunker.

I’m still experiencing site issues, and have been emailing my webhost back-and-forth all morning.  We (they) identified and fixed a couple of Big Problems, but another remains.

I’m now able to make changes to the sidebar (Further Evidence, etc.), and it allowed me to upload a photo to yesterday’s update, but I still don’t know EXACTLY where my WordPress files are.  Can you believe it?  They’re out there somewhere, ’cause the site is up.  But I can’t see them via FTP.

But we’ll get it all hammered-out eventually.  And it appears the site is moving much faster.  It was really dragging over the past few weeks, but is all cranked-up now.  So, their “improvements” are causing me to lose some stomach lining, but have also improved performance a great deal.

I guess I can live with that.

As I type this Michael Jackson’s “golden casket” is reportedly arriving at the Staples Center in Los Angeles.  I’m not watching it on TV.  How are they bringing it in, via helicopter?  Horse-drawn carriage?  Maybe I should turn it on?  Or maybe not…

Not to be insensitive (ahem), but didn’t he die a long time ago?  Like two or three weeks?  Or is that just my imagination?  It sure seems like a lot of time has passed, doesn’t it?  And they still haven’t buried him??

Of course, at this point it probably wasn’t even necessary to embalm the body.  There’s so much plastic involved, it’s probably dishwasher-safe.

Hello?

I haven’t mailed the t-shirts yet, but I’ve set Thursday aside for the task.  Sorry I didn’t get to them last weekend, but there was some kinda cluster-copulation going on… which I can’t now remember.  But they’ll go out on Thursday/Friday.

And, of course, if you want one, order away.  I’ve got plenty.  Sweet sainted mother of the Litter Indian!  I think I might’ve slightly… over-ordered.

Metten posted another hilarious animation short at Mockable yesterday, and I forgot to tell you about it.  So, here it is.  Extra good stuff.

And if all goes right, I should have a free gift for you guys by the end of the week.  It’s not ready yet, but almost.  I’m excited about it, and think it’ll be very cool, indeed.  So, stay tuned.

This isn’t much of an update, but I found myself in one of those situations where I had to choose between “skip a day” and “post something half-assed.”  As you can see, I went with the latter.

For lack of a proper Question, why not tell us your funniest funeral stories?  Use the comments section below, if you have anything on this morbid subject.

And I’ll be back tomorrow.

Now playing in the bunker.

On Sunday the website was down for several hours.  I sent two or three emails to my hosting company, and called their 800 number as well.  …Crickets!  Nothing but crickets.

Finally, it rose from the dead, but the OLD homepage was displaying.  From, like, a year ago.  So it looked like shit, and also appeared that I hadn’t updated the site since July of 2008.

I was about to have a stroke.

Another email was sent, this one a little more… asshole, and I got a response saying the hardware of the server had been upgraded.  They’d fix the homepage issue, they promised, and all should be right with the world.

They did, and I thought I was back in business.  But when I tried to change the Further Evidence link this morning, I got a message saying I didn’t have permission to perform that function.  I don’t have permission??  It’s mine!  I own it!!

When I checked the WordPress site there was a warning telling me I’d better not screw around with “permissions” unless I damn sure know what I’m doing.  And, needless to say, I don’t know nothing about nothing.

This kind of stuff makes me insane, way past the point of a rational reaction.  Be glad you’re not here right now.  I’m howling at the freakin’ moon; I’d probably try to stab you with a Johnny Bench statuette.

Toney somehow got her hands on a $50 gift certificate for the yuppie bar, and we decided to have dinner there on Friday evening.

When we first moved to this musky neck of the woods, the yuppie bar was a great shithole-dive, called John K’s Pub.  I liked the sound of it, and started hanging around there a little.  It was a dump, but the burgers and hotdogs were good, and they had Yuengling for two bucks a pint.

Then it was abruptly closed by government officials.  I heard two stories:  tax problems and health department issues.  Both scenarios were fully believable, and it made me sad.

A few months later we saw people doing massive renovations on the place.  It looked like they were gutting it, full-on.  Then it reopened as a fancy bar/restaurant, with hanging plants, candles, and glass tabletops.  John K was spinning in his grave…

But Toney and I decided to give them the benefit of the doubt, and went there for lunch on a Saturday.  And the menu was full of weird shit nobody eats, like duck tacos, and water cress salad in a braised kangaroo pouch.  Or whatever.

And when nobody was looking we sneaked out the side door…

After about six months, though, we heard they’d normalized their menu a bit.  Apparently nobody wanted the bizarre stuff, and they were forced to start selling steaks and regular-people food.  Still a tad “pinkies-out,” but not as bad as the early days.

We hadn’t been back for a meal, since the first time.  But we started going there for beer and appetizers, and the food seemed pretty good.  When Toney received a gift certificate from her employer, I was looking forward to giving them a deserved second-chance.

We started with beer and pierogies.  I had a Newcastle, and Toney went with Sam Adams.  The pierogies were great, almost as good as the first time we had them there.

And for dinner I ordered the New York Strip.  There were lots of things on the menu that seemed interesting, but most had something in the description that disqualified it.  Like “garlic,” or “fennel.”  Toney went with the salmon.

Here’s what I was served.  I ordered the steak “medium,” but I think it was a little closer to “well.”  No big deal.  And those are sweet potato fries underneath, covered in sea salt.  That little bowl contained some sort of creamed spinach, which tasted better than it looks.  I don’t eat asparagus, so I can’t tell you anything about that.

And I don’t think I was supposed to eat the flower.  It didn’t taste very good…  Heh.

But everything else was excellent.  We had our dinners, an appetizer, three beers each, and the check was $73.  But the gift certificate took the edge off that, nicely.

It was a good beginning to a great weekend.  Which I’ll tell you more about, tomorrow.

I’ll leave you now with a Question that came to me while folding an enormous pair of underwear a few days ago…  What one thing about you would some people find to be a bit odd?

Like, for instance, the fact that I still do all my own laundry.  Toney does hers and the boys’ stuff, but I’ve always washed my own clothes.

It started, you see, when we lived together, a hundred years ago.  I took my nasty stuff to the laundromat when I could, and she did the same.  And I just never stopped doing my own laundry.  It’s not some grand statement, or anything, it just started that way, and never stopped.

So, that’s your assignment:  tell us one thing about yourself that some people might find to be a bit… unusual.

And hopefully I’ll be able to focus better tomorrow.

See ya then.

…Oh, and by the way, I can’t add a picture to this update, either.  Everything’s jacked-up!  I’d settled down a litte, but now I’m cranking again!!

Now playing in the bunker.

I have a 36 mile commute to work, and it took 1 hour, 25 minutes for me to get there on Monday.  I was massively late, and so agitated I almost blew a hole in the side of my brain.

The next two days I tested alternate routes, and both were only slightly better.

I’ve lived in Atlanta and Los Angeles County, and this place is just as bad.  Not because of the number of cars on the road, but because of “construction.”  Continuous, unceasing “construction…”

My blood pressure is spiking, just thinking about it.  I feel like going to Target, and throwing haymakers at complete strangers.  …I almost said Wal-Mart, but I’d probably get my ass kicked in there.

I’m fairly confident I could take the average Target shopper, though.

A few days ago our cable service stopped working on the Big Ass Television (BAT).  Well, to be more precise, all channels above 13 stopped working…  Just downstairs, though; the TV in the living room was somehow unaffected.

Fearing the worst, we (Toney) called Comcast.  And they tried to fix it remotely, which didn’t work.  So, they said they’d have to send someone out.

We haven’t experienced too many bumps in the road since Adelphia went away; Comcast has been shockingly reliable, with both TV and internet.  But I know how these outfits operate…  I figured we’d have to wait a week before they had an opening, and got pissed in advance.

But they said, “How’s 8 AM tomorrow morning work for you?”  I couldn’t believe it.  I realize it’s not fashionable to praise your cable company, but Comcast has been great.  Expensive, but great.

And while I prefer cheap but great (the Clive Bull full-show podcast), or even free and great (WordPress),  I’ll gladly settle for expensive but great (Comcast).  Ya know?

What would you list in those three categories?  Do you have one for each?  Use the comments section to bring us up to date.

I know I’m jinxing myself, and being completely foolish here, but it’s already July and we haven’t had to use any of the Soviet humbox air conditioners yet.  All twenty of them (or whatever) are still stacked in the basement.  It’s been an unusually mild summer, and I’ll take it.  In fact, it’s a little chilly right now.  How great is that?

But, of course, now that I’ve spoken about it, all hell will break loose.  Within days it’ll be as if we’re living deep inside Ernest Borgnine’s butt crack.

Yes, it’s best to keep some thoughts to ourselves.

Wanna see something strange?  Why, of course you do.  My friend Tim mailed me a brochure a few days ago, advertising Ripley’s Aquarium in the Smoky Mountains, and their new summer exhibit.  Check it out.

Tim included a post-it note with the following written on it:  “Come one!  Come all!!  See the little babies as they struggle for each breath.”

Is that some weird shit, or what?  What will they have next year?  Polio victims?  The Lighter Side of Dementia?   People who communicate through a microphone pressed to a neck hole?

I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.

And Brad sent me a funny link a few nights ago.  This one.  I thought some of you might get a kick out of “Ryan Jensen’s” impressive accomplishment.

Do you have any scars?  My knees are all jacked-up from various childhood shenanigans.  And I have a scar on the pointer finger on my left hand, from an old paper route injury.  But that’s all I have to offer, I’m ashamed to admit.  What about you?

…Yes, scars.  That’s what it’s come to.  Do we have a problem?

This month’s Best Beer of All-Time:  Stone Brewing IPA.  God, I wish I had one right now.  They’re nothing short of fantastic.  Indeed, it’s the Best Beer of All-Time (July).

I’m not very good at doing accents.  I start out OK, but always drift Chinese.  If I’m trying to imitate an Indian customer service person, for instance, I sound Indian for a few seconds, then lapse into the voice of a ball-busting Chinese man who worked at a laundromat in Greensboro years ago:

“You marrie?!  Hahahaha!  You nee wife!!  You goddamn pathetic.  Hahahahaha!!”

Every single time.  The man haunts me in my soul…

And I’ll close out this disjointed mess with one more Question:  Do you still read a daily newspaper?  If so, which one?  What sections?  What features keep you going back?

I’ve never been a big newspaper reader, I’m afraid.  I used to follow the baseball standings, and checked out the box scores, etc.  But I don’t even do that much anymore.  I get all my info via the internet.

Toney, on the other hand, still reads the paper front to back, like it’s 1978.  She knows all the local scuttlebutt, and I know nothing.  I envy her focus, but I just can’t do it.

What about you?  Do you still read a physical daily paper, made of paper?  Tell us about it.

And I’m going to Best Buy now, to purchase the new Wilco album, entitled Wilco (The Album).  You guys have yourselves a great weekend.

I’ll see you on Monday.

Now playing in the bunker.

Yesterday I posted an article about the death of Scott Baio at Mockable, and the sky immediately turned black and all hell broke loose.

Maybe the Big Guy didn’t care for my “humor?”  I don’t know, but for a few minutes I thought we might have a situation on our hands.  I was about to order the Secrets into bathtubs, with mattresses over the top.

The wind was howling, it was raining sideways (sometimes up), and I could hear lightning.  Know what I mean?  I’m not talking about thunder.  I mean everything was happening so close, I could actually hear the lightning crackling and whatnot.  And I can’t have that.

So, that’s why there was no Tuesday update.  I believe I was issued a warning from Home Office.  Our internet completely shit the bed, as did our cable service, and all the clocks said it was noon, then nothing, then noon again, then nothing…

I apologize to everyone living in the greater Scranton area.  I take full responsibility.  I will never again make a joke at Scott Baio’s expense.  Sheesh.

On Monday Toney told me she wasn’t able to pack me a lunch for work.  She said I could either do it myself, or just buy something.

So, I was driving to McDonald’s on my lunch break…

I was planning to buy one of their fake Chick-fil-A samliches, which is better than it has a right to be, and a $1 tankard of sweet tea.  Mmmmm…  It was going to be very good indeed.

But it was gone!  The McDonald’s, I mean.  It wasn’t there anymore!!  The whole damn thing.  Where it had stood, just a few days before, there was now an open field with a dark spot in the middle.  What in the knuckle-cracking hell?!

It was a disconcerting experience.  If you can’t rely on McDonald’s in this world, what’s left?  They’re as predictable and consistent as it gets.  And the whole freaking building was gone!

Sweating and hyperventilating, I drove past the black spot, looking for a quickie alternative.  Off in the distance I spotted a KFC/A&W hybrid, and decided it would have to do.  Even though I’m not really a fan…

Wotta shithole.  The cashiers were surly, and sporting questionable dentistry solutions.  The place was also filthy, and in a state of decline.

I ordered one of their “famous bowls,” because I kinda liked the one I tried before, and went looking for a place to sit.  And most of the tables were covered in garbage (fucking pigs), or smeared with questionable sauces and/or bodily fluids.

I headed toward a booth in the corner, and one of the bench seats was gone.  Missing completely:  wtf?  And the other one had a gaping hole in it, with stuffing and gnarled metal inside.

Some guy was sitting a few feet away (in front of a box with “$5!” printed on the side), all hunched-up like a gargoyle.  The dude was stripping a chicken breast all the way down to its basic infrastructure.  And there was no way I was sitting near him…  It was like something off Silence of the Lambs.

I finally located an acceptable table, and sat down with my four pound mixing bowl of sodium and fat.  And it was edible, but not nearly as tasty as I remembered.

While I choked it down, a parade of Harbor Freight customers went past.  There were screaming dumplin’ children with buzzcuts and muscle shirts, flabby mommas with leg tattoos, dads who couldn’t have possibly seen their feet or penises in decades, and dipshit idiots in their twenties dressed like Eminem, circa 1997.

As I was leaving, an enormous pickup truck rolled onto the parking lot, shaking the earth with its engine and exhaust system.  The behemoth parked, and when the driver door opened a step came down.  I’d never seen that before…  Fancy.

What kind of neighborhood was this, anyway?  I should’ve just slapped some turkey between two slices of bread, and stored it in a padded box — like everybody else at my job.  I wasn’t aware we worked next-door to Six Flags Over Scary White Trash.

But now I know.

What’s the worst fast food experience of your life?  How’s that for a Question?  Tell us about it in the comments, won’t you?  And don’t leave out any of the details of filth and degradation.  We need it all.

I’ll leave you now with a picture of the younger Secret sporting one of our new t-shirts.  Right here.  Pretty great-looking, huh?  I think it might possibly be the best one we’ve ever done.

I’ll be back tomorrow, with a big ol’ End of Week Topic Dump.

See ya then!

Now playing in the bunker.