Thursday, July 29, 2010


    What the fuck is going on, Company?  How come I am always telling you about my day and you never tell me about yours?  You can always write an e-mail to  That would be nice.  Or leave a comment and tell me about how you are doing.  Sometimes I feel like I am talking to a brick wall.  Just kidding.
    But seriously, Company, I am dealing with a decided lack of inspiration.  Something akin to writer's block, which after 700-odd posts I suppose will happen from time to time.  I am sorry.  I can't even find a news article to regurgitate for you.  It all just seemsto be so flat and dry.  So I am going to take a couple of days off.  Have a nice weekend everyone and we will see you after the break.  Unless of course I get some inspiration before that.  You never know I suppose.

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

Movie Love

     To borrow a turn of phrase from the hilarious Lewis Black, in 2003 the state of California decided that it would rather live in a movie than in real life, and it elected former actor and professional body builder Arnold Schwarzenegger as its governor.  Apparently, however, there are more people than we realize out there in the community and around the world that feel the same way.  No, they aren't all going Ronald Regan and electing former actors to their government positions, but as it turns out they ARE letting romantic comedy movies control their lives and make them feel bad.  Especially in Australia.
     As it turns out, roughly half of 1000 Australians polled in a recent survey said that "rom-coms with their inevitable happy endings have ruined their view of an ideal relationship."  Wow.  So people are feeling bad about themselves because their love lives don't always end up like to romantic comedy movies that are beamed into their televisions or movie theaters.  Wow.  Apparently, somewhere along the way we forgot about the idea behind the concept of a movie, now didn't we folks.  We have forgotten that movies are supposed to be stories, things that aren't true, and generally things that aren't plausible.  All that Independence Day stuff?  Possible but not likely.  You've Got Mail?  Possible but not likely.  Super Troopers?  Possible and hilarious but not likely.  Do you see a pattern developing here, Company?  The hallmark of a good movie (aside from documentaries or mockumentaries) is that it is generally something that is possible, so that we think it might happen to us someday, but not likely, so that we can sort of live in a fantasy land.
     And therein lies the problem.  While the fantasy land aspect of the movies is pretty plain, it is that nagging hope that seems to be getting us every time.  Let's turn back to the survey a little bit and see what some of the so-called experts had to say.  Gabrielle Morrissey, an Australian relationship counselor, noted "It seems our love of rom-coms [Editor's Note: I fucking hate that term.] is turning us into a nation of 'happy-ever-after addicts.' Yet the warm and fuzzy feeling they provide can adversely influence our view of real relationships."  She continues on by telling us that "Real relationships take work and true love requires more than fireworks."  Now, I have watched a lot of Cosby Show episodes, and I have watched a lot of real life relationships build and bend and break and persevere and implode and just about everything else, and I had pretty much already figured that out on my own.  How much do you earn in a year as a relationship counselor to give out that kind of advice?  And can you convert that into American dollars so I have a better frame of reference?
     The point here is, and all joking aside, that she is right.  But unfortunately, our little survey - which was released by Warner Home Video to mark the DVD release of the terrible movie Valentine's Day (oh the irony!) - has shown that we really don't get it.  Either the movie plots have gotten so good, or we have become so jaded and stupid, that we just don't understand the difference anymore, and we think our love lives should be identical or parallel to the love lives of all the characters that flicker across our lives.  So sad.  Because it's not like that, and it's not true.  Boys, it's time to wake up and start trying a little harder.  Girls, it's time to realize that Mr. Right might not be out there.  And for all of us, it's time to have some reasonable expectations that we just have to put in the effort.  There is no movie magic in our real lives.

Monday, July 26, 2010

Blinking Lights

     So this may surprise you, Company, but I watch TV an awful lot.  An awful lot.  Which is impressive for someone who don't have anything but a crappy rooftop antenna which only picks up like a station and a half.  You can imagine that I end up watching seasons of shows on DVD.  Included in that rotation is MacGyver.  I was on maybe my eleventy billionth episode of MacGyver and they were in a room with computers.  Lots of computers.  And as usual, they were denoted by banks of blinking lights that seemed to go on and off with no sort of rhyme or reason.
     What the fuck's with that?  This phenomenon can be seen in many, many 80s shows and movies.  Ever seen War Games?  That is filled with computers and they are the worst offenders.  There are just banks of lights, some of them even the lighted buttons like used to be on the bottom of 80s telephones - you know, the kind that light up when you press them down so you can tell what line you are on - and they light up and blink randomly.  They are only supposed to blink when you press them and someone is on hold.  But not in War Games.  They just blink away like they have something in their eyes.
     Now I understand that 80s PCs were a little short on graphics, okay?  And I understand that the technology was really in its infancy at the time and many people had never seen a computer, let alone used one.  And I understand that Hollywood production types need to keep visuals super visual for the viewers, and that green-on-green is not very sexy.  But come on.  Throw me a bone here.  At least make them blink in some sort of logical sequence, as if they were processing through a program or something.  Don't make them just blink randomly.  Even if there were a rhyme and reason to it, and someone was writing down every series of blinks, they go too quickly and there are so many combinations one would have to have another computer bank of blinking lights just to decode what the first one blinked out.
     So it all makes me very tired, and a little angry, and sort of giggly.  Because it's funny to watch right now, as MacGyver types line after line of green code on a slightly greener screen and it brings up lists that are just, well boring.  And all with less computing power than my iPod.  Blink away lights.  Blink away.

Sunday, July 25, 2010

The People on Television

     And so I was watching an episode of one of my favorite TV shows, WKRP in Cincinnati, on DVD last night and a thought crept into my brain.  I was looking at the characters as they were all sitting around discussing something, and I fixed on Bailey Quarters in her pretty royal blue dress.  I got to thinking, not about something perverted which is usually where I would go, but about Bailey Quarters as a person.  Not Jan Smithers the actor, but Bailey Quarters the person.  I imagined her getting up in the morning, getting dressed, eating breakfast, making her way to work on the bus or whatever, and the whole nine yards.  Even now I am imagining her in a small apartment with darkness out of the windows eating dinner and maybe drinking some wine.  You know.  Then I went on and on envisioning the daily life of each of the characters in turn, which I would suspect is sort of strange.
    I don't give a shit about the actors on the show.  Well, I shouldn't say that because I mean I sort of care a little bit, but I don't care about them waking up in their posh apartments and doing whatever, I just care about the unseen lives of the characters that they play.  I mean, if I want to know all about what Angelina Jolie did today I can just read any of the many tabloids down at the friendly local grocery store.  So fuck that shit.
     But yep, I still know it's super strange.  I can't imagine there are a lot of folks out there in the community who sit down and think about the daily lives of the characters in their TV shows while infinitely more interesting plot lines are occurring right on the screen in front of them.  But in the words of one Dane Cook, my brain is so fantastical that I sometimes just end up flowing down a tangent to somewhere different.  Such is life, yo.
   So yeah, that's what happened to me the other night, and I thought it was a little strange.  A little whacked out.  A little messed up.  But I wanted to share that experience with you, Company.  Because we are all about sharing here at Big Dave and Company.  And we learned that in kindergarten, didn't we?

Saturday, July 24, 2010

Don't Blow Your Own Horn

   I always sort of knew that the English were no fun.  And they are proving it again, first of all by bashing baseball for being boring when they play cricket, and secondly for banning the hell out of vuvuzelas.
   Now, let's be completely honest, did you ever expect the English to do anything different?  The vuvuzela - a cheap, molded plastic horn - has always been popular in South Africa and so was everywhere during this summer's World Cup.  And pretty much everyone who wasn't South African hated it, except for me.  It really was an experience: every game sounded as if it were being held on a giant bees nest, as all you could hear was the plastic buzzing and the occasional referees whistle.  I thought it was great.  The English, and the French, the Germans - pretty much anyone from Europe - oh! and all the players and the coaches, hated them.  With a passion.
     So now, the clubs in the English Premier league, and the clubs in their other leagues too, have one by one begun banning the instrument from their grounds.  They make various reasons for their actions, and it's fine.  What it boils down to is that their fans don't want them there and professional sports teams desperately need their fans around to survive.
     Now, the English take their version of football as seriously as we take ours, and one of the reasons that was thrown around for their hatred of the vuvuzela during the World Cup was that it covered up the chants for which English soccer fandom has become so well known, although that's a little forward for a nation that couldn't even win its group stage this year. BA-ZING!  Sorry, I couldn't resist.   But that's fine about the chanting.  That is an important and revered part of their sporting culture, so it is no big deal that they want to keep that at the forefront.  But I am about to say something that is going totally brand me as an American.  I sort of liked the vuvuzelas.
     Not that I am not pro chanting, because I am not.  In the right place and the right circumstance I think they are a great and fantastic part of sports fandom.  But looking in from outside the world soccer window, I thought the buzzing of the vuvuzelas kind of heightened the atmosphere of the whole event, and made it all so much more exciting.  I can do without the chanting, and not being a fervent follower of any sort of soccer, but the incessant plastic buzzing actually got my blood flowing and sort of made me excited.  So take that.  I dig them.
    That being said I am not there, and I am sure that if someone pulled one of those out of their trenchcoat next to me on the train or something, it wouldn't be long before I was in jail for assault.  But if everyone around me had one and I did too it would be on like Donkey Kong and I would blow until I passed out.  And from thousands of miles away on the television  I am all for them.  In my mind it's your loss if you are into English soccer.  And I certainly won't be attending.  Good luck finding someone to take my ticket.

Friday, July 23, 2010

Anger Management

     Sooooo...I don't know if you've noticed or not, Company, but I have been a little bit angry lately.  At a bunch of things.  I have kind of do we say this nicely...a few small anger issues.  If you were to be politically incorrect and something a little short of tactful about it, you would say that I have been excessively bitchy.  If you were one of my good friends talking about it, you would probably say that I had sand in my vagina.  Because that's how we roll.  Sorry ladies, no offense.
    Anyway, the point here is that for some reason or another I have had a little bit of a sort fuse.  This happens sometimes, and it is just a part of life.  So deal with it.  In any event you have probably enjoyed watching me slowly lose my mind over the last few days, and if that is true then at least I have had some noble purpose to all my agony.  Anyway, if I have offended you while going through this I am sorry, if I have amused you then good.  Otherwise, piss off.  Sorry, there I go again...

Thursday, July 22, 2010

The Big Dave and Company Podcast Store!

    Company, I was sitting in your bushes looking in your windows last night when I noticed something mostly shocking and a little bit apalling about the condition of your life.  There is a definite lack of Big Dave and Company Podcast apparel and decor in your home.  GOOD NEWS!  I have just the solution for you: The Big Dave and Company Podcast Store.  That's right, now you can get anything from bumper stickers to t-shirts and hoodies to tote bags or wall clocks at the greatly inflated prices that you would expect from a media empire (just kidding about the greatly inflated prices).  Soon, every surface of your workstation can be covered in Big Dave and Company Podcast merchandise and your entire family can all dress in the exact same outfits like those creppy families and goofy cults always do.  Wouldn't that be neat!
      So here is the deal, Company: you can find the Big Dave and Company Podcast Store at the following url:

     I know, that was shockingly simple to figure out, wasn't it?  Click on it, buy some stuff, and make sure to bookmark it because that is where you are going to want to get all of your holiday and birthday gifts from now on.  You it's true.  Check it out and wear your gear proudly!

Tuesday, July 20, 2010

You Are Yelling At the Wrong Person

    You know what I hate, Company?  I hate it when people yell at me for things THAT AREN'T MY FUCKING FAULT!  Those people can fuck off and go to hell.  They make me want to kick them until they start shaking, then kick them until they stop.  Then I want to hit them with a baseball bat just for good measure.  I want to kick them in the back of the knees so they fall down then jump on them and punch them in the face until I black out and wake up wondering why there is blood on my hands and there are teeth surrounding me on the ground.  That's what they make me want to do.
    Here is the deal, Colonel Pissbag, if you don't want the product that I am offering, that is fine.  No one is making you buy it.  If you don't like the features then don't partake.  I am not on the phone pressuring you to get it.  No.  So then, when you don't like what I have to offer just say no thank you.  You don't have to sit on your high horse and yell at me.  Wanna know why?  Well first of all because I don't fucking give a shit about what you think and what you want.  But mostly because I DIDN'T MAKE THE PRODUCT ASSHOLE!  I am not the one who did the development, I am not the one who made the rules and regulations.  I am just the poor guy who happened to answer the number you dialed.  In fact, I am sort of surprised I even had to talk to you at all because you can't be smart enough to dial the phone for yourself.  Either you mashed your hand on the keypad and you happened to get through, or your mommy dialed for you because you are obviously a moronic idiot who can't comprehend basic thoughts and idea.  What number NASCAR sticker is on the back of your SUV?     Sorry, that was uncalled for.  I know lots of nice, intelligent NASCAR fans and plenty of wonderful, smart people who drive SUV's.  I shouldn't be disparaging these fine, American institutions by associating them with the fucking small-dick penis wrinkle who can't control their fucking cave-man temper and who is yelling at me on the phone.
     "Woah, Big Dave, why the anger?  And I should point out that you are flying a little bit off the handle here yourself."  You want me to start in on you, Company?  Because I am a little worked up right now.  But I digress.  Here is the difference between me and the no-talent ass-clown on the phone yelling at me about things that aren't my fault.  First of all, right now, as you read this.  I am not yelling at someone, I am yelling about someone.  For me to be doing to you what he did to me would mean that I was yelling at you for reading this post the wrong way.  So it is a little different.  Secondly, I sort of understand where he is coming from.  The people who don't like my product are generally not going to like any of the products available for sale out there, and that is just life.  So I get that it's frustrating.  I really do.  But these people that are yelling at me for things that again, AREN'T MY FUCKING FAULT, they don't even want to begin to undertand my side of things.  They just want to be a douchebag with a gigantic stick up their fucking ass.  Third, I am an asshole in sort of an indearing, cuddly sort of way.  He is an asshole in a way that he needs an attitude adjustment, which I want to give to him by hitting him in the sack with a tire iron.
     The thing about it is, Company, that I don't really mind being yelled at, sometimes everyone needs to be yelled at.  But here is the kicker, the condition if you will: I only don't mind when I am being yelled at FOR SOMETHING I FUCKING DID!  I DON'T WANNA HEAR IT WHEN IT'S NOT MY FAULT!  Did I mess up?  Fine, let me have it.  Something that I have no control over?  Get bent.  I hope you fall off your high horse and land asshole first on a fence post.  I hope it scrapes the front of your brain on the way through and gives you a lobotomy because you don't have a personality that anyone should have to deal with.  So to all the people yelling at me for things that aren't my fault: go fuck yourselves and I hope you rot in hell.  Have a nice day everyone! You know, except the guy.

Monday, July 19, 2010

I Approved this Message

"My name is Big Dave, and I approved this message."
     No fucking shit.  Here is the deal, Company, I am so sick of hearing jackweed politicians on my television saying "I am Big McJingwak, and I approved this message" it is out of control.  If I have to hear that one more time I am going to stab someone in the neck, which is unfortunate because I know I am going to have to hear it.  And then I am going to have to stab someone in the neck with like a pitchfork or something.  Following the colon is the reason that I hate having to hear people on TV say that: I am not a fucking retard, okay?  If you are in a commercial on TV, in which you are speaking directly into the camera words that were written specifically for that commercial, by the time you get to line six I have already figured out that you approved that message, okay?  Because you have taken the time out of your busy schedule of taking money from lobbyists and cheating on your wife to read these lines to me.  That's how I figured it out.
     Back when George W. said it for the first time during one of his Presidential elections, it was new and fresh and innovative, but now it is just sort of washed up.  I suppose that I understand why the politicians feel the need to do this though.  There are lots of times when a group that supports you, but with which you might not want to be associated, will cut together some clips of you saying things at speeches, luncheons, gala events, etc. and make a commercial out of it without your knowledge and consent.  And since, in politics, who you know and who you hang around with are the most important things I guess I can understand.  But it is so easy - if you have half a brain - to figure out the difference.  Plus, every commercial says right on the bottom who paid for it.
     So I guess that once you sort of wrap your head around the whole idea what you will find is that politicians think we are fucking morons, and that they only care about us so much as we are able to vote them into office.  Now, I am not going to get into a debate on ideas or issues here, we are talking about the single line in the commercial: "I am Fuckbag O'Pisspants and I approved this message." Democrats and Republicans and Libertarians and Independents and everyone else are all equally clupable and all need to be hacked off at the knees by one of those chariots with the knives sticking out of the wheel.  And then a cougar needs to pounce on their near lifeless body and tear it to shreds.  What I suppose I am saying then, is that you can take your personally approved message and wad it up real tight and stuff it up your fucking ass, because I am sick of hearing it.  If your giant fucking head is there on the screen, floating on air in front of an American flag that is blowing in the wind, yet somehow you hair is perfect and unmoving like its Jimmy Johnson's or something, and you just told me about how everyone in Washington sucks and you think that you are going to be different, then I understand that you approved the message because you were in it.  I don't need some shitburglar telling me what I already know.  So go to hell.  I approved that.

Sunday, July 18, 2010

Wasted Days

      Everyone is always talking about wasted days: you can’t afford to waste a day, the day is wasted, I wasted away the day lying on the couch.  And so on and so forth.  But I don’t necessarily subscribe to that theory.  Sometimes you need that day lying on the couch.  Maybe you spent the whole day fixing the car and you couldn’t take out the snowmobile, but your car needed to get fixed.  You know what I am talking about, Company?
     As another case in point, I am sitting square on the morning following one of those supposedly wasted days..  I will admit, it was a beautiful day.  One couldn’t ask for much more.  Well, technically one could but unless you were jonzeing to snowboard or something, you wouldn’t want to ask for anything more.  Temperatures in the mid 80s but with a nice breeze to kind of cut the heat, not much in the way of humidity, and just some of those puffy cumulus clouds floating around in the sky that weren’t doing anything to block out any of the sun.   Dr. and Mrs. J invited me out on the boat.  Perfect day to be out on the boat.  The only problem was that I had a somewhat full agenda: take the garbage to the dump, do my laundry (I was wearing my last pair of underwear on as I was contemplating this invitation,  and I had no work shirts left, and I generally try to abstain from doing my laundry on Sundays or Mondays because EVERYONE does laundry on those days and the laundromat is usually packed), and grocery shopping because the cupboards in the Worldwide Headquarters are beginning to look a little bit bare, and I had to make a dish to take to the TWE’s house later that evening.  All that being said, the opportunity to hit the water in a boat that actually had a motor isn’t an everyday occurrence for me, so I didn’t quite know what to do.  So somewhere along my way to and from the dump (garbage HAD to go, no question)  I made the decision to go out on the boat.  It was beautiful outside and what’s another wasted day, right?
     Except it wasn’t wasted.  I had a great time; got sunburned, went swimming, are delicious sandwiches.  All was well in the world, and somewhere along the way as we cruised across the water, I came to realize exactly what I typed above: the day wasn’t wasted.  To have been cooped up in a laundromat, or been fighting the weekend crowds in the grocery store, or to have been stuck indoors engaged in any of the other indoor activities that I had scheduled, would have made the day wasted.  Those are things for a rainy day or a day after work.  Had I decided to do those things sure, I wouldn’t have wasted the available day for doing chores, but I would have wasted the good weather day.  And since I would have deprived that gorgeous day of what its best possible use,  that is just as much as wasted day as any.
     So fast forward to now, or at least now as I am writing this.  It is 9:30 in the morning and I am sitting in the laundromat, which is very quickly filling up with idiot tourists who you can tell aren’t used to having to go to the laundromat and are in a tizzy, which is why I usually try to avoid the place like the plague on Sundays.  I am almost done though, so it’s okay.  It’s raining outside, and it is generally a good day to scrub the bathtub and listen to the baseball game.  Wouldn’t have been able to go out in the boat or go hiking today.  Would have ended up being a wasted weather day, just like yesterday, had I not gone out in the boat.  But now, through nothing but fate and coincidence  it has turned out perfectly.  How about that?  Sometimes it’s all about making the wrong decision.

Friday, July 16, 2010

The Shirtless Wonder

This is a T-shirt.  Fucking put it on.
     I am wondering exactly why it suddenly became all the rage for every Tom, Dick, and Douchebag to wander around through their life with no shirt on.  It's stupid, it's barbaric, and most importantly it's moronic.
     There are, of course, some instances in which it is okay to run around with no shirt on.  One of those instances is if one is swimming.  Another is if you are in your home in the process of getting dressed.  Another would be if you were just about to partake in the services of the friendly local brothel.  Those are all situations in which I would expect you to have a shirt on, but you know what, idiotic douchebag?  Strolling through a residential neighborhood with your dumbass girlfriend is not a shirtless occasion. 
   "Oh, but it's hot outside."  Shut the fuck up.  It is not that hot.  If it was so hot you would be wearing shorts.  Oh, but you're not wearing shorts.  You are wearing dumb looking jeans that you probably paid way too much for and that don't even look all that especially cool.  You paid so much for them that you couldn't even afford a shirt, for Christ's sake.  But really, here is the deal: if it is hot enough for you to not wear a shirt, it is hot enough that you SHOULDN'T BE WEARING FUCKING PANTS!  The only exception to this rule is if you are a logger or construction worker, or something along those lines, where you have to wear pants to protect yourself from all sorts of dangers (for example: chainsaws, concrete, wood splinters, or welding torches) and maybe you took your shirt off on your break.  That's okay.  But you don't look like a lumberjack or construction worker, in fact, I kind of get the impression that you are one of those types who spends an inordinate amount on clothes, electronics, and other assorted accessories but who doesn't actually have any income.  I would also suspect that you drive a compact foreign family car with a giant shopping cart handle bolted onto the back and some clearouts on the lights but with no real or useful performance mods.  Just call it a hunch.
     Nope, you are walking around shirtless because you think it is super cool, and that it makes you look tough, and because your genius girlfriend told you she thinks it makes you look hot, and by that I mean "I want to rip your clothes off" hot, not temperature hot, which is convenient because you have half the normal amount of clothes that need to be ripped off.  But I digress.  The point here is that you need to put a fucking shirt on because you sort of just look like a retarded retard who can't figure out how to dress themselves. "Oh man, I can't figure out what color would look good with these sweet jeans my mom just bought me."  Yeah, go to hell.  Anyone would rather see you wearing the wrong colored shirt than see your dumbass abdomen sticking out as you cut through their yard.  That's the way it is.  Dumbass.

Thursday, July 15, 2010

Fatso's Midnight Snack

     I have known a lot of people who have done some stupid ass things when intoxicated.  And I mean stupid ass things.  But there is something special about intoxication in Australia I think - I mean, this is the place where someone got caught with his beer strapped into a seat belt but not his child.  So I suppose that I shouldn't be surprised that someone tried to ride a saltwater crocodile when all drunked up the other day, but I am nonetheless.
     That's right, an Australian man is recovering in a friendly local hospital with serious wounds - serious wounds that required surgery - after he attempted to ride a salt water crocodile in the western town of Broome.  And not just any saltwater crocodile.    He chose, in his drunken stupor, an 1800 lb. version appropriately named Fatso.  They do like to go big or go home down there I suppose.
     Local man Michael Newman was ejected from a friendly local drinking establishment for being too drunk, when he took it upon himself to climb a fence into a crocodile enclosure at some sort of wild animal park and proceeded to attempt to ride Fatso, much like Brick Tamland rides a bear in Anchorman when he says "Look, I am riding a furry tractor!" Once in the enclosure, and once Mikey had declared his intentions, Fatso bit the hell out of him.  Chomp, chomp.  As would be expected. 
     Actually, it was not as to be expected.  See, saltwater crocodiles, especially large ones, generally don't allow things to survive once they attack.  Malcolm Douglas, the owner of the park, and by extension Fatso, noted "If it had been warmer and Fatso was more alert, we would have been dealing with a fatality...once [saltwater crocodiles] get a hold of you, they are not renowned for letting you go."  I couldn't have said it better.  Mr. Douglas attributes the sluggishness of the crocodile to a recent cold snap in the area.  Officials attribute the idiocy of Mr. Newman to the massive amounts of alcohol.
     Eventually, after the attack, Mikey climbed back over the fence to get out, and staggered back to the bar from which he had been ejected with bark hanging off him and flesh missing from his limbs.  And he's lucky in a way, because he is alive, but he is unlucky in that he is going to get made fun of forever in eternity.and he has a chunk missing from his leg.  So here is the point behind the story: don't get drunk and ride a crocodile.  Or maybe the point is that you have to go big or go home when it comes to the Land Down Under. I don't know, maybe we should ask Fatso.

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

Name Dropping

     Here is the deal, Company.  I don't give a fucking shit who you are.  That's why I am not impressed by you dropping names, okay?
      Here is the deal: there is a time and a place for dropping names, okay?  Maybe when you just honked Charlie Sheen and you just got back and your panties are gone and you are telling all your girlfriends about it and you are selling your stained black dress to the good folks at the National Enquirer.  Maybe when you are super famous and you want to get into a sheik Hollywood club.  Sure.  But not for trivial matters.
     Case in point, and by case in point I mean the instance that pissed me all off.  Guy calls the office, but not my office, he calls my counterpart in another county and says "I want you to call Big Dave's county and tell them that I want them to check my neighbor yard because something isn't right there.  By the way I am not there and I will be leaving to go there at 3 PM."  This call occurs sometime in the morning.  So they call us up and say "This is Joe Blow from Jingwak County and Supervisor Fuckbag McGee just called and said he wants you to check out the people who live next door to his summer home.  He says their shit isn't in line and he's on his way up there, he's leaving at 3.  Thanks."  So my office goes bat shit nuts calling people out in the community, interrupting shit, all because we want to be nice to the guys in Jingwak County.  We call that professional courtesy.
     Here's the thing though: there is a limit.  Should we disrupt all of the going on in our office just because Fuckbag McGee is coming to town?  No.  Should we provide a lesser amount of service to the good people who did what they were supposed to do and called in and waited their turn just because Fuckbag McGee is a fucking retarded idiot who thinks he is special?  Hell no.  But we did and I got pissed.
     So I started doing some digging.  Turns out there is no Supervisor Fuckbag McGee in Jingwak County.  None at all.  I even looked through all the town folks.  WHAT THE FUCK'S WITH THAT?  Turns out he was a FORMER Supervisor, which - I don't know if you know this, Company - is vastly different from a current Supervisor.  The important qualifier "former" tacked on to it means YOU ARE NOT A FUCKING OFFICIAL ANYMORE!  YOU ARE JUST A WASHED UP OLD MAN WHO THINKS YOU ARE STILL IMPORTANT.  So not only did he drop is basically worthless name but he added a title that is no longer his.  So now not only am I going to kick him in the sack I am going to fine the hell out of him for false advertising.
     If Fuckbag McGee wanted to drop a name, there is a way to go about it; an appropriate time and circumstance.  Here would have been a more acceptable way of doing it: Call like a normal person, and trust us to have good enough public service to get it taken care of.  Then, if we don't, casually mention who you are and then maybe that will put the spurs to us.  YOU DO NOT NEED TO PULL STRINGS RIGHT OFF THE BAT.  I can't type that in large enough caps.  I really want to make it as large as the stuff before but that would have been a bit excessive so I just made it bold.  And in a different font.  But you get the point. 
     This just makes me want to scream.  People who do this make me want to scream and kick things until I break my feet.  I want to demolish a house with nothing but a claw hammer in the most haphazard and least productive means possible.  I just want destruction and vengeance.  I want people to be running and cowarding in terror in their homes when I come by.  Mostly, I just want Fuckbag McGee to go away.  That's not true.  I want him to be in a mental institution, slowly going insane because all the other patients don't know or care who he is or who he was.  I want an orderly dressed completely in white to say "Yeah, that's great" and give him a cup full of pills.  Because you don't name drop for no reason.  And if you do, you don't go it yourself.  You get an Unpaid Intern to do it for you like I do.

Monday, July 12, 2010

Unreasonable Expectations

      Sometimes, Company, nothing can ruin a date, a life, a day, an engagement, etc. faster than having unreasonable expectations.  Because if the event occurring has the potential for x, and you for some reason are expecting either x+1 or maybe y or z, then you aren't going to have a good time, and then everyone else isn't going to have a good time either.  Let me give you some for instances:
     If you are going to go to a baseball game, you have to have the reasonable expectation that something is going to get spilled on you somewhere along the way.  Whether it is beer (that is probably what it is going to be) or nacho cheese (another strong contender) or even a bottle of water, you have to be wary of that.  If you want to have a clean room environment around you and your stupid white shirt then maybe you should stay home and shut the hell up.  You also have to expect that there is going to be someone drunk sitting near you, I mean, it's a sports event.  You can use the smokers argument - that non-smokers have the right to not breath secondhand smoke just as much as smokers have a right to smoke - if you want but that doesn't matter.  Yes you have the right to not have drunks nearby just like they have the right to drink way too much beer, but that is not the point.  The point is that if you don't like smoke you don't go to the ashtray convention.  If you don't like drunken retards, you don't go to a baseball game.
     If your kid is into books and writing, don't expect him to be a football star.  Think Varsity Blue on this one, Company.  The scene where the backup quarterback is on the bench reading a book that is tucked inside his playbook says it all.  The kid is not happy.  The parents aren't happy because he isn't into football 100%, the coach isn't happy because his backup quarterback is a putz (in football terms), and when the stud starter gets hurt the team isn't entirely happy because he is not the super stud.  That being said, if the kid could just be a bookworm and hang out in the library and write for the school paper it would be fine.  I mean, the world needs writers too, and I would suspect that there are more people making their living via the pen than with a pigskin.  This applies to all parent-child relationships though, let your kid be who your kid is.  Just expect them to be themselves, be happy, and be somewhat successful.  They don't all have to be Yo-Yo Ma, and they most definitely don't all have to be just like you.  If that was true we would be a nation of nothing but insurance agents.
     Those are just a couple of suggestions, okay?  The reasonable expectation thing applies to every situation, from taking a long car ride to growing vegetables.  Just set your expectations at a level that are possible and your life, and the life of everyone else around you, will be much, much better.  You have to trust us on this one.  I didn't expect much when I entered this unpaid internship, and while I've gotten even less I am at least not terribly bitter yet.  Yet.

Sunday, July 11, 2010

I'm Not Going to Do That

     Dr. J told me the other day that I need to proofread my posts because there are lots of mistakes.  For instance: I write the word "if" when I really mean the word "of."  Fine.  But I can tell you this right now: that's not going to happen.  I'm not going to do that.  First of all Company, you are lucky that I even remember to spell check the damn things.  Second of all, I don't listen to the Podcast after we make it each week, so I am not sure what makes you think that I am going to proofread each and every post that I write.  I don't have the time and energy for that shit.  Second of all, anyone who writes a lot of stuff knows that in order to adequately proofread anything you either need a.) a different person than the writer to do it or b.) you need to wait until the next day to look at it.  And that is just too much time and trouble.  Lastly, the human brain is so fantastical that it can figure out what I really meant to say.  That is what we call "using contextual clues" and you learn that somewhere in elementary school or maybe junior high.  In fact you brain is so smart that it really only needs the first and last letters of a word to be in the right order, as long as the other letters are there, no matter what order they are in, your brain can read the word.  Taht is pterty cool isn't it?  So that is why I won't be proofreading my posts.  I'm not going to do that.

Saturday, July 10, 2010

The Joy of Life

     Well Company, I was once again amazed by life the other day, which is a good thing because it means that I haven't become so jaded and bitter that there is no hope left for me.  Because, see, life can create some pretty sublime and supreme moments, both in sorrow and in joy.  I fortunate enough to be amazed by one of the joyful moments just the other day.  Would you like me to describe it for you?  Good, because I am going to anyway.
     It was a pretty typical Friday at the office, the weekend was looming especially close, lunch had been had, and we were running short of ambition.  And by that I mean all of us.  It was at that point that things changed immensely.
     Landing Nine walked in from her office hours in another building and wheeled around the corner into my little room.  See, I don't know if you realize this, Company, but I sit in a little room with Sue Too behind a little window like every receptionist at every medical office to which you have ever been.  Now, that being said, the window and door are always open, so it's not like we are segregating ourselves from everyone else, that is just how things are laid out.  Anyway, this was a slightly unusual action.  Usually she will stop if I grab her attention on the way by, buy almost one hundred percent (that's 100% for those of you who would rather see it numerically) of the time she makes a bee-line for her desk to put her things down.  And I can't say that I blame her, because who doesn't want to set their stuff down, right?  I mean, that's always the first thing you do once you come in the door, isn't it Company?  Anyway, so she came around the corner into the little room - let's call it the Champagne Room - and she has this look on her face.  She was doing a good job trying to keep it together, I will give her credit for that.  But the look in her eyes betrayed her and gave away her excitement.  Within seconds the corners of her mouth curled up and out it came, one sentence that totally changed the the complexion of the entire office and altered the hue on the entire day: "I'm going to be a grandma."
     Hey, congratulations!  What an exciting event.  Now, in the grand scheme of things Landing Nine is not old - and I am not going to tell you how old she is because you never tell that about a lady or they will kick your ass - but I will say that she is at that age when many women begin to become grandmothers even though they always think that they aren't old enough for that.  The reason for this is that we always think of grandparents of being in at least their sixties or usually their seventies, but that is because we never remember the first five or six years of our life, when our grandparents are in fact younger than we remember them to be.  So anyway, her daughter-in-law was great with child, and she was handling it pretty well.  She was excited.  And soon, the rest of us would be excited.
     I was excited for her.  Someone else standing around heard, and then someone else, and soon Sue Too heard a bit and then it happened.  The word spread across our little office like a wave, no, not so much like a wave, but like a summer thunderstorm coming when you can see the heavy rain marching its way across the fields or lake right towards you until it hits you full force.  Only it was like a happy thunderstorm, if there is such a thing.    Pretty soon it was a joyous mood that was prevailing among our little group.
     And so it was.  It was sort of an amazing event when you sat down to think about it, really.  How such a small piece of happy news for one could bring such happiness to everyone around them.  It was like a miniature celebration of life through one that hasn't even begun yet.  There is just something about the beginning of a life, the birth of a child, that brings joy to everyone, and that, Company, is one of the neat things about life.  Congratulations Landing Nine!

Friday, July 09, 2010

The Camera Never Lies

     I am not going to lie, seeing pictures of Lindsay Lohan bursting into tears when sentenced to 90 days in jail and 90 days at in-house drug rehab for her repeated violations of her probation made me happy in ways that I can barely describe.  But I am going to try.
     See, I am torn a little bit.  I, and many others, have this perception that all famous actors and actresses get off easy when it comes to their transgressions.  Probation and plea bargains and deals made with prosecuters in windowless rooms lit by flourescent lights seem to be the norm, and most of the time it seems that these well-known faces and names get off with the proverbial slap on the hand.  The problem is that, if you have any experiance or knowledge of the American legal system, probation, plea bargains, and deals made in little rooms are pretty much the norm.
     That being said, violating the terms of your probation is a pretty common occurrence too.  For example, if I made a list of people that I knew where on a probation that prohibited them from drinking alcohol, but still drank alcohol, it would be as long as my arm.  But here is where the two roads diverge in the woods, because while violating the terms of ones probation is a relatively common thing, when musicians, atheletes, and movie or television personalities do anything they are on film.  Be it a TV camera or a Polaroid it doesn't matter.  When you make the decision to be a celebrity you forfeit some of your privacy, that's just how it is, especially when you want to go out and be a "socialite."
     So I think the reason that people get so mad about the treatment of celebrities by the court system is because we all actively see them violating court orders, and the tabloids and television make sure that we know they aren't doing what they should be.  So when Lindsay Lohan is in Cannes partying instead of showing up at a mandatory court date, we know.  When she comes out of a party in a VIP room of some club somewhere stumbling with white powder on her shoes while she's on probation for driving while under the influence of cocaine, we know.  When she is out drinking the night before her alcohol class, we know.  So when the judge winds up and a slap on the wrist comes from the bench, in lieu of a book being hurled from it, then we kind of get bent out of shape, even though that might be the legal norm these days.
      So I was a little happy to see her crying, and begging the judge for leniency.  And I was glad to see the judge wasn't buying it.  Lindsay spoke to how she was just trying to live her life and juggle her career that she worked so hard for with the demands of the court.  At that point, if I was in the courtroom, I would have had to call shenanegans and pull out my broom.  If she had been making movies and working on her clothing line and all that stuff, fine.  I might be willing to buy that.  But we have PHOTOGRAPHIC EVIDENCE that she was out at parties, and that, last I checked, was not in the job description.  Also, she works in a number of fields that are somewhat flexible in terms of their work requirements.  For instance, they can film certain scenes at certain times and I am sure the people working with her on her clothing line would be happy to work around her booze class schedule.  I don't buy it.  If this were Joe Schmoe, who was trying to juggle the alcohol classes with his job at FedEx and going to night school, it would be a little different.  This was nothing more than a desperate attempt by a desperate person who doesn't want to take responsibility for her own actions, and the judge said it lacked sincereity.  I tend to agree because there has been no behavior consistent with sincereity since day one.
     What I would like to see happen now is the little Ms. Lohan gets thrown into a cell at the Los Angeles County Jail with all the rest of the offenders and gets treated like any other inmate.  That, of course is not going to happen, which I am not angry about.  I know, I want to see her treated like the rest of us but in reality she can't be, and at some point it becomes a safety issue, for both her and the other inmates.  If Lindsay was put in a regular cell with regular cellmates, she would be bloody pulp on the floor by the time it was lights out.  So if she gets her own cell and is kept separate from everyone else, that's fine.  I would suspect the the LA County Jail probably has celebrity cells.  Keep her to the other rules then, and feed her prison food.  The effect will be the same: once that cell door clangs shut behind her it is going to start to sink in.  90 days of he life will be given to the people of Los Angeles County. Then 90 days will be given to an in-house alcohol treatment center.  And I hope it works.  For her sake and ours.

Thursday, July 08, 2010

"Next Blog>>"

     So, for those of you who have never noticed, or maybe it is only for people with Blogger accounts, way up on the top of Big Dave and Company there is something called the "Navbar." What it does for me is allows me, from my blog page, to sign in, fiddle with my account, follow a blog I like, share a blog I like, etc. etc.  I am guessing it allows you to do all those things to.  One of the options up there simply says "Next Blog>>" and what it is supposed to do, according to the good folks at Blogger, is take you to another almost random blog that is similar to the one at which you are looking.
     This, I think, is a fabulous idea for sort of self promotion.  Actually, it would be promotion of its members in the eyes of Blogger, but I still think it is a good idea.  It allows a person who maybe has enjoyed reading blogs to find more that will supposedly suit their interests, and allows in a small way readership to go.  It is sort of like getting some word of mouth advertising but not really.  If that makes any sense.  Anyway, I have never really used the button, even though I think it's a tremendous idea, and so this morning, not long before I started typing, I decided to give it a try.
     It did not go well.  I am thinking that maybe, just maybe, they need to tweak their search algorithm just a little bit.  The reason that I say that is because when I clicked on the button "click" - that was the sound it made when I clicked on it - it took me to a religious themed page.  "No way" I though and clicked again.  Another religious themed page.  And another.  And another.  Then another.  Suddenly a family oriented page.  Then another religious page.  My next thought was "What the hell is going on here?"
     The reason why I am so concerned is not because I am anti-religion but more because I just try not to do religion in these pages.  I have my own religious beliefs, and you have yours too Company, and it doesn't mean that I am right or you are right it just means that we all have different beliefs.  But the reason I don't get into it is because religion and politics are the two most divisive issues that are out there really.  They, along with money, account for the source of 91% of all American arguments in a statistic that I just made up in order to support what I am saying.  So I generally try to avoid them.  Therefore I guess I don't understand why Blogger and Google and the Gods that be think that people who are interested in what I have to say are going to be interested in religious-themed sites, unless of course they feel that those Godless fuck heathens that read my words might need a little salvation.  That I might understand.
      So that's that.  I am not complaining; I am not railing against the whole thing.  It is just an observation.  And that's all I know.  I guess I should say Amen at the end of this.  When in Rome, do as the Romans do, right?

Wednesday, July 07, 2010

Tabbed Browsing

      Somewhere along the way my Internet Browser on my computer began to offer tabbed browsing.  Now, because when it comes to technology I am a lot like a 70-year-old man, I wanted nothing to do with tabs.  I never used them and I didn't understand them for the longest time.  I made no effort to understand them for the longest time.  That being said, one day for some reason I decided to try them.  Once I did that I was hooked, and now I use a strategic mix of tabs and new windows to get all my Internet business done. 
     "So why the fuck should I care about this, Big Dave?"  That's the question that you are asking, I know.  I understand.  The idea behind this little story is that you should not be afraid of the tabs.  Including the new tabs that we have just installed at the top of the page.  Click on them to find out information about all sorts or stuff, from information about the blog and podcast to the disclaimer, which you would probably like if you were a lawyer.  So don't be afraid to check them out, and watch as we add new and exciting features.  YEAH!

Eight is Certainly Enough

Last week, we came back after a weekend spent trying to find ourselves because we didn't win the Dirt Devil Presents the Third Annual Big Dave and Company Blog of the Year Award Presented by Shrek Forever After (In Theaters Now!).  Well, speaking of being back, Mind Junk is back but has ditched their list of eight format.  So, in honor of that, here is a list of eight reasons why themed blogs are truly, really, completely, awful, not to read so much as to write.

1.) Unless you have a constantly updating theme like "New Health Care Breakthroughs" or "Weather" you are going to run out of stuff to write about eventually.  Like award winner Mustaches of the Nineteenth Century - great idea, but there are only so many ancient pictures of facial hair out there.

2.)  Having a theme constantly stretches your creativity to the max.  If you are dedicated to dog toenails, maybe one day you don't feel like writing about dog toenails.  When that day comes, it sucks to be you.

3.)  When you are doing a structural format, like say lists, there is going to come a day when you can't always think of five or eight or only two things to say.  And that day will come faster than you think.

7.)  There is also going to be a time when you can't fit your thoughts, ideas, feelings, etc. into a list or haiku or all caps.  That is another weakness of the structural format.

5.)  When important things are happening, they might not fit into your theme, so then you have to choose between not talking about the train derailment in London or trying to talk about the effects of the train derailment in London on the natural seed germination of corn in the American High Plains, and that doesn't work.  Even if it does, no one wants to read about it; not even you, and it's your blog.

4.)  The blogosphere is not the Grammys or the Emmys or the Oscars, okay?  Most blog awards given out are not super specific, and there aren't a million billion categories for which they give out awards but that no one cares about so they have to do them during the commercials.  There is no Best Writing or Most Original Photo Caption or Best List-Oriented Blog awards, although there might be, I admit I have done no reasearch.  So good luck rounding up some recognition.  Most people who write general blogs don't get any recognition.  I am not bitter or anything.

6.)  You have to be able to count correctly to have a list blog.  I'm just sayin.

8.)  Good luck finding a background to match your theme!  Better learn HTML and make one out for yourself.  I am just kidding, there is probably one out there.

Thanks!  Welcome back Mind Junk and I hope that everyone has a wonderful day!

Tuesday, July 06, 2010

We're Back

     In case you didn't know, Company, I was feeling kind of down last week.  The reason what that I managed to again fail to win the Dirt Devil Presents the Third Annual Big Dave and Company Blog of the Year Award Brought to You by Shrek Forever After (In Theaters Now!).  That being said, I did what any media mogul aspiring blog winner would do: I went to a Dave Matthews Band concert.  Yeah, you heard me right.  If you like the music of Dave Matthews Band - and a lot of you don't, and that's okay - then there is something special and uplifting the experience, dedicated as they are to performance, and it's a great place to reflect and find yourself.  Just so long as you don't get high from all the people smoking pot around you.
     So I am standing in a cloud of pot smoke, surrounded by shirtless guys and girls in impossibly short shorts in the grass, and I had an epipheny.  Well sort of.  I always assumed that epiphenies were sudden things, that the thought just sort of appears out of the fog and confusion sort of like the pedestrian always just sort of appears out of the rain and mist in every horror movie in which running down a pedestrian is how the plot starts.  That is why they always compare it to a light bulb coming on - it's is for all intensive purposes instantaneous.  This one though, this epiphany, was more like a light bulb that is powered by a seasoned runner on a treadmill.  As they begin, and slowly ramp up to top speed, it glows slowly, slowly, slowly ever more bright until it is on all the way.  The epiphany sort of came to me gradually, that is what I am trying to say here folks.  I apologize, that was not my most well-crafted analogy.
     Anyway, as I was saying, through the heat and sound and sweat and smoke and all that jazz, through upturned faces and lifted arms, my sadness and anger over my failure to win MY OWN FUCKING AWARD (sorry, had a little relapse there) gradually slipped away and sort of turned into an acceptence that no, I can't win my own award every time, and that the only way to win it was to keep writing my blog.
      I know, it sounds stupid, because it is such an easy concept.  But when you are bummed out it's never that easy.  When you want to run away it's never that easy.  So the realization of the simple concept was key here: I am never going to be able to win my own award if I am not writing anything.  The realization turned into a plan during the hours and hours of driving that I had to do to get both to and from the concert.  So here is the plan, I am going to share it with you because I want you to know about it: I am going to write a years' worth of award-caliber blogs.  That's it.  Pretty fucking simple, I know.  They they won't be able to deny me.  I know, I am a genius.  A super genius.  I am just going to work my hardest almost every day to churn out good shit that will catch the eye of the Blog of the Year Committee so that I cannot be denied.  That is what I am talking about.  Now, I know that there is a lot of competition for this award, I mean, there are at least 470 million blogs out there, so I have a Plan B.  I am a super genius after all.  If I don't write good enough blogs I will just stack the collection committee with people who are on the take.  Who says money can't buy happiness?

Thursday, July 01, 2010

Depressed Loser

You know, Company, I don't ask for a whole lot in life.  I just sort of want a couple of things, especially when it comes to my blog.  I want to be a Blogger Blog of Note.  I so desperately want to be a Blogger Blog of Note.  And I wanted so badly to win the Dirt Devil Presents the Big Dave and Company Blog of the Year Award Brought to You By Shrek Forever After (In Theaters Now).  I mean, it has been three years now and I have yet to be able to win my own God-damned award!  Settle, Big Dave.  Calm down.  But seriously, how can I not win either of those two coveted recognitions.  We post something every day.  We have an almost award winning podcast.  We keep you safe via officer Butt Hansen and bring you videos to watch and tunes to which to listen.  I just don't get it.  Maybe we need to start being sacks of shit.  Someo f the Blogs of Note haven't updated in years, and some are private and can only be seen by invitation.  Maybe we need new pictures, and more of them.  People are too lazy to read, they like PICTURES!  MAN!  I don't know.  I am going to have to take the Independence Day Holiday off to clear my head, maybe re-arrange my priorities so that we can maybe win an award somewhere along the way.  Have a great weekend everyone.  Be safe.  We will see you back on Tuesday, July 6, 2010.