House Humpery 4: Citizens on Patrol
Filed under: Blogging about Blogging is Blogtastic, Jon the homo...wner |
Comments(6) There’s been a lot of excitement over here at Kickass Central recently. Stuff that would make for great blog posts in the hands of a better, possibly less attractive blogger. But I just can’t seem to connect the dots for some reason. Not sure why that is.
So instead of a “real” post, today’s blog will be dedicated to Steve McNair, and therefore… ummm… riddled with bullets. (What, too soon?)
So is this the drunkest you’ve been all day?
Comments(7)After my last post, you’re probably all thinking, “Wow, that Jon sure is a sweet guy! I wish ALL men were that thoughtful and romantic, yet ruggedly masculine at the same time.“ Right? I’m sure that’s what you were thinking. Well, the fun part about illusions is shattering them. So in an effort to remain fair and balanced at all times, allow me to re-establish my Douchebag Credentials. Move the Douchebag-o-meter needle back towards center, if you will.
As I mentioned the other day, this past Tuesday night I went to the Oreos/Red Sox game with my good friends Chris, Bagel and Ryan. Good times were had by all. However, midway through the 5th inning it started raining pretty heavily. Apparently Mother Nature is like most women, in that she hates sports, and/or seeing men have fun. But we refused to let that dirty little whore ruin Guys Night Out, so to pass the time we invented the greatest rain delay game ever. It’s a little game I like to call “Chubby Girl Jersey Ratings.” (Okay, the name is still a work in progress. It’s not important.)
Before I get into the rules of C.G.J.R., let me first explain a theory I’ve come up about women who wear replica jerseys to a ballgame. Now, of course sporting events are pretty much the only socially acceptible venue for anyone to wear a replica jersey, ever. In fact it’s not only acceptible, it’s encouraged. (I even broke out my space age Tek Money jersey for Tuesday’s game.)
Okay, here’s my theory. If you’re a woman, the jersey you wear to a game says a lot about your personality. You can basically go in one of three ways. (Ahem. That’s what she said.)
- You pick the team’s “superstar” player. This jersey is easy, doesn’t require much thought, and is readily available in pink. It’s a nice safe pick. What the jersey says about you: You’re there to have a good time, and make your boyfriend happy.
- You pick a jersey that’s less common, but it’s your favorite player. You follow sports, probably played a little softball in high school, and understand what “ERA” and “RBI” stand for. What the jersey says about you: You’re a true baseball fan. Also, Daddy wanted a son.
- You pick the team’s “sexiest” player. You could care less about sports, and have no idea how many runs a touchdown is worth. But anytime you hear “your guy’s” name mentioned, you say something creepy like “OMG I’m totally going to marry him LOL!“ What the jersey says about you: You’re single, fat.
So that’s my Jersey Theory. While I’m waiting for the Nobel Prize Committee to take notice of my work, let’s get back to the Ratings Game.
I think it started with a simple conversation between me and Chris. We were trying to figure out who the standard “Chubby Girl” jersey was for each team (Option #3 from above). We came up with Nick “the stick” Markakis for the Orioles, and Jacoby Ellsbury for the Sawx. Don’t ask me how we came up with those guys, we sort of have a sixth sense for that sort of thing.
So that’s how the game starts: You pick your horse. (So to speak.) From there, you just sit back and let the action come to you. I think Bagel came up with the scoring system, and it’s pretty straight forward: Fat girls are worth 1 point. Hot girls are -1. If the girl is somewhere in the middle, no points are awarded (it’s kind of like “par” in golf.) Similarly, if the girl in question isn’t wearing the specified jersey, no blood there either.
I hoped to provide some visual examples to help you out here, but when I typed in “Hot Orioles Fan” into Google, I got like 30 pages of crickets chirping. The best I could find on the interweb (in the 10 seconds of effort I put into this) was this chick here:
Now, I don’t know this person. And she’s not really all that unattractive, at least not in the theoretical sense of the word. Alas, the rules of CGJR are unflinchingly rigid: Plus One.
On the other side of the spectrum we have this lady. Should be like Minus Three here, right?
Unfortunately, no. It’s like high school all over again, in that you can’t score with this chick. No name on the jersey, so no points awarded. Those are the rules.
So there you go. I encourage you to try out this fun new game the next time you’re at a game. Baseball, football, it doesn’t matter. (Not hockey though, unless you bring a scientific calculator with you.)
A Very Special Hump Day
Filed under: You wouldn't know true beauty if it was out in the parking lot waiting to give you hepatitis |
Comments(13) Hey there everybody. Lots of excitement going on over here in Kickassville. For instance, last night some friends and I went to the Oreos game, which was fan-freakin-tastic, despite the fact the Sawx blew the game. (Ghat damn I hate the Sawx sometimes.) In fact I have a whole post about last night’s game ready to go, including a recap of a wicked fun new game we made up to pass the time during the 2 hour rain delay. I don’t want to spoil the surprise, but it’s probably the Greatest Rain Delay Game ever. You’ll just have to be patient.
Instead, today’s post will be a little different. I’m going to take a break from my regularly scheduled dumbassery, and blatantly violate Rule #1 of this blog. (Rule #1 is, of course: Nobody Cares About Your Feelings, Jon.)
You see, today is a very special day– it’s my wedding anniversary! Now, I know what you’re thinking: “Way to own a calendar in this economy, fatcat!” But it’s true. Today marks the anniversary of the best day of my life. So instead of boring fascinating you with the usual nuts and bolts of my everyday life, I figured I’d take a few minutes and talk about my lovely wife Angie. Hopefully it warms the cockles of your heart. The cockles of your cockles, even.
Most of you know Angie through this blog, or have at least heard me mention her before. (Although admittedly, whenever I mention Angie’s name, it’s usually immediately followed by the words “…covered her face in embarrassment.”) The thing is, I try to keep the details of my private life, well, private. Years of research have led me to the conclusion that the Interwebs exist solely for porn, fart jokes, and pictures of semi-literate cats. Nothing more, nothing less. But this is my blog, dammit, and I can do whatever I want. And today I want to get all sappy on your ass. (Metaphorically, of course.)
Here’s the thing: Behind every good man is a good woman. And Angie is a most certainly a great woman. She’s easily the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Just like how Martha Washington had big fat bowls waiting for her hubby George when he came home each night, Angie is the hypothetical bowl-packer in the crop fields of Kickass Empire. (Side note: paragraphs like this are probably why I wasn’t allowed to write my own marriage vows. Whatevs.)
You know how on those stupid reality TV dating shows, women are always saying that they want to find a man with a “good sense of humor”? Seriously, that’s always like the #1 Most Important Thing Ever, even if we all know what a total crock of shit it is. Usually “sense of humor” is just code for “good looks and/or deep pockets.” Well believe or not, I am living, breathing proof that sense of humor can in fact land you a smoking hot wife. Seriously! I mean, I bring absolutely nothing else to the table. Not one thing. And yet Angie still loves me, which is a big slice of fantastic.
Truth is, I am extremely lucky to be married to such a wonderful woman. I don’t say that nearly enough, especially not in this space. Maybe one day the scientific community will figure out why an amazing person like Angie would want to spend her time with a jackass like me (without the letters “GHB” involved.) But until that day comes, I’m just going to keep on enjoying the ride.
So Happy Anniversary, Angie. Thank you for putting up with my dumb ass all these years. I love you.
Death Pool Thriller
Hey did you guys hear that Michael Jackson died? Probably not- the media’s done a pretty good job of keeping it quiet. But it’s true. The roof finally collapsed in the comedy gold mine that was Michael Jackson’s life.
It happened so suddenly too! I mean, if Michael Jackson wasn’t the very picture of health, well then I don’t know who was. The guy wore a surgical mask at all times, for chrissakes! I guess when you consider all of the vague, unidentifiable health problems the guy had, and then factor in the crippling stress from all the courtroom dramas and bankruptcies, well it’s a miracle the guy made it this long. It’s a wonder none of us saw it coming.
Oh hey, wait a minute. One of us did see it coming! As is turns out, Yours Truly picked the King of Pop in this year’s Celebrity Death Pool! That’s a 50-pointer, btw. Yay for me!
Now I’m sure some of you out there are thinking, “But Jon, how can you gloat and/or profit from someone else’s tragic death? What kind of cold, heartless monster are you?” Well allow me to offer a counterpoint to that argument: Shut the hell up, hippie.
So head on over to my buddy Canteen Boy’s blog today and bask in my glory. Do it! Start basking!!
Wednesday? More like Friendsday!
Today I’d like present the next chapter in my ongoing series entitled, “Stuff That Happens To Me During Lunch.”
Act I: I went to the bank. The bank of America. Aww yeah. None of that sissy off-shore terrorist crap for me. My checking account is totally protecting our freedom.
Act II: Some weird homeless dude knocked on the window of my truck whilst I was in the bank parking lot. Apparently he was on his way to the bus stop, which happened to be right next to the bank.
Now, I have no idea why a homeless person would be on his way to the bus stop. Where could he possibly be going? If I was homeless, I think I’d just kind of hang out wherever I happened to be sitting at the time. No sense getting on a bus just to go be homeless somewhere else, right? I mean, I can’t stand taking the bus anywhere, and I’m FULLY homed. File that one under: Life’s Great Mysteries. [/tangent]
Okay, back to my story. So Homeless Dude knocks on my window, and I of course roll my window down to see what he wants. I’m a man of the people, don’t forget.
Homeless Dude (looking at my truck): Hey, is this a 2009 or 2010?
Me: 2009.
H.D.: So it’s the new one then, huh?
Me (not wanting to debate the intricacies of chronological time with this man): Ummm… yes. Yes it is the “new one”.
H.D.: You own your own business, right?
Me: No. Why do you think that?
H.D.: You just look like you do I guess.
(Note: I’m guessing that, to a homeless person, anyone NOT sitting at the bus stop in the middle of the day just reeks of entrepreneurial spirit.)
H.D.: Don’t worry, I know what you’re thinking- “Here I am at the bank, and some strange black guy comes up to me—he’s probably begging for money.”
Me: No, actually that wasn’t my first thought. (Thanks a lot, Liberal Media.)
H.D.: I mean, of course I do want to ask you for money, but I’m not going to.
Me: Ummm… okay then. Thanks?
H.D.: I believe that Jesus has a plan for us all. I just got out of convalescence care you know. I was shot three times, from about 10 feet away. Once in the head, once in the neck… blah blah blah… we can get through anything… blah blah creamy nougat center…. Blah blah bus stop.
(Note: Whenever a complete stranger begins a sentence with “I believe that Jesus….”, unless the next words are “…is going to tell that girl over there to flash her boobs for you“, I just kind of just zone out. It’s not that I have anything against the Big Jeez, mind you, but it’s like a switch goes off in my brain telling me that nothing from this point forward will have any intrinsic value.)
Me: Wow. That’s tough. Glad you recovered and… uhhh… you know… didn’t die or whatever.
H.D.: Thanks.
Then he just turned and quickly walked away. I think because his bus was pulling up. (Thank you Jesus!!!)
Act III: I got out of my truck and started walking towards the ATM. I didn’t even make it two steps before I heard someone else talking to me. Was it another homeless man? Or perhaps even Jesus himself? My imagination took off like a scalded dog.
Turns out, it was an 82-year old woman with a walker. (I know she was 82 because she told me.) As luck would have it, she was also going to the bus stop. And she was having trouble making it up the stairs with her walker, so she asked me for help. Presumably because of how strapping and/or entrepreneurial I look.
So of course I helped the old lady up the stairs, and over to the bus stop. I’m probably the nicest guy ever, helping an old lady like that. Don’t you think? I should totally win some sort of award for this. Like maybe “Baltimore’s Greatest Citizen”. Or even “World’s Sexiest Abs.” I’m not picky.
Act IV: After my heroic display at the bank, I went over to Taco Bell for lunch. I ordered a Grilled Stuffed Burrito Supreme. Which, if my understanding is correct, is the official lunch food of humanitarianism.
The End.
Hammer Time
Man, this blog has been a tall glass of disappointing recently, hasn’t it? But that’s okay. I once knew a guy who went five whole months without updating his blog, and he was pretty damn cool. So I’m sure a brief 1.5 week absence is perfectly acceptable. (Although now I’m blogging about blogging, which I hate. So I’ll get my stop on.)
Work’s just been kicking my ass recently. And not in the sexy way either. For example, tomorrow I have to travel down the road to scenic Redneckia (a.k.a. Richmond, Virginia.) My mission for the day: reduce my company’s headcount by 1, possibly 2 employees. You see, when people here need a-firing, I’m the guy that has to do it. And let me tell you, I’ve had to do it quite a bit this year, what with the economy and all. It’s never easy, firing someone, but I suppose that’s why they pay me the big medium bucks. It’s gotten so bad, my co-worker Dave has started calling me “The Hammer”. (Not sure why, but it probably has something to do with my gold sparkly Zubaz pants.)
Regardless, I do love my job. And I suppose it’s always better to be the fire-er than the fire-ee, right? I will refrain from answering my own rhetorical questions. (Or will I?) Yes. Yes, I will.
The thing about firing people is that it’s never personal; they always have it coming. Like that intern who put too much sugar in my coffee. Gone! Or the guy from the mailroom who accidentally made eye contact with me in the hallway. (What are you looking at now, sucker??) Over the years, I’ve been able to finely hone the art of the termination. While there are literally hundreds of methods for firing someone, I’m more of an old school kind of guy. I keeps it real, know what I mean? Of course you do. Here are my top 3 firing tactics:
- Do it in front of a large group, so there’s less of a chance of an “incident.” For instance, I might walk into a crowded meeting and say, “Everybody that still works here, raise your hand… Not so fast there, Lee Harvey. Go clean out your desk.”
- Use some sort of topical, pop culture reference: “Hey Jim-Bob, do you watch the Apprentice? With that wacky Donald Trump and his wacky catchphrase: ‘You’re Fired’? Yeah, he does have some funny hair. Ha ha ha. Seriously though… Get out.”
- The old standby: “It’s not you, it’s me. We’re just headed in different directions; we have different needs. I need employees that aren’t familiar with Federal minimum wage laws. And you need a company that does a better job enforcing its sexual harassment policies. You know, with that hot body of yours.” (This is especially effective if the terminated employee is female.)
See? Piece of cake.
Aside from my work-related funk, things are actually very good here in Kickass Land. Fantastic even. My quiver of entertaining arrows is stuffed full, and I hope to begin shooting them into the hay bale of your web browser post haste. Like next week or so.
In the meantime, you should go bask in the room-temperature glow of my other blog. You know, the movie review one. It answers the age-old question, “Is it even mathematically possible to update a blog less than this one?” Or if movie reviews aren’t your bag, then perhaps I could interest you in one of the other fine blogs over there to your right. No, your other right. They’re all fully 100% Jon-approved. (Btw, I plan on re-updatening my blogroll very soon. Swearsies!)
Today’s entertainment is going to have to come from this picture, which just cracks me up for some reason. First person to explain what the hell is going on here, wins a fabulous prize.
(And we wonder why terrorists attack us.)
Suburban Warriorhood
Today I’d like to talk about my lawn. Admittedly, this topic isn’t going to be very interesting to anyone except me, and possibly those of you in a Fantasy Lawncare league.
But before I get into that edge of your seat thrill ride, let me first say that I feel ripped off by this crap-ass Bawl’mer weather we’ve been having lately. Back when I moved to Maryland, part of the deal was that I’d tolerate the pathetic lack of snow in the winter, and in return, Uncle Weather agreed to be sunny and nice the vast majority of the time. But instead, it has been raining on and off pretty much every day for the entire recorded history of ever. That’s not part of the deal, Bawl’mer!! Tighten up!
Thankfully, my basement has remained completely dry so far this year, thanks to the precision mechanical workings of the new sump pump I installed after The Great Floodening of 2008. Seriously, the only way that thing could kick more ass is if it were manufactured by SkyNet, and it came back from the future to destroy us all. Which for all I know, it might. There’s still time is all I’m saying.
So imagine my utter astonishment this past weekend when it didn’t rain a single cold heartless drop for nearly TWO whole days! Miracles come in all shapes and sizes, my friends. So I seized this rare opportunity to kick Mother Nature square in the nuts. Or more specifically, I wheeled out my trusty Craftsman Nature Eraser 5000 and effectively rid my back yard of all the botanical undesirables that had popped up during last week’s sloppy wet free-for-all. (Note: To those of you just joining my blog from an unfortunate WebMD search: Welcome, Sickos!)
So now the lawn looks awesome, as is to be expected. Over the years, I’ve sufficiently broken my lawn’s spirit to such a degree that now all I have to do is look at it and point, and the grass just sort of falls down in perfectly manicured straight lines. Excelsior!
Which leads me to the next wet rock in the downward trickle of my dilapidated homeownership: Operation: Landscaped Walkway. I started working on this not-really-all-that-ambitious project last summer, and I’m happy to report that, after a mere 12 months of work/neglect, its status has been upgraded from “Embarrassing” to “Not Quite As Embarrassing.” In fact, I’d go as far as to say it looks…. marginal. Two days ago, it was nothing more than a weed-infested garden of shame. But now, it’s a giant patch of dirt that lets everyone know, “this is where all the ants lived before I killed the shit out of them.”
I’ll be honest; at this point I have no idea whether I’ll ever get around to completing the walkway project. It’s not that I don’t want to finish it, it’s just that most weekends I wake up and am all like “Hey look, there’s my couch!” And, “I bet that thing’s comfortable to sit on!” And before I know what hits me, it’s Monday morning. So there’s a pretty good chance that Operation: Landscaped Walkway will morph into Operation: Try Not To Step In All That Dog Poop Over In That There Dirt Patch. (Either way, it’ll definitely be off the chizzain, yo. Believe that.)
Besides, what fun is yardwork without a little mystery mixed in; a little bit of the unknown? I can almost hear the suspense thickening around me, like a meaty stew that’s been left outside on a hot summer’s day. So to recap, the possible outcomes of my landscapery are:
- Planting flowers
- Avoiding dog poop
(Has my life really come to this? Huh. I guess it has.) Well then. I promise to post pictures just as soon as my awesome new landscaped walkway is finished, which as far as I can tell should be sometime between next weekend and never.
Stay tuned for the next riveting installment of Living the Dream, when I buy a new pair of shoes for work. Will they be brown? Maybe!
We want Eazy (chairs)
The other day my lovely wife and I did some shopping. It was a pretty nice little Saturday. You know- Home Depot, Bed Bath & Beyond, etc. (There’s just never enough time!)
Anywho, we eventually wound up at some place called Pier 1, which believe it or not is a real store. I had never heard of it, but what the hell do I know. I thought Angie was taking me to buy a boat or something. Maybe that’s Pier 2.
So we’re shopping. Or more accurately, Angie’s shopping and I’m following behind her like a petulant child. I’m sure there’s something in the world I care less about than whether our dish towels match our coffee mugs, but I’d be hard pressed to think of anything. Regardless, I’m an awesome husband, so along I went. To Pier 1. Giddyup.
(Note: If anyone out there wants what’s left of my Street Cred, I doubt I’ll be needing it anymore.)
The one good thing about Pier 1 is that they have a lot of chairs. Now, I wasn’t really in the market for a new chair, but the folks at Pier 1 didn’t need to know that. So it was no big deal if I just sat down and relaxed while Angie browsed through a seemingly endless array of throw pillows.
Here’s a picture of the chair I sat in:
Notice anything unusually RACIST about this chair? No? How about a closer look then:
Yep. It’s not just black. It’s Compton Black. Now I know what you’re thinking: There’s going to be a lot of oversized T-shirts with airbrushed memorials on them before this issue gets settled. Although I will admit, the fancy leather design is pretty gangsta. And it would look pretty good in my dining room, which of course is on the Wessiiiide of my house. But that’s not the point. The point is, I didn’t feel like shopping anymore. So I feigned outrage over the Chair of Hate so that Angie would let me wait in the car.
After that, we finished shopping and then ate dinner.
(What? Not every story has to be interesting.)
Can you name the truck with 4 wheel drive, that smells like a steak and seats 35?
Hey, guess what I did last week? I bought a new truck! Yay me! We’ll go ahead and score that Jon 1, Environment 0.
Although, instead of “I bought a new truck”, I could just as easily have said “I shot a blue duck.” Sure that doesn’t really make sense, but it definitely rhymes. And since no actual ducks were harmed during the vehicle buying process (at least not permanently), why don’t we go ahead and call it a tie?
Besides, while all you environment-loving hippies were out there selfishly depleting the world’s supply of patchouli oil and carbon offsets, I was doing my part to save the American automobile industry. Stimulating economy recovery. Saving lives. Am I the greatest living American hero ever? Maybe. We’ll let history decide that one.
What we do know at this point is this:
1. I own a shiny new truck
2. I am fully awesome in every way
Ergo, applying the Transitive Property, my new truck is also fully awesome in every way. (And yes, I realize that that’s not actually how the Transitive Property works. Don’t go getting your TI-85 in a bunch, Poindexter.)
Anywho, back to my new truck. Some of you may remember that I began Operation: Truck Replacementation last summer. If not, you can click here to refresh your memory. Or you could just take my word for it. Either way.
So I spent the past 9 months knee-deep in strategery. Patiently plotting each and every move I made. Waiting for the opportune time to strike, like some sort of truck buying ninja. After all, there’s quite a bit of market research that goes into the vehicle buying process. You need to consider things like camshaft profiles, torque converters, brake modulation mechanisms, etc. Seriously– don’t sleep on brake modulation mechanisms!!
(Okay fine. I don’t know what any of those things are; I just copied a bunch of random words from Car and Driver magazine.)
Regardless, in this economy, you want to make smart financial decisions. I can’t be making it rain in da club anymore, know what I mean? Partly cloudy, maybe. But certainly not rain. Luckily, now is actually a great time to buy trucks because no one in their right mind would even think about buying a gas-guzzling behemoth during the recession. Advantage: Jon. (Disadvantage: Jon’s family. Whatever.)
So I spent the past few months meticulously saving money (read: not paying my taxes) so that I could show up at the car dealership with a wheelbarrow full of cash. I even wore a monocle to let the salesman know that I meant business. After all, I’m not some wide-eyed rube that’s going to get fleeced by a smooth-talking salesman with a sugary sales pitch.
Example: Rust proofing. I totally got rust proofing thrown in for half price. Yeah, that’s right. Half. Awwwww to the yeah.
And so what if I use a lot of gas? It’s not like we’re living in Thunderdome you know. This isn’t Bartertown. Sure my new truck gets a cool 4 mpg highway, 1 mpg city. But if I stop filling up my 58 gallon tank each and every week, what will happen to all the men and women who run our nation’s gas stations? Did you ever stop and think of them? Of course not. Maybe you can sleep at night knowing that your fancy hybrid is putting good honest hardworking people out of work, but I can’t.
In fact, that’s why I need to drive a giant truck. My heart is just too damn big.
Free Milkshake Wednesday
Filed under: Don't call it a comeback, Still terrible after all these months, Uncategorized |
Comments(6) 
Happy New Year everybody! (Wait, it’s already the end of May? Huh. How about that.)
Anyway. I have a very important announcement to make. You may want to sit down for this.
Today is “Free Milkshake Wednesday” at Arby’s. You read that correctly. Free. Effing. Milkshakes.
Now, I couldn’t tell you why Arby’s is giving away free milkshakes today. But I’ve narrowed it down to a few possible explanations:
- Every day is Free Milkshake Day, now that the Democrats are back in power.
- May 20th commemorates the end of the Great Milkshake War of 1835.
- I need to stop referring to all the homeless people I see at stop lights as “Arby’s”.
Regardless, here are the facts as I see them: I went to Arby’s today for lunch, ordered a Beef and Cheddar meal with curly fries, and they threw in a milkshake for free. It doesn’t even matter what the reason is; that’s just great customer service in my book. And my book is titled, “How to be a disgusting fat-ass: The Milkshake Chronicles.” (On sale now!)
But my dairy-based windfall got me thinking– I’ve had some pretty amazing luck recently. You might say everything’s been turning up Jon. Why, just last week I was surfing some porn work-related internet sites, and a banner ad popped up promising me “hot young girls in my area.” I mean, what are the odds of that? I live in my area!! That’s quite a coincidence, don’t you think?
Something’s clearly going on here. I’m pretty sure the only way you could duplicate my good fortune is if you were Jesus, and you were riding Falcor the luck dragon. And even then it’s a long-shot.
So if anyone out there wants me to buy them some lottery tickets, just send me the money and I’ll let you know if you win. Err….I mean when you win.
