• It's embarrassing when you jack up a word spelling so badly that your spell-checker doesn't even know what word to suggest.  I right-clicked on a word once and my spell checker flashed the message: "Even if I did know what word you wanted, chances are you don't know what the hell it means, anyway."
  • I want to market an Irish Wristwatch.  It just has various bottles of hooch for all the hours, and the letters "FU" for 2 A.M., last call.
  • I was at Whataburger reading for 2 hours today.  I was working the all-you-can-drink soda bar the entire time.  Before I left, I had to visit the men's room. The men's room had one stall and one urinal.  Evidently, some handicap guy was using the stall -- because he parked his motorized wheelchair in front of the urinal.  I couldn't go.  I had to hold it the entire drive home.  I don't want to come off bitter or callous, but this handicap guy has balls.  For the last 23 years I've been passing over premium parking spaces for him.  The least he can do is park his wheelchair away from the pisser.  I had half a mind to whiz on the control panel and short out the brakes.
  • Any medicine can be "maximum strength" if you're willing to take a few extra pills.  Once time, in a pinch, I took 22 baby aspirin for a pulled groin muscle.  Worked like magic, although I did crawl around, soil myself and suck my thumb for the next 14 hours.
  • In the headlines today, "Woman saves dog by giving mouth-to-mouth resuscitation."  Later the paper issued a correction.  It turns out it was just Rosie making out with her girlfriend.
  • I drink so much damn soda that I decided to rename my penis "Dr. Pepper."
  • Candy canes are cute and sentimental.  But why hasn't somebody invented the candy crutch?  If we're going to mock the maim around Christmastime, let's do it in style.
  • Now that the earth has been boasting record low temps every winter, the climate change crowd has contrived a jet stream disturbance theory to augment the global warming claim.  Come on, guys.  Say what you really mean: America is too prosperous and it needs to kick some hush money around.  Global warming advocates remind me of that congressman who got caught being gay in a bathroom stall and claimed he was just trying to borrow some toilet paper!
  • The Color Purple isn't just a movie.  It's what you see everywhere when you search the Playboy Mansion with a blacklight.   


My New Year's resolutions for 2011

  1. Eat only when I'm hungry.  Stop eating food on principle, which is to say, stop eating it just because it's there and I have a mouth.
  2. Invent my own pyramid scheme so that I'll already be at the top of the pyramid when it takes off.
  3. Write fad diet book whose gist is reconciling your body with nature, or customizing your diet to your unique biorhythms, or whatever such crap Oprah likes to hear so she'll promote the book and I get rich and famous, just in case the pyramid scheme fails.
  4. Start smoking and then quit, just so I can show smokers that it isn't so hard and that they just lack moral turpitude.  "But nicotine is the most addictive substance known to man."  No it isn't.  Calories are addictive.  Alcohol is addictive.  Jerking off is addictive.  Smoking is just a bad habit.    
  5. Stop mocking smokers.
  6. Stop wearing underpants.  It's a waste of laundry.  Also, throw way all my zipper-fly jeans.  
  7. Whenever something annoying happens, repeat the following to myself:  "This is not a conspiracy against me; it's just that either the thing is a piece of crap, or the person is an imbecile."  Breath deeply and count to 10.
  8. Resist the urge to give the "thank-you wave" to everybody on the road.  You're supposed to be courteous.  So they let me in the turning lane.  Big deal.  It's not like they paid off my student loans or something.  Thanks for nothing, fellow motorist.  
  9. Make those sarcastic, invisible air-quotes with my fingers when I'm speaking with dishonest people.  Nothing is more humiliating that being air-quoted and these fuckers need to pay a price in shame.  Plus it's funny. 
  10. Write a thank-you note to Barack Obama for fixing the economy like he promised.  And also for getting us out of Iraq.  
  11. Stop organizing betting pools on the date celebrities get divorced.  Even though I'm making good money, I fear I'm becoming too cynical.  
  12. Find a hobby that doesn't involve drinking.
  13. Stop fantasizing about being a rock star, a race car driver or an astronaut.  It looks like those dreams gave me the slip.  Keep fingers crossed for exciting opportunity in the food services industry or waste management. 
  14. Buy telescope; discover my own planet.  Name it Myanus. 
  15. Take a scrapbooking class.


Happy Christmas!

Usually, always, when I sit and start to write, I have a plan. I have a list of things I want to write (rant) about, or a rudimentary essay smoldering in the recesses of my mind, which I fan and spritz to a roaring flame of absurdity.

But today is Christmas.  I hadn't planned on writing anything.  But I'm reading you guys and drinking a bottle of wine and feeling Christmas cheer and nostalgia like gangbusters.  I've got Christmas music blaring from my computer speakers.  The guys singing are a fake Beatles group from Norway or Sweden or Denmark or someplace in Europe.  And while affecting their best Beatles personae, they're covering traditional Christmas songs.  I love it.  The winter sun is streaming through my office window.  The sun will be setting in an hour, leaving in its path a soft, purple winter sunset, and I'll drink it in with equal portions of white zinfidel and get to reminiscing about Christmases past.  That's what I love most about Christmas.  I lack the religious convictions that make Christmas a spiritually significant event.  For me, it's all about tradition, nostalgia: toys and food and snow and Christmas breaks and, once I reached the teenage years, girlfriends.

I'm going to let iTunes run through the playlist of Christmas songs and keep drinking this wine.  That's how I'm going to spend this Christmas.  The wife and kids left to celebrate with her side of the family, so I'm alone.  Back in the days before the RIAA insinuated itself into the Internet, I downloaded many 1000s of songs, including 100s of Christmas songs.  So I can let it rip all night long and never hear a repeat.  You younger readers may not remember the golden age of downloading. Napster and a few me-too's ran all day and night with impunity.  It was so fun.  I left my computer wide open to the Internet, 24/7.  Broadband, baby.  Digital legs akimbo!  Disclaimer:  I wouldn't DARE share copy-written music files.  Why, that would be unlawful.  But it was a great way to discover the all the wonderful and obscure music available, including Christmas music.  So my collection is spectacular.  Every pop artist who recorded a song is in my playlist.  Have you ever heard Billy Squire's Christmas Is The Time to Say, I Love You?  Sublime.

Wow, I'm buzzed.  Pointer Sisters are playing just now.  I took a break from blogging.  I didn't write a thing for a year and a half.  What happened was, I got hooked on first-person shooter gaming, specifically, Call of Duty.  When I found some free time it became a choice between writing and playing video games.  Blogging went extinct.  But a couple years later I asked myself, Is this the best way to spend your time?  Getting fired up and angry at a video game?  And I thought, yeah, I could blog once in a while, if anybody's still doing that.  It turns out, all the cool kids are doing it!  I've quit playing COD because I don't like the guy I become when I play it.

I'm rambling.  I shutter to think how this will read once I sober up.  I should tell you how excited I am to be blogging again.  I have all these new bloggers to get to know.  I love reading you guys.  It's so much more fun than the news.  Isn't it peculiar how a bunch of amateur bloggers writing as a hobby are more captivating than professional blow-hards who think they have something important to publish?  Screw them.  If I read one more AP wire story, I'm going to puke.  Yet I hang on every word of a recipe or some girl ranting about her thoughtless boyfriend, or a dude ranting about the vicissitudes of modern life, or a mom talking about her daily life raising kids.  Weird.  All I know is, I love ripping through the Blogger reading wire.  Thanks for inventing that, Google!  It's so nice to be able to have all the recently updated blogs, front and center.  Whoever invented that deserves a medal.  For that matter, so does the guy who fermented wine.

Sweet, the Ramones singing Merry Christmas, I Don't Want to Fight Tonight.

Anyway, I hope all of you are having a Merry Christmas, eating too much and drinking too much and enjoying the company of friends and loved ones, or else basking in the peace and solitude of a Christmas evening by yourself, awash in holiday nostalgia and fine memories.  I hope all of you share some New Year's resolutions.  What better way to get to know somebody than to read their aspirations? Maybe I'll draft a few of my own.

I'm off to watch the last half of Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle.  Later, skaters.  And Merry Christmas!


Next time, at least buy me dinner

I realized something.  Everybody is trying to slip their hands up my financial skirt.  It's no longer sufficient to be financially prudent.  You have to ward off the financial peeping toms, ass-grabbers and serial rapists, too.  In high school, you take sex-ed to learn about the pitfalls of sex.  You should have to take finance-ed, also, to inform future consumers about the tactics of financial predators.  The crooks are everywhere.

Example: whenever you enter into contract, half a dozen fees find their way into the monthly bill.  You didn't agree to them.  They just showed up.  It reminds me of my college days when by way of brandishing a bottle of Ten High, 8 guests I didn't recognize jammed paper cups in my face.  Beat it, free loaders.  Go beer-run a case of Keystone; earn your buzz.  Contractors all want their turn fucking you.  I refinanced my house last year and I felt like the girl who drank herself unconscious at a frat party.  Everybody took a turn while the getting was good.  By the time I came to, the damage had been done.  I had 17 distinct DNA specimens on my person.  Why am I paying a guy 500 bucks to rubber stamp my title?  And when did Xerox fees start going for 30 bucks?  I tell you what, Mr. Banker.  Give me the papers.  I'll run to Kinkos and do it myself for 48 cents.  I'll even throw in a photocopy of my ass that you're welcome to kiss.

Recently my wife's cell phone went through the washing machine.  I bought a new phone on eBay for cheap, but Verizon charged me 15 bucks to transfer the data (contacts and ringtones) from the old phone to the new one.  One would think if the memory chip survived the spin cycle, the rest of the phone's innards would, too.  Conspiracy, I say!  They know your phone will drop into a body of water eventually.  Why not make just the memory chip water-tight so we can make another 15 bucks when you sit on the crapper at the Xmas party and dunk your phone, Captain Egg Nog?  Basically I spent 15 bucks so my wife could salvage the 172 pictures of my junk that I sent to her cell phone.  Those are replaceable.

Home repairs are another racket.  Have you ever replaced your garage door spring?  I've replaced 2 in the last decade at 400 dollars apiece.  Four hundred dollars for what amounts to a high-tension Slinky.  I could have saved 396 dollars by going to Toys-R-Us.  

Retail stores are in on the racket, too.  Why does every checkout line end with "Would you like donate a dollar to [insert charity here]?"  This happened to me at Target yesterday.  Lady, I just used a credit card to finance my kid's Trapper Keeper.  Do you really think I can afford to donate a dollar to fight prostate cancer?  If you're so worried about it, why don't you jam a finger up me right here and make sure I'm OK?  

When did we start tipping for take-out food?  Have you noticed the tip jars and debit card receipts asking for tips?  What am I tipping you for, exactly?  You're the human interface cable between me and the cash register.  Here's a tip: go to college!  Do you really expect to get the same tip as the person refilling my drinks, serving my food, corralling my obnoxious child, explaining the specials of the day and fake-laughing at my obnoxious, margarita-fueled jokes?  If you want a tip, pull a pair of shiny orange shorts over your fat ass and grab me a complimentary bread basket.  One day I'm going to have to tip my airline pilot.  Here's a five-spot, Captain.  Keep us above the horizon!  

Two dollars for ATM service?  I have a better idea.  How about you credit my account 2 dollars for not affixing my chewed gum to the deposit envelop, scumbag?  Try to remember I'm your customer and I already keep all my money in your building.  I don't charge my kid 2 bucks every time she raids my wallet for Twilight tickets.  I do it for free because Bella is the only role model young girls have who isn't naked and hanging from the chandelier by the second act.  Twilight may be corny.  But at least the message to pubescent girls isn't to fuck every dude with a Trans Am and a barbed wire tattoo.

When did restaurants start getting $2.39 for a soda?  Unless they're adding a shot of whiskey, this is too much.  I can get a Circle-K 64oz. pants-wetter for 89 cents.  Restaurant sodas should cost a buck.  It's a soda, not an appetizer.  And speaking of drinks, alcoholic beverages are approaching -- and often exceed -- the ten-dollar mark.  Does anybody else note the irony that you can't afford to drink the agony of the recession away at the bar?  They charge the same for a drink as the entire bottle of booze.  That's like a hooker charging as much as the divorce lawyer.

Anyway, I wish all of you luck protecting yourself from the financial predators this Christmas season.  And in case we don't talk again before it passes....

Merry Christmas!


Costco is the reason for the season

Having returned from Costco, I’m happy to report the Christmas Spirit thrives. It hangs thick in the air and infects all who inhale it or imbibe it mixed with an equal portion of liquor. It resonates in the horn-beeps of armed motorists who for a lack of a clean shot stew behind sluggish, wayward motorists in the left lane. It shines in the eyes of the child who gave me the finger on my drive home. Merry Christmas, little fella. I hope Mom and Dad give you the news of divorce this year. And what might that be in your stocking? Are those admission papers to military school? You’re twice blessed, young man.

Retailers hustle all year earning little or no profit merely to survive until the holiday season, where they capture the Spirit along with windfall profits which will keep them afloat until the next year. Likewise, I live for the Christmas Season. It rekindles my heart. It redeems my soul. But most importantly, it moves me to shop at Costco.

My trip began with a gridlock formation in the Costco parking lot. It was the funniest thing. An old man was trying to prove his virility by backing into an empty parking space (the empty space itself was a Christmas Miracle). Had he pulled in, it would have taken a few seconds of everybody’s time. Opting to back in, he exceeded his diminishing driving abilities. It wasn’t long before he found himself in a Christmastime quandary. Through a series of over-corrections, he had wedged himself obliquely between two parked cars. His front end protruded enough to block traffic in both directions. The stationary thoroughfare locked in those Costco patrons trying to back out of their spaces. Several motorists blared their horns in celebration of the Christmas Spirit. Fearing gunplay might accompany the Christmas Horns Medley, I resisted the temptation to join them. I eventually found available parking in the adjacent zip code. The aforementioned driver was ambulanced to St. Joseph’s Medical Center after a road rage battery. Those of you wishing to send a fruitcake can email me for his room number.

I entered the store awash in Christmas Spirit. Several patrons loitered in the entryway while talking on cell phones, rifling through their wallets or attending to other personal matters. They afforded me the opportunity to test my driving skills by maneuvering my shopping cart around a constellation of bovine discount shoppers. Naturally I had to fish my membership card out of my wallet while negotiating the dicey entryway. I had to laugh when the Costco Nazi girl in the Santa hat failed to look at my card as I conspicuously displayed it. Oh, well. It was fun just fumbling for the thing.

As I shopped I encountered several more bovine discount shoppers who in a frenzy of Christmas Spirit cut me off, blocked my forward progress and screened me from whatever merchandise might have taken my interest. They congregated around the food samples and competed for morsels of smoked salmon, potato soup and cheese spread. I can only hope some red and green glass shards found their way into the samples. What are the holidays without the hors d'oeuvres? Merry Christmas.

I finally finished my shopping and proceeded to the checkout lines. I found a short line -- another Christmas Miracle! Well, it was short when I entered it. Fearing I’d be lonely this holiday season, a Marlboro-smoking hag barreled her way in front of me. How thoughtful. But for her, I’d have zipped out of Costco without the opportunity to bask in Christmas cheer. The Marlboro lady didn’t have a cart or any merchandise. Instead she beckoned a son (I assumed after seeing the cart-toting male behind me that a man mustered the courage to copulate with her long enough to reproduce) to insert himself and his wares between me and the cashier. The son initially showed reluctance. He gestured at me. But the Marlboro lady assured him I wasn’t worthy of consideration. After all, I had the nerve to enter the line before she got there. The Christmas Spirit prompted me to yield to the son. I suspected he had enough troubles. I moved along to the next line.

It moved surprisingly fast. Before I knew it I was loading my 9-pack of Duraflame Logs on the conveyor belt along with several food items. The cashier and the bagger both seemed friendly enough. The former uttered a hello before whispering to the latter. It didn’t take long for me to learn that the whispering was about my decision to load the case of logs on the conveyor. Said the bagger “Next time, sir, you can leave the case of logs in the cart. Now Cece has to lift it.” At once I offered to lift the case myself, but it fell on deaf ears. The Christmas Spirit had infected these two like a case of gonorrhea. They wouldn’t hear of it. Instead, they struggled with the case together and placed it back in the cart, all the while flashing me contemptuous looks. I noticed that Cece was wearing a wrist brace. One has to wonder why they’d put a cripple on a warehouse register. Many large and bulky items make there way through checkout. Perhaps a job scrubbing bathroom shitters would prove more befitting an employee in her condition. I made certain to suggest that very thing to the line manager on my way out. Anyway, I wondered whether long hours of cashiering wore her wrist. Perhaps her wrist gave way to the chronic stress of furnishing her boyfriend with hand jobs. But for a possible case carpal-tunnel syndrome, I’d have encouraged her to wipe her ass with her attitude. As a healthcare professional, I couldn’t encourage her to further aggravate her ailment. Conscience got the better of me.

I spent my money and it was time to leave. Costco members know you don’t just stroll out of the building. You have to prove you’re not a shoplifter by presenting your receipt to the Costco Doorman. Usually two lines form -- one for each doorman. Today's group of bovines didn’t understand the “form-a-line” concept. The one doorman was standing there with an idle Sharpie Marker. I saw my chance. I darted past the bovines. Just then the other one -- this one a lady, so what does that make her -- a doorperson? -- shouts “people, we have to form two lines. That’s it. Two lines!” Now I started feeling pangs of guilt. Being as smart as your average kindergartner and knowing how to form a line had put me at an advantage. Consequently I zipped past several patrons who’d arrived before me. I’d be damned if I were going to lie in the moral gutter with the Marlboro lady. So I stopped and gestured several bovines to take cuts. But they didn’t get the message. They just chewed hay and stared. That didn’t stop a lady behind me from thundering past and filling the gap with her big, fat Christmas Spirit. I surmised she had a “Save Tookie” rally to get to. I figured that was more important than my thawing chicken pot pie. I waited my turn. Again.

I eventually made it to the doorman who noticed the Heat Dish in my cart. He disapproved of my purchase. In fact, he questioned my sanity. “All these people are buying these things and it hasn’t even gotten cold yet. Crazy.” He didn’t appreciate the irony that even as he spoke, he was wearing a jacket, snowcap and gloves! I saw he was chock full of Christmas Spirit. So I told him that I hoped Santa would bring him that man-sized penis he’s been hoping for so he can donate the 3rd grader one he currently has to charity.

So ended my trip to Costco and so began my Christmas Season. I hope you’re enjoying it as much as I am!

Merry Christmas.


More cool things I'd like to do someday

I had loads of fun last week listing some cool things I'd like to do.  This week I realized I have some more cool things I'd like to do, and with New Year's resolutions to write, I thought it apropos to list them here.  Take a gander at some more cool things I want to do:

*Punch an electronic device on the fritz and restore it to perfect working order.

*Talk a suicidal man away from the edge of the roof by assuring him we're in this together and then regaling him with gym locker room talk from the good old days, which shows him that life has value after all.  Tell joke that we'll share a beer at Sizzler, but that he'll have to drink through a straw because he'll be in a straight jacket.

*Get stuck in elevator with a crowd of people.  Diffuse wave of panic by assuring everyone that I've been in this situation before and that panic is the enemy.  Get a boost from biggest guy in elevator; pop tile off of elevator roof; climb up elevator shaft to nearest door; push button on higher floor to get elevator running again and be there when the doors open to greet fretful passengers.  Applause.

*Deliver a baby in a cab.  Kid gets named after me.

*Inadvertently get thrown on a dance floor by drunken buddies and dance an impromptu tango with exotic strange woman.  Execute steps so well that the father of my dance parter -- a very powerful dignitary in a foreign country -- toasts to me, invites me to his table, and cautions me against breaking his daughter's heart because he killed the last man who did so.

*Extinguish a fire with my parka before it gets out of hand.

*Take a college economics course.  Ask poignant question which throws starchy, know-it-all professor off balance.  Give impromptu speech that rouses the classroom and appeals to common sense in lieu of academic pretentiousness.  Garner applause from classmates.  Starchy professor sneers and organizes papers on desk.

*Successfully hide from bad guys by hiding underwater and using a stick of bamboo to breathe.

*Reconcile with wife after a fight (the result of a comic misunderstanding) by appearing on stage with a ukulele and singing a sweet ballad in her honor that neither she nor the audience can resist.  Kiss to applause.

*Turn off a machine threatening the life and limb of an innocent victim by throwing an everyday object at the power button mere seconds before disaster strikes.

*Employ an explosion as a distraction to rescue hostages and then use a snowmobile to make a daring escape.  

*Remedy an electrical short by using makeshift conductor.

*Be the best man at a wedding and throw such an outrageous bachelor party that I jeopardize the marriage with all the crazy antics the bride-to-be discovers.  Then I come to the rescue by making moving and romantic toast to the couple after easing tension by dancing a jig with cute little 4-year-old girl.

*Successfully land plane after pilot gets sick and passes out from spoiled seafood.

*Join double-dutch jump rope in ghetto streets and transcend race/culture barrier.  Go to McDonald's afterward and laugh with neighborhood girls while eating.  McDonald's makes whole thing into a commercial.



  • Society is turning queer.  Twenty-five years ago, I watched a show called the A-Team.  It was about four fugitives who drove around in a bad-ass black van looking for an excuse to blow shit up.  Now my wife and kid clog my DVR full of Glee episodes. Glee?  If I want to watch kids running around campus singing and dancing, I'll watch my Girls Gone Wild videos.
  • Some birds navigate via mapping the stars relative to the earth's axis.  If birds are that smart, why go to all that trouble?   Can't they just dive-bomb on a popcorn ball in a Chuck E. Cheese parking lot?  Look birds, you're flying like 12,000 miles in hopes of finding some grubs and meal worms where you land.  You didn't see a Howard Johnson's along the way?  And if you're heading there to mate, just go fuck in the park like the high school kids do.  
  • The people who want us to switch to fluorescent bulbs are the same people who want us to plug a station wagon into our garage outlets.  How about I continue to drive my current car and just turn up the A/C, refrigerator, my oven and a blow drier?  Let them all duke it out.
  • People get angry when a slow driver is using his cell phone.  People are caring too much by half.  Check yo-self, hata!  I see an absentminded driver on his cell phone, I cut him slack.  Think about it.  It's not the cell phone.  It's his driving that's ruining your day.  But if I have a good reason why he's going 30 in the left lane, I calm down.  Oh, he's texting?  That's cool.  Probably just brokering a booty call or scoring a dime bag.  You know who I despise?  The guy driving that slow with no excuse.  Hands on the wheel, eyes on the road, dick in his pants -- just a dipshit in his Buick Skylark doing 30 miles per hour and believing he still has the right to live in my universe.
  • We've become so obsessed with fairness that we won't be happy until it's equally unfair for everybody, which is only fair.
  • Some kids burn ants with a magnifying glass.  I use a telescope, only I turn it backwards and freeze them to death.  It seems more humane. 
  • They shouldn't call them political "parties."  They're more like political gangs.  They're going all Turbo and Ozone and shit.  Wouldn't Obama make a good Ozone?  No, YOU'RE the racist because you thought, "because they're both black, right?"  Wrong!  I mean because they're both good dancers.  You need to examine yourself and purge your hidden racism!
  • Digital watches have created complete dependence.  I literally cannot remember today's date -- ever.  I mastered this task when I was a kid.  I always knew the date.  But now I need my watch.  Same with porn.  Since it's gone digital, I can't remember what naked girls look like on my own.  I have to keep a window of porn constantly running in the background so I'll remember to bang my wife.
  • People tell me I need to work on my anger issues.  I already do!  I work on them by drinking until I laugh at the things that were pissing me off when I was sober.  Mission accomplished.  They should make a whiskey called "Anger Management."  Distilled and bottled with pride in Bourbon, Kentucky.


Service with a smile

I want to revolutionize the customer service industry.  Right now, it's dreadful.  But I can fix that.  My idea would improve efficiency and performance by maximizing job satisfaction.  Everybody wins.  How do you maximize job satisfaction in an industry whose purpose is dealing with people who tend to suck?  I'm glad you asked.  Customer service jobs need to assign tasks to its employees by way of an auction.  Use a bidding system!  

Here's how it works.  The customers have a seat in a lobby which the employees can view through one-way glass.  After surveying the herd, employees bid on the customers just as they would other livestock.  For example, if you're a waiter, your experienced eyes could spot a WalMart- shopping no-tipper by his polyester pants and Lynyrd Skynyrd tee shirt.  Your employer would bid the job to the wait staff, where the lowest bidder would seat the lowlife guest and serve him his grilled cheese, fries and malt liquor.  Sure, you're going to get stiffed, but you bid an acceptable price to wait on the guy up front.  

Those of you in service jobs already see how wonderful this system is.  You can eyeball somebody and size them up in milliseconds.  Contrary to political correctness doctrine, you can judge someone by their appearance.  It stands to reason.  Remember, the clothing people wear, the way they do their hair, jewelry, tattoos, complexion, gestures and mannerisms -- these aren't random events that just happened to people.  They're choices.  And what is character but the sum of the choices we make?  When you look at somebody, you see how they choose to present themselves to the world.  And that tells you quite a bit about their character.  Fat people are lazy, yo.  And if you have 19 visible piercings and a comic book's worth of artwork tattooed on your arms and neck, then guess what: you crave attention.  That's what that says about you.  Also, if you color-tip your hair, you're wicked queer.  And any Tap Out logos tip people off that you're a douche bag.  

Let's return to bidding auctions for service jobs.  This time, let's take healthcare as an example.  Every healthcare practitioner knows that some patients are less desirable than others.  So, the more fat, gross, old and disgusting patients drive the bidding higher until the practitioner holds his nose and takes the plunge.  "Alright, I'll go 150 on the 72 year-old blimp in the wheelchair with acute hemorrhoids and a bowel obstruction."  Going once, going twice... sold to the nurse in the teal scrubs.  Imagine healthcare workers choosing whom to care for instead of falling victim to whatever piece of garbage comes through the door.  Before, you were shackled to a duty of care.  Now, every patient becomes a choice and every service he requires is a fee you negotiated.  Free will, free enterprise and the freedom to control your workplace experience -- that's a winning combination.  Maybe then half of nurses in America wouldn't be contemplating hari kari 4 times per shift.   

Phone service jobs could bid from their cubicals.  Wouldn't it be nice to hold out for top dollar on a drunk native American customer who's currently on hold, waiting to buy car insurance?  He just bought a 30 thousand dollar Ram truck, but he has no checking account and lives in a tipi whose address is "30 paces down river from Old Coyote Rock."  Or a computer technician who can bid on a 74 year-old grandmother whose kids thought it would be a great idea to get Gam-Gam online for email and pictures of the family, and now the same lady who never figured out how to program a VCR is trying to format a POP3 email account to her ISP server.   "What is this blue "E" thingamabob for?"  Shit, I'd bid just to be able to listen in on that call (why is so damn funny to watch your coworkers dealing with infuriating customers?).  

The point is, customers suck.  And the people in service jobs know it.  They approach their work with a sense of drudgery, and the result is second-rate service.  Installing an employee-to-customer bidding system invokes the spirit of free enterprise and unleashes the power of competition.  Now, the customers aren't dolts, cheapskates and perverts.  They're projects.  The employee won the bid and the opportunity to do the job.  So he's happy.  The employer knows he contracted the job at the lowest market price.  So he's happy, too.  And as long as the bidding remains confidential, the customer feels like royalty.  Everybody wins!



  • I saw a commercial saying I can save a kid's life for "less than a cup of coffee per day."  So I cut out the middleman and started shipping a 30-case of Folgers Crystals to the kid every month.  The commercial said he'd write me letters and whatnot.  Finally the kid writes me and the card says, Do you know how hard it is to find cream and sugar in Ethiopia, asshole?
  • Have you used Window's "safe mode?"  Nothing safe about Windows.  Having unprotected sex with the Octomom is safer than Windows.  Going down on Courtney Love while you have a canker sore is safer than Windows.  Sharing a hotel room with Charley Sheen is safer than Windows. 
  • I went shopping in a Guess clothing store.  I saw my reflection in the mirror.  Then I bought a 20 dollar hat.  Actually, the hat cost 40 dollars, but it was worth at least 20 just that nobody would see my train wreck of a hairdo for the rest of the day.
  • How does the new trend of "skinny jeans" sell when all our kids are little tubbos?  The only skinny kids left are those Olsen twins and they share each other's pants.
  • My dog knows when I'm drinking.  He never begs for food when I'm sober because there's no point.  I won't budge.  But when I'm drinking, we usually go in halves on a pizza.  Sometimes, if I really hit the bottle, I'll have him accept delivery.  Make sure he doesn't stiff us on the garlic bread this time.  And don't tip so damn much.  It's 10-percent for delivery, Maxwell.  I stay sober long enough to order the pizza.  Otherwise I wind up with half pepperoni, half kibble.
  • When I was in high school, a Carmex craze hit.  Kids were caking Carmex on their lips every 20 minutes.  It looked like they were giving fellatio to a candlestick.
  • I drove through a construction site and there was only one guy working.  One guy.  The recession, I guess.  I felt so bad for him.  He was trying to drink 17 cups of coffee all at once.
  • In the news today, a white man carried out 6 robberies while disguised as a black man.  Police were tipped off when security footage showed him failing to jump over a janitor bucket on his way out the door and face-planted the sidewalk.